Martin Limon: Ping-Pong Heart

Major Frederick Manfield Schultz appeared at the 8th Army Provost Marshal’s office red-faced and enraged.

“She robbed me,” he said.

I took the report, typing patiently as he explained.

“I met her at the UN Club. We started talking, I bought her a drink. Then we went back to her hooch.”

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Miss Jo.”

“Did you check her VD card?”

“I didn’t think to.”

“It’s a good idea. If she’s a freelancer without one, we might have trouble finding her.”

This made him even angrier. “She stole my money, dammit. I want it back.”

Miss Kim, the statuesque Admin secretary, pulled a tissue from the box in front of her, held it to her nose, rose from her chair, and walked out of the office. We listened as her high heels clicked down the hallway.

My name is George Sueno. I’m an agent for the 8th United States Army Criminal Investigation Division in Seoul, Republic of Korea. Reports of theft were routinely taken at the Yongsan Compound MP Station. But Major Schultz knew Colonel Brace, the Provost Marshal, and had gone to him directly with his complaint. Since he was a field grade officer, it was felt that allowing word of this incident to leak out to the hoi polloi of the Military Police would be detrimental to good order and discipline. So my partner Ernie Bascom and I-CID agents, not MP investigators-were given the job.

Schultz told me that he’d left the UN Club with Miss Jo and they’d walked back to her hooch near the old oak tree behind the Itaewon open-air market. In her room, he handed her fifty dollars’ worth of crisp MPC, military payment certificates. She’d taken the bills, helped him off with his clothes and sat him down on the edge of the bed. Then she excused herself to use the outdoor byonso .

“I waited and waited,” he told me, “until finally I got tired of waiting. So I slid open the door and looked out. Nothing. No light on in the byonso . I put on my clothes and went looking for her. She was gone. I pounded on the doors in the neighbors’ hooches, but they just pretended not to speak English.”

“Maybe they don’t,” I said.

This made him angry again. Full cheeks flushed red. Even beneath his blond crew cut, freckled skin burned crimson. “They live next door to a GI whore and they don’t speak English?”

I shrugged. “So what’d you do?”

He knotted his fists. “I was tempted to tear the place down, rip up her clothes, smash the windows, throw the freaking radio and electric fan out into the mud. But I figured if I did, she might slap a SOFA charge on me.”

SOFA. The Status of Forces Agreement between the United States and the Republic of Korea. One of its provisions is to adjudicate claims made by Korean civilians against US military personnel for damages suffered at their hands.

“It was almost midnight curfew,” he said, “so I just put on my clothes and left.”

“Smart move,” I said.

He nodded. “I tell you, though, if I’d gotten my hands on her . . .”

We let the thought trail off.

“Are you on an accompanied tour?” I asked.

Unconsciously, he fondled the gold wedding band on his left hand. “No. The wife’s back at Fort Hood.” I continued to stare at him. “The kids are in school. We thought it was best not to move them.”

I finished my typing, looked up at him and said, “Can you describe Miss Jo?”

He did. But it amounted to the same bargirl description we heard from most GIs: brunette, petite, cute foreign accent. Ernie looked at me and rolled his eyes. I stopped typing and asked Major Schultz to accompany us to the Itaewon Police Station. He agreed, and the three of us walked outside to Ernie’s jeep.

Once there, I conferred with the on-duty Desk Sergeant. After a few minutes, he ushered us into a back room, pulled out a huge three-ring binder and plopped it on a wooden table. The book contained information gathered by the Yongsan District Public Health Service and was accompanied with snapshots of every waitress and barmaid and hostess who was authorized to work in the Itaewon nightclub district.

The girls are issued a wallet-sized card and are required to be checked monthly for communicable diseases. If they prove to be disease-free, the card is stamped in red ink. If they’re sick, they are locked up in a Health Service Quarantine Center and forced to take whatever drugs the doctor prescribes. GIs call the wallet-sized folds of cardboard “VD cards.” In official military training, soldiers are instructed to check that the card is up-to-date before having sexual relations. As you might imagine, few bother.

After the Desk Sergeant left, Major Schultz flipped through a few dozen pages of the book until he found the section marked UN Club . He stopped and pointed.

“That’s her.”

I studied the picture. She wasn’t hard to look at. A face that could’ve belonged to a classic Korean heroine: a perfectly shaped oval with almond eyes and a clear complexion, and framed by straight black hair that fell to narrow shoulders. And maybe it was my imagination, but I thought she looked wistful, slightly ashamed at being photographed for a VD Card but resigned nevertheless to her fate. Next to the photo, written in hangul , were her name, date of birth, and National ID card number. I jotted down the info.

Major Schultz rose from his wooden chair. “When do you expect to catch her?”

“If she hasn’t left town, it won’t take long,” I replied.

“It better not.”

He turned and stalked out of the police station.

Ernie and I drove back to the CID office. Staff Sergeant Riley, the Admin Non-Commissioned Officer, sat behind a stack of neatly clipped paperwork.

“Where’s Miss Kim?” I asked.

“Why?” Riley replied. “She doesn’t work for you.”

That was him. All charm.

“She seemed shaken up listening to Major Schultz.”

Riley shrugged and returned to his paperwork. Ernie ignored our conversation, picked up the morning edition of the Pacific Stars and Stripes , sat down, and snapped it open to the sports page. Tissue was still wadded atop Miss Kim’s desk and her full cup of green tea had grown cold.

I went to look for her.

I found her sitting on a wooden bench beside a small pagoda containing a bronze statue of the Maitreya Buddha. It had been set up years ago for the use of 8th Army’s Korean employees, of which there were hundreds on this compound alone. A small grassy area in front of the shrine was well worn from spirited games of badminton that were held every day during lunch hour.

I sat down next to Miss Kim. “I’m sorry Major Schultz upset you,” I told her.

She twisted her handkerchief, rolling pink embroidery around the edges. “It’s not him,” she said.

“Then what is it?”

She didn’t answer. About a year ago, she and Ernie had been an item. She’d taken the relationship seriously. Ernie hadn’t. He was tall, about six-foot-one, and had a pointed nose with green eyes that sat behind round-lensed glasses. Why women found him fascinating, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was his complete I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude. Ernie’d served two tours in Vietnam, and having survived that, he figured every day was money won in a poker game; he spent them as such, taking any pleasure that came his way. When Miss Kim found out that he had other paramours, she dropped him flat. As far as I knew, she hadn’t spoken to him since.

“If it’s not Major Schultz that’s bothering you,” I asked, “then what is it?”

She shook her head, staring at the dirt in front of us. “Cruelty,” she said. “So much of it.”