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Martin Limon: The Ville Rat

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Martin Limon The Ville Rat

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“She no have time,” the old woman replied.

Ernie’s eyes flashed but he said nothing; just kept chomping on the onion rings.

“You talked to her then?” I said.

“No talk. She talk MP. Crying.”

“What’d she say?”

“I don’t know. My English not so good.”

“Did she come from the ville?”

“I don’t know. I busy, sell French fry. I look up, she talk MP. How you say . . .”

“Hankuk mallo heiju-seiyo,” I said. Say it in Korean.

Her eyes widened. “Hey, you speaky Korean pretty good.”

“She talked to the MP,” I prompted in English.

“Sallam sollyo,” she say.

“She asked for help?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The old woman shook her head. “I don’t know. She scared something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long did she talk to the MP.”

“Maybe one minute. Pretty soon she karra chogi.”

“She left. Which way?”

“That way.” The old woman pointed along the main drag of Sonyu-ri.

“Did you see where she went?”

“I no see. Do you want French fry now?”

I contemplated buying some just to keep her talking, but Ernie elbowed me in the ribs.

“Company.”

The MP patrol was about halfway down the strip, but apparently they’d spotted us. They stopped entering the bars and nightclubs and marched three abreast, heading straight for us. One of them held a walkie-talkie to his ear.

“Should we un-ass the area?” Ernie asked.

“Naw. We have to talk to them anyway. I want to ask some questions.”

By now, the old woman had seen the MPs coming and begun to roll her cart toward safer ground. They were still about ten yards away when, from the main gate, a roar arose from the engine of a vehicle whining at full torque. We turned. Specialist Austin raised the vehicle barrier just in time to avoid it being smashed by an MP jeep barreling out of the compound. The vehicle must’ve been doing thirty miles an hour and was aimed right at us. There was nowhere to run, so Ernie and I stood our ground. At that last second, the driver slammed on the brakes and the vehicle swerved sideways in a cloud of dirt and exhaust, stopping just three feet in front of us. Before the engine stopped whining, a tall MP leapt out of the jeep and charged directly at us.

Discipline in the army is a malleable thing. Sometimes, for example in basic training, it’s as inflexible as a Prussian riding crop. Other times, as in a headquarters garrison unit, it can be a set of unwritten rules and gentlemanly agreements, sort of like a country club full of trust-fund babies trying not to annoy one another.

But in the US 2nd Infantry Division, discipline can be brutal. Regardless of the hour, one is expected to appear within minutes of an alert siren being sounded, and if you’re not present, you can face court-martial. You’re expected to be standing tall before dawn for the physical training formation, and if you’re late you can face non-judicial punishment. Enlisted men are restricted to their compounds like prisoners unless an off-duty pass is granted, and that pass can be rescinded for the most minor of infractions-or on a whim. As the NCOs love to say, “A pass is a privilege, not a right.” The 2nd Infantry Division officer corps and senior enlisted non-coms can force a young enlisted man to do just about anything-scrub a floor, clean a grease trap, pull guard duty all night-and justify it as either needed to accomplish the mission or, when that rationale grows thin, as additional training that is beneficial for personal development. After a few months, or even just weeks in the heady atmosphere of the 2nd Infantry Division, even a lowly first lieutenant can begin to believe he’s a young god gifted with mighty powers.

And it was just such a young god, with an MP helmet on his head, a single silver bar on his lapel and a name tag that said Phillips, who exploded out of the still-sputtering jeep and strode toward us, face aflame, pointing his forefinger at Ernie and then me like an avenging demon, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“You don’t mess with my people!” With that one shout, his voice was already hoarse. Doggedly, he kept at us. “You don’t mess with my people! Do you understand me, Troop?”

He was nose to nose with Ernie. Too close. Ernie grimaced but let the silence stretch for a moment. Then he said, “You think you’re hot shit, eh, Phillips?”

Phillips leaned in closer. “You will address me as Lieutenant Phillips or sir. Is that understood?”

Phillips must’ve had bad breath. Ernie leaned his head back slightly but then, without warning, snapped his skull forward and butted the helmet of Lieutenant Phillips, hard. Lieutenant Phillips’s head bounced back like a bowling ball and, startled, he took a step backward, instinctively reaching for his .45. The MP patrol closed in, at least one of them unsnapping the leather cover of his holster. Specialist Austin, the MP at the gate, had stepped outside of the guard shack, along with the Korean guard named Kim, and both men were staring at us. All of the food and souvenir vending carts had disappeared. Along the strip, made-up faces craned out of bead-covered doorways. Some of the bar girls were walking forward now, arms crossed, but oblivious to the cold night, craving an exciting show.

Lieutenant Phillips reached for his forehead. “You hit me,” he said, incredulous.

“No,” Ernie replied. “I headbutted you. There’s a difference. If I’d hit you, you’d be flat on your ass by now.”

One of the MPs reached for my elbow. I shrugged him off. Another MP started to reach for his handcuffs, but Lieutenant Phillips held out his open palm and waved them off. By now, word had spread throughout the nightclub district of Sonyu-ri; bar girls and teahouse dollies and half-drunk GIs were streaming our way like a small parade.

Phillips reached toward the center of his chest, undid one of the buttons on his fatigue blouse and reached inside his shirt. Grinning, he pulled out a sheet of paper.

“Message for you boys,” he said. “Straight from the head shed.” Without taking his eyes off of Ernie, he handed it to me. It was a strip ripped from a larger roll of teletype paper. A “twixt,” the army calls it. A telegraphic transmission.

“I can’t read this,” I said.

Obligingly, one of the MPs pulled out his flashlight and held it steady for me. I read the message and sighed.

“What is it?” Ernie asked.

Before I could answer, Lieutenant Phillips said, “You CID pukes are hereby ordered back to Seoul, immediately if not sooner. You’re off the case. Your services are no longer required. So get the hell out of the Division area.” He turned toward the MPs. “You three men, escort these two to their vehicle. No bullshit this time. Make sure they leave Sonyu-ri.”

Lieutenant Phillips adjusted his helmet and turned to walk toward his jeep. On the way, he waved his forefinger at Ernie. “Your assault on a superior officer will be noted in my report. And I’ve got witnesses.”

He hopped in his jeep, started it up, and backed away in a swirl of burnt gas.

“Bite me!” Ernie shouted after him.

One of the MPs snickered. Another stared at him sternly and the offending MP straightened his face.

“Where’s your jeep?” one of the MPs asked.

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