Nightmare Range

SEOUL MOURNING

Staff Sergeant Riley, the Admin NCO at the Criminal Investigation Detachment, plopped the big folder into my hands and somehow managed to smirk around buck teeth. Dark hair slicked back, so skinny he seemed to rattle inside his starched fatigue shirt, he pulled a pencil from behind his ear and tapped the eraser on the folder.

“SOFA case,” he said. “Hot. For you and Ernie.”

SOFA. A military acronym that stands for the Status of Forces Agreement. The treaty between Korea and the US that covers everything from criminal jurisdiction over military personnel to the prohibition on selling imported maraschino cherries down in the village.

“SOFA case?” I always have something clever to say when I’m getting screwed. “How’d me and Ernie get it?”

“Top figures you’ve been goofing off on the black market detail long enough. Besides, this thing is such a pile of manure that nobody else wants it.”

He thumbed through the folder and pulled out a carbon-backed invoice. Five thousand bucks. To be delivered, in cash, to the family of Choi Un-suk, the little girl referred to in all the reports as “the victim.”

Riley marched back to his desk and sat down, his gravelly voice rolling over a barricade of paper-clipped reports.

“The first sergeant wants it taken care of,” he said. “Now!”

Tonight, after a couple of shots of bourbon, Riley’d be the sweetest guy in the world. At work he was a bear.

Arguing about an assignment once the decision had been made would be a waste of everybody’s time. Instead, I found a corner, sat down in a gray military chair, and thumbed through the folder.

The title of the report was Serious Traffic Incident, which was a hell of an understatement. An American army jeep, traveling south on the Main Supply Route between Camp Red Cloud in Uijongbu and Yongsan Compound in Seoul, managed to kill a young girl, Choi Un-suk, age thirteen, a student at the Kuk-min Middle School.

It didn’t run her over. According to one of the GI passengers, the driver, Private First Class Dwayne Ortfield, had been speeding and swerving through traffic the entire trip. The ten-foot antenna, bent forward from the radio in the back, hadn’t been properly secured. The front portion whipped from side to side. When he and the other two passengers complained, PFC Ortfield ignored them and kept driving at a high rate of speed.

It was at a bus stop, crammed with black-suited children on their way to school, that PFC Ortfield tried to pass a taxicab on the right. One of the girls, the safety monitor, stood slightly off the curb. When she saw PFC Ortfield heading toward her, she turned, raised her white-gloved hand, and blew her whistle. Ortfield swerved away, but the antenna, obeying the immutable laws of physics, didn’t follow.

The tip of the antenna jammed into the little girl’s eyeball, pierced her brain, and splattered half her skull over her screaming schoolmates.

Private Ortfield didn’t want to stop, but after being punched by his passengers, he went back, supposedly to do what he could to help.

They were forced to leave, however, because a mob formed before the arrival of the Korean National Police and the GIs in the jeep would have been, in all probability, torn limb from limb.

Ortfield had a long history of traffic violations. But his MOS, his Military Occupational Specialty, was 64 Charlie, transportation. When he first joined up, he had been designated as a driver by the army, and despite the proofs of his incompetence, a driver he had remained. Until this.

The Korean National Police turned jurisdiction over to US military authorities. The theory was that since he was army, let the army take care of him. Besides, we give their government millions of dollars in assistance each year. No one wants to cause hard feelings. American GIs are only sent to Korean courts when public outrage demands it. This was a small case, not well covered by the press. No outrage. Not yet.

The court-martial was scheduled for this morning at the 8th Army judge advocate general’s office.

Meanwhile, the family had filed a wrongful death claim with the United States government under the provisions of the Status of Forces Agreement. It had been approved. An easy way out of the mess for our side. Five thousand bucks. A tiny globule of wealth siphoned from a sea of taxpayer money.

The hard part was having to stand face to face with the family, and that dirty job had fallen on us. But there was no way out.

Ernie and I don’t have much bargaining power with the first sergeant. Ever since an incident over a year ago when we arrested the 8th Army chief of staff, he saw us as a couple of lowlifes. I’d been punished by having to serve a stint with an artillery unit along the DMZ. Ernie’d been relegated the black market detail, making sure Korean dependent wives didn’t buy too much coffee and mayonnaise out of the commissary and sell it for a profit in the ville.

I wasn’t going to beg to get out of this. I’d do it and get it over with.

While I was reading the report, Ernie wandered in. Late again. He sat next to Riley’s desk, feet up, sipping a cup of snackbar coffee. I strolled over and waved the folder under his nose.

“Did Riley tell you about this SOFA case?”

“Yeah,” Ernie said. “Crap City.”

Riley didn’t look up from his paperwork. “I have every confidence that you two can handle it tactfully.”

Ernie snorted, finished his coffee, and stood up. Ever since Vietnam, words like “tactful” have disappeared from Ernie’s vocabulary.

Without looking back, we walked down the long hallway, pushed through the big double doors, and hopped down the stone steps of the CID building. We jumped into the jeep, and as Ernie started it up, he turned to me.

“Who is this guy Ortfield anyway?”

“A young driver who didn’t take his responsibilities seriously.”

“I want to see him.”

There was plenty of time, and I wasn’t in a hurry to face with this Korean family.

“The court-marital starts in ten minutes.”

“Let’s go.”

He shoved the jeep in gear, and we rolled down the tree-lined streets of Yongsan Compound.

The 8th Army courthouse was a small brick building with red Korean tile on the roof turned up at the edges. Inside, a summary court-martial sat in session. The judges, a row of uniformed officers behind a high wooden panel, appeared properly somber. The prosecutor at one table shuffled paperwork. The defense lawyer, a young second lieutenant, conferred with the defendant, Private First Class Dwayne Ortfield.

Ortfield sat hunched over, elbows on the table, listening to his army-appointed lawyer. His hair was longish on top, greased, hanging over his eyes. His dress green uniform hadn’t been properly pressed. With his monthly salary held in abeyance, he probably hadn’t been able to pay his houseboy since the death of Miss Choi Un-suk.

Tough beans.

Ernie and I passed the armed MP at the door, walked down the carpeted steps, and took seats in the gallery. I looked around for Choi Heng-sok, the father of the deceased girl. Neither he nor his lawyer had made an appearance. Since this court-martial was considered to be an internal US military affair, they probably hadn’t even been notified.

The colonel in charge of the proceedings banged his gavel.

Witnesses were called in rapid order. First, the MP on the scene, who confirmed what everybody already knew: he had found a dead girl surrounded by a lot of angry Koreans. He was followed by the Traffic Control Officer, who, although the milling crowds had pretty well messed up the evidence, managed to present the court with some well-done charts of what had happened. With a pointer he noted the position of the other cars, how Ortfield had swerved to his right, and where the antenna had swung out and pierced the thirteen-year-old girl through the eye.

It was Ortfield’s passengers who did the most damage. They went over what they had written in their statements. That Ortfield was driving too fast, swerving around the road, cursing, not listening to reason.

The whole thing went fast. A little less than two hours. Military justice at its best. I figured Ortfield would be spending a lot of years licking cement.

When the defense lawyer went to work, he didn’t even try to dispute the facts. He just said that they couldn’t punish PFC Dwayne Ortfield because it would be detrimental to the mission of the 8th United States Army.

I really couldn’t believe what he was saying. I wondered what it had to do with anything, and I kept waiting for the judge to cut him off, but they let him prattle on.

Road conditions were tough in Korea, the defense lawyer said. Snow, rain, sleet, mudslides, downed bridges, loose electrical lines, mountain roads, floods, you name it.

He had that right, anyway.

And GIs were being sent out into these conditions all the time. They didn’t want to go, but the training mission of the 8th Army and the defense of the Republic of Korea required that they risk their lives in these hazardous conditions. Routinely.

That was true but I didn’t understand what it had to do with the Ortfield case.

If you punish a GI, the lawyer said, for responding to difficult traffic conditions and trying to make time through the undisciplined maze of Seoul, you’d be sending a message to all the other drivers of US military vehicles in Korea. The message would be: don’t take chances. If road conditions are rough, pull over. Or worse yet, refuse to haul the load. After all, one mistake and you end up with your career ruined, a criminal record, possibly with a sentence to the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

PFC Ortfield was just doing his job, the lawyer said. Sure, the antenna should’ve been properly secured. He made a mistake. He admits that. But he shouldn’t be punished for the unfortunate accident and for the unfortunate death of a civilian who happened to be standing one meter away from the curb.

To my surprise the judge ordered a ten-minute adjournment.

Ernie and I stood outside for a minute, away from all the people lighting up cigarettes and yapping about the case.

“He’s gonna walk,” Ernie said.

I swiveled my head. “You’re kidding. He might as well have stuck a gun to that little girl’s head and pulled the trigger.”

“She was standing off the curb. He was doing his job.”

“Everybody stands off the curb here. It’s a Korean custom. Besides, she was the safety monitor, and she was supposed to be directing the other girls. And doing your job doesn’t mean speeding through traffic with a loose antenna.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ernie said. “The defense lawyer was exactly right. Those officers on the panel think about mission first. And if burning Ortfield will hurt the mission of the Eighth Army, they won’t burn him.”

“No way. You’ve got to be wrong.”

“Come on. You’ll see.”

Everyone doused their cigarettes and headed back into the courtroom. We followed and took our seats. The judges filed back in.

I heard the gavel and then the colonel’s voice, but I still couldn’t believe it.

Private First Class Dwayne Ortfield was restricted to compound, his driver’s license suspended indefinitely, and 8th Army Personnel would be notified to review his current posting with respect to immediate reassignment.

They were sending him back to the States with a slap on the wrist.

I stood up and gripped the varnished wood railing. I wanted to scream. But when I saw the clean-shaven jaws of the judges and their crisply tailored jackets as they walked out, I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Ernie grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the cold winter air.

At 8th Army Finance, it took a while for them to count the money in Korean won and stuff it into a leather briefcase. There was already a handcuff on the handle and I attached it to my wrist. It was heavy. Still, it didn’t seem like much to trade for a little girl’s life.

Ernie slid the jeep between two kimchi cabs, honked his horn, found about three inches of open roadway, and hooked his fender in front of the cruising cabbie next to us. When the light turned green, he gunned the engine, swerved in front of the guy, and studied the madly swirling traffic ahead, prowling for his next opening.

All of this was done while slumped back in his canvas seat, fingertips hanging lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel, his face set in a completely bored expression. Occasionally he veered wildly to the right or left, stepped on the gas, tapped lightly on the brakes. Ernie’s nervous system might’ve been seared by the war in Vietnam and the pure white horse he bought from the kids through the wire, but he was still one hell of a driver.

He leaned toward me. “What was that address again?”

I glanced at my clipboard. “One twenty-eight bonji, 533 ho, Kirum-dong.”

He straightened his back. “Yeah. Kirum-dong. It’s right over here.”

We had left the skyscrapers of central Seoul and were now in the outskirts of the vast city, heading north on the road that lead to Uijongbu and beyond that the DMZ. The Demilitarized Zone. The barbed and mined gash that slices through the sweet center of the Korean peninsula like a butcher’s knife through wurst.

After the Korean War ended, no peace treaty was signed. There was only a cease-fire. The Communists in the north have an army of seven hundred thousand. The republic in the south has only four hundred and fifty thousand men under arms supplemented by the US Second Infantry Division. With both sides tense and armed to the teeth and staring at each other across the line every day, there are regular violations of the cease-fire. The casualties, if they are American, are reported to the world press. If the slaughter involves a North Korean or a South Korean, it’s kept quiet. They see it as a family affair. Nobody else’s business.

Melted snow sprayed from the tires of the kimchi cabs in front of us as we sped through the gray overcast morning. I didn’t feel comfortable about dumping all this cash on the Choi family. It was a bona fide claim under the Status of Forces Agreement, but it seemed disrespectful somehow. As if the US government was saying, yeah, your daughter was slaughtered, but here’s the loot and don’t bother us any more.

And Ernie and I were the messenger boys.

We sat in silence. Ernie turned off the main road and swerved down a narrow lane; I checked the addresses. They were engraved in Chinese script on metal placards embedded in the stone or brick walls and difficult to read. I spotted one: 436 bonji.

“Hang a left,” I said.

Ernie turned the jeep uphill, and we passed shops on either side. Brightly colored stacks of preserved noodles and canned milk, stringy-limbed cuttlefish drying in the cold wind, corpses of skinned hogs hanging red and limp in a butcher’s window. The numbers changed fast and I was losing track, but I knew we were in the right area.

“Pull over here.”

Ernie parked the jeep snugly against a massive stone wall and chained and padlocked the steering wheel. We climbed out, bending our lower backs and stretching our legs.

A stone stairway ran up the hill, lined on either side by brick walls and the gates to houses until it wound off out of sight. I looked at the address again.

“Up there?” Ernie said.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Nothing is precise about Korean addresses. The city is divided first into sections (dong), then into areas (bonji), and finally into individually numbered dwellings (ho). And the numbers can be a mad swirl, winding back onto each other like a dragon’s tail. Still, the best way to find one was on foot. We trudged up the jagged staircase, stepping gingerly over the tenacious remnants of last week’s snow. A cold drizzle started, slashing into our faces, and stopped just as suddenly.

When we rounded the corner, the alley widened, and in front of the open gateway stood a crowd of people. Schoolgirls for the most part. Silent. All wearing long black skirts and tight black waistcoats. Their shimmering ebony hair was capped with the neatly trimmed bangs, making them look like a flock of clipped ravens. They seemed to be praying. I realized that there was an even larger crowd inside the gate, and I saw the placard: 533 ho, Choi Heng-sok juteik, the residence of Mr. Choi, the father of the slain girl.

We pushed our way through the crowd, sullenly puffed faces turning as we passed. It was good to be surrounded by so much femininity, although they all seemed to hate me and they were all too young and our lives were lived worlds apart. Still, I liked them. The warmth of their massed bodies enveloped me and the freshness of their unscented skin filled my senses. I didn’t blame them for how they felt about me.

Beyond the crowded courtyard, the paper-paneled doors of the main house had been slid back. Inside sat a group of elderly people, the men in baggy suits, the women in hanbok, flowing traditional Korean dresses. Towards the back of the room on some sort of wooden platform was a long, blanket-draped figure. The body.

On the narrow wooden porch that ran the length of the house, a shrine had been set up. The sharp tang of incense bit into my sinuses. Surrounded by flowers of all colors was a large black and white photo of a plain, round-faced Korean girl. The only expression on her blank features seemed to be surprise, as if she never expected to receive so much attention. We always treat people better in death than we treat them in life.

One by one, the schoolgirls filed forward and paid their respects. Some placed flowers on the growing bunches, others knelt and bowed their heads for a moment. A few crossed themselves. Most, however, raised their pressed palms to their forehead and lowered themselves in the Buddhist fashion.

Wrinkled eyes in the darkened room turned toward us. I stepped in front of the porch, placed my feet together, and bowed slightly from the waist.

“Anyonghaseiyo,” I said. “Nei irum Geogi ieyo. Mipalkun.”

Good afternoon. My name is George. Eighth US Army.

A slender woman in a western skirt and blouse rose and nodded and waved for us to enter.

“Oso-oseiyo,” she said. Come in.

She looked a little like the dead girl in the photograph, but I figured she was probably just an aunt. The two people next to the body, the ones with the tearstained faces and the disheveled hair, were unmistakably the parents. They looked as if their ears were still ringing from the explosion of an A-bomb.

Ernie and I slipped off our shoes, stepped up on the narrow porch in our stocking feet, and entered the room. The solemn-faced occupants shuffled around on the vinyl floor to make room and slid a couple of embroidered purple cushions over for us to sit on.

The body was covered not with a blanket but a light silk shroud. The girl still wore her black school uniform, although some spots were moist, as if someone had attempted to scrub off the bloodstains. The woman I assumed to be the mother crouched next to the body, and when I entered she leaned forward and pulled the shroud away from the face.

I recoiled slightly but caught myself. One side of her head was red and raw. Indented. Caked with blood. She looked as if some twenty-foot prehistoric lizard had bounded out of an alley and chomped his fangs into her skull. I thought about a speeding jeep and laughing, careless GIs. In some respects there wasn’t much difference.

The mother leaned forward, touching the cold flesh with her lips, and whispered to the corpse.

“Sonnim wayo. Musopjima.” Guest have arrived. Don’t be afraid.

Ernie looked at me, his pale eyebrows rising slightly. I widened my eyes and turned away from his gaze. We sat down on the cushions.

I busied myself with my clipboard. Nothing like paperwork to help you keep your bearings in a situation that’s threatening to reel off into insanity.

The receipt for the money had to be filled out and verified by officials of the US government, namely me and Ernie. I cleared my throat and started asking questions.

“Who are the parents?”

All heads turned to the woman squatting next to the body and a man sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her. He was unbelievably thin, but he held his back perfectly straight. A white shirt and tie seemed incongruously bring beneath his weathered face. His cheekbones were high, like ridges of stone.

“You are Choi Heng-sok?”

He nodded.

“And the deceased is your daughter?”

He nodded again.

“May I see some identification?”

The words were written right there on the questionnaire, but as soon as I said them, I regretted them. An intake of breath rustled through the crowd. Even Ernie glanced over at me. Mr. Choi didn’t seem to notice, however. He reached back in his wallet and pulled out a laminated card and handed it across to me with bony, leather-skinned fingers, as steady as his rock-like expression.

I took the card, placed it on my clipboard, and copied down the Korean National Identification number. When I was finished, I handed it back to him.

As I filled in the receipt, I sensed movement next to the body. Something rustled. Then something shrieked.

“She is my daughter!” the woman screamed. “My baby and you have killed her!”

Ernie started to stand up. A couple of the relatives slid across the floor toward her, getting between us. Soon she was enveloped in grasping hands and cooing words.

She was crying now, shaking her head violently, her lips and cheeks quivering, drool dripping from her mouth.

I filled out the last of the form. Mr. Choi had turned toward his wife but looked back at me when I thrust the clipboard toward him.

“Sign,” I said. “It is necessary to receive your claim.”

He nodded and took the board from my hand, and while I pointed at the signature block he scribbled three Chinese characters in a quick, sure hand. He started to give it back to me, but I wouldn’t take it.

“Your wife must sign also.”

He stared at me, confused. In Korea, a husband can sign for the entire family. He and his ancestors had a long acquaintance with the peculiarities of red tape, however, and he was dealing with foreigners, after all. Acceptance came to his face and he slid forward across the immaculately polished floor. He and the other relatives soothed the girl’s mother. She kept mumbling about the beasts from across the sea, and her family laughed nervously, glancing at us, hoping Ernie and I wouldn’t take offense.

Ernie couldn’t understand much Korean, but he knew an insult when he heard it. Still, it didn’t seem to bother him. After the initial shock of the scream, he had settled back on his cushion. The only concession he made to nervousness was a stick of gum that he pulled out of his pocket and resolutely chomped on. He hadn’t offered gum to anyone else, which was unlike him. I knew he hadn’t suddenly become stingy. He was just preoccupied. Worried about getting fragged.

Mr. Choi and the others finally convinced the girl’s mother to sign the form. They handed it back to me. Her signature looked like the frenzied slashes of a sharp blade.

I slid the money to him. Ernie and I stood.

For a moment I thought of saying I’m sorry. It would be embarrassing, but it would probably do them a lot of good. But I hadn’t killed their daughter. I wasn’t Dwayne Ortfield. And I wasn’t the US government that had brought him over here.

I tried to think of other times I’d heard apologies on behalf of the US government. I couldn’t think of any.

Maybe there was a regulation against it.

The mother started to cry. Softly this time.

A solemn man who’d been sitting by himself in a corner leaned forward and riffled through the briefcase, stacking the money on the floor and counting it. At first I thought he was some sort of bodyguard. He was tall and lean and strong, watchful of everything. But then I realized he must be the lawyer. Taking charge of the finances. I wondered what his cut would be. Probably half.

We backed out of the room. To turn while leaving would’ve been a sign of disrespect. With things as tense as they were, even Ernie wouldn’t risk delivering such a slap in the face.

The courtyard was empty. The girls must’ve finished their ceremony and left so quickly that I hadn’t noticed. We shuffled across flat stone steps, but before we reached the gate, I heard footsteps behind me and someone grabbed me by the arm. I swiveled and stared into the stern face of the lawyer.

“What of Ortfield?” His English was heavily accented but understandable.

“The court-martial is finished,” I said. “He will be sent back to the States.”

“That is all? No jail? No punishment?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing?”

“He won’t last long in the army,” I said. “He will never be promoted again.”

His narrow eyes hardened. “That will not be good enough for Mr. Choi.”

I shrugged. “There is nothing I can do.”

Ernie stepped forward, positioning himself to kick the lawyer in the groin. I waved him back with the flat of my palm.

The lawyer glanced at him, coldly evaluating his size and strength, and turned back to me. His grip on my arm was strong, and his confidence, facing men a head taller than him, was impressive.

“The parents demand justice,” he said.

“It is too late for that. The Korean police gave up jurisdiction.”

“When does Ortfield leave?”

“Soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he said. “He won’t board an airplane without …” He searched for a word. “Without atonement.” He waved his arm around the courtyard. “This may not seem like the home of a rich man, but Mr. Choi lived a hard life, and when he made money he saved it. There are many people who will do his bidding for the right price.”

There was no question about that. The going rate for a murder in Seoul was about two hundred thousand won-three hundred dollars US.

Ernie’d had enough. He pushed his way in front of me. “Are you threatening me?”

The lawyer let go of my arm and backed off half a step. “Not you.”

“Ortfield then?”

“Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “He will pay.”

I grabbed Ernie by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He resisted, but I yanked him toward the wooden gate and pushed him outside. The lawyer didn’t follow.

I started to say something. To tell Ernie that they were just upset and the threats didn’t mean anything, but I gazed down the alleyway and my mouth slammed shut.

They were waiting for us. A hundred grim-faced girls lining either side of the narrow lane. Some were beautiful, some plain, some plagued by pock-marked faces or erupting complexions. But they all stared at us as we walked by.

Ernie strutted, twisting his head back and forth, disdainful of their hatred.

As we descended the long flight of steps, I felt the eyes of the girls on the back of my neck. Fire flushed through my skull until my face burned.

Back at the compound, Ernie was still angry and made the mistake of telling Riley about the threats to Ortfield’s life. It wasn’t long before the first sergeant heard about it and then the provost marshal.

Riley strutted into the admin office, the starch in his fatigues crinkling with each step.

“Straight from the first sergeant,” he said. “New assignment for you guys.”

“No more payoffs, I hope.”

“Not this time. Guard duty. Ortfield’s hold baggage is being picked up in the morning. He catches the first flight out of Kimpo tomorrow afternoon.”

He slapped a plane ticket and a packet of orders into my hand.

“Until then you and Ernie watch him. Every minute. Day and night.”

“Babysitting.”

“You got it. And if he doesn’t make it to that flight, the provost marshal is to send you both back to the DMZ.”

I unfolded the tickets, checking the flight times, making sure the emergency orders were signed and sealed. Ernie’s face flushed red. He looked as if he were about to bust somebody in the chops. I spoke before he had a chance. No sense bitching about it.

“Tell the provost marshal thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Be happy to,” Riley said. “Enjoy your duty. And have a nice day.”

We found Ortfield in the 21 T Car barracks-that’s the 21st Transportation Company (Car). He was playing grab-ass with one of the houseboys, a man twice his age, who was trying to ignore him and get his work done.

Ernie decided to set Ortfield straight from the beginning. He grabbed him by his scrawny shoulders and slammed him up against a metal wall locker.

“Hey! What’s the idea?”

Ernie shoved his forearm under Ortfield’s chin. Cheeks bulged. “The idea is that you’re a dirt-bag, and from this moment until you get on that plane you’re going to do everything we say.” Ortfield gurgled. “You got that?”

His voice came out choked and frightened. “Okay. Okay!”

Ernie let him go and told him to go back to his bunk and quit bothering the houseboy. We followed him over to his area and found that he hadn’t even begun to pack. Ernie dug out his canvas duffel bag from the bottom of his footlocker, threw it at him, and told him to get busy. Ortfield grabbed it on the fly and, completely convinced of Ernie’s sincerity, went to work.

Ernie walked over to me and whispered, “The maggot. Babysitting him all night means we miss Happy Hour.”

“Tough duty,” I said.

“I’ll take the first shift. Put the fear of God into him. You come back after chow and take over for a while.”

“Right,” I said. “See you then.”

The sun was setting red and fierce into the Yellow Sea when I strolled back to Ortfield’s barracks. I went in the side door, down the hallway, and into the four-man room. Empty. No Ortfield. No Ernie.

I rushed out toward the front entrance and the office of the Charge of Quarters. An overweight staff sergeant in wrinkled khakis sat behind the desk reading a comic book.

“Have you seen Ernie?”

“The guy guarding Ortfield?”

“Yeah.”

“He left about ten minutes ago to pick up some beer. Decided to give the kid a break, his last night in country and all.”

And give himself a break, too.

“Did he take Ortfield with him?”

“No. Isn’t he in his room?”

“No. I just came from there.”

“Maybe he’s in the latrine.”

I sprinted down the hallway and checked the latrine, and when I didn’t find him there, I ran upstairs and pounded on as many doors as I could. After five minutes of scurrying around the barracks it was clear. Ortfield had disappeared.

Whistling, a bag of cold cans in his arms, Ernie strolled toward the front of the barracks. I caught him at the entrance but before I could speak he saw it in my eyes.

“The little dirt-bag took off?”

“You got it.”

“But I was being nice to him.”

I turned back to the CQ. “Did any Koreans come into the barracks?”

“Not that I saw.”

We checked around, but none of the GIs and none of the houseboys had seen any unauthorized Koreans in the barracks.

“We’re going to have to track him,” Ernie said.

We returned to Ortfield’s bunk. Ernie popped me a beer and opened one for himself.

“No sense letting it go to waste,” he said.

I sipped on mine, thought for a moment, and started looking through the junk in Ortfield’s locker. I found it amongst the toiletries, behind a red and white striped can of shaving cream. A photograph. Ortfield sitting at a cocktail table with a Korean woman. I handed it to Ernie.

“Do you recognize her?”

Ernie squinted, slugging back his beer. “Yeah. A business girl. I’ve seen her around. Out in Itaewon.”

I studied the façade behind them. “We’re experts at every bar in the red light district, Ernie. Look hard. Which club is this?”

He thought about it, sorting the possibilities in his mind. “Colored light bulbs on the ceiling, plaster made to look like the walls of a cave. Round cocktail tables with plastic tablecloths. The Sloe-eyed Lady Club. It’s got to be.”

“You’re right. That’s what I thought.” I stuffed the photograph in my shirt pocket. “Let’s go.”

Ernie glugged down the last of his beer and followed me out the door.

By the time we hit Itaewon, the sun was down and neon lights flashed lewd invitations to the few packs of GIs roaming the streets. Girls stood in doorways, half naked in the cold winter air, crooking their red-tipped fingernails, cooing siren songs of sensual delight.

We ignored them, heading like two hound dogs toward the top of the hill and the Sloe-eyed Lady Club. We pushed through the padded vinyl doors of the club and entered a world of blinking red bulbs and grinding rock music and the smell of stale beer. A sea of young women gyrated on the small dance floor. No men yet. Most GIs still hadn’t left the compound.

As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, we scanned the room. No Ortfield. Ernie spotted her first. “There she is.”

He waded out onto the dance floor, pushing girls out of his way like Moses crossing the Red Sea.

When he found her, he stood behind her, but she continued to dance. She still hadn’t notice him. The girls dancing with her stopped. Ernie wrapped his arm around her slim body, pinning her arms to her sides, and escorted her quickly off the dance floor. I led the way to a table in the corner, and we sat her down. I leaned toward her.

“Where’s Dwayne?”

“Who?”

“Ortfield.” I showed her the picture.

“Oh, him. I don’t know. I no see long time.”

“Weren’t you his steady yobo?”

“For two months. Maybe three.” She waved her hand. “Anyway, he go. Catch another girl.”

“Which girl?”

“I don’t know. He butterfly honcho. Maybe catch many girls.”

Ernie leaned in front of me and grabbed her wrist. Slowly, he began to twist.

“You kojitmal me?” he said, breathing into her face.

“Ok-hee no lie,” she said.

They stared at one another. She seemed to enjoy the pain, and he enjoyed giving it. For a moment I thought they were going to clinch, but the music stopped and we heard a murmur coming from the girls on the dance floor. I glance back and saw angry faces and pointing fingers. Korean business girls protect one another. If they attacked, they’d rip us to shreds with their manicures.

I tapped Ernie on the elbow. “Come on, pal. Let’s get out of here.”

He let the girl go but continued to stare at her as we walked out the door.

There was nothing to do but search the clubs one at a time. When we saw business girls on the street, I stopped them and asked about Ortfield and showed them the photograph, but they all shook their long glistening black hair and said they hadn’t seen him.

It was less than an hour before the midnight curfew. We took a break and ordered some onion rings at a stand outside the Lucky 7 Club. The GIs were out in force now, swirling from one joint to another in drunken abandon. We ordered two cold ones to wash down the greasy batter.

“We’re screwed,” Ernie said.

“Maybe he’ll show up on his own.”

“Maybe. And maybe he’ll go AWOL, and you and I will both lose another stripe.”

I shrugged. I’d lost them before. “That’s not what worries me.”

Ernie set down his brown bottle of Oriental Beer. “Then what does?”

“Mr. Choi.”

“Who?”

“The dead girl’s dad. He doesn’t believe justice was done in our military court.”

“He’s right about that.”

“I’m afraid he might administer justice on his own.”

Ernie kept chomping on the onion rings. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned. It was the girl from the Sloe-eyed Lady Club, Ok-hee. Ortfield’s old flame.

“I see him,” she said.

“Where?”

“Chogi,” she said, pointing. Over there. “You come quick. Big trouble.”

We set down our food and ran.

She led us down an alley that wound away from the lights of the bar district. We swerved past a dark movie house with an enormous billboard above the entrance painted with the faces of giant Korean actresses. A flight of broad cement steps led down to the main road.

At the bottom, next to a boxlike black sedan, stood two men. One of them was Ortfield. The other was a Korean taller than Ortfield, trying to force him into the car. Ortfield flailed wildly. That mad resistance of a drunk.

There were no crowds nearby. The buses had stopped, and most people had sense enough to find shelter before midnight when everyone had to be off the street. Only a few taxis, their yellow plastic lights bobbing above the flat roofs, sped by.

Ernie sized up the situation immediately and bounded down the steps, taking them two at a time. He yelled. “Hey! What are you doing there?”

The Korean man, still with a fierce grip on Ortfield’s arm, turned and glanced up the steps. I recognized him. The lawyer. The same man who had confronted us at the home of Choi Un-suk’s parents.

I started down after Ernie, taking the steps more cautiously. They were narrow and slick, and I didn’t want to fall and bust something.

As Ernie approached, the lawyer seemed to evaluate his situation. He looked at Ernie, he looked at the squirming Ortfield, and he looked at the small back door of the black sedan. With a sigh of resignation, he let Ortfield go, opened the front door of the car, and climbed in.

Ernie hit the bottom of the stairs running. “Halt! You’re under arrest.”

We had no jurisdiction over Korean civilians, even ones caught red-handed trying to kidnap a drunken GI, but technicalities like the law never slow Ernie down.

The car pulled away. As oncoming headlights flashed through the cab, I saw that the lawyer sat in the front next to a driver. Neither one of them looked back.

Ernie grabbed Ortfield. “Who were those guys?”

Ortfield just babbled. He was so drunk-or stoned-that saliva dripped from his mouth.

When I reached the bottom of the steps, I watched the red taillights fade into the distance. What had they wanted? Why hadn’t they killed him when they had the chance?

All the way back to the compound Ernie cuffed Ortfield on the head. Back at the barracks, I took the first shift. Ernie took the second. One of us was awake all night. Watching.

The next afternoon was a clear winter day with a sky so blue that it must’ve drifted over from the vast plains of Manchuria.

Ernie drove. Quiet. Pissed off that we had to babysit and upset that Ortfield was getting better treatment than most GIs. A civilian flight out of Kimpo International Airport. A chauffeured jeep instead of a cattle car loaded with smelly soldiers and duffel bags.

In the morning the movers had arrived and-without incident-boxed up what little baggage Ortfield had to be shipped: a stereo set, souvenirs of Korea, extra uniforms. After chow we loaded up the jeep and started out for the airport.

Ortfield was still hung over. Morose. Unapologetic for having run off by himself last night. Just one more romp through Itaewon, that’s all he’d been after. He admitted to popping a few pills and drinking a bottle or two of Oscar, rotgut Korean sparkling burgundy. After that he remembered nothing. Not even the incident with the lawyer. All he remembered, he claimed, was the steady rap of Ernie’s knuckles on his head as we marched him back to the compound. He rubbed his greasy skull resentfully.

The little jeep wound through the bustling life of Seoul, crossed the bridge over the crystal blue ribbon of the River Han, and sped past open rice paddies until we reached Kimpo International Airport.

In the parking lot Ernie padlocked the jeep. We watched as Ortfield shouldered his duffel bag and suitcase into the busy terminal.

I started to breathe a sigh of relief. The ordeal was almost over. At the check-in stand I handed the ticket and the military orders to a pretty Korean woman in a tight-fitting blue uniform. She checked and stamped everything quickly, asking for Ortfield’s military identification. And then she handed everything back to us and we were on our way.

A flight of steps led upstairs to the departure gates, but just before we got there, a frail man stepped out of the restroom. He stood in front of us, blocking our way, and I realized who he was. Mr. Choi, the father of the dead girl, Choi Un-suk.

He didn’t seem angry and he didn’t have any weapons in his hand, he just stood in front of us, moving slightly every time we tried to step around him. I positioned myself between him and Ortfield.

“Ernie, take Ortfield up the steps. I’ll deal with Mr. Choi.”

I turned back to him ready to speak, but he ignored me, his eyes following Ortifeld and Ernie as they approached the stairway.

Another man appeared from behind a newsstand. With a start I recognized him. The lawyer.

Ernie saw him too, and bristled. The lawyer stepped forward. Ernie stuck his fist out to stop him but like a cobra striking a mouse, he grabbed Ernie’s forearm and started to twist. Ernie was no novice. He went with the turn instead of resisting, and soon they were grappling with one another, banging up against the rattling newsstand.

Ortfield sized up the situation, re-hoisted his duffel bag, and started trotting up the stairs.

Good, I thought. Get to the flight. That’s the main thing.

I hurried forward to help Ernie, but the lawyer had already backed off, his hands held up, palms open, making it clear he didn’t want a fight.

Ernie’s fists were clenched and his face red, and his nose pointed forward as if he were going to jab it into the lawyer’s heart.

Mr. Choi started slowly up the stairs, his interest elsewhere. Ortfield was already out of sight.

That’s when it hit me.

With the back of my hand, I slapped Ernie on the arm. “Come on!”

“What?”

“Ortfield. He’s alone. These two guys were just trying to get us away from him.”

Awareness came into Ernie’s eyes. We’d been had. We ran toward the stairs and pushed through the steady flow of travelers descending from the upper deck.

The walkway opened into a long concourse that led to the various gates. No Ortfield. We ran to the end of the hall and turned but instead of another long passageway we were halted by a brick wall of people.

Everyone was agitated, trying to look forward over the heads in front of them. I saw braided black pigtails and white blouses and long blue skirts. Schoolgirls. Many of them. There were also men in white caps and slacks and blue sports coats and, toward the front, elderly women in long dresses. Everyone wore a white sash from shoulder to hip. The sign of mourning.

“Crap,” Ernie said. We both knew what we were in for. A demonstration. One of the few acceptable ways in Korea to vent emotion in public. Once they get rolling, anything can happen.

We pushed through the crowd. In front was an open area and a platform, and a woman stood atop it trying to switch on a megaphone. It buzzed and crackled to life.

She was tall and thin and wore a long blue skirt and a blue vest and her black hair was pulled tightly back from her austere face. I recognized her. The aunt of Choi Un-suk we had seen when we delivered the money. She turned away from us, toward a small commotion in the crowd.

“Wei nomu bali ka?” she said. Why are you leaving so quickly? Everyone cheered.

Over the sea of heads I spotted Ortfield. Two men had grabbed his duffel bag and his suitcase, and he was struggling with them, trying to yank them out of their grasp. Between him and the woman on the platform was a huge shrine. A blown-up photograph of Choi Un-suk draped in black and bedecked in front with dozens of bouquets. Behind the flowers stood the family, her mother, her aunts, her uncles.

Ernie didn’t like Ortfield, not at all, but he’s a territorial kind of guy. Ortfield was our prisoner, and Ernie didn’t want people messing with him or delaying him in boarding his plane. Before I could say anything, he shot forward like a Doberman freed from a leash.

He crashed into the two men holding Ortfield’s bags and knocked them back into the arms of onlookers. A great roar went up from the crowd. Ernie tossed the bags to Ortfield and started shoving him forward, toward the boarding gate twenty yards away.

The woman with the megaphone shrieked.

I’m not sure what she said. Something about the life of a Korean woman. But whatever it was, it was enough. The crowd surged forward, me with it, and Ernie and Ortfield were enveloped by a sea of bodies.

Ortfield cursed and threw a punch, and Ernie jostled with three schoolgirls, and then they were down and there was more screaming and in the distance I heard the whistle of a policeman but I knew they wouldn’t be able to make it through the melee.

So far, I had been left mostly alone, with nothing more happening to me than hands pushing on my back as everyone shoved forward to see what was happening. Shuffling sideways through the surging crowd, I made my way toward the platform. The woman atop it was still screaming through the small megaphone. Now I could understand her.

“Chukkijima!” Don’t kill them.

It didn’t seem that anyone was listening.

I climbed up on the platform. She looked up at me, ready to swat me with the bullhorn. I bowed slightly.

“I want to speak to the people,” I said.

She hesitated.

“Please,” I said “I know why you are here. I know what needs to be done.”

She gazed into my eyes. Maybe it was desperation she saw there. Maybe it was the fact that she knew she’d already lost control of the crowd. Reluctantly she handed me the megaphone.

Ernie had wrapped both arms around the duffel bag, like Ish-mael clinging to Queequeg’s coffin, and twisted and pushed his way through the crowd. Ortfield tried to fight, but half-a-dozen men had hold of him, one of them with a firm grip on his hair, yanking his head back. If someone had a knife, they could’ve sliced his neck clean.

Schoolgirls stepped out of the crowd, screaming curses at Ortfield. Some of them spit. Some of them threw weak punches.

In the distance a small group of policemen struggled forward at the edge of the crowd, blowing their whistles, making little headway. No one made a path for them.

I spoke into the megaphone, keeping my voice as calm as I could. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”

I used English. I wanted them to know that an American was speaking. Many heads looked up. I continued speaking soothing words. A murmur ran through the crowd and soon they started to quiet, like a sea calming after a storm. Finally, the only people struggling were Ernie and Ortfield.

I pulled the megaphone away from my mouth and hissed toward Ernie. “Don’t let him move forward, Ernie. Hold him where he is.”

All eyes were on me. Patient. Expectant. A class waiting for a schoolteacher to begin a presentation. Even the police were quiet. I knew what I had to do. I should’ve done it a long time ago. I pointed to Ortfield. This time I spoke Korean.

“Our young soldier is distraught. He has brought great shame upon himself and his family. They will wonder why he was sent home from the army so early and why none of his officers have anything good to say about him.”

I looked at him, shaking my head, a pitying expression.

“But he has little education. See how he acts when you have been so kind to wait for him here. To give him a chance to do the right thing.”

I covered the mouthpiece of the megaphone with my hand.

“Ernie! Take him in front of the shrine.”

Ortfield looked up at me, nervous and afraid. Ernie wasn’t sure what I was up to but we’ve been partners long enough for him not to question me. He grabbed Ortfield by the arm and when he pulled away, he twisted his wrist behind his back and shoved him forward in front of the flowers and the huge photograph of Choi Un-suk.

This time the crowd made way.

I spoke into the megaphone again, praying that Ernie would know what to do.

“We Eighth Army soldiers, we Americans, we who are responsible for Ortfield,” I said, “daedanhi choesong-hamnida.” We are terribly sorry.

Right on cue, Ernie grabbed the back of Ortfield’s head and forced it down. He struggled-choking, bent forward at the waist-but Ernie held him there for almost half a minute. I bowed at the same time.

Choe Un-suk’s mother began to cry. Handkerchiefs fluttered in the trembling fingers of the elderly ladies. While Ortfield was down, the schoolgirls, Un-suk’s classmates, bowed too, and the adults joined in, and like the ocean when the tide goes out, the crowd lowered.

When they rose again, there was much embracing and everyone turned their backs on Ortfield and Ernie and me.

I handed the megaphone to the sad-faced aunt, climbed off the platform, and as quietly as I could, pulled Ernie and Ortfield toward the departure gate.

When we arrived back at the CID office, Riley pulled a pencil from behind his ear and peered at us over the mountain of paperwork.

“ ’Bout time you guys got back. What the hell took you so long?”

“We had a couple of delays.”

His eyes narrowed. “Goofing off again, eh?”

Ernie ignored him, sauntered over to the coffee urn, and poured himself the dregs of the day’s java.

I stood in front of Riley’s desk, studying him, wondering how much he’d understand. Wondering how much the army would understand. The explanation would be long and hard, and in the end it would be meaningless to them. No sense even starting.

I took of my coat and hung it on the gray metal rack. “Yeah, Sarge,” I said. “You caught us. Goofing off again.”

He nodded, grunted, and looked back down at his paperwork.

All was right with the world.