“That’s one of our main jobs,” Vance replied.
“Do they relay stuff up here?”
“Of course. And then we send it on.”
“Like their morning report?”
“Yeah. We send it over to Sasebo in Japan.”
“Not up to Eighth Army?”
“No. The training facility’s under a separate command.”
“Do you keep records here of that morning report?”
“No. I read it every day, though. Sort of gives me an idea of whether or not the ville’s going to be crowded.”
“Like when all the SF guys are on duty, they must have a training cycle in.”
“You got it. And those Second Division guys go nuts down in Nokko-ri. Drive the prices sky-high.”
“I thought you said you don’t go down to the ville often,” Ernie said, but he smiled as he said it.
Vance flushed red. “Only sometimes.”
“I don’t blame you for going to the ville,” I told him. “I’d go down there as often as I could if I worked in a remote place like this.”
Vance nodded but didn’t reply. I continued.
“So Sergeant Parkwood probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning, right? Not if he’s smart.”
“Maybe,” Vance said.
Ernie cut in. “Don’t worry so much, Vance. We’re not here about all that. We just want to know who in the last two or three weeks has been on TDY or in-country leave from the Mount Halla Training Facility.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” Ernie replied. “After we get that, we’ll leave you alone.”
“I don’t mind the company. Honest. It gets sort of lonely up here.”
“I can imagine. So tell us about the Green Berets at the Mount Halla Training Facility.”
“One guy’s due back tomorrow,” Vance said. “He went back to the States on a thirty-day mid-tour leave.”
“Who’s that?”
“Munoz. I think he’s Puerto Rican. At least that’s what his travel orders said, that he was going there, to Puerto Rico I mean.”
I jotted the name down in my notebook.
“Nobody else has been gone,” Vance said. “Except for maybe if they took the regular chopper run to Pusan on the weekend. But even that’s unlikely. There’s only nine Green Berets stationed there, not counting Colonel Laurel. And he insists on a CQ every night, so they pull a lot of duty.”
CQ. Charge of Quarters.
“They’re a strack unit,” Ernie said.
“Right,” Vance said admiringly. “Straight-arrow military.”
“So to the best of your knowledge,” I said, “only one guy has been gone from the Mount Halla Training Facility in the last few weeks.”
“As best as I can tell,” Vance replied.
“How about their ration-control cards?” I asked.
“Their what?”
“The ration cards. You know, like at the PX when your ration-control plate is anviled when you buy something like liquor or beer. They have a PX, don’t they?”
“A small one.”
“So somebody has to deliver their ration cards.”
“Yeah. I forgot about that. Sergeant Amos runs it up to Seoul every week.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Walker R. Amos, Sergeant First Class.”
I jotted the name down. “Why him? Why is he the only one to run it up every week?”
“Something about his profile,” Vance replied. “He’s older than the other guys. Can’t do all the physical training they do.”
“So Colonel Laurel makes him escort the ration cards up to Seoul each week. Sort of demeaning, isn’t it?”
Vance shrugged.
“So he takes the weekly chopper to Pusan. From there does he take the train?”
“I guess,” Vance replied. “I never heard of anybody traveling up to Seoul any other way. Unless they take one of the training flights that come in.”
“There’s an airport?”
“Yeah. The ROK Army has one.”
“Can you think of anyone else who’s left the compound recently?”
“No. That’s it. Not unless you count Colonel Laurel.”
“When did he leave?”
“Last week. I don’t remember the exact day. There was some sort of commander’s call in Seoul.”
When Ernie and I climbed back into the cab, I studied the ranks and names I had jotted down. The first was Munoz, a buck sergeant. That meant he was relatively young; maybe he’d gone back to visit his family in Puerto Rico. Lifers don’t travel that much. Once you’ve spent a decade or two in the army, your family tends to forget about you and you tend to forget about them. The second man, the one who’d delivered the ration cards to Seoul, was a sergeant first class, which meant he’d been around a while. The full name was Walker R. Amos. Could he be black? If so, and if it could be proven that Munoz had gone to Puerto Rico, I could eliminate both men and I’d be back to square one. I asked Specialist Vance, but he’d never met either man personally. But something told me that SFC Walker R. Amos would be white. Something told me we were close to the Blue Train rapist. Very close.
Mr. Won was even more petrified driving down Mount Halla than he had been while driving up. I didn’t like the way he kept jamming on the brakes, pressing the pedal almost to the floorboard. Ernie finally said something.
“When was the last time you put in new brake pads, Ajjosi?”
I shushed him. The man didn’t understand anyway. Best to let him concentrate on his driving and hope for the best. I actually thought of telling Mr. Won to stop so we could get out and walk the three or four miles downhill back to Nokko-ri, but I didn’t think he could stop this old cab now if he wanted to.
Ernie spotted it first. He pointed.
“Look!”
A puke-green quarter-ton truck, army-issue, chugging up the incline.
“Must be Parkwood,” I said, “coming back from his supply run.”
“There’s a bypass,” Ernie said, “closer to him than to us.”
“I hope he has the sense to use it,” I replied.
Mr. Won didn’t understand a word we were saying. He stared in terror at the winding road ahead, jamming on the brakes, both hands knuckled white atop the steering wheel.
I reached over and honked the horn.
If the man driving the truck below heard it, he gave no indication.
16
When I was growing up in East L.A., freeways blossomed everywhere. The Santa Ana, the San Bernardino, the Pomona, the Harbor, the Long Beach, all were being renovated or widened or extended or planned or laid down. Overweight politicians in stiff business suits were constantly cutting ribbons. It was as if by paving the entire planet and drawing lane-change lines to the end of the earth, we’d finally find happiness. That was one of the reasons I’d been so smitten by Korea when I first arrived. Sure, there were roads and cars and trucks-and a new four-lane freeway was being built to run between Seoul and Pusan-but still, there were plenty of places for people to actually
