“And now,” Ernie continued, “you pull a gun on me just because me and my partner are in here doing our jobs.” Ernie took a step closer to Bufford. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Fred Bufford. Me and my partner are going to do our jobs and I don’t give a shit if you or the provost marshal or the entire goddam Division tries to stop us. Whether you like it or not, Corporal Jill Matthewson was a soldier and an MP and we’re going to find her. We all have to stick together, or we’ll all go down together because there’s a lot of ass-holes out there and if we don’t stop them nobody else will!”
The MPs were mumbling louder now, in total agreement with my partner, Ernie Bascom.
Colonel Alcott must’ve known that he was losing control of the situation so he gestured for silence. As he did so, Bufford piped up.
“They were tired,” Bufford said.
“Who was tired, Bufford?” Ernie asked.
“Privates Elliot and Korman. They were ferrying cargo back from the Western Corridor. They’d been driving in the dark and under poor road conditions. When they approached those girls on the side of the road, they weren’t expecting such a big crowd. The truck slid, one of the girls was killed. It was an accident.”
Most of the MPs murmured in assent.
This was news to me. I’d assumed that at seven thirty in the morning, the truck had been leaving Camp Casey. Instead, they’d been returning to Camp Casey, with cargo no less. What sort of cargo would you pick up in the middle of the night? I needed to confirm what I’d just heard.
“The two drivers,” I said, “Elliot and Korman, left Camp Casey in the middle of the night, drove to the Western Corridor, and then were back in Tongduchon by zero-seven-thirty?”
Alcott shot Bufford a look, but the taller man was too busy talking to notice.
“Yes. They were exhausted. They were good MPs, but exhausted. You can’t blame them.”
And they were also MPs. Why hadn’t that been in the safety report? Or if it had, I’d missed it. Attention to detail, what the army always harps on. I cursed myself for not being more alert. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was it hadn’t been mentioned anywhere in the safety report. It must’ve been in the court-martial transcripts but I had yet to read those.
Colonel Alcott found his voice. “At ease, goddam it. At ease!”
Everyone shut up.
“Bufford, you apologize to these two men for pulling a gun on them. Bascom, you’re going to see the desk sergeant and fill out a complete report on what happened between you and Weatherwax last night. Whether or not charges will be brought is still an open question. You’ll be informed later. Sueno, you make sure that Bascom here completes the report, answers all follow-up questions, and then and only then will you two be free to go. Is that understood?
“Understood, sir,” I replied.
“That’s it then. Bufford?”
An MP handed Warrant Officer Fred Bufford his. 45, butt first. Bufford grabbed it by the handle and, as he rose to his feet, slipped it into the leather holster hanging off his bony hip.
“Okay,” Bufford said. “I overreacted. But you make that statement,” he told Ernie, “and sign it and answer all our questions. You got that?”
Ernie crossed his arms and shrugged.
Before anyone could object to the deal, Colonel Alcott shouted, “Back to your duties! Everybody. Move it!”
While Ernie was making his statement, Colonel Alcott called me out into the hallway. When we were alone, he came so close I had to retreat a step. He was clean shaven and smelled of cologne and his civilian clothes were neatly pressed. My guess was that he’d encountered us as he’d taken a last turn through the Provost Marshal’s Office before heading off to the Indianhead Officers’ Club. Socializing is a big part of an officer’s life, if he’s ambitious.
In a low voice, Alcott said, “You will not make any further false accusations about the Druwood case. That was a training accident and only a training accident. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I understood only too well. These guys were not going to let two low-level 8th Army CID agents rock their cozy little boat.
“If you persist in these accusations,” Alcott continued, “you will be guilty of spreading false rumor concerning the integrity of the chain of command, a crime that is prohibited under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And, I might add, a crime that is taken extremely seriously up here at Division. Do you understand?”
“I understand, sir.” Colonel Alcott was right about the UCMJ. One of its provisions specifically states that it is a criminal offense to spread rumors that can be shown to have a deleterious effect on the morale of a military unit. But one man’s rumor is another man’s fact.
Two armed MPs marched down the narrow hallway. Colonel Alcott stepped away from me and acknowledged their greeting. After they’d passed, he closed in on me again.
“I suggest, Agent Sueno,” he told me, “that you and your partner wrap up your investigation and wrap it up soon.”
“We haven’t found Corporal Matthewson, sir.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Did that ever occur to you?”
“It did, sir.”
“So maybe you’d better cut your losses and head back to Seoul before one of these peripheral issues you’ve been nosing into explodes in your face.” Colonel Alcott paused and stared at me. “Now I’m not going to ask again if you understand me because, let’s cut the shit, I know you understand me. I’m telling you, for the last time, wrap up your report and get the hell out of Tongduchon.”
With that, he swiveled smartly and marched his little body down the hallway.
Ok-hi led the way, the heels of her black leather boots clicking down a flight of stone steps that led toward the East Bean River. About twenty yards below us, lining the muddy banks, were row upon row of wooden shanties. Candles glowed from within, as did an occasional cooking fire; some of the homes were lit by electric bulbs. The river moved sluggishly beneath the weight of moonlight, and the odor from the almost stagnant flow was what you’d expect from any waste dump. Rancid. Laundry fluttered from lines; water sloshed from buckets; old men barked; children shouted.
“The Turkey Farm,” Ok-hi said. “No more bad thing here. KNPs say no can do.”
So the brothels had been replaced by poor families. Families that had probably traveled from all over the Korean countryside, looking for work in Tongduchon, a city that, because of its proximity to Camp Casey, had become an economic boomtown.
A three-quarters moon hovered above the hills on the far side of the valley, its red glow shining on the Confucian shrine, a pagoda-like structure made of stone. The back of the pagoda was to the river but its face frowned out onto a small plaza. The entrance to the shrine was guarded by stone heitei, mythical lionlike creatures that guard all religious sites in Korea.
“There,” Ok-hi said, pointing with her open palm. “Old king die.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ernie said. “How old was he?”
“No.” Ok-hi shook her head vehemently. “Not old. King young but he die long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“Long time.” Her cute nose crinkled. “How long? How you say?” She looked at me. “Menggu.”
“Mongols,” I said.
“Yeah. King die when Mongol come.”
Ernie whistled. “That had to be before I got drafted.”
About seven hundred years ago, to be exact.
Surrounding the plaza were shops and teahouses and what looked like chophouses and bars. None of the buildings were very big. The largest, an ancient wooden edifice some three stories tall, stood directly opposite the shrine. The people milling about appeared, from this distance, to be Koreans. I didn’t see any GIs. I did notice, however, that a paved, two-lane road ran north from the shrine. Large enough for a KNP patrol car or an American jeep or even, with a good driver, a two-and-a-half-ton truck.
So here it was. The Turkey Farm that I’d heard so much about. An eyesore that had caused so much embarrassment for both Korean and U.S. authorities that they’d finally mustered the will to clean it up. What stories
