the managers of all operations in the nightclubs for the absentee bar owners. These women wore their black hair formally, knotted high atop their heads and held together with jade pins, and often they wore earplugs, so they wouldn’t go deaf listening to the obnoxious American rock music pulsating out of enormous stereo speakers.
The ville patrol paraded into each nightclub like a pack of young kings. They searched not only the environs of the nightclub but also the areas behind the bar and the back storerooms and particularly the bathrooms, both women’s and men’s. If everything seemed to be in order-there were no fights, no drugs being dealt, nobody passed out-they departed and marched to the next bar. Ville patrol was the job Jill Matthewson had done. For years- probably since the Korean War ended in 1953-the ville patrol had consisted of three policemen. Adding Jill was an innovation. She became the fourth member of the team. Since American women had first been assigned up here to Division, a few of them complained about Korean cops barging into ladies’ rooms and checking the stalls, with them in it! So the Division provost marshal assigned Jill Matthewson to the ville patrol with the understanding that it was her duty to check the female latrines.
Now that she was gone, and with no female replacement in sight, the ville patrol was back to the same old intrusive routine.
So far, Ernie and I had been discreet. The ville patrol hadn’t noticed that we were following. Unprofessional of them but who can blame them? They were bored. They did this every night, and it figured that in the history of the 2nd Infantry Division the ville patrol had probably never been followed before. Not once. We wanted to see how they operated before questioning them. When it became clear that nothing untoward was going on and they were conducting themselves in a professional manner, Ernie and I stopped them outside the Montana Club.
The American MP’s name was Staff Sergeant Weatherwax, Rufus Q., a thin black man with an aquiline nose and eyelids that seemed to be having trouble staying open, like a jazz musician maintaining his cool. We flashed him our CID badges and asked about Jill Matthewson. He knew her but had worked with her only a few nights due to the fact that the ville patrol was a rotating duty.
“But Matthewson didn’t rotate,” I said. “She was on full time.”
“Right. Because she was the only female MP.”
“We heard she was friendly with some of the Korean women,” Ernie said. “Can you give us a hint on that?”
“Can’t be sure.”
“There must be something.”
Then Weatherwax started conversing with the Korean cop and the ROK Army MP. I helped the conversation along by speaking Korean.
They remembered. Down the road, through a narrow passageway known as “the crack,” an area of Tongduchon frequented mostly by black American soldiers, in a joint called the Black Cat Club, Jill had smiled and hugged the female bartender. And once or twice they’d seen her there, in civilian clothes, when she was off duty.
I asked Weatherwax another one: “Did Corporal Matthewson have a boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Why not?” Ernie asked.
Weatherwax thought about it for a while. “I’m not sure exactly but it seemed she didn’t like GIs much.”
“But a lot of them were hitting on her.”
“All of them were hitting on her.”
“Including you?”
He grinned. “Hey, I gave it a try once.” As he studied our faces, his grin turned to a frown. “When she didn’t go for it, I left it alone.”
“That makes you a minority of one.”
Weatherwax didn’t respond.
Ernie inhaled sharply and took a step toward Weatherwax. “I remember you now,” Ernie said. “As soon as you smiled. You were in the hallway this morning. At the Provost Marshal’s Office.”
Weatherwax stared at Ernie blankly.
Ernie waved his forefinger at the hooked tip of Weatherwax’s nose.
“Having a good time with your pals, eh Sarge? Hooting and howling about Eighth Army REMFs.”
Weatherwax groaned and rotated his head as if his neck hurt. “If you can’t handle the heat up here in Division,” he said, “then run on back to the rear echelon.”
I stepped between the two men. “Come on, Ernie. We have work to do.”
Ernie allowed me to shove him backwards a few steps but he kept staring at Weatherwax. “We’ll talk, Sarge. Again.”
Staff Sergeant Weatherwax placed his palm atop the hilt of his holstered. 45. “Anytime,” he said. Then he turned and the other two cops fell in behind him and the ville patrol continued their rounds.
“Ain’t no bag, man,” the bartender explained.
She was Korean but wore dark makeup and her jet black hair was frizzed into a towering Afro. Her face was round and her lips full and the smooth features of her soft flesh were nicely accentuated by the hoop earrings she wore. Her body was something to write home about. Plenty of curves and, as she moved about, her red silk blouse caressed each and every contour.
“Ain’t no bag,” had been her response when Ernie asked her if there were ever any problems when white GIs entered the Black Cat Club. She went on to explain that not many “T-shirts” entered here but when they did it was “ain’t no bag,” as long as they treated the brothers with respect.
Maybe she was right but I had my doubts. We were only a week away from end-of-month payday, but the Black Cat Club was still about half full. Mostly with Korean business girls, many of them doing their best to look like “sisters.” A soft red glow illuminated the smoke-filled room. The rest of the customers were black GIs, some of them wearing brightly colored outfits they’d designed themselves in the local Korean tailor shops. Almost to a man, they glanced at us warily. I was happy that we were here early, before the place became crowded and before any of the brothers were fully toked up.
The bartender’s name was Brandy.
Probably not a name that her Confucian ancestors would’ve approved of but a name that worked well in the Black Cat Club. Marvin Gaye wailed as Ernie leaned across the bar and shouted his questions into Brandy’s ear.
She knew Jill Matthewson and she liked her. They’d become friendly one night after there’d been a fight in the Black Cat Club. One of the business girls had been injured in the melee and when the ville patrol arrived, Jill provided first aid for the teenage prostitute. Brandy assisted by bringing towels and water and Corporal Jill Matthewson made sure that the young Korean woman was treated for free at the 2nd Division emergency room rather than being left to her own devices as some of the male MPs wanted to do.
“Jill good people,” Brandy said.
Ever since then, Brandy couldn’t do enough for her.
I asked Brandy if she knew what had happened to Jill Matthewson.
“I don’t know. I go to KNPs, tell them everything I know, but they say they no can find.”
“You went to the Korean National Police?” Ernie asked.
“Yes.”
“They didn’t come to you?”
She shook her head negatively and her hoop earrings jingled.
“And no GIs came and asked you about Jill Matthewson?”
She shook her head again.
Apparently, the 2nd Division investigation hadn’t been as thorough as we’d been led to believe.
Then we asked more about Jill, trying to encourage Brandy to open up. Between bouts of pouring drinks, she did. She said that after the night of the fight, Jill stopped in a few times, off duty, just to talk. She ordered orange Fanta, a soft drink, and when GIs approached and tried to talk to her, she told them she was here to talk to Brandy. When Jill told Brandy that the female barracks on Camp Casey were too noisy and filled with drunken GIs chasing women at all hours of the night, Brandy suggested Jill rent her own hooch.
“She afraid at first,” Brandy told us. “You know, not used to Korea. But I fix up.”
Brandy referred Jill Matthewson to a bokdok-bang, a local real estate office, and within a week, Jill had picked
