holds a meeting and the Korean and American representatives try to hash out a resolution. Apparently they’d been apprised of the Blue Train rape case, and now they’d also been apprised that 8th Army wasn’t going to investigate. Ernie and I, by spilling the beans to Lieutenant Pong, had stirred up some serious bureaucratic waste. Not that we hadn’t expected to.
Colonel Brace studied us. “When you appear before them,” he said, “you answer their questions truthfully. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you only answer the questions they ask. You don’t volunteer information. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” we said again.
He stared at us for a long time, seemed about to speak, but finally shook his head and then waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here. Both of you. Out!”
We saluted, performed a neat about-face, and marched out of his office.
* * *
Marnie was all over Ernie in the van, one arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand toying with the buttons of his shirt. Shelly, the lead guitar player, slapped Marnie’s hand away.
“Behave yourself,” she said.
Marnie pouted, frowned, and then turned back to Ernie, cooing, “You don’t mind, do you?”
Ernie ignored her. “What compound was that again, where you’re playing tonight?”
Shelly, sitting stiffly and continually glancing at Marnie, checked the itinerary. “Someplace called Camp Colbern,” she told us.
“That dump?” Ernie turned to me. “We should’ve brought the jeep, so we could get out of there early.”
“You want to leave me?” Marnie asked.
Ernie shoved her hand away. For the rest of the drive, she sat alone, pouting like a little girl.
After thirty minutes of winding roads, the van finally rolled through the main gate of Camp Colbern. The narrow road between Quonset huts was lined with G.I.s, smiling, waving, blowing kisses. The van’s engine churned as we climbed a short hill and came to a halt in the alley behind the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club.
Once we stopped, Mr. Shin and the other driver and their two assistants began unloading the equipment. We hustled the girls through the back door of the club. After a hallway lined with latrines, we entered a ballroom lit by dim yellow lights, with seating that would hold about a hundred people. The wall-to-wall carpet was tattered and spongy and reeked of mildew. Near the stage, beneath yellow floodlights, a reception committee waited. The post commander introduced himself, and he and his staff started fawning over the girls. Within minutes, Marnie had them rearranging the seating and running errands; soon she had appropriated the club manager’s office as the band’s official dressing room. MPs stationed at the front door kept the rank-and-file G.I.s at bay. The Korean staff—bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and cooks—stood back respectfully, awed by the celebrities from America who had dropped into their midst.
Everything seemed to be under control. The girls were in their dressing room getting ready. Ernie and I wandered out the back door and, after asking for directions, we found the PX snack bar. We both grabbed aluminum trays and slid along the metal railing in front of the steam table, selecting the only items on the menu: meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and yellowed green beans that had spent more time in the can than the Count of Monte Cristo.
As we ate, we sipped bitter coffee and listened to James Brown screech painfully out of a blinking jukebox.
“Did you tell her?” I asked.
“Tell her what?”
“That you’re not going to find Freddy Ray for her.”
“What’s the rush?”
That was Ernie. Get what he wants first and ruin it later.
“What about this SOFA meeting tomorrow?” he asked. “What do they want from us?”
“They want information,” I said, “to make Eighth Army admit that the Blue Train rapist is a G.I. At least that’s what the ROK side wants.”
“And if they get
Colonel Brace studied us. “When you appear before them,” he said, “you answer their questions truthfully. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you only answer the questions they ask. You don’t volunteer information. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” we said again.
He stared at us for a long time, seemed about to speak, but finally shook his head and then waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here. Both of you. Out!”
We saluted, performed a neat about-face, and marched out of his office.
* * *
Marnie was all over Ernie in the van, one arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand toying with the buttons of his shirt. Shelly, the lead guitar player, slapped Marnie’s hand away.
“Behave yourself,” she said.
Marnie pouted, frowned, and then turned back to Ernie, cooing, “You don’t mind, do you?”
Ernie ignored her. “What compound was that again, where you’re playing tonight?”
Shelly, sitting stiffly and continually glancing at Marnie, checked the itinerary. “Someplace called Camp Colbern,” she told us.
“That dump?” Ernie turned to me. “We should’ve brought the jeep, so we could get out of there early.”
“You want to leave me?” Marnie asked.
Ernie shoved her hand away. For the rest of the drive, she sat alone, pouting like a little girl.
After thirty minutes of winding roads, the van finally rolled through the main gate of Camp Colbern. The narrow road between Quonset huts was lined with G.I.s, smiling, waving, blowing kisses. The van’s engine churned as we climbed a short hill and came to a halt in the alley behind the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club.
Once we stopped, Mr. Shin and the other driver and their two assistants began unloading the equipment. We hustled the girls through the back door of the club. After a hallway lined with latrines, we entered a ballroom lit by dim yellow lights, with seating that would hold about a hundred people. The wall-to-wall carpet was tattered and spongy and reeked of mildew. Near the stage, beneath yellow floodlights, a reception committee waited. The post commander introduced himself, and he and his staff started fawning over the girls. Within minutes, Marnie had them rearranging the seating and running errands; soon she had appropriated the club manager’s office as the band’s official dressing room. MPs stationed at the front door kept the rank-and-file G.I.s at bay. The Korean staff—bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and cooks—stood back respectfully, awed by the celebrities from America who had dropped into their midst.
Everything seemed to be under control. The girls were in their dressing room getting ready. Ernie and I wandered out the back door and, after asking for directions, we found the PX snack bar. We both grabbed aluminum trays and slid along the metal railing in front of the steam table, selecting the only items on the menu: meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and yellowed green beans that had spent more time in the can than the Count of Monte Cristo.
As we ate, we sipped bitter coffee and listened to James Brown screech painfully out of a blinking jukebox.
“Did you tell her?” I asked.
“Tell her what?”
“That you’re not going to find Freddy Ray for her.”
“What’s the rush?”
That was Ernie. Get what he wants first and ruin it later.
“What about this SOFA meeting tomorrow?” he asked. “What do they want from us?”
“They want information,” I said, “to make Eighth Army admit that the Blue Train rapist is a G.I. At least that’s what the ROK side wants.”
“And if they get
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