nothing, I pulled the typewriter out of the locker and looked it over carefully. In indelible ink was a supply number: 49-103. Whatever that meant. I jotted it down in my notebook, along with the serial number.
I stood up and looked at the Sergeant Major.
“Do you have any idea where this came from?”
He seemed genuinely surprised. And upset. “No idea.”
He provided a list of Whitcomb’s best buddies and promised to send a copy of the personnel records over to Riley at our Admin Office right away.
“What sort of guy was he, Sergeant Major?”
“Quiet fellow. Kept to himself. We never expected anything of this sort. Not at all.”
Ernie checked under the bunk, rattled the springs noisily, stood up, and turned to the Sergeant Major.
“How well did you really know Whitcomb?”
The Sergeant Major’s face flushed red.
“Not very, I’m afraid.”
We thanked him and walked out.
At the Headquarters Supply Room we had to throw our weight around a bit and flash our badges a couple of times, but finally we persuaded an overweight Staff Sergeant to check the records on an electric typewriter with supply number 49-103.
It was tough for him to bend over but he finally found the supply folder in the bottom drawer of a dusty filing cabinet.
“Here it is,” he said. “Checked out three months ago to the office of the Special Logistics Coordinator. J-two.”
We told him to take good care of the file and left.
The J-2 operation was in a large building right next to 8th Army Headquarters. The “J” stands for joint, since what is commonly referred to as 8th Army is actually a joint staff composed of the United Nations Command, U.S. Forces Korea, and the 8th United States Army itself.
The “2” stands for the same thing it stands for on every army organization chart: Intelligence.
Captain Burlingame was an air force officer and wore his fatigue blouse loose around his waist. His eyes had bags under them, his skin was soft, and lightly greased black hair hung over his forehead like a batch of spreading hay. He sipped on one of those heavy-duty coffee mugs embossed with a replica of an F-4 Phantom roaring off into the sunset.
“We did have a break-in,” he told us. “About a week ago.”
“Eight days ago,” I said. “To be exact.”
Burlingame checked his calendar. “Right.”
Ernie and I sat in his office, Ernie fidgeting as usual. Cramped spaces and symbols of authority always made Ernie uncomfortable.
“The MP report said you lost one typewriter and two small jars of freeze-dried coffee.”
“That’s right. I’d bought them at the PX the day before.”
“Who locks up at night?”
“I do. I always do.”
The padlock on the office door was pretty flimsy. Not much trouble for someone with the proper tools to pop it open. Other than scratches, the lock hadn’t even been damaged, according to the MP report.
“This isn’t a secure building, then?”
“Not the whole building. Just the basement.”
“What do you keep down there?”
The captain lifted one eyebrow higher than the other and gave me a wry smile. “Do you have a need-to-know?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Classified documents. We’re an intelligence operation.”
“No guards?”
“We have guards at the gates. And guards who make sweeps through the buildings at intervals during the night. That’s it.”
“Then the downstairs area must be pretty secure.”
“It is. Like a vault.”
“Besides you, who has a key to the office?”
“Nobody. Except the supply officer.”
“Do you ever loan your key to anyone?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe that nice-looking Korean secretary likes to come in late and get some work done.”
Burlingame scowled. “What is it you’re implying? Miss Ahn is honest. Been with us a long time.”
“I’m not implying anything. Just asking questions.”
He sipped on his coffee again.
Actually I was trying to rattle his cage, provoke him into saying something unguarded.
I stood up and looked at the Sergeant Major.
“Do you have any idea where this came from?”
He seemed genuinely surprised. And upset. “No idea.”
He provided a list of Whitcomb’s best buddies and promised to send a copy of the personnel records over to Riley at our Admin Office right away.
“What sort of guy was he, Sergeant Major?”
“Quiet fellow. Kept to himself. We never expected anything of this sort. Not at all.”
Ernie checked under the bunk, rattled the springs noisily, stood up, and turned to the Sergeant Major.
“How well did you really know Whitcomb?”
The Sergeant Major’s face flushed red.
“Not very, I’m afraid.”
We thanked him and walked out.
At the Headquarters Supply Room we had to throw our weight around a bit and flash our badges a couple of times, but finally we persuaded an overweight Staff Sergeant to check the records on an electric typewriter with supply number 49-103.
It was tough for him to bend over but he finally found the supply folder in the bottom drawer of a dusty filing cabinet.
“Here it is,” he said. “Checked out three months ago to the office of the Special Logistics Coordinator. J-two.”
We told him to take good care of the file and left.
The J-2 operation was in a large building right next to 8th Army Headquarters. The “J” stands for joint, since what is commonly referred to as 8th Army is actually a joint staff composed of the United Nations Command, U.S. Forces Korea, and the 8th United States Army itself.
The “2” stands for the same thing it stands for on every army organization chart: Intelligence.
Captain Burlingame was an air force officer and wore his fatigue blouse loose around his waist. His eyes had bags under them, his skin was soft, and lightly greased black hair hung over his forehead like a batch of spreading hay. He sipped on one of those heavy-duty coffee mugs embossed with a replica of an F-4 Phantom roaring off into the sunset.
“We did have a break-in,” he told us. “About a week ago.”
“Eight days ago,” I said. “To be exact.”
Burlingame checked his calendar. “Right.”
Ernie and I sat in his office, Ernie fidgeting as usual. Cramped spaces and symbols of authority always made Ernie uncomfortable.
“The MP report said you lost one typewriter and two small jars of freeze-dried coffee.”
“That’s right. I’d bought them at the PX the day before.”
“Who locks up at night?”
“I do. I always do.”
The padlock on the office door was pretty flimsy. Not much trouble for someone with the proper tools to pop it open. Other than scratches, the lock hadn’t even been damaged, according to the MP report.
“This isn’t a secure building, then?”
“Not the whole building. Just the basement.”
“What do you keep down there?”
The captain lifted one eyebrow higher than the other and gave me a wry smile. “Do you have a need-to-know?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Classified documents. We’re an intelligence operation.”
“No guards?”
“We have guards at the gates. And guards who make sweeps through the buildings at intervals during the night. That’s it.”
“Then the downstairs area must be pretty secure.”
“It is. Like a vault.”
“Besides you, who has a key to the office?”
“Nobody. Except the supply officer.”
“Do you ever loan your key to anyone?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe that nice-looking Korean secretary likes to come in late and get some work done.”
Burlingame scowled. “What is it you’re implying? Miss Ahn is honest. Been with us a long time.”
“I’m not implying anything. Just asking questions.”
He sipped on his coffee again.
Actually I was trying to rattle his cage, provoke him into saying something unguarded.
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