made bunks, and sat on a footlocker facing us.
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Since he got here. Three months ago.”
His English was well pronounced. Hardly an accent. I knew he’d never gone to high school—probably not even middle school—or he wouldn’t be working here. He’d picked it up from the GI’s over the years. Intelligence radiated from his calm face. When I first arrived in Korea, I wondered why men such as this would settle for low positions. I learned later that after the Korean War, having work of any kind was a great accomplishment. Even cleaning up after rowdy young foreigners. At that time, the rowdy young foreigners were the only people with money.
“Tell me about Whitcomb,” I said.
Mr. Yim raised and lowered his thin shoulders. “He is a GI. Like all the rest.”
“But he’s British. Not American.”
“Same same.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Sometimes he go Itaewon. With friends. Maybe he catch girl. I don’t know.”
“No VD?”
“No.”
So Whitcomb never caught the clap. Otherwise Mr. Yim would’ve seen evidence of the drip—clotted green pus—in his shorts.
“Did he sleep here every night?”
“Yes. Every night.”
His dark brow crinkled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“He sleep here every night but sometime he come late.”
“Was he in bed when you arrived to work?”
“Not always.”
“What time do you report in?”
“Five o’clock.”
The curfew runs from midnight until four A.M. , and the MP’s routinely open the compound gates for Korean workers at five o’clock in the morning. Houseboys have to report in early so they can shine the boots and shoes of their GI charges before reveille.
“Where did he go late at night? Out to Itaewon?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“How do you know?”
“Because of clothes. When I come in he not in bunk. Bunk no messed up. He down in shower, washey washey. On his bunk is clothes.”
“What kind of clothes?”
“Strange clothes.”
“Can you show me?”
Mr. Yim got up and walked to Whitcomb’s footlocker. He opened it and rummaged through the rolled underwear and socks and towels. He pulled out three items: a pair of dark dungarees, a black pullover turtleneck sweater, and soft-soled, navy blue shoes made of an elastic-type canvas material.
Ernie looked at me. We’d gone through everything while the Sergeant Major was here, but these items of clothing hadn’t meant anything to us at the time. Now, when they were displayed together like this, they seemed a little more ominous.
“Maybe he made his own bunk,” I said. “And wore these clothes out to Itaewon.”
“No.” Mr. Yim said it firmly. “He no make own bunk. And he no sleep. He taaksan tired.”
Very tired.
“How often did this happen?”
“Two, maybe three times each month.”
“Near payday?”
He shook his head. “Anytime.”
Mr. Yim seemed lucid, calm, smart, sober. An excellent witness, except that I knew from experience that houseboys were so low on the social scale that nobody took their testimony seriously.
But I did. So did Ernie.
“What else can you tell us about Whitcomb?”
“No more. He potong GI.”
A regular soldier.
“Who killed him?”
Mr. Yim’s eyes widened. “Maybe gangster.”
“Gangsters?”
He nodded. “In Namdaemun many gangster.”
“Do you know any?”
He shook his head vehemently.
We talked for a while longer but Mr. Yim didn’t have much more to offer. His life was an endless chain of shining shoes, washing laundry, ironing fatigues, and putting up with GI bullshit. Cecil Whitcomb had been just one more link in those loops of iron that weighed heavily on his soul.
On the way out, Ernie offered him a stick of gum but Mr. Yim refused. Instead, he went back to sorting the folded underwear and placing each item in the proper footlocker.
8
A DMIN SERGEANT RILEY’S THIN LIPS CRAWLED OVER the edge of the porcelain mug. He glugged down some of the milky coffee,
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Since he got here. Three months ago.”
His English was well pronounced. Hardly an accent. I knew he’d never gone to high school—probably not even middle school—or he wouldn’t be working here. He’d picked it up from the GI’s over the years. Intelligence radiated from his calm face. When I first arrived in Korea, I wondered why men such as this would settle for low positions. I learned later that after the Korean War, having work of any kind was a great accomplishment. Even cleaning up after rowdy young foreigners. At that time, the rowdy young foreigners were the only people with money.
“Tell me about Whitcomb,” I said.
Mr. Yim raised and lowered his thin shoulders. “He is a GI. Like all the rest.”
“But he’s British. Not American.”
“Same same.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Sometimes he go Itaewon. With friends. Maybe he catch girl. I don’t know.”
“No VD?”
“No.”
So Whitcomb never caught the clap. Otherwise Mr. Yim would’ve seen evidence of the drip—clotted green pus—in his shorts.
“Did he sleep here every night?”
“Yes. Every night.”
His dark brow crinkled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“He sleep here every night but sometime he come late.”
“Was he in bed when you arrived to work?”
“Not always.”
“What time do you report in?”
“Five o’clock.”
The curfew runs from midnight until four A.M. , and the MP’s routinely open the compound gates for Korean workers at five o’clock in the morning. Houseboys have to report in early so they can shine the boots and shoes of their GI charges before reveille.
“Where did he go late at night? Out to Itaewon?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“How do you know?”
“Because of clothes. When I come in he not in bunk. Bunk no messed up. He down in shower, washey washey. On his bunk is clothes.”
“What kind of clothes?”
“Strange clothes.”
“Can you show me?”
Mr. Yim got up and walked to Whitcomb’s footlocker. He opened it and rummaged through the rolled underwear and socks and towels. He pulled out three items: a pair of dark dungarees, a black pullover turtleneck sweater, and soft-soled, navy blue shoes made of an elastic-type canvas material.
Ernie looked at me. We’d gone through everything while the Sergeant Major was here, but these items of clothing hadn’t meant anything to us at the time. Now, when they were displayed together like this, they seemed a little more ominous.
“Maybe he made his own bunk,” I said. “And wore these clothes out to Itaewon.”
“No.” Mr. Yim said it firmly. “He no make own bunk. And he no sleep. He taaksan tired.”
Very tired.
“How often did this happen?”
“Two, maybe three times each month.”
“Near payday?”
He shook his head. “Anytime.”
Mr. Yim seemed lucid, calm, smart, sober. An excellent witness, except that I knew from experience that houseboys were so low on the social scale that nobody took their testimony seriously.
But I did. So did Ernie.
“What else can you tell us about Whitcomb?”
“No more. He potong GI.”
A regular soldier.
“Who killed him?”
Mr. Yim’s eyes widened. “Maybe gangster.”
“Gangsters?”
He nodded. “In Namdaemun many gangster.”
“Do you know any?”
He shook his head vehemently.
We talked for a while longer but Mr. Yim didn’t have much more to offer. His life was an endless chain of shining shoes, washing laundry, ironing fatigues, and putting up with GI bullshit. Cecil Whitcomb had been just one more link in those loops of iron that weighed heavily on his soul.
On the way out, Ernie offered him a stick of gum but Mr. Yim refused. Instead, he went back to sorting the folded underwear and placing each item in the proper footlocker.
8
A DMIN SERGEANT RILEY’S THIN LIPS CRAWLED OVER the edge of the porcelain mug. He glugged down some of the milky coffee,
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