jolly marvelous conversation.”
Ernie and I put on our most somber expressions; two guys who had seen it all, so bored with life that we were about to go to sleep. Our professional cop look.
The Sergeant Major seemed vaguely troubled by our reaction but continued to stare at us with eyes as piercing as sniper rounds.
“Sergeant Major,” I said, putting as much sloth into my voice as I could, “why don’t you let us do the investigating?”
Ernie rolled his neck and looked up at the ceiling. I did my best to pin the Sergeant Major with my gaze.
“These are things that don’t concern you,” I said. “You don’t have a need-to-know. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to keep what you’ve learned strictly confidential.”
He shuffled his brown combat boots, slightly embarrassed now.
“Yes. Of course.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. As if I were glad to have all the foolishness over with.
Sometimes I thought Ernie and I ought to audition for a play at the music/theater center. We were better actors than any of the clowns who climbed up on stage.
“Can you show us to his quarters?”
He nodded and held out his arm. “This way.”
The Honor Guard barracks was one of the old brick buildings built by the Japanese Imperial Army before World War II. Houseboys hustled back and forth carrying piles of laundry and boots shined to a mirrorlike finish. Steam billowed out of the latrine. One Korean man stood in the huge cast-iron sink, pant legs rolled up to his knees, churning his feet as if he were stomping grapes. Another fed laundry and soap into the tub.
Ernie chomped on his gum. Luckily, all the Honor Guard units were out on the parade field, working on their drill and ceremonies. Off duty, they’d been known to get in a lot of fights with the clerks who worked at 8th Army Headquarters. It’s natural for infantrymen to think of desk jockeys as not being real soldiers. Emie’d had a couple of run-ins with them. I hoped it wouldn’t flare up here. We didn’t need any ill will, and the Sergeant Major already knew too much about our dealings with Whitcomb. I wasn’t sure how effective our little act had been. All I could do was pray that the Sergeant Major would keep quiet.
The British section of the building was a long open bay lined with bunks and wall lockers. Equipment of canvas and leather was stored neatly above the lockers or under the bunks. A couple of houseboys worked on boots in the far corner. An old radiator clanged and complained, spewing out sporadic wisps of heat.
The Sergeant Major stopped at one of the bunks. “Here we are.”
The bed was neatly made and the equipment display looked exactly like all the others. Still, we went through it carefully. We were looking for anything. Notes, items hidden away, drugs. We found nothing. The last thing left to check was the padlocked double wall locker. I pointed to it.
“Can you open this?”
The Sergeant Major pulled a big ring of keys out of his pocket. The metal doors squeaked open. Unlike the rest of the room, the inside of Whitcomb’s locker was splashed with color. The white and red tunics of his dress uniforms. A few civilian shirts and pants. Everything was meticulously neat. We checked it all. The razor blades, the soap, the aftershave. Ernie even sniffed the tooth powder. He was the expert on drugs and if any of it was any good he’d pocket it. He put the tooth powder back.
The big thing that we were all ignoring, saving until last, was the thing that had shocked us initially when we opened the locker. On the bottom, atop some neatly folded winter fatigue blouses, sat a brand-new electric typewriter.
None of us said anything. We knew it couldn’t belong to Whitcomb. It was the big heavy-duty type bought by the U.S. Government. Even if Whitcomb wanted a typewriter of his own he would’ve bought one of the compact, lightweight models out of the PX. This was a monster.
When we’d checked everything else and come up with
Ernie and I put on our most somber expressions; two guys who had seen it all, so bored with life that we were about to go to sleep. Our professional cop look.
The Sergeant Major seemed vaguely troubled by our reaction but continued to stare at us with eyes as piercing as sniper rounds.
“Sergeant Major,” I said, putting as much sloth into my voice as I could, “why don’t you let us do the investigating?”
Ernie rolled his neck and looked up at the ceiling. I did my best to pin the Sergeant Major with my gaze.
“These are things that don’t concern you,” I said. “You don’t have a need-to-know. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to keep what you’ve learned strictly confidential.”
He shuffled his brown combat boots, slightly embarrassed now.
“Yes. Of course.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. As if I were glad to have all the foolishness over with.
Sometimes I thought Ernie and I ought to audition for a play at the music/theater center. We were better actors than any of the clowns who climbed up on stage.
“Can you show us to his quarters?”
He nodded and held out his arm. “This way.”
The Honor Guard barracks was one of the old brick buildings built by the Japanese Imperial Army before World War II. Houseboys hustled back and forth carrying piles of laundry and boots shined to a mirrorlike finish. Steam billowed out of the latrine. One Korean man stood in the huge cast-iron sink, pant legs rolled up to his knees, churning his feet as if he were stomping grapes. Another fed laundry and soap into the tub.
Ernie chomped on his gum. Luckily, all the Honor Guard units were out on the parade field, working on their drill and ceremonies. Off duty, they’d been known to get in a lot of fights with the clerks who worked at 8th Army Headquarters. It’s natural for infantrymen to think of desk jockeys as not being real soldiers. Emie’d had a couple of run-ins with them. I hoped it wouldn’t flare up here. We didn’t need any ill will, and the Sergeant Major already knew too much about our dealings with Whitcomb. I wasn’t sure how effective our little act had been. All I could do was pray that the Sergeant Major would keep quiet.
The British section of the building was a long open bay lined with bunks and wall lockers. Equipment of canvas and leather was stored neatly above the lockers or under the bunks. A couple of houseboys worked on boots in the far corner. An old radiator clanged and complained, spewing out sporadic wisps of heat.
The Sergeant Major stopped at one of the bunks. “Here we are.”
The bed was neatly made and the equipment display looked exactly like all the others. Still, we went through it carefully. We were looking for anything. Notes, items hidden away, drugs. We found nothing. The last thing left to check was the padlocked double wall locker. I pointed to it.
“Can you open this?”
The Sergeant Major pulled a big ring of keys out of his pocket. The metal doors squeaked open. Unlike the rest of the room, the inside of Whitcomb’s locker was splashed with color. The white and red tunics of his dress uniforms. A few civilian shirts and pants. Everything was meticulously neat. We checked it all. The razor blades, the soap, the aftershave. Ernie even sniffed the tooth powder. He was the expert on drugs and if any of it was any good he’d pocket it. He put the tooth powder back.
The big thing that we were all ignoring, saving until last, was the thing that had shocked us initially when we opened the locker. On the bottom, atop some neatly folded winter fatigue blouses, sat a brand-new electric typewriter.
None of us said anything. We knew it couldn’t belong to Whitcomb. It was the big heavy-duty type bought by the U.S. Government. Even if Whitcomb wanted a typewriter of his own he would’ve bought one of the compact, lightweight models out of the PX. This was a monster.
When we’d checked everything else and come up with
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