Kevin poked his head into the small, cramped room and motioned the sergeant outside to give him a quick rundown on their new orders.
“Malibu West, sir?” Pierce was considerate; he kept his voice below its normal booming level.
“That’s right, Sergeant. And the captain wants us up and out of here by oh two hundred tomorrow.” Kevin knew the sergeant and he were going to be damned busy for the next few hours. The logistics involved in moving forty-five men, their personal gear, two M60 light machine guns, three Dragon antitank guided missile launchers, and a week’s worth of supplies up to the DMZ were incredibly complicated. Among other things he had to arrange transportation for his platoon, get the latest artillery support plan, set up his communications — everything, in fact, down to making sure the platoon’s mail would get delivered. Just thinking about it threatened to turn his headache into a real bastard of a migraine.
Pierce eyed him closely. “Look, Lieutenant, I’ll start pulling things together for the move. That’s all SOP anyway.”
Yeah, thank God for SOP — standard operating procedures. Anything the Army had to do more than three times was written down as SOP. He could find the information he needed in the Army’s bible for troop movements, Army Manual FM 55–30, catchily titled “Army Motor Transport Operations.” There were always shortcuts that experienced officers could use that weren’t covered in the manuals. But Kevin knew he had a long way to go before he could consider himself experienced.
“You don’t need to worry about a thing, sir. The boys have been up to Malibu West so often they could probably load everything up in their sleep,” Pierce said.
“Right, Sergeant.” Kevin cleared his throat. “You go ahead and get started then. I’ll tell Lieutenant Rhee about our new orders and meet you back at the barracks to go over the movement ops order.”
Pierce saluted and left whistling. Kevin watched him leave, envying the man’s seeming ability to take anything that happened in stride.
He turned on his heel and headed for the two-story, whitewashed BOQ to find his South Korean counterpart, Lieutenant Rhee.
Under the Combined Forces structure set up back in 1978, virtually every American line and staff officer had a South Korean counterpart assigned to handle liaison with the ROK Army. It was a step that had been taken partly for political reasons — to smooth over growing South Korean resentment that an American general always commanded all allied forces. But it was also a very practical concept. In a situation where there were more than fifteen South Korean soldiers for every American, the counterpart system helped make sure that language and cultural barriers didn’t impede military efficiency as much as they might have.
When Kevin had arrived at Camp Howze, Rhee had been off attending some kind of staff course, so he’d only met the Korean lieutenant a couple of times. But they’d gotten along fairly well, and Rhee spoke perfect English. So perfect in fact that Kevin felt embarrassed that he’d only been able to pick up a few sentences of phrasebook Korean.
Second Lieutenant Rhee Han-Gil, wearing a crisp, newly pressed uniform, opened the door to his room at Kevin’s first knock and waved him in. Except for a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the desk, the room looked ready for an inspection by the entire General Staff. Every book was perfectly aligned, Rhee’s clothes hung in regulation order, and the sheets on his cot were pulled so tight that it looked like you could bounce even a paper won — the Korean currency — off it. The South Korean lieutenant seemed just as ready for an inspection. He was shorter than Kevin and stocky, but he had a lean, sharp-featured face.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Little?” Like most Koreans, Rhee was a stickler for titles. The easygoing, informal way most Americans spoke to each other was completely alien to people raised in a culture steeped in the need to show respect for authority. Rhee would have been shocked if Kevin started calling him by his first name.
“We’ve got movement orders — short-notice ones.” Kevin tried not to let his dislike for Captain Matuchek show. “We’re being sent up to some place called Malibu West for a week.”
“Ah, yes, Malibu West. I have been there before. I’m afraid that it is not nearly so glamorous as the real Malibu in California must be.” Rhee smiled slightly.
Kevin let that pass. He’d never been to Malibu anyway. “Yeah. Well, we’re moving out early tomorrow morning, so I thought I’d better let you know. You’ll need to be packed and ready to go by oh two hundred.”
The Korean pointed to a duffel bag standing in the corner. “Thank you, but there is no need. I am quite ready. But I can make use of the time to coordinate with the units holding the other outposts on our flanks.”
“How the hell … did Matuchek already tell you we were moving up to the Z?” Kevin asked, irritated that the captain might be trying to make him look like an ill-informed idiot.
Rhee looked apologetic. “Oh, no. The captain didn’t tell me anything. It’s just that the communists caught my country sleeping once before. We shall never be caught that way again. We’re trained to be ready for any eventuality.”
“Well, you’re way ahead of me on this one,” Kevin admitted. He paused, realizing it was probably time to swallow a little more pride. “Look, if you’ve been up to this place before, maybe you can give me some advice on what to take up there. I mean, besides the usual, my combat gear, rifle, stuff like that.”
Rhee nodded. “Of course, I’d be honored to assist you in any way I can.” He thought for a moment. “First, I should take a set of extra blankets if I were you. The nights are growing colder and we won’t have any heat up at the outpost.”
Kevin was surprised. “What? Well, hell, why don’t we take a couple of camp stoves with us then?” Christ, you’d have thought some bright Army officer before him would have figured that one out.
Rhee didn’t look impressed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “camp stoves produce smoke. And the communists have the unpleasant habit of using smoke as an aiming point for the occasional mortar shell.”
Mortars? Oh, brother, this was getting worse and worse. A posting to West Germany would have been so much better. The Russians and their East German puppets might be a dour lot, but at least they didn’t lob mortar shells over the inter-German border on a whim.
Kevin shook his head. “Okay, no camp stoves. Blankets instead. Anything else unusual I should bring?”
Rhee flexed his fingers. “Well, you might bring along a deck of cards.” He twisted his Korean Military Academy class ring back and forth. “A good game of your American five-card stud always helps to pass the time.”
So, Mr. Perfect enjoyed a game of poker, did he? Kevin concealed his surprise. He’d been in the country long enough to learn that the South Koreans were a proud people. It wouldn’t do to offend or shame Rhee by making a big deal out of the fact that he liked to play cards. After all, it wasn’t as if he had a surplus of friends over here. He grinned. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll see you on the parade ground at oh one thirty tomorrow.”
Rhee smiled back. “As you American say, it’s a date.”
“And Lieutenant,” he said as Kevin moved to the door, “I thought your point about the machine guns in today’s exercise was very interesting.”
“Yeah, well, thanks. But I’m afraid the captain didn’t exactly think so.”
Rhee didn’t exactly smile either, but Kevin could swear he saw an eyebrow twitch upward. “The captain is, of course, a good soldier. Is there anything so perfect, however, that it cannot be improved?”
Kevin sketched a rough salute and stepped out of Rhee’s quarters in a happier mood. Things might finally be looking up, and even his hangover seemed to be fading.