We had parked the jeep in the parking lot of the Battalion Headquarters, engine running, pointed toward the gate.
Ernie said, “Now we see if any of the MP’s are in on it with them.”
We waited. The trash truck rolled up to the gate and stopped. A bored-looking MP emerged from the guard shack and, carrying a long wooden pole, pulled himself up onto the bed of the truck. The Korean workers shuffled out of his way as he methodically ran the pole down through the trash to the bottom of every drum.
After he’d checked them all, the MP hopped off the truck and waved them forward. A Korean guard started to roll back the big chain-link gate.
“Now!” I told Ernie.
He gunned the engine, shoved it into gear, and we shot forward. As he did so, I opened the canvas door of the jeep, stood up, held on to the metal roll bar with one hand, clutching my badge aloft with the other, and shouted at the MP at the gate.
“CID! Don’t let that truck pass!”
The gate was almost completely open now. Ernie had taken off so fast that the wheels missed their traction on the slick road and the jeep’s back end swerved a little. I held on. Ernie regained control in a matter of seconds.
The driver of the truck swiveled around to see what was causing all the commotion.
The MP stepped back from the guard shack, turned, and shouted at the Korean gate guard to close the damn gate.
The truck’s diesel engine roared. The big vehicle lurched forward and started to roll through the open gate.
The Korean gate guard stood motionless, not trying to close the gate, pretending he was confused. The tail of the trash truck cleared the gate and sped out onto the main road that runs in front of the compound.
Suddenly, the Korean guard came alive and leaned into it, shoving the gate closed.
Ernie shouted, “Son of a bitch!” and stepped on the gas.
The gate was closing, we were heading straight toward the narrowing gap, and I was standing outside the jeep, the door open, about to have my head smashed against the MP guard shack. I ducked back inside the jeep.
As I did so, Ernie hit the gate, something smashed into our left side, and we bounced against the wall of the MP guard shack but kept moving forward, squeezing through the rolling gate that clanged shut behind us.
“Which way’d they go?” Ernie screamed.
“Right.”
He took the corner sliding, forcing oncoming traffic to slam on their brakes. The trash truck was up ahead, only a few yards from us. Ernie shifted and gunned the engine like a maniac, and within a few seconds we were gaining on them.
“Take it easy, Ernie!” I shouted. “They’re outside the compound now. No longer in our jurisdiction.”
“Fuck our jurisdiction!”
Ernie was just about to swerve to the side of the trash truck and try to force them over, when their red brakelights flashed and they careened left in front of oncoming traffic.
Tires skidded. Horns honked. I screamed.
Ernie didn’t slow down. He followed the truck across a short bridge that led into the little village of Pupyong-ni.
The big truck took up the whole road. The traffic here was composed strictly of pedestrians and people on bicycles. They leapt out of the way of the barreling trash truck, screaming and cursing in several languages.
“The son of a bitch is going to wipe out the whole village!” Ernie shouted. But he stayed right on his ass.
Unlit neon and shuttered barrooms flashed past us. Suddenly the road widened. We were heading into rice paddies. But rather than continue toward the open countryside, the driver of the trash truck swerved back toward the cement block walls of a residential district.
Ernie wasn’t fooled; he stayed right with him, and now, with the road wider, he made his move, gunning the engine, speeding forward, racing alongside the trash truck.
He started to edge toward the nose of the truck, veering to the right to pull him over, when I saw it.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Ahead was a “honey truck.” Workmen stood around it, their faces covered with gauze masks, and a thick rubber hose draped over a brick wall, sucking the filth out of a septic tank.
Ernie slammed on his brakes. The driver of the trash truck wasn’t so fast. He sped forward, slammed into the rear end of the honey truck, spun it around, and the rubber hose busted loose. Liquid waste sprayed the air in an exploding brown swirl.
Ernie cut to his right but not fast enough. A stream of shit splattered against our windshield.
“Fuck!”
Ernie switched on the windshield wipers, leaned forward so he could peek through the waste, and kept moving forward.
The stench groped its way into my throat and tried to rip out my stomach.
The trash truck was still floundering in the mud, grinding its way past the smashed rear of the honey truck. When we pulled up alongside, Ernie cut the jeep in front of the truck, bumping it until the trash truck was wedged against a cement-block wall. We shuddered to a halt.
I leapt out of the jeep, holding up my badge.
“Don’t move!” I shouted, trying not to gag at the stink. “CID!”
The three workers in the back hopped off the bed of the truck and took off running, splattering shit and mud in their wake.
Ernie ran after them.
People emerged from the gateways lining the street, gaping in awe at the mess, covering their mouths and noses with their hands.
The driver of the honey truck was ranting, shaking his fist at Ernie and the trash truck driver and anyone else who would listen.
Each time I took a breath I felt like throwing up, but I held it.
Instead, I jumped up onto the running board of the trash truck and jerked open the door.
The driver clutched the top of the steering wheel, face buried against two gloved hands.
“CID!” I said. “Climb out of the cab.”
When he didn’t move I jabbed him in the ribs.
“You’re in a world of shit. Don’t make it worse.”
I grabbed the driver by the shoulder and jerked. With surprising force the body pulled back and the head shot up.
“Manji-jima sikkya!” Don’t touch me, you bastard!
The face was wrinkled, but the skin appeared soft and there was no stubble of a beard. Climbing out of the cab, a clawlike hand ripped back the wool cap and a flood of gray hair tumbled out.
“Keep hands to yourself, Charley,” she said in perfect GI English. “You don’t know how treat lady?”
Ernie splashed back through the mud, breathing heavily.
“They got away,” he said and glanced at the driver. “Who the hell is this?”
“Nice talk, GI,” she said.
Ernie looked at me. “I’ll be damned. A broad.”
“A lady,” the driver said. She glanced at the mess. “Smell so bad around here maybe gag maggot.”
The snow had stopped. As if it too didn’t want to drop into the filth spewed by the honey truck.
I grabbed the lady by the elbow and we sloshed through the sucking muck.
Her name was Nam Byong-suk. We booked her at the Camp Market MP Station, then escorted her to one of the interrogation rooms. Apparently the aroma of the honey truck still lingered in the air around us because the office pukes backed away from us, crinkling their noses, as the three of us paraded down the hallway.
Once we were alone, Ernie offered Nam Byong-suk a stick of gum and I fetched her a cup of coffee. From somewhere within the folds of her filthy jacket she produced a cigarette and I struck a match for her. She took a long drag and blew smoke into the air.
I was right in my evaluation of her. All she really wanted was for us to treat her like a lady. Once we did that, she started to talk.
“I used to be a business girl,” she said. “The best-looking girl in Itaewon.”
“How’d you get into this line of work?” Ernie asked.
“I can’t tell you.” She sipped on her coffee.
“This is serious business,” I said. “You’re about to lose your job.”