The fact of the matter was that our coach wasn’t the greatest tactician who ever paced the edge of the gridiron, and most of the other guys on the team-almost all Chicanos like me-were barely big enough to support their shoulder pads. We lost every game. Except for the one brawl we had with Roosevelt High-but that’s another story.
Still, our coach was right about one thing. I could move off the line quickly, without tipping the defenders as to which way I was going to move. It was a skill that I reverted to when I heard those MP footsteps closing on us.
I swiveled and crouched and launched myself at them, body parallel to the ground, in a flying block that I hoped would throw them off stride. It did. My shoulder hit one guy in the stomach, my rump hit another in the knees, and the third guy got whacked on the shins by my flying feet. All three went down. I rolled atop them, hoping to cause as much damage as possible and, as soon as I was able, popped back to my feet. Then I slugged another guy coming in, and another. It worked for a few seconds, but finally I was enveloped by a sea of sweaty gray. I crouched, winging punches to my right and my left. Fists rained down on my back. I covered my head as best as I could, bulled forward and would’ve fallen flat on my face but there were so many bodies around me that I was held upright. Punch after punch landed on the back of my head and my spine and flailed against my aching ribs.
Someone shouted. “Back in formation, dammit! Form your ranks. What is this? A freaking mob?”
The sergeant leading the formation, the same voice who’d been calling out the cadence. God bless him. The men around me started to back off but one or two of them winged in another chingaso, a sneak punch.
When the MPs moved away, I turned unsteadily on my feet and saw the face of my benefactor: Sergeant First Class Otis, the desk sergeant who’d first greeted me and Ernie when we arrived at Division PMO. He was dressed in the same gray sweats and green pull-down cap as his troops. I felt like embracing him for saving me but instead he shoved me back.
“I should’ve let them kill you,” he said. Then he shoved me again, his fist in my chest. Hard. “That’s for Weatherwax.”
A blast filled the air.
Ernie. He had fired his. 45 into the air, above the MP formation. Some of the men fell to the ground, a few of them crouched. Most held their ground. He stood behind me, jacket ripped off his right shoulder, face bruised, but holding the. 45 steady, smoke pouring from its barrel, aimed right between the eyes of Sergeant Otis.
“Move ’em out, Sarge,” Ernie growled. “Smartly.”
Otis glared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he should cross the five yards between them and slap the automatic pistol out of Ernie’s hand. But he decided against it. Instead, he turned back to the grumbling formation, started shouting at them to fall into ranks and, within seconds, the Headquarters Company of the 2nd Infantry Division Military Police was trotting down the road. Silent now. No one calling cadence. The pounding of their feet faded into the distance. Ernie reholstered the. 45.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks. So do you.”
Ernie fingered some of the new bruises on his face. “Touchy, aren’t they?”
“Apparently.”
I straightened myself out as best I could and ran my fingers through my hair and Ernie and I marched to the main gate. This time, when we entered the guard shack, the lone MP didn’t give us any shit. Maybe it was the look in our eyes.
At the transient billets, Ernie and I washed up and changed into coats and ties. It was the duty day now and we wanted to look sharp so as not to give the 2nd Division honchos anything extra to criticize us for. On the way back to the main gate we stopped at the Indianhead Snack Bar, dragged a couple of trays through the chow line, and took a table next to the window near the entrance. Ernie shoveled pulverized scrambled eggs into his trap. I sipped coffee. Gingerly. Between bruised lips.
“We should go to the dispensary,” I said.
“Screw that,” Ernie replied. “So Spec Six Wehry can laugh at us?”
“Not everybody in Division is against us, Ernie.”
“They could’ve fooled me.”
Ernie was right. So far we hadn’t made many allies. Everywhere we turned people were worried that we’d embarrass the Division. Cause them grief. And were outraged if we so much as laid a finger on one of their comrades. Where did this loyalty come from? Was it a healthy thing in a combat unit? Or was there something deeper? Something everybody was afraid of? I reminded myself to fight off paranoia. An occupational hazard for a cop.
And I reminded myself that we had, in fact, found three allies. Brandy, the “soul sister” bartender at the Black Cat Club, and Ok-hi and Jeannie, the business girls who’d helped me cadge a lead from the band leader at the Silver Dragon. All of them were Korean women. That didn’t bother me. I liked Korean women.
“How’s your paperwork coming?” Ernie asked.
“What paperwork?”
Ernie smirked. “Your marriage paperwork.”
He was referring to the fact that for an American GI to marry a Korean woman, a whole series of certifications and permissions must be requested, both from the U.S. military and from the Korean government. He was also referring to the fact that a few weeks ago I’d submitted such paperwork.
“Pulled it,” I said.
“I thought you and Miss Ryu were doing well together.”
Miss Ryu had been my Korean language teacher. She was a graduate student at Ewha University and almost exactly my age. Her job on the U.S. Army compound was helping to finance her master’s degree. At first, I’d been her best student. Then we’d started seeing one another at coffee shops and afterwards taking long strolls through parks and museums and ancient palaces. Our interests were similar, our personalities in tune. And, although she wore thick-lensed glasses and most GIs thought she looked bookish, to me she was beautiful.
“We were doing well,” I said.
Ernie leaned back in his chair. “Okay,” he said, “you can tell Uncle Ernie. What went wrong?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I stared at two GIs jostling one another for the right to drop a quarter into the snack bar’s jukebox. Finally, one of them relented and clanging rock music emerged from the speakers.
Once our marriage paperwork was submitted, Miss Ryu knew she had to tell her parents about our romance. But she also knew that the thought of her marrying someone other than a Korean- and worse yet an American GI-would be a crippling blow to them. The loss of face amongst their family and friends and her father’s colleagues at work would be enormous. It’s not racism exactly. Ethnocentrism describes it better. Koreans have lived together as one tribe on this narrow Asian peninsula for so long that the thought of a well-brought-up woman marrying a long-nosed foreigner is difficult to bear. We’re just too different. Culturally, physically, psychologically. She thought about it and thought about it. Finally, Miss Ryu lacked the courage to speak of such a thing to her parents. She told me to pull the paperwork.
“My father’s sick,” she explained. “His heart.” She tapped herself on the chest. “And I’m their only daughter.”
Her parent’s only daughter, lost to a foreigner. What would their ancestors think?