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LATE EVENING
IN THE BUNKER SEOUL 31 May 80 Hello.
I am Just back from a walking tour of the City.
The guards at the sub-ways are more unobtrusive than last week, but equally grim. Last time I ventured forth from the compound, the tanks were parked conspicuously in front of all the public buildings, the M-60, light machine guns aimed right down the centerline, the guy in the turret half out, creased and starched.
They put a good deal of faith in being squared away in this part of the globe. I mention that in the context of the Joint Security Area in the middle of the DMZ, where the Yanks were almost as scary as the godless Commies. Don't get me wrong. When I was standing over in North Korea, on the wrong side of the MAC conference table, I felt all the right kind of chills.
It is a superb set-piece. But since the Tree Chopping, things are weird. The Quick Reaction Force, which protects each party that ventures into the JSA, has axe handles and helmets. I would have felt more secure if they had let me carry my Browning.
Everyine is sitting around waiting for the other shoe to fall; Kwang Ju in flames, the joke around the Command Bunker was "I'll write you from Pusan if the situation gets interesting." I have a set of camouflage fatigues that I will start wearing just-as soon as the roof falls in. And a gas mask. The only thing about this job that I like is that it is already almost 1/12th over with already, and I have only been here a split eternity.
Back in the Fighter Squadron, at least there was always five or six guys you could trust to go out and get fucked up with. Sorta like Ann Arbor, if everybody at the P-Bell had severe Jaundice and remedial English. I like the Koreans a lot, but as far as my compatriots in the Bunker go, I would trust them as far as I could lift them with a Claymore. All the Navy types are getting out of the Service, and I fear that I will be in that number myself.
The job is max strange. I sit behind a desk and have Enlisted Swine at my port and starboard. (Not my term, but I find SFC Volsko's dry wit a remarkable tonic in the circumstances.) The Big General Officers come in and ask what is going on. I have a hard time dealing with a certain Major General, who finds time to drive around the Bachelor Officer' quarters of a morning to check who is sleeping with Korean Grils.
Or girls as the case may be. That is worth a career, for those who continue to think along those lines. Having Joined the People Who Joined the Army, I find the thing a cruel charade at best.
The political situation is at least worth idle speculation. I do enjoy these little international peccadilloes. I fear I may have degenerated into a Crisis junky. Watching the CIA swing into galvanized motion over the Secure Telephone. Watching the Analysts and the Special Advisor to the CINC in a tizzy. It does get your adrenaline up.
But in spite of all this self-pity, I think I will survive this one too. What I am having a hard time in figuring is: What Next?
I would like to get back to the Beantown area,, but I can't for the life of me figure out what I might to do pile up greasy shekels in the marketplace. I have lost track of the manuscript of my first novel (par for the course) and am convinced that I could easily starve trying that route again.
Allow me to pause here for a moment; Roxy Music's "Both Ends Buring" just came up on my portable tape deck (my other two thousand bucks worth of gear was ripped off from my household goods shipment.)
Whew. Did I mention that the guy across the hall is an Army Narc? I mean, this is funky. Most of the Post Office here is under indictment. When you can't even be sure of your mail, morale plummets. The Black Market is an awesome machine. Besides converting my stereo into won, without benefit of cutting me in on the deal, they run a vast profit on things like TANG.
That's right, that orange-colored powder is a hot item. So is Mayonnaise a tightly controlled commodity. The sex, and I confess with a blush that I haven't even been able to get it up for the imitation blonde Orientals out in the dark corners of Itae-won Dong, don't look much better than the Philippines.
The eight dollar imitation antique Tigers are quite nice, though, and my newest one is looking at me from under the near-life sized portrait of
OOPS. "Santa Ismerelda" is crying out to me from the tape deck. "Don't let me be misunderstood" done with a pulsing Latin beat. Uno momento, por favor,. Ah, much better. Loroy Gomes seems to have a better grasp on this than I do. I used to play that song right before getting off the ship in Africa, or Hong Kong, or one of those places.
Whatever,
On the up side, there is nature here. I have a brace of pheasants that live on the green hill outside my window. Mr Pheasant is very proud of himself in his zig-zag paint scheme. Ms Pheasant is very un-liberated and follows him around. I hope this has been cryptic 'n incoherent enough. The Narc just came back, and I'm afraid I have to turn down the tunes and stop this incessant banging on the keys.
Things could be worse. I have wall now, instead of bulkheads. The same number of Communists are out to get me, but at least I am armed, too.
The hill where the pheasants walk does not smell like jet fuel, and the cool night wind is blowing. If I am not deliriously happy, at least I can open a window.
Maybe I'll grow up next year. Thumbs up & Bums away, |