Author’s Note: Tough night. I forgot to take the evening dose of medication, which was subsumed by the newest news of the day. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg took leave of this life sometime during the afternoon, word being passed as the day waned in darkness. This will add more complexity to the already surreal circus crunching toward whatever will pass as an election in November. One of my Progressive pals was engaged in the predictable rant about dead citizens of color, which seemed to blend effortlessly into the passing of a great American. Sleep came in unrewarding fits as the possibilities rolled past in the darkness. Thankfully, my sense of humor remains. I respected Justice Ginsberg for her service, and for her friendship with Antonin Scalia. Now we plunge again into another cascade of uncertainty. It will percolate around us for at least a few news cycles, and I will leave that for the news machine to assemble. The piece on the Field Marshal’s daughter was part of an effort to remember other times of chaos, and keep our current one in perspective. It will be filled with emotion and humor, high and low. Let’s keep a grin handy. Times are always tough, right? And always interesting.

– Vic

16 May 1980

The Field Marshal’s Daughter, Part Two

Four cups of coffee and a look at four pages of alleged news in the Pacific edition of the Stars and Stripes brought me to an uneasy truce with Saturday. It was actually marvelous weather out there, and after administering myself a mental kick in the ass, I managed to slump out of the hooch and into the brilliant Korean afternoon. I blinked like a mole and put on my sunglasses. I needed to cash a check and talk to that weird Brit again. To prolong the inevitable, I walked the long way. A detour to stop at the Embassy Club on post to get money. Then up the back hill past the General Officer’s quarters, and down into Korea again. I decided to cut through the alleys of lower Itaewon.

Naturally, you cannot go from point A to point B. You have to take a line of bearing on a known structure; in this case, the twin spires of the Mosque. That becomes a known factor to plug into the feet, as you wander down narrow alleys, around blind corners, into dead ends, and once in a while, right into authentic Korean families hunched over cook-fires and kimchi-pots. I found a worn set of steep stone steps, climbed them, and found myself directly across the street from the Hamilton. The rich golden sun was slanting across the carts selling cuttlefish and sea slugs and vendors selling roast chestnuts.
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I found Jim ensconced at the Adam Bar, studying a tall bottle of Crown lager (“a headache in every bottle.”) We plunged immediately into recap of the previous evening’s discussions; the Fall of Empires, weird towns in forgotten countries (“Phu Bai is O.K.!”) and unregenerate armies of lost wars.

“Well if you were up in Chang Mai at that time, you must have stopped to watch the public hangings.” I said. “I heard that was always a big drawing card on the weekends.”

“Oh yes, absolutely. When we could get out, mind you. We were operating against what was left of the original 10th Kuomantang Army that controlled the Golden Triangle. Mostly on the Burma side, if you tell.”

“Pity about Burma. Always wanted to go there. Rangoon was one of the great posts.”

“Oh my, yes. But not now. Just depressing. They have completely eradicated the Buddhist ethic, you know. Like old Marxist China. Just the husk is left and that is falling down, too.”

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a Special Forces type named Lt Col M ______ would you? He was active up there.”

“No, not there. I knew him somewhere else.”

“Leopoldville?”

“Well, er, the Congo was a strange thing, wasn’t it. But I say, I was thinking about what you said last night about our friends … that large organization….”

“Yeah.” The conversation was getting cryptic by now. I knew that he didn’t want to talk about the Congo, about who we had running around Katanga Province to ensure that the revolutionaries did not get the rich copper deposits away from Anaconda and the other companies. But suddenly the KCIA was involved. I wondered what Jim was actually doing in the ROK, and more, why he wanted to talk to me. The wheels within wheels began to rotate around. He claimed to be working for the Army Veterinary Corps, which controls all food distribution for the Armed Forces. But his background argued against it. Was he a Counter-intel spook? Veterinary had access to all the Services, because they inspected the food. So, if you were eating food, as many of us did, Jim had access to your Command. I suddenly hoped that he was working for us.

“Well, frankly, old chap, I believe that my young friend is one of them.”

“Huh?” I said cleverly.

“Well, you see, she had a bit of a problem with English last night, remember?”

“Yeah. Poor thing, she didn’t seem to be enjoying the little gab-fest that much.”

“On the contrary. I imagine she is off filing her report right now. You weren’t around at 0400 this morning when her English became quite fluent. Remarkable characteristic.”

Well, that was a point to ponder. I’m a professional cynic, been there, done that. But I’m just a working stiff here and I have wandered into something operational. And it appears to be an operation conducted to large extent by drunks. Makes you thankful that ignorance is such bliss. I could see why they (Who?) would be keeping an eye on Jim, but now I had got myself written up on their dossiers as well. The next time I was out in the Ville having some fun I would have to see just who was buying the next round….

“So, she dashed off this morning. No charge for services rendered. Another anomaly. She knows quite well that I am only staying for three days. I have been many places and rarely seen such enthusiasm strictly pour lamour. Except for the only fully-rated female helicopter pilot in the Vietnamese Air Force….”

That story went on for some minutes and somehow we got over to Gen Kriangask Chamanand, who was just shit-canned as the Thai Prime Minister. I had the opportunity to see him when I was in Bangkok the last time, and so we analyzed the situation in my favorite Asian Nation for a while. I asked him about one of the characters I had met there, a Hungarian expatriate and restaurateur named Nick Yarow. He had really put on the dog for the Fleet when we rolled in. Very happy to see us.

“Nick? Oh sure. Sort of General Collector for the Bloc. Nice enough chap. Ran a nice restaurant on the side.”

“That explains a lot of things. The last time I saw him was from the back of his green Cadillac when he gave me a lift down to Pattaya Beach.”

“Oh yes. I should think he was glad to see the Fleet. Pretty lean times for an agent after the pull-out, don’t you know.” Jim looked up. The KCIA had arrived with a swish of silk skirt. She sat down and Jim ordered reinforcements. He gave me a broad wink. “Hello, my dear. Do you still love me?” The KCIA laughed and then gravely shook hands with me. The bottles began to pile up amid a series of half-references to assorted spookery. At length we discussed a change of venue. I suggested a few quick drinks in the Sky Room of the Shilla hotel, renowned as Seoul’s finest and most expensive hotel.

The KCIA was horrified. Whether it was because the bugging equipment was not adequate at that location, or because the local controller would not be able to keep track of her. “Shi-la OH-tel? She said “I no hear of same.”

“Patent nonsense, Jim. The Shilla is famous. It sounds like just the place for us.”

“Right ho! Jolly good idea. Off we go!”

“No, no” said the KCIA. “Can no go Shilla.”

“It’s alright my dear. We promise to get you back to an approved location long before curfew. We will never tell anyone that you sold out and can no longer be trusted.”

“Jim, why you say that?” She looked worried.
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I threw some money on the bar and we stumbled out; one young Spook, one active Mata Hari, and the last flower of the Empire singing “Waltzing Matilda” Mata looked embarrassed. There was a fortuitous cab waiting in front. We sped through the evening streets past the brooding bulk of Namsan Mountain where the Tower poked up at the bright stars. Within minutes we were piling out at the Shilla. The KCIA now looked resigned to the affair and her English improved.

I suppose it is possible that she was just a hooker, and Jim was just a drunk, and I am just crazy. But that doesn’t explain Field Marshall Kesselring’s gilt baton, does it? The Nazi and the Irish connections. I’ll get to that part some time. But that went down in Japan.

That’s where the adventure got very strange indeed. Spooky, in fact.

Copyright 2020 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com