An Unwilling Agent

… In the early dawn light, I washed my face in the icy river. I would have all too gladly taken a gulp. But in Basic Training we had always been warned about drinking water of unknown origin without boiling it first. I was so hungry that my stomach hurt; it was growling audibly. I climbed up the embankment to the bridge and discovered a plaque with Korean and Chinese lettering on it, as well as an inscription I could read—Han River.

At some point I stumbled onto a street with several food stands. None of the things sizzling and steaming there in the early morning hours even vaguely recalled anything like a Western breakfast. All the dishes looked instead like hearty lunch items. I ordered a soup they called pollock, a hot broth with dried fish, bits of tofu, scallions, and egg whites. I also bought a large bottle of water. My five-dollar bill occupied an entire armada of friendly Korean men and women with calculating the exchange rate and making change in Korean won. The warm soup did me a world of good. Now I only had to get rid of the damned Army uniform. Surely I would be able to scare up a simple T-shirt, a regular collared shirt, and a pair of jeans. Far from it! I frittered away half a day in an unsuccessful search for clothing. There simply wasn’t anything in my size.

I had to keep going. Far, far away. To the airport, to observe how it operated and the people there, to sound out my chances. But where was the airport? Nobody I talked to spoke English. I didn’t understand Korean, nor could I read the writing, all of which drove me to the brink of despair.

Salvation approached in the form of a house sign: Mrs. Kim’s English-Korean Language School. The neatly dressed school head, a middle-aged lady, received me on the first floor. She seemed like an angel to me. Unshaven, unwashed, and in a filthy olive-drab uniform, a bit shamefacedly—but with a friendly smile—I poured out my woes. Mrs. Kim’s perfect Oxford English reminded me of my school days. In this situation, it sounded as buoyant as the first movement of Mozart’s Night Music. The teacher didn’t ask where I came from. She appeared to ignore my outfit, and even went to the trouble of drawing a small map of the town for me. Going down to the Han River, over the first bridge to the other side and then farther downstream, I would reach Gimpo International, the country’s largest airport. On foot, the trek would take a good four hours, maybe even five. Then Mrs. Kim took another slip of paper and wrote down a couple of words, in case I had to ask for directions along the way or wanted to take a taxi. The Korean money I still had as change from breakfast ought to be enough. She also wrote that down on the note. Two worlds were battling in my heart as I tried to reconcile my feelings of exuberant gratitude with discreet Asian reticence. At last, I simply bowed, very slowly, deeply, and submissively, whispering: “Thank you so much! You have just saved my life!” The teacher nodded only a brief farewell, with a barely perceptible smile that I more or less interpreted to mean, “Don’t exaggerate so much! That was simply Asian politeness. Perhaps you’ve learned a life lesson.” I hailed a taxi on the Saechang-ro and handed the driver Mrs. Kim’s note.

During the taxi ride, I tried to forge together a plan. The most adventurous thoughts whirled through my head. Could I, perhaps, sneak into the freight processing area, empty out a large suitcase, climb into it, and fly somewhere? Did the hold of a freight plane even contain enough air pressure and oxygen?

I just had to get away from here as fast as possible—to Australia, Europe, North or South America, whatever the cost! Anything was justifiable, except murder. But no matter how I looked at the matter, any practicable plan required three things I lacked: a passport, credit card, and an airplane ticket. The passport would have to be one issued to a white male between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight. Everything else was secondary. I figured that Koreans would have just as much difficulty distinguishing one white face from the next as white people do with Asian ones. So I could expect some degree of leeway there. It would also be very nice, if not absolutely necessary, to get a cold Coke to keep me awake and to sharpen me up, as well as some cash, a shower, and civilian clothing.

At Gimpo International Airport, I handed the taxi driver the remainder of my Korean won. With a friendly look, he nodded, and remained just as silent has he had throughout the entire trip, even as I exited the cab. I decided to spend a great deal of time observing and analyzing everything going on at the airport—the flight schedules and destinations. Which service counters were most heavily frequented? Where did the baggage end up after check-in? Where do they check passports? What kind of routine and schedule did the guards have, and what routes did they take? Where did the cleaning crews work? Were there waiting areas?

Even before I could obtain a proper overview of the place, I discovered a long bamboo wall just to the right of the entrance. Behind the wall, there was a restroom that I headed for immediately. Being able to empty my bladder made my reconnaissance of the whole airport a lot more relaxing. Right next to the restroom, I was surprised to notice a sign reading Shower. I had expected any number of things, but certainly not an airport shower. Exactly what I needed now! The stench of my own sweat had been revolting even to me for quite some time. A cool jet of water blasting down, maybe a bar of soap—now that would be paradise on earth!

In the shower facility, which apparently could be used at no charge, there were three cabins next to one other along the wall, and a long row of clothing hooks along the opposite side. One of the cabins was in use, but the other two were available. Each shower cabin was furnished with a small washcloth and soap bar. I tore the clothes off my body, all set to jump into the empty shower. But just then, my eyes locked on the beige suit coat hanging on the hook next to mine, together with a white hat, beige pants, and a brown satchel. In one of the suit’s inside coat pockets, I quickly discovered, was a ticket indicating merely a flight via SFO that terminated at IAD, whatever that meant. The passport had been issued in the name of a Mike Love. The suit also contained a wallet stuffed with baggage claim stubs, cash, credit cards, and business cards. The man in the photograph was a good ten years older than I was, and heavier. He also had a mustache.

Some opportunities come along only once in this life; they’ve got to be seized immediately. I forgot all about the shower, and as fast as possible I slipped into Mike Love’s shirt, pants, and suit jacket. Then I grabbed the satchel, rolled up my Army uniform, and jammed it under my arm. All that I left on the hook was Mike’s underwear. I’m not a monster, after all. While Mike continued whistling away, enjoying his shower, I got the hell out the room. I was pouring sweat. I stuffed my Army gear into the large trash can in the adjacent restroom. Mike’s clothing, which was somewhat too big for me, hung loosely, and the belt buckle pin seemed to be longing to get a new hole punched into the leather.

Suddenly, a flash of insight made me shudder. I had made a mistake—a really big one! Maybe the biggest mistake since joining the Army. A mistake that might decide everything!

I dashed back to the shower room, where I heard Mike shutting off the water. Just as the shower cabin door was opening, I grabbed his underwear—the sole item of clothing remaining—right off the hook. For a fraction of a second, our gazes met. I will never forget the combination of sheer outrage, anger, and helplessness in Mike Love’s eyes as he saw me in his beige suit, with his brown satchel, and his white hat perched upon my head. Would he dare—stark naked—to chase me through the airport concourse? Would he be able to catch up with me? Whose side would people—and the police—take if I were attacked by a naked man?

After sprinting a hundred meters without even bothering to look around, I slowed down to a brisk run and made it to the men’s room in the part of the airport diagonally opposite, where I tossed Mike’s underwear in the trash. Then I locked myself in one of the toilet stalls so I could take inventory in peace and acquaint myself with my new identity.

I was now Mike Love, twenty-nine years old, hailing from Lexington, Kentucky, the United States of America. According to my business card, I was a journalist with the Washington Post, the same newspaper which, in cooperation with The New York Times, had published the Pentagon Papers ten months earlier. These documents were a study proving that preparations for the Vietnam War had been made long in advance, and that the American people had been deliberately lied to by their government about both the cause of the war and the reasons behind it. I had a Master Card and an American Express Card, and I was a member of the Pan American Airlines WorldPass club. In my pocket, I found a copy of the Washington Post dated a few days earlier, some cookies and chocolate bars, and a paperback novel entitled The Good Earth, by Pearl S. Buck. My flight was departing from Gate 3, heading to IAD via SFO, wherever these destinations might be; I was yet to find out. My baggage had already been checked through, and the Pan Am flight would be ready for boarding in twenty minutes.

The gate was easy enough to find. A uniformed Korean man glanced at my ticket and my dark blue passport, embossed in gold with the American eagle and the lettering reading United States of America. Without looking any further, he waved me through. Waiting to board the aircraft, I settled down in one of the rows of seats in front of Gate 3, unfolded the Washington Post, and pretended to read it. In reality, my thoughts kept dwelling on the naked man standing in the shower. Mike Love! A hell of a name! If you mumbled or slurred the name a little, it sounded like “make love,” which reminded me of the hippies at Venice Beach, with their slogan, “Make love—not war!” How right they had been, indeed!

The real Mike Love, stark naked, would undoubtedly have a hard time of it, at least for the next few hours, probably even days, or perhaps weeks. The Korean police would wrap him in a towel, then want to take him into custody and interrogate him, in Korean, of course. At some point, they would consult an interpreter and perhaps even a consular officer from the American embassy. But all that could easily drag on for days. Verifying his identity without any kind of papers, in light of the tenuous channels of communication between Asia and the United States, would require a lot of time. The only way to dispatch a photo of Mike Love from the United States to Korea was via air mail. The journalist would survive the whole affair and perhaps even fashion a good story out of it someday. For me, it was a matter of sheer survival. Each additional day spent in this senseless war could have forced me to shoot or even kill someone. And on top of that, I could have easily ended up like Private Coolidge or Bill McPherson.

The Washington Post had booked Mike Love in First Class. Very pleasant, indeed. The first thing I did after takeoff was make my way to the airplane lavatory. It was my body’s first contact with soap in sixty hours. The soap bar was small, with the airline’s logo on it, but at this moment felt as valuable as a chunk of gold. The water tap ran only ten seconds at a time. It didn’t matter. Passengers in First Class also received a little toilet kit containing, among other things, a disposable razor, a disposable toothbrush, and some toothpaste. Personal hygiene—at long last—was a real treat! The final glimpse in the mirror was astounding: I looked old. War and sleep depriva82 tion make you old, I had heard somewhere along the line. It’s probably true. I wondered…was the process reversible? SFO, I had already pretty much guessed, stood for San Francisco. At the immigration window, the officer, a black woman, said I looked different without the mustache and ought to have my passport photo updated. Otherwise, she remarked, I might run into trouble at some later date.

“Or I could grow a moustache again,” I smiled, taking back the passport and waltzing through the checkpoint. Now, I still didn’t know what IAD stood for; it was the airport where my baggage had been checked through. Dallas? Denver? I let myself be surprised, and a few hours later I landed at Dulles International Airport, in Washington, D.C.

At the exit, a man was holding up a sign reading Washington Post – Mike Love. My head lowered, I scurried past him. Washington, D.C. would have actually been the ideal place to give Richard M. Nixon a good dressing-down. But the President wouldn’t grant access even to a Mike Love together with his press pass. I decided to take the next Greyhound bus and travel to Nashville, Tennessee. Once there, I would rent a room in a cheap motel, have a couple of beers in one of the numerous saloons, bars, or clubs there, and ponder what to do next. Maybe Elvis Presley, Dolly Parton, or Johnny Cash were singing there at the moment. And besides, I already knew my way around Nashville a little, thanks to a few weekend excursions during my training at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, which is only an hour’s drive away. I found a room at the Nashville Legends Motel on Second Avenue, near Broadway. I shut the door, put down my suitcase without even knowing what it contained, and threw myself on the king-sized bed—fully dressed, face down, and legs spread out—and slept for a full twenty-six hours. After all, I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for the past eighty-eight hours, except for a couple of brief, half-assed naps with my eyes half-open. Still wearing Mike’s baggy clothes, on Nashville’s Broadway I indulged myself in an American breakfast par excellence: pancakes with maple syrup, hash browns, eggs sunny side up, and fried bacon. To flush it all down, I had some orange juice, a glass of ice-cold water, and a steaming hot cup of bottomless coffee. I loved poking the fried eggs and watching the yolks flow slowly over the hash browns.

The next thing I did was buy myself a pair of jeans, a blue shirt and a white one, a couple of T-shirts, some underwear, a dressy sports jacket, and a pair of shoes. I was finally human again!

Except for a copy of the previous month’s issue of Penthouse, the contents of Mike’s suitcase were useless: dirty laundry, socks, a roll of toilet paper, a collection of Asian hotel soaps, various toilet articles, and a Kodak camera loaded with color film. Without dwelling much on the matter, I shoved the camera into the pocket of my new sports jacket.

A walk along the nearby Cumberland River ought to clear my head, I thought. Had Elvis ever strolled around here to find inspiration for a worldwide hit? With each step, it became clearer to me that I did not want to be on the run forever. And I did owe something to Mike Love and Bill McPherson, or at least to their families. At the riverbank, as the sun went down, I put my plan together.

The next morning, I went to the same restaurant, on Broadway in downtown Nashville, and ordered exactly the same breakfast I’d eaten the day before. It was simply too good to resist! I relished every bite, for I realized that it might well be my final breakfast as a free man. Then I took a taxi to Fort Campbell, right up to the barriers at the enormous Army post’s front gate. I flashed my press ID and claimed that I had an appointment to interview the commanding officer, Brigadier General Thomas McKee Tarpley.

One of the two watchstanders made several phone calls while holding my press ID and turning it over and over in his hand. After what felt like an eternity, a young soldier in a jeep picked me up and brought me to a room in one of the barracks. The place didn’t exactly look like a commandant’s office. It was a spartanly furnished room containing a desk with a typewriter and telephone on it, three chairs, and a bookcase with a few newspapers and some Army literature.

“My name is Collins,” said the soldier. “I’m the press officer in charge here. Go ahead and ask your questions, Mr. Love, and I’ll see how I can help you.”

“Please understand,” I replied, “that I have to conduct the interview with the post commandant personally,” I replied, opting to first attempt the obliging tack. “Unfortunately, that’s impossible without an appointment,” Collins replied. “But I’ve got an appointment. Today, at 11:30!” I insisted.

“For one thing, the general is in a meeting at the moment. And we haven’t found any appointment with you in his calendar. So you’ll just have to make do with me,” the press officer said. I fumbled for the camera in the pocket of my sports jacket and decided to up the ante: “The Washington Post is one of this country’s most important newspapers. My assignment is to conduct an exclusive interview with Brigadier General Thomas McKee Tarpley. It’s supposed to be printed on the front page of the paper the day after tomorrow, along with his portrait. My secretary made the appointment and had it confirmed a good two weeks ago. I don’t think the general is going to like the story I’ll have to write if his office screws up the appointment—and if you, Press Officer Collins, send me all the way back to Washington without letting me do my job.” The press officer mulled it over for a moment, then said, “Please wait a moment, Mr. Love.”

…