“They’re here. The corporal didn’t know if the 83rd was attached to them or not.”
“How’s your Russian these days, Ernie?”
“Not bad. Milla Banning and Mae-Su decided the kids should know how to speak it, and then Banning got in the act. We have Russian suppers, talk only Russian. I’m all right with it.”
“Let’s go talk to the officer,” McCoy said. “Where’s the corporal?”
“I had him put in another room, to get him away from the officer.”
“You go in there, tell the guard to put the sergeant with the corporal, make a show of chambering your Thompson, and in a couple of minutes, I’ll come in. You pop to when I do.”
“Got it,” Zimmerman said.
“Where’s Priestly?”
Zimmerman pointed out the door, to where Jeanette Priestly was talking to several GIs, who were beaming at her.
McCoy nodded and motioned for Zimmerman to enter the room where the prisoners were being held. A minute later, the American sergeant came out, holding his carbine in one hand, and with his other on the North Korean sergeant’s shoulder.
McCoy looked at his watch, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from an electric pot next to one of the radios— and thus a source of 110 volts AC—and exactly five minutes later, put the mess kit coffee cup down and walked into the room where the North Korean officer was being held.
Zimmerman, who had been sitting on a folding chair, popped to rigid attention. McCoy made an impatient gesture with his hand, and Zimmerman relaxed slightly.
“My friend,” McCoy said, conversationally, in Russian, “I’m a little pressed for time, so I suggest it would be to your advantage to make the most of what time I can give you.”
There was a flicker of surprise on the North Korean officer’s face, immediately replaced by one intended to show that he didn’t understand a word.
“All right, we’ll do it in Korean,” McCoy said, switching to that language, “although my Korean is not as good as my Russian.” He switched to English: “Or perhaps you would prefer English?”
The officer looked at him in what was supposed to convey a complete lack of comprehension.
McCoy went back to Russian:
“The fortunes of war have gone against you, Major,” he said.
There was another flicker of surprise in the North Korean’s eyes, and McCoy thought it was reasonable to presume that his guess that the man was a major was right on the money.
“With a little luck, Major, at this very minute, you could be sitting in a POW enclosure, as a simple private, biding your time until the forces of international socialism overwhelmed the capitalist imperialists and you were liberated. But that didn’t happen. What happened is that I happened to come by here. We are not soldiers. We are Marines. Moreover, we are more or less—probably more than less—in the same line of work.”
“He understood that, Captain,” Zimmerman said, in English. “I could tell by his eyes. But I also saw in his eyes that he won’t be useful, so may I suggest, considering the time, that—”
“I would rather not dispose of him,” McCoy said, and chuckled. “Professional courtesy, Ernest. You and I could easily find ourselves in his position.”
“Sir, with respect, I suggest we have him shot, and be on our way.”
“Kim Si Yong,” the North Korean said, in English. “Seven-five-eight-eight-nine.”
“Ah,” McCoy said, now in English, “the major is partially familiar with the Geneva Convention.”
“Partially?” Zimmerman asked.
“The Convention requires that prisoners of war furnish their captors with their name, rank, and service number. I did not hear a rank, did you?”
“No, sir,” Zimmerman said.
“He has therefore not complied with the Geneva Convention, ” McCoy explained. “Not that it matters anyway, for under Paragraph Seventeen, Subsection B, since he is an officer, wearing a private soldier’s uniform, it may be presumed that he is not a combatant, entitled to the protection of the convention, but instead a spy, who may be legally executed.”
“Under those circumstances, may I respectfully suggest we have him shot, and be on our way?”
McCoy looked at the North Korean officer, then shrugged, and appeared to be on the verge of leaving the room.
“Kim Si Yong,” the North Korean said, in English. “Major, seven-five-eight-eight-nine. I claim the protection of the Geneva Convention.”
McCoy switched to Russian.
“Major Kim,” he said. “There’s one small problem with that. Your government is not a signatory to the Geneva Convention. That means that it is at the option of your captors—and that means me—whether