The Man in the Yellow Shirt

On June 12, 1961, the phones at the Cheongsan Heung-eop office would not stop ringing.

Won Tae-sik, fielding a flood of record orders and performance bookings, shouted across the room to Section Chief Kim Ung-man.

"Ung-man! Take every record order that comes in. Tell them we'll press as many as they want. If anybody's looking for Myung-sook, say she's booked solid for a month—and that reservations after that, we'll let them know in two weeks."

Tae-sik left the office, the switchboard still on fire, and set off for Cheongsan headquarters.

From Jongno 2-ga, past Gwancheol-dong, all the way to the building on Sejong-ro, a familiar song rang through the streets.

It was The Man in the Yellow Shirt, sung by Han Myung-sook, who until only a few days ago had been nothing but an unknown.

Tae-sik smiled, thinking of how hard Myung-sook had worked for a proper debut. Yes. Someone who keeps at it is bound to see the light someday.

She had been singing with everything she had in the U.S. Eighth Army shows since 1953, and for eight years she had remained a nobody. Most singers would have quit by then, or the company would have cut them loose, but Myung-sook was the president's own pick. Ki-jo had told them not to stint on support for her, and they had pushed her hard—only for the early days of her debut to be a total collapse. Tae-sik still could not believe that Myung-sook, who had seemed finished for good, had suddenly caught fire.

He stepped into the president's office, settled his excitement, and reported the odd phenomenon.

"Sir, they're looking for Myung-sook everywhere."

"Are they?"

Ki-jo turned to him with a pleased face.

"A few days ago the album orders started trickling in one by one, and today the phones are on fire. Record shops that sent the stock back are raising hell, saying they want the records again."

"Glad to hear it."

"Sir, the way I see it, we'll move at least another ten thousand copies. May I press more?"

"Press another thirty thousand."

"Thirty thousand?"

"Yes. And don't pack the performance schedule too tight. Book her only three days a week, and leave two days open. The other two, she needs to be able to rest properly."

Tae-sik, scribbling the instructions as fast as he could, asked,

"May I ask why you want two days left open?"

"I'll decide the schedule for those two days myself, every week. If Miss Myung-sook asks, we can give her extra rest—or I'll put in a performance somewhere I designate."

"Understood, sir. I'll do it that way. I ought to tell Myung-sook right away. She won't have the faintest idea, even in her dreams, of what's happening."

"Please do."

Ki-jo smiled and saw him out.

In this history, too, the composer Sohn Seok-woo and Han Myung-sook had produced a hit without precedent. The beginning, just as Department Head Won Tae-sik had said, had not been good. The moment her album was released it was thoroughly ignored, and the returns came at once.

Her husky voice did not suit a public that wanted its women singers clear and bell-like, nightingales, and critics and radio stations alike dismissed her songs as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crude little nursery rhymes. That the same song had suddenly risen was thanks to the military. After May 16, hoping to turn a restless, cowed public mood, the junta kept sending bright, lively songs out over KBS, on the grounds that it would "raise the morale and the drive of a dispirited people." Of everything half-forced onto the airwaves, the song that benefited most was Han Myung-sook's The Man in the Yellow Shirt.

Ki-jo knew exactly how high her popularity would climb. On the strength of the song, a film would be made under the very same title, and Han Myung-sook herself would appear in it. Among young men who went about in military fatigues dyed black, the yellow shirt would catch on. The Man in the Yellow Shirt would become the first Korean song to be a hit in Southeast Asia. A French chanson singer who had come to perform in Korea would hear it, like it, and put it on his own album; a Japanese woman singer would record it in Japanese and sell some hundred thousand copies. It was a song well ahead of its time.

Ki-jo took this for only the beginning. He knew that after Han Myung-sook, major women singers would break through one after another. In 1962 Hyun Mi would make a hit of "Night Fog," composed by Lee Bong-jo, and Patty Kim would make her formal debut with "First Rain." Cheongsan Heung-eop's run of hits was set to continue without a break.

In a good mood, papers in hand, Ki-jo headed for the old House of Councillors building on Toegye-ro, where the Supreme Council for National Reconstruction had been installed.

The streets were brighter and livelier than before, and the revolutionary military's popularity was shooting sky-high. Six days after the revolution succeeded, the military rounded up 4,200 gangsters, and the next day the Seoul National University student council issued a statement supporting the coup. That same day the military government dissolved every political party and civic organization in the Republic of Korea. Even so, public opinion stayed favorable. The people spared not a shred of sympathy for party politicians who did nothing but fight, or for civic groups whose arguments had no bearing on real life.

The revolutionary military's march did not slow. On the seventh day it announced a plan for the "purification of pseudo-journalists and press organs," a measure of startling boldness. Of the 916 outlets that had sprung up after April 19, it left only thirty-nine dailies, eleven news agencies, and thirty-one weeklies, and wiped out the rest—no fewer than 835. Companies, public agencies, and military units that had long been shaken down by bogus reporters welcomed it wholeheartedly, and in front of police stations paper notices even went up.

Having purified the bogus press, on the eighth day the military turned to dance halls across the country. Men and women found in them in broad daylight were arrested for violating the ban on indoor and outdoor assemblies, and people were glad to see dancers locked up for dancing through the workday instead of working. On the ninth day, from noon, high-interest private loans bearing more than 20 percent a year were temporarily suspended. The measure was limited to farmers and fishermen, but in an economy still centered on agriculture and fisheries, a great many people felt the benefit of the revolutionary government.

On the eleventh day of the revolution, some three thousand civil servants who had evaded military service were uncovered and every one of them dismissed on the spot. On the twelfth, basic guidelines for dealing with illicit fortune-makers were announced, declaring that such people would be severely punished without distinction, from businessmen down to low-ranking officials. Nor was that all. To straighten official discipline, every civil servant was ordered to arrive thirty minutes before the start of work, to clean the workplace the moment they arrived, and was forbidden to leave a post without leave, to be absent, to receive outside visitors, or to idle in chatter. An army-style directive came down demanding absolute obedience to orders in the line of duty, and citizens who had seen plenty of lazy, negligent officials welcomed it with both arms raised. For too long, far too many civil servants had lorded it over ordinary people, ignored petitioners while they chatted, and only done the work once a bribe was slipped into their hands.

Support poured in for a military that pushed reform with speed and boldness. Sending 4,400 prostitutes home and arresting 440 brothel keepers looked moral, and the sight of them preaching diligence and sincerity while confiscating the imported luxuries the wealthy favored and burning them looked almost puritanical. Even into June, the revolutionary faction's reforms and the tightening of social discipline did not end. Keep-left walking and a ban on jaywalking were strictly enforced, and order settled over the streets. There was also the matter of the police seizing ten thousand orphans nationwide. The orphans were pitiful children, but most of them committed crimes or were used for them, and at the time it was a very serious ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠social problem. Most recently, on June 10, the authorities uncovered 510 civil servants who kept concubines and fired them.

With the military's bracing measures bursting out nearly every day, people seemed to feel a cool clarity they had never felt under the Chang Myon government. So much so that even Chang Jun-ha praised the military. In the June issue of Sasanggye, he set down his definition of the coup.

Even the reformist camp's progressive, left-leaning paper, the Minjok Ilbo, went so far as to write an editorial wishing glory upon the military committee as it carried out its epoch-making revolutionary tasks.

Ki-jo was on his way to meet the military's core figures at the very moment their popularity was at its height. The Military Revolutionary Committee installed after the revolution had been renamed the Supreme Council for National Reconstruction, and former Army Chief of Staff Chang Do-young had taken the chairmanship.

Entering the Council building, Ki-jo met Colonel Lee Hoe-young, secretary to Chairman Chang Do-young.

"Good to see you, President Lee."

Colonel Lee Hoe-young welcomed him warmly.

"You've come in person, sir?"

Chang Do-young's aide was faintly moved that the president himself had come. It was the very picture of the early revolutionary government's men, delighted by the people's support. Ki-jo only hoped that this time that first resolve would last a little longer.

"I'm overseeing the fertilizer plant's completion ceremony myself. Please look through the materials I've brought, and if anything is lacking, tell me."

The aide examined the plant materials, the ceremony program, and the layout drawings Ki-jo handed him, then nodded. Then he asked,

"I say this only out of an excess of caution, but I'd ask you not to do anything that isn't in this booklet. If you overdo the protocol, or make the completion ceremony too lavish, it puts us in a difficult position."

"We intend to proceed exactly as the guide booklet lays out."

"Good. We'll familiarize ourselves with the plant's layout and learn the order of the ceremony as well. Thank you for your cooperation."

True to a soldier pushing reform, the aide put on no airs and finished the business cleanly.

Ki-jo left the chairman's secretariat, let a short interval pass, and only then made his way toward the vice-chairman's office. He was about to knock when a familiar face saw him and offered a greeting. It was Lieutenant Colonel Oh Jeong-geun, who had helped carry Kim Jong-pil's moving boxes.

"President Lee! What brings you here?"

He held out his hand, glad to see him.

"I've come to deliver some materials to the Vice-Chairman."

"Have you? You're here about the fertilizer plant's completion ceremony?"

"That's right."

"The Vice-Chairman won't be in his office just now. I'll pass them along myself."

"Would you?"

"Of course. Aren't you a comrade of the revolution, President Lee?"

"Me?"

When Ki-jo stared, dumbfounded, Oh Jeong-geun grinned.

"The day we hauled Jong-pil's things, didn't you become an honorary man of the Korea Military Academy's eighth class?"

"Ah... yes."

Ki-jo caught the joke and laughed, and Oh Jeong-geun took him to his own office. They passed a corridor crowded with soldiers, stepped into the personnel committee room, and shut the door. It grew quiet.

Ki-jo sat, and Oh Jeong-geun asked,

"Have you already been to the chairman's office?"

"Yes. I stopped there first, but I thought I ought to hand the ceremony papers to the Vice-Chairman in person as well, so I was just about to go into the secretariat."

At that, Oh Jeong-geun looked thoroughly satisfied.

"Well done. Please look after our Vice-Chairman."

A meaningful look, and meaningful words. In early July, Chang Do-young would be removed, and Park Chung-hee would become chairman of the Supreme Council. Pulling Chang Do-young down and setting Park Chung-hee in the chair would be the work of the Academy's eighth class, centered on Kim Jong-pil. From the first days of the revolution those men had been colliding with Chang Do-young and his faction, and the grievances had been piling up. This was about the time they would quietly begin drawing up a purge list of the people to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be dragged out of the revolutionary government along with him.

Ki-jo had weighed that, too. He did not want to look as if he were tending only to Chang Do-young, and so he had meant to deliver a guide booklet to the vice-chairman's office in person as well.

Oh Jeong-geun examined the booklet in detail, then praised him.

"Including a speech for the Vice-Chairman was the right call. And seating the chairman and the vice-chairman side by side is good, too. On the whole, it's excellent."

Ki-jo thanked him. Finished with the review, Oh Jeong-geun said,

"Hauling boxes with you, then eating noodles and drinking makgeolli together—it feels like ages ago. When you actually count, it wasn't that long ago. I suppose it feels that way because we've been through so much."

Ki-jo nodded.

"Whenever Jong-pil sees me or the classmates, he says we ought to get together for a drink, but everyone's so busy it's hard even to set a date. And this time he's taking charge of the Central Intelligence Agency, so he'll be the busiest of us all."

"Yes. I heard yesterday about the founding of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency."

"Still, I'd like to make the time someday—grill some meat in the yard of that house in Jongno, drink makgeolli, and talk. Those were good days."

A faraway look came over Oh Jeong-geun's face.

"Call whenever you like. I'll have everything ready."

Ki-jo was glad to show the courtesy. Oh Jeong-geun was the man who would sit on the Finance and Economy Committee, and who, holding both that seat and the Personnel Committee, would rotate through the key posts of the early revolutionary government.

"I'll take the papers you brought and brief the Vice-Chairman myself."

"Thank you."

Ki-jo did not take any more of Oh Jeong-geun's time; the man looked busy. They shook hands, and he rose and left the room. They had only shared a bowl of noodles once and a few cups of makgeolli, the milky rice wine, and yet the man had shown him this much goodwill. Ki-jo understood that he was being looked after rather carefully.

Leaving the Supreme Council building, he watched the soldiers hurrying back and forth in front of it. On the surface everything seemed to be running smoothly, but the struggle for power inside the revolutionary government was slowly growing fiercer.

Ki-jo put the Council building behind him and walked toward Cheongsan headquarters. A breeze drifted through, cooling the June heat. As the sweat on his brow was lifted away, The Man in the Yellow Shirt began to drift from a record shop far off.

Ki-jo knew the soldiers of the revolutionary government had taken a liking to the line not a handsome man, but a sturdy, spirited face. There was even a story that they had thought it was about themselves—and about Park Chung-hee. Whatever the truth of it, now that they held power, he only hoped they would do better than they had in the original history.