Two Souls Indivisible (24 page)

Halyburton had no idea whether any of these messages would get through and, even if they did, whether they'd be too late. His greatest motive to survive, what he thought and dreamed about the most, was the love of his wife and his reunion with his family. Now, all that could be gone.

For her first eighteen years, Marty Halyburton lived with her parents, the next four with college roommates, and the next year and a half with Porter. But after being told that her husband was dead, Marty was on her own, with a daughter to raise. Her mother had passed away, her father was estranged, and she had no siblings. She had no credit card, no job, and no employment history. She had no place to live. Porter's name was on her Volkswagen title, it was on their checking account, and it was woven into her own identity. As a wedding gift, Porter's mother had given her note cards, beautifully inscribed: "Mrs. Porter Alexander Halyburton."

Her new identity came gradually. She had to fill out and sign endless documents from federal agencies—the Veterans Administration, the Social Security Administration, the Navy—but the paperwork of death helped establish her independence. Finances were not a problem; she received veterans' benefits and social security funds, and a life insurance policy for Porter also paid out. But she could not get a credit card by herself—an uncle had to cosign—and, without a credit record, she could not get a home mortgage.

Practical considerations guided most of her decisions. For example, she was knitting a green sweater for Porter when he was on the
Independence,
and she had written that it would be done when he returned. After hearing of his death, she finished the garment and gave it to a friend whose husband was the same size. Where to live was her biggest decision. She decided to stay in the Atlanta area, where she'd been passing through and where she already had some family. She settled into a two-bedroom apartment in the suburb of Decatur and met other young families, the mothers convening each afternoon in the courtyard with their children. She received a new identification card from the military, indicating that she was the widow of a Navy officer. She established her own checking account and transferred the title of her car.

The one constant in her life, Dabney, was a source of joy but also a reminder of her loss. Often, the child would do something cute (smile at a stranger) or momentous (take her first step), and Marty would think, I have to tell Porter about that. Then she would remember she couldn't. Other times, she would think that she would just wake up and discover it was all a horrible dream.

But her sadness did not demoralize her. She made friends, went to dinner parties, and soon began dating a textile salesman. He was ten years older, still single, and was eager to make a good impression, taking Dabney to the park or zoo. He was ready to settle down; Marty said she needed more time but was pleased with the friendship and glad that Dabney had a male influence.

She didn't follow the war carefully but was aware of the POWs' mistreatment, which became an odd source of comfort: at least Porter had been killed instead of captured.

In February 1967, a man who said he was with "Navy records" called Marty, said he wanted to check on her, and asked whether there had been any changes in her life. Had she remarried? Did she have a new address? Marty thought the questions peculiar, but she answered them and thought nothing more of the call. Several days later, a man who identified himself as Laverne Miller, with the casualty branch of the Navy, called to inquire about Marty's well-being. After some small talk, he asked for directions to her apartment. Marty, assuming he was stationed at the naval air station in Marietta, Georgia, began giving directions.

"Oh, no," Miller said. "We've come in from Washington and we're driving from Hartsfield Airport. How long will it take to get to your apartment?"

"About forty-five minutes," she said.

When she hung up, she walked into her living room, where her best friend happened to be waiting.

"Dot, this man is coming here from Washington," Marty said.

"What do you think he wants?"

Marty paused, then spoke flatly. "They're coming to tell me that Porter's alive."

Her words scared her. Sixteen months had passed since she'd been told that Porter had died; she had never doubted the Navy's account and had no reason to question it now. She assumed the government could not make such a mistake. Yet, for some reason, she knew that everything had changed.

Dot Weesner had gone to Marty's apartment to drop off her son, for whom Marty was going to babysit, but she agreed to wait until the men from Washington arrived. When the doorbell rang, Dot took Dabney and her own son out the back door so Marty would not be interrupted. Marty opened the front door to see six men, all in civilian clothes, including Laverne Miller, who introduced himself.

"We've got something to talk to you about," he said. "Would you like to have a seat?"

"I know what you have to say," Marty responded. "You've come to tell me that my husband is alive."

Miller's jaw dropped. "I've been worrying about how I was going to tell you, and you've just made it easier on me."

The men went inside and sat in the living room. Miller offered a cigarette to Marty, who rarely smoked but accepted it. The conversation was similar to the one in which she had been told Porter had been killed: the Navy had few facts or details.

Miller himself never indicated that Porter was alive. In fact, he specifically said that he didn't know whether Porter was dead or alive. Rather, he said, there had been "a change in status."

Porter was now listed as a prisoner of war, based on an intelligence report. Miller could say nothing about the report except that it was months old, nor did he have any information about his condition. All he knew was that Porter had been captured after his plane had been shot down and that he had been, at one time, a prisoner of war.

Marty put out her cigarette and asked for another.

Miller took out a package, withdrew a stack of eight-by-ten photographs, and handed them to Marty. They had been taken, he explained, during the "Hanoi march" the previous July, in which POWs were paraded through the city. He asked Marty if she could spot Porter. Her hands trembling, she picked up the pictures and began looking through them. She saw the grainy images of the Americans with their heads down, their eyes averted, their faces grim. She moved through the photographs rapidly, and when she finished she went through them again. The exercise was wrenching; she was horrified at the prospect of Porter's being subjected to that abuse, yet she desperately wanted to see him. She went through the pictures over and over, smoked another cigarette, and asked questions, including one about Porter's pilot, Stan Olmstead. Miller said he was still listed as KIA. She tried to make herself believe this was happening and that maybe touching the photographs would help, as if the feel of emulsion would transmit some new reality; but her hands continued to shake and the images began to run together. She never saw Porter.

The men stayed for several hours; they were afraid to leave her alone, for they could tell by her eyes that she was in shock. Marty smoked a pack of cigarettes.

Miller said that he believed it was in her best interest not to share this information with anyone beyond her immediate family, that restraint would improve Porter's chances of returning safely. He also gave her the addresses and telephone numbers of several POW wives, including Sybil Stockdale, who was organizing a group that was trying to raise the awareness of the prisoners' plight. Before he left, Miller assured her that he would stay in touch.

When Dot Weesner returned, Marty's emotions finally overwhelmed her. She broke down in her friend's arms and sobbed uncontrollably, and she spent the rest of the day at Dot's house. It took days, indeed weeks, to sort through her feelings. When she believed Porter was dead, she had convinced herself that he had been spared a fate worse than death. But now it appeared he was suffering that very fate, terrible but unknown. Loneliness? Abuse? Starvation? She had no idea. Then again, she wasn't sure he was alive. If the Navy erred the first time in telling her he was dead, why wouldn't it blunder again in telling her that he had been captured? And what about Stan Olmstead? Why was he still dead? Why was Porter captured but not he? Was that right, let alone fair?

She wanted to believe that her husband was alive, but she concluded that this news was worse, far worse. As a widow, she knew what to expect and she could try to move on with her life. But as the wife of a POW everything was dark, uncertain. Compounding her problem was the restriction against telling others. She felt paralyzed. She couldn't say "good morning" or "how are you" without fearing that she would disclose her secret; and if she did, would that jeopardize Porter's life? She thought it might. She canceled plans to visit her aunt in Coconut Grove. She couldn't stand listening to small talk from neighbors, all of which seemed trivial.

She went to church late and left early to avoid conversation. The only people she could talk to were the gas station attendant and the grocery store clerk. She knew it was crazy. She could not spend her life shunning friends and acquaintances, but she couldn't deceive them by pretending that her life was normal. Unable to function, she called her aunt and then went with Dabney to Saint Simon's Island in Georgia, where Marty and Porter had lived for six months in 1964. Marty took walks past their old house to try to recreate the feeling of being a couple again, but it didn't work. Each day she agonized. The next two weeks were the toughest in her life.

She did tell her boyfriend the news, calling him at his country club and pulling him off the golf course.

"I've got news for you," Marty said. "Porter's alive." She wasn't sure if it was true but decided it was the best thing to say.

He took the rejection in stride. "I've lost a lot of girls," he said, "but never like this."

On her return from Saint Simon's, Marty received two telephone calls, the first from Laverne Miller. They had been talking on the phone regularly, and he had assumed a paternal role for Marty, who called him Mr. Miller. He told her that the Navy was going to release to the public Porter's "change in status." Two other Navy airmen who had been listed as KIA—Robert Doremus and Fred Franke, who were both shot down on August 24, 1965—would also be identified in a public statement as POWs.

"It will be in Porter's best interest," Miller said. "You're probably going to be called by reporters."

"How do you mean you're going to 'release' it?" Marty asked.

"It's going to be very low key," he said.

"You mean like the little square they have in the bottom of the newspaper—'Five Americans killed in Vietnam'—something like that?"

"Yes, probably something like that."

Miller never said why the Navy was releasing the names, and he told Marty that when she was called by the press or anyone else, she should not speculate on how the government got the information.

Fifteen minutes later, she received a call from a friend in Davidson, who told her that Porter's mother had undergone surgery that morning. Cancer had been found in her abdomen, and she might not survive the night. Marty packed the car the following morning, scooped up Dabney, and headed for Porter's home town.

It was the latest in a series of medical crises for Porter's family. Perhaps it was coincidental, but Porter's absence seemed to draw the life out of his mother and grandparents. His grandmother, who had been ailing for years, had died the year after he was shot down, and his grandfather, now in his nineties, had been admitted to a nursing home. Katharine, in her late fifties and suffering from severe arthritis as well as cancer, was in and out of the hospital, where Marty and Dabney had visited her several times. Marty never relished the experience, as Katharine showed her little warmth, but at least she could spend time with her only grandchild.

Five hours after Marty left her house, she reached Presbyterian Hospital in Charlotte. Katharine had survived the night and was in stable condition.

In her room, Marty leaned forward and said, "Porter is alive."

Katharine nodded her head, a grin tracing her lips. "I never thought he was dead."

Marty then drove to Davidson to see Robert and Carolyn Bourdeaux, whose son, John, had been Porter's best friend. Robert Bourdeaux was a gruff, hard-drinking, gregarious character who still worked in the real estate business despite being crippled. He was blind, he had rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes, and he spent much of his time in bed, where he would listen to the news on the radio and television and would bang his cane to get someone's attention. But he loved Porter like a son and now embraced Marty and Dabney, who had often stayed with the Bourdeaux family when visiting Davidson.

When Marty walked through the door after visiting Katharine, Bourdeaux was in high dudgeon. "What the hell is going on here!" he screamed. "You've gotten five long-distance phone calls!"

Just then the phone rang—again—and Marty picked it up. A woman, identifying herself as a reporter in Washington, D.C., asked if she could verify that Porter was alive. If true, this was a huge story, she said, as Porter, Doremus, and Franke would be the first back-to-life cases since World War II, when twenty-three Americans thought to be killed in action were reclassified as prisoners.

Marty had been told that reporters might call, but she had no inkling that Porter's new status would be considered a major story. (She also didn't know how the reporter knew where to contact her, though Davidson was so small that most everyone in town knew where she was staying.) Suddenly, she had to describe Porter's condition, even though she had been wrestling with that very question for weeks. She didn't hesitate.

"Yes," she said firmly, "my husband is alive, and his status has been changed from killed in action to prisoner of war. I'm really hopeful to see him again."

Her words sent Bourdeaux into a fit. He lunged forward, grabbed the phone, and spat out a string of obscenities. "God-dammit! What the hell is going on, gal?"