We Were Beautiful Once (29 page)

Harris wrung his hands. “Your Honor, I apologize, but I thought I heard him say O'Conner or Connell, and I therefore assumed it was this witness. I got turned around on this. Nevertheless, I think that the question's proper, but please strike it. I will rephrase.”

“A day or so ago a Mr. Jaeger, Thomas Jaeger, testified that he was with a regiment near Kunu-ri close to the Ch'ongch'on river.” Harris made a fist in each hand. “Were you in that area at any time?”

“Yes, I believe so, near the middle of November.”

Harris hammered his fist into his hand and raised his voice. “You were in retreat...  right?”

Jack rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Yes, movin' south.”

“Mr. Jaeger testified that two soldiers, a Conner or an O'Conner and another man, Jardin or Girardin, saved his life from a sniper. Would you remember saving a man one early morning on a ridge in the Kunu-ri area, November, 1950?”

Jack looked over at Nick. “No, can't say I can remember something like that.”

Harris stepped forward, blocking Nick's line of sight. “Mr. Jaeger claims that the Girardin man was killed by a sniper, and that he had a conversation with the Conner or O'Conner man shortly afterwards. Is it possible that he was talking about you and that the dead man was Roger Girardin?”

“No.”

“But, you were captured right about that time Jaeger claims he might have met you, correct?”

“Yeah, so were thousands of others.”

“And from the sounds of your story, you were understandably traumatized?”

Jack blinked repeatedly. “I wouldn't say that.”

“Is it possible that you had a lapse of memory surrounding events shortly before and during your capture?”

Jack sat silent, unable to control his blinking, something Harris interpreted as a sign that Jack was evading the truth.

“Sir, it may have played out differently, isn't that right?”

“Anything's possible, sir.” Jack blinked several times.

Harris stretched his arm in the air. “Didn't you tell our investigator, Mr. Devaney, that it was possible, but you weren't absolutely sure if you remembered Girardin?”

Jack snapped, “When?”

Harris raised his voice. “When he called you at home just last Thursday.”

“I don't remember what I told anybody. I started remembering this stuff, I think, when I first talked to Mr. Castalano yesterday.” His voice trailed off.  “Maybe I read about him in the newspapers, I don't know.”

Harris picked up a document browned with age. “Mr. Prado, were you sympathetic to the North Korean's point of view?”

“Objection. Your Honor, Mr. Harris' question lacks specificity. What 'point of view' is he referring to?”

“Sustained. Mr. Harris, please qualify your question.”

Harris read the document to himself, the one he had waved in front of Jack. “Mr. Prado, are you familiar with the word Progressive to describe a POW who was sympathetic to communist propaganda?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, were you a so-called Progressive?”

Nick saw Jack stiffen, but he seemed to hold his own. “No, sir, I was not!”

“Is it not true that you signed a statement that the U.S. and its allies were murderers?”

“I don't recall.”

Harris's questions were coming quicker now. “You informed on your fellow soldiers did you not?”

Jack's lips tightened. “That's a bald faced lie.”

“Isn't it true that you were held over by the Communists after the war ended, after the POWs were repatriated?”

“If you mean that I returned from Korea in '54, yes, yes, I was detained.”

Harris spread his arms, raised his voice, “Is it not true you were detained because you chose not to come back with your comrades?”

“No, sir!” Jack protested, his voice also louder.  “I was left behind because...  because I'd been forgotten, left to rot in a cell.”

“And when you returned, you were given a dishonorable discharge, is that not correct?”

“No, I—I didn't receive a dishonorable, sir.”

Harris paused for effect. He picked up a paper from the lectern and turned to Lindquist.

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

Lindquist shook his head yes, curious why a difference of opinion existed on what seemed a matter of record. Harris, cool and in control, approached Jack, “Sir, I am handing you a document marked Exhibit 101 Defendant Army for identification. Do you recognize that paper?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well it's captioned with your name, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“It's a discharge paper, isn't it? What is the number in the left hand bottom?”

“It says DD 214. But— ”

“Sir, if you would please give me the document.”

“But—”

“One moment, Mr.
Prado
,” Harris interjected.

Harris took the document and handed it to Nick. “It's the official record, certified.”

Scanning it, Nick handed it back to Harris who gave it to Lindquist.  He did not look at Mitch. He would have his head later for failing to find it.

“Your Honor, I'd like to enter this as a full exhibit,” continued Harris.

Lindquist looked at Nick. “Any objections?”

“Relevancy, where is Mr. Harris going with this?”  He could only watch as the credibility of his witness was put under scrutiny.

“Overruled, I will allow it.”

“Mr. Prado, please take this document marked Exhibit 101, and tell this court if you wish to change you testimony regarding your discharge.”

Jack scanned the document. “No, sir, I don't wish to change anything. That was a—”

Harris cut Jack off. “Is it not true, sir, that you were given a dishonorable discharge from the United States Army as indicated on that form?”

“That was a mistake!”

“Yes, it was upgraded, am I right?  After some period. Isn't that right? Wasn't that what the Army did for all those who collaborated?  Changed their status some years later?”

As if washing his hands of Jack, he turned from the lectern, “Your Honor, the government has no further questions at this time, but we reserve the right to recall Mr. O'Conner or Mr. Prado, as the case may be.”

Lindquist looked in Nick's direction, “Any redirect, sir?”

Nick knew there was no territory to be regained at this point by questioning Jack further.  “No, your Honor.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's recess until 2 pm.”

 

Nick walked down a hallway to a payphone farthest from the lobby—he needed privacy. The phone was in use. As he flipped the pages of his pocket calendar, he heard the caller explain, “I'll be there at five to work the shift. My brother just finished up.” When she hung up and turned, the caller stood facing Nick.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry, are you Jack Prado's sister?”

Taken by surprise, she clutched her bag tighter to her chest.  “Yes, Julie O'Conner.”

“I'm Nick. Nick Castalano.”

“I know, nice to meet you.” Julie found herself caught between Nick and the phone.

 “Nice to meet
you
. I didn't know Jack had a sister.”

“Well, yes, only the one.” Julie tried sidling around Nick, who was blocking her path.

“You've sat through the entire trial, haven't you?”  Nick shifted his weight to the right, blocking Julie's escape.

“Why, yes.”

Anticipating Julie's move to the right, Nick shifted back to his left. “Special interest in the case?”  

Exasperated, Julie took a deep breath and looked up at Nick. “Roger Girardin was my boyfriend.”

It was Nick's turn to be caught back-footed. “Roger Gir—!” How much more information had Jack failed to mention?  “This is quite a surprise.”  Moving his jacket out of the way, Nick put his hands on his hips.

Julie's lips quivered. “Mr. Castalano, I don't know if I should be talking to you.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, is Jack in some kind of trouble?”

“No, Ms. O'Conner, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of ... ”

Julie blurted out, “Roger and I were very close.”

“Didn't Jack know you were dating Roger?”

“Of course. We were all kids together, we hung out. I mean, Jack and his girlfriend Tracy and her brother Trent.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn't Jack mention you dated Roger?”

“Maybe he didn't think it was important.”

“You heard me ask if he ever met Roger, and he said no.”

“Mr. Castalano, you asked him if he met the soldier.”

Nick swore inwardly. It was splitting hairs, but here was a spectator pointing out the problem with his question. “And his girlfriend, this Tracy, is she Trent Hamilton's sister?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Did you know Trent?”

Julie cocked her head. “Am I being questioned, Mr. Castalano?” Julie returned. “I said, we hung out together. Trent had a bit of a mad crush, but we never really...   dated. Then, he and Roger got into some teenage trouble, and they parted ways. May I go now?”

Nick raised his hands in mock innocence. “Just one more thing. What was he like?”

“Who? Roger?”

Nick saw real warmth spreading across the woman's face, but tears blurred the emerald green eyes staring up at him. He dropped his hands.

 

 

DAVID BRADSHAW, A CRUSTY SIXTY-YEAR-OLD BLACK man listening to the hum of the engines on Continental Flight 807 from Atlanta to Hartford tried to remember his service from beginning to end. He recalled passing through Fort Benning, Georgia, where he had entered boot camp at the lowest rank in a hierarchy that extended from the President through a complex network of generals, colonels, majors, lieutenants, warrant officers, noncommissioned officers, corporals, privates first class, privates and basic recruits—the last position reserved for him and his kind. And his kind on July 25, 1948, was that of a Negro recruit in an all black outfit one day before Truman signed Executive Order 9981 stating, “
It is hereby declared to be the policy of the President that there shall be equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion, or national origin
.” Private Bradshaw RA34018221 thereafter represented a fully-integrated asset in a military accounting journal, his serial number—signifying a soldier's existence— stamped in his mind and worn around his neck as two small metal tags, one to be inserted in his mouth and the other sent to his kin, forever linking identification and death in the enduring certainty of a small stainless steel tablet. He knew about dog tags, having put many in soldiers' mouths, and others in the walls of huts where many were never found.

Bradshaw rented a Ford Escort, drove sixty miles to Bridgeport and booked a room at the Holiday Inn. The next morning he walked to court early, a black man in a black suit, white shirt and the flowered yellow and green tie his wife had bought him ten birthdays ago. Except for the clerk, he was alone for nearly half an hour before the usual crowd trickled in. He surveyed his surroundings, making himself feel comfortable in a strange place, a habit he had acquired growing up in a small Georgia town. He thought about his wife and their two children, married now, and the quiet retired life he led, spending most of his day in his garage with his vintage '59 Dodge and Hemi, a mongrel canine. By ten, the courtroom was abuzz with conversations that were hard to listen in on. The first few reporters noticed the large middle-aged man and making assumptions based on race and dress, assumed he was a witness.

Lindquist had woken up at six feeling dizzy. Things seemed to improve after his usual orange juice and English muffin. He arrived a few minutes before ten and, without delay, asked Picolillo to open court. Holding his hand to his neck he peered over his wire rimmed glasses and barked, “Call your next witness, Mr. Castalano.”

Upon hearing his name called, Bradshaw rose and carried himself across the room like a wiry gray-haired warhorse. After the formalities of being sworn in, Nick established Bradshaw as having been a POW.  Although every man's experience of being captured was personal, for the sake of judicial economy, Nick dispensed with the generalities and details of war with which Lindquist had now become familiar.

“After you were captured, where'd they march you?”

Bradshaw answered in a gravelly Georgia accent, “Yes, sir, t'was north.”

“And where'd you stay to get some rest?”

“They put us in a room at daylight. In the night you'd get out and form lines, start marchin' again.”

“Did there come a time when you were marched to a POW camp?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you know at that time that it was known as Camp No. 13?”

“No, didn't know.  It's not like they declared 'this is Camp 13.' They gave us no camp numbers. It was maybe through the Red Cross we found out it was Pyoktong, and was Camp No. 13.”

“Was your company, that is the unit of men that had been captured initially...  did they tend to stay together until you came to Camp 13?”

“No, 'cause t'was many of us, we were scattered out. Don't really know how many men was on the march I was.”

“Did you meet a man named...  strike that...  how many men, if you know, were at Camp 13?”

“Really...  don't know how many men were there at the time I was. Whenever we reached Camp 13, with the men that we'd picked up at Pyongyang, there was, oh maybe thousand of us in that one group.”

“Now, was this particular camp, Camp 13 that you described, was it on any body of water at all?”

“Backwaters of the Yalu.”

“You say the backwaters—what do you mean?”

“On toward the west coast of Korea there's a hydroelectric dam that's built 'cross the Yalu. Behind that dam for miles there're backwaters, where the water floods the valleys, and so forth, in the backwaters.”