by Greg Dinallo
“Yes, when you get right down to it, odds are he’s listed as MIA. Nothing else left.”
“There any way to find out for sure?”
“Not without his name.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “I don’t know what this’ll give us, but I’m kind of curious to see what the master list has under yours. Hold on.”
After a short silence, I hear a muffled thud followed by the rustle of pages turning. “Yes, here it is,” Collins says. “There’s a category called Body State; the entry is BNR; that means body not recovered.”
That’s the last thing I expected. It really throws me. “I don’t get it,” I say, thinking aloud. “I mean, I assumed a body somehow ended up with my tags by mistake; and my name ended up on the wall.”
“So did I. That’s why I didn’t check it the other day. Was your family notified?”
“No. That’s one of the first things I covered.”
“Well, that fits the pattern. A body had to be fully processed by one of the mortuaries before a notification was triggered. No body, no notice.”
“And no records,” I add, realizing this latest twist means the letter I sent to Mortuary Affairs is a waste of time. “In any event, assuming it’s not a data encoding error, chances are I’m looking for someone who’s listed as missing in action.”
“Yes, which narrows those parameters quite a bit. There are only about twenty-three hundred MIAs.”
“Twenty-three hundred,” I repeat, hearing pages turning again in the background.
“Twenty-two hundred and seventy-three at last count, to be exact,” Collins corrects.
I quickly calculate that out of a total of 58,176, I’ve eliminated 96.093 percent of the possibilities. “I guess that’s not exactly back to square one, but I haven’t the slightest idea where to go next.”
“I’d try the National League of Families,” he suggests. “They’re the authority on MIAs. If they can’t help you, they’ll know who can.”
“Where are they? Alaska?”
“Washington, D.C.,” he replies with an amused chuckle. “I warned you.”
After ending the call, I track down the staff member to whom I gave the Senate committee assignment and suggest she cancel her travel plans. She isn’t going to Washington next week. I am.
6
Despite narrowing the possibilities to 2,273 men, I’ve raised as many questions as I’ve answered. There’s nothing in my personnel file that suggests a clerical error was made. All the entries—date, place, cause and type of wound—are correct. But my entry on the master casualty list contains conflicting information: all the basic data—the dog tag stuff—is mine; all the casualty-related data—the field stuff—is someone else’s; which, as Collins pointed out, means another GI, who was killed in action, was identified as me by mistake. But the time/place parameters of that casualty aren’t even close to when and where I was wounded. The tags-in-the-chopper theory I developed could account for it; but it also means that a body—with my ID attached—had to be recovered for my name to be on the wall. Yet the master casualty list indicates Body Not Recovered.
I spend most of my spare time building a computer model of all the possible intersections of time, place, and personnel. I’ve been working on it for almost a week and am no closer to an answer. Only one angle makes any sense: Whoever died with my tags had to be listed as missing in action. I’m counting on the National League of Families to help me sort it out.
The sun is sending long shafts of light across the Virginia countryside as I land at Dulles. I stumble off the red-eye with my two-suiter and attaché and take a taxi to Capitol Hill. Work sessions to revise the actuarial data in the Social Security bill have been scheduled over several mornings in the senator’s offices in the Russell Building on Delaware Avenue.
“What’re you doing here?” he says when he sees me. “I thought you were leaving the nuts and bolts to one of your staffers?”
“So did I,” I confess, going on to explain about the National League of Families.
“Courageous group,” he replies, his brows arching in tribute. “Took on the government and won. There was a lot of suspicion and mistrust in the beginning. Now, they’re like this.” He crosses his fingers tightly.
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Well, in the late sixties when the League was formed, the country was getting fed up with the war, and the government was keeping a very low profile on the POW/MIA issue. They wanted to get on with the fun stuff: relations with China, Watergate, Begin and Sadat, the SALT talks. But those wives and families wouldn’t let go. They wrote letters, raised money, brought law suits, and held a lot of people’s feet to the fire. They’ve come a long way. The League’s even involved in policy-making now; an integral part of the IAG.”
IAG? Like every infrastructure, mine is as rife with acronyms and insider jargon as the next, but I’m finding myself more and more on the outside. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that, Senator.”
“Inter Agency Group: Defense, State, the JCs, DIA, NSC, and NLF are members. Every time we meet with a Southeast Asian government on this issue, the League’s Executive Director is at the table; and every bit of new data on an MIA or POW is released to his family, regardless of its substance or reliability. The League fought long and hard for those rights, believe me.”
When our first session comes to a close, the senator and his staff go to a committee meeting. I take a taxi to the National League of Families on Connecticut Avenue. Unlike the Friends of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial offices, where an almost eerie quiet prevailed, the League’s cramped, second-floor quarters are alive with ringing phones and harried staffers at long tables assembling packages of information, stuffing envelopes, working the phones. It reminds me of a telethon.
I make my way to a reception desk where a young woman who can’t be much older than my daughters is fielding calls. There’s a sense of righteousness and divine purpose about her. She’s so preoccupied that I skip the preliminaries—my initial discovery at the wall and the ground I’ve covered since—and explain that I have information that, if it matches one of their profiles, might resolve the fate of an MIA.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have that data computerized, Mr. Morgan,” she explains, handing a stack of pink phone messages to a woman who passes behind me on the way to her office. “All we have are mailing lists for fund-raising and letter-writing campaigns. That’s it.”
“You people are the experts. It’s hard to believe you don’t have any data on the men who are missing.”
“Oh, we are the experts; and we have tons of data.” She gestures to a wall of file cabinets across the room. “Most of it’s stuff the families send us. Letters, photos, clippings from local papers, personal mementos. Remember you’re dealing with people here; with the families, not bureaucrats.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I say, more amused than offended by her zeal. “Now, just to be certain, you’re saying you don’t have any loss data? I mean, I can give you very specific parameters: 12 May ’68, Bolikhamsai Province, Laos.”
“It’s possible there’s a match in our files,” she says, jotting the information down with one hand and reaching for a ringing phone with the other. “But we have no way of finding it without a name.”
“That’s the only thing I don’t have,” I say, unable to conceal my frustration. “That’s what I’m looking for.”
She answers the phone on what must be the sixth ring, puts the caller on hold, then buzzes one of the offices on the intercom. “It’s the General on two.” She hangs up and turns back toward me. “I’m sorry it’s so crazy around here today.”
“What’s going on?”
“Our annual meeting’s next week. It’s usually in July but we changed it. Something to do with hotel accommodations. By the way, have you reported this to the Army Casualty Office?”
“Yes. I’ve also been to the FVVM, the NPRC, and now—” I pause, exasperated. “Frankly, I’m not getting the kin
d of feedback I expected. I thought you folks’d be thrilled to get some information that might—”
She pouts and lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry, but you have no idea how much we get. Most of it’s useless, just a lot of DTRs.”
“A lot of what?”
“Dog tag reports. This issue is exploited by a lot of people. They start rumors that we’ll pay cash or resettle the finder for information. Then they make it up and sell it to desperate refugees who think it’s their ticket to a new life. We get pictures of dog tags, information copied from dog tags, lost dog tags, fake dog tags, snapshots of GIs, letters. It’s endless. The bottom line is, less than four percent has anything to do with a man that’s missing.”
“Well, this does,” I say sharply, stabbing a finger at the pad where she’s written the information. “Now is there any chance you might be able to tell me how many men are listed as missing in Laos?”
“Five hundred forty-seven,” she replies somewhat contritely.
“Thank you,” I say, calculating that I’ve just eliminated 1,726 out of 2,273 possibilities, or 75.93 percent. “That helps.”
She studies me for a moment as if deciding something, then gets one of the women working at the tables to cover the phones.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she says in a confidential tone as she directs me aside. “I mean, we have a policy of not encouraging free-lancers, but one of our family members might be able to help you even more. Her husband was lost in Laos. When it came time for reparations, and their government didn’t cooperate, she took it on herself to organize the families of all the men missing there. To make a long story short, they got Congress into it and the Laotian Government recently agreed to abide by repatriation agreements and give us access to crash sites.”
“Sounds like somebody who gets things done.”
“You bet. Her name’s Kate Ackerman. You should talk to her.”
“But—she’s in Laos,” I say, making, what I hope for my sake, is an attempt at levity.
She smiles. “Pennsylvania—” she corrects, letting the smile widen before she adds “—Avenue.”
“She’s in Washington?” I exclaim, thinking it’s about time I had some luck.
“Well, she lives in Alexandria, but she’s over at the Marriott this afternoon. That’s where the meeting’s going to be. Try the Grand Ballroom.”
“The Marriott.”
“It’s on Fourteenth just the other side of Lafayette Square. You can walk it.”
“Thanks,” I say, with a little farewell wave. She escorts me to the door. I’m not sure whether she’s being polite or making certain she’s rid of me.
“I have a feeling you and Kate’ll hit it off,” she offers as we walk to the elevator.
“Oh?”
“She’s sort of a loose cannon too.”
7
Ablustery wind pushes me south on Connecticut to 17th and on through Lafayette Square, where the cannons that flank the statue of Andrew Jackson are old and weathered and anything but loose. It’s been years since young women thought of me in such terms, so I decide to take the remark as a compliment.
The J. W. Marriott is a block-long edifice of rust-colored brown brick and marble next to the National Theater. I enter from 14th Street and find myself on the top level of an atrium sheathed in mahogany, marble, brass, and plush oriental carpets, capped by a series of arched vaults. Its four balconies are joined by high-speed escalators that take me down to the ballroom level. I push through a set of massive wooden doors into a vast space of equally opulent decor.
“I just want to make sure I understand this,” I hear a woman saying in a commanding tone. Rather tall and smartly dressed, she stands beneath one of the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by a group of young workmen. They all sport low-slung tool belts and T-shirts that advertise local sports teams and favorite beers. “So humor me and we’ll go over it again from the beginning. Okay?”
The workmen nod in unison.
“The displays are on the truck, right?”
“That’s right,” the spokesman replies.
“Where’s the truck?”
“At the loading dock.”
“The one here or the one at the warehouse?”
“Here.”
“Then why hasn’t it been unloaded yet?”
“Because it’s still in drayage.”
“I thought you said it was here?”
The young men break up with laughter.
“It is here, ma’am,” the spokesman explains as the others settle down. “Drayage is like—well, let’s just say the truck hasn’t cleared local customs yet.”
“Ah. Now I get it. Okay, no problem. Here’s what you do. Call your boss and tell him there’s going to be a story in tomorrow’s Post that his people are holding up the families of dead servicemen for a payoff.”
Jaws drop.
She turns on a heel and walks away.
I’m standing off to the side concealed by one of the sliding partitions used to divide the room. “Mrs. Ackerman?” I call out, stepping into view.
She changes direction without breaking stride and comes toward me. She’s polished and at ease with the way she looks. Her generous features are framed by long, dark brown hair swept back to accentuate her cheekbones, and intelligent amber eyes that have an alluring cant. After her run-in with the workers, I’m expecting they’ll have a fiery glare, but there seems to be a sadness in them instead, a burnished cast that matches the copper MIA bracelet on her wrist.
“Who’re you with?” she challenges. “Food, beverages, concessions?”
“Veterans,” I reply, introducing myself. “You handled that pretty well.”
“Thanks. It’s a dirty job—” she pauses, then pleased with herself adds “—but I loved doing it.”
“They had it coming. I’m told you’re the League’s unoffical expert on Laos.”
“Yes,” she says with a laugh. “They can’t live with me and they can’t live without me.”
“That makes two us.”
“How so?”
“I’m trying to identify someone missing in Laos. I’d like to see his name added to the Memorial. They thought you might be able to help.”
“My pleasure.” Her eyes brighten as she says it, then cloud in thought. “What makes you think he’s not already on it?”
“Well, as I said, he’s MIA.”
“That doesn’t mean his name isn’t on the wall.”
“It doesn’t? I’m sorry, Mrs. Ackerman. I’m not sure I follow that.”
“Obviously not,” she says, shaking her head in dismay. “You’re really out of touch, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you sound like one of those guys who made it back and then made believe it never happened.”
“Yes, I put it behind me. Believe me it wasn’t easy.”
“Well, maybe you tried too hard.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted, Mrs. Ackerman. Are you going to help me or not?”
She sweeps her eyes over me while she makes up her mind. “You have a half hour, Mr. Morgan?” she asks in an intriguing tone.
I nod curiously.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
We take the escalator to the hotel’s underground parking garage. She leads the way to a Volvo Turbo sedan that emits a series of musical chirps when she deactivates the alarm. We get in and she drives off, tires squealing on the smooth concrete as she circles up the ramps, then exits onto 13th Street, making a left toward Constitution. She misses the light at the corner of E, reaches for the cellular phone tucked between the seats, and presses one of the buttons that automatically dials a prestored number.
“Hi, it’s Kate. The Georgian in Kalorama—are we out of escrow yet? Shit. Better stay on top of it. Check on that listing in the Post for me too, will you? Thanks. Should be back by four-thirty the latest.”
“You sell real estate?”
; “Uh-huh. The market’s soft. I’m holding my own.”
“I can see that,” I say, indicating the car.
“Really? I suppose now you’re going to ask me why a member of the National League of Families didn’t buy American, right?”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
“I almost did. Then I saw that commercial. You know the one where the Volvo smashes head-on into the concrete wall without being totaled?” She pauses dramatically, then adds, “Well, my husband gave his life for his country, and I just decided that the Ackermans had already done more than their share.”
There’s something about the way she says it that’s tough, poignant, and funny all at the same time, and I want to laugh.
“Go ahead,” she says, sensing I’m holding it in. “Everybody breaks up when I say that. Anyway, I like real estate because my time is my own, and I can work League activities in around it.”
She makes a right onto Constitution, drives about six or seven blocks through heavy traffic, and swings into a parking area behind a huge limestone building. A sign warns: Tow Away—Authorized Parking Only.
“You sure you can park here?”
“I’m like the six-thousand-pound gorilla,” she replies as she flips down the sun visor, revealing an official League insignia. “I park anywhere I want.” She gets out, activates the alarm, and starts crossing the street, threading her way between traffic.
I don’t know the city very well, but I sense where we’re going when I see the Washington Monument and reflecting pool in the distance.
“I love approaching it from here. It’s such a surprise.” She strides briskly across the grass, then stops at the edge of a sudden drop-off; and there directly below us, is the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
We are literally standing on the top of the wall, looking straight down at the visitors. We watch them for a few moments, then proceed to the far end where the path that parallels the Memorial begins its descent from ground level. The sun has fallen below a layer of threatening clouds, and as we walk past the panels of polished granite, rays of light catch in the recessed letters making each name seem illuminated from within.