by Peter Gilboy
“Edward Eugene Beck from Quang Nam, sir.”
“That’s not in the area. Too far south. But flag it for now.”
“Terry Lee Beck was shot down over North Vietnam.”
“Doubtful, but we’ll stay on him.”
“James Becker is missing from Laos. And Harry Beckwith from Quang Tri.”
“What about last names starting with R-O-W?”
“None, sir. The closest is Jerry Roe, Richard Rossano, and James Rozo. They were in the Army. And, from the Air Force is Victor Romero, Joseph Rosato, and Joseph Ross.”
“Navy?”
“James Roark, Ronald Roehrich, and Billy Rogers. And in the Marines, Larry Robinson and Edward Rogers. A lot of people who didn’t come back, sir.”
“Okay, so let’s focus on who’s missing, body not recovered, in that particular area—Gia Lai Province.”
He searches again.
“January 1971, sir. Says here that seven were lost when their plane went down, a Beaver U6A. Bodies not recovered, sir.” He reads me their names. “Ferris Rhodes, he was the pilot, sir. And Michael Parsons, Thomas Okerland, Dennis Omelia, Luis Holguin, Patrick J. Magee, and Carl Palen.”
“Could be one of them,” I say. “Or all of them. I don’t see any connection to R-O-W. Or B-E-C.”
“Me either, sir.”
“We’ll stay on them. Keep going.”
“What’s Magellan, sir?”
“Don’t know. Keep going. What about neighboring provinces? Binh Dinh or Pho Yen.”
“Here, sir. In May 1965 Sergeant Leroy Donovan and Warrant Officer Richard Harper went missing in Binh Dinh, near Camp Holloway. Another plane crash, this time a Cessna O-1 Bird Dog. They’re both BNR, sir.”
“Connection to R-O-W?”
“None that I see. Or a connection to B-E-C.”
“We’ll keep on them, too.”
Towers points. “And here’s a dentist, sir. Still missing.”
I lean in. “How can a dentist be missing?”
“Presumed dead, sir. Body not recovered. He’s on the Wall.”
I read the name: “Theodore Roosevelt Fountain.”
“That’s R-O-O, sir. Close to R-O-W.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What else about him?”
“He was a captain,” Towers says. “From Baton Rouge. He went missing in March of ’72. From MacArthur Compound. The Easter Offensive. He’s survived by two brothers, Ronald and Darrell. It could be him, sir.”
“Stay on him. Who else we got from the area?”
“Three other Americans, sir, also from MacArthur Compound. But their remains all came home, sir. Specialist Samuel T. Conlee, Sergeant James Cox, and Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus. Didn’t see an American female the whole time I was there.”
“Yes, sir.”
I point. “If that’s the same compound where the dentist was, maybe there’s some sort of connection. Let’s look at Specialist Conlee.”
“A supply clerk, sir. From Albuquerque. Drafted in ’68 and later reenlisted. No medals except for Good Conduct. No commendations.”
“I don’t care about medals.”
“The supply building where he worked was hit, sir. He was identified by his dog tags.”
“Connection to R-O-W?”
“None that I can see, sir.”
“The other one,” I ask. “Sergeant Cox.”
“From New Haven, sir. Staff sergeant. Signed up in ’65. Some kind of maintenance specialist. Good Conduct Medal, Vietnam Service Medal.”
“I said that I don’t care about medals.”
“He was in the supply building too. Identified by his dog tags and a watch given to him by his wife. He’s buried in New Haven, sir.”
“Connection to R-O-W?”
“I don’t see any, sir.”
“And the woman?”
“Lieutenant Patricia A. Pavlik. From Branford, Connecticut. Supply officer. Remains identified by Graves Registration. She was brought back by her husband. Buried in Branford. Good Conduct Medal and Vietnam Service Medal.”
“Look, I don’t care about medals! Connection to R-O-W?”
“None, sir.”
“That’s it?”
“There’s someone else, sir, a Marine. Who did come back.”
“Except we’re looking for soldiers who didn’t make it back.”
“But he was a prisoner, sir. And he was held in the area.”
“Name?”
“Noah C. Levinson. A corporal. He deserted in ’71. Says here he was captured and held in Binh Dinh Province.”
I lean forward to read the info. “Released by the Vietnamese in 1973. No penalties for desertion. They just discharged him, it looks like. Gave him an honorable one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you see where he is now?”
Towers scrolls. “Contact info says a place called St. Elizabeths.”
“The psych hospital?”
“I guess, sir.”
“That’s around here, Lincoln Heights area.”
“I guess, sir.”
It’s our only lead, and not much of one. I think a moment. “Feel like taking a ride, Towers?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to take a ride to a hospital.” He pretends to be thinking. “How about St. Elizabeths, sir?”
“You’re a genius, Towers.”
“That’s what people tell me, sir.”
22
DAY 87
A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
LIEUTENANT PAVLIK STOPPED COUNTING the days and weeks. It wasn’t just their world now. It was her world too. Her mind had begun to accommodate the imprisonment, the near starvation. The fear. Her only world was here, where everything struggles and nothing changes. She sought any diversion: the shrieks of the village children playing outside; the three-legged dog that sometimes passed in front of the door; village women in some sort of chattering gossip; an argument between cadre; the mechanical clicks of a weapon being taken apart and reassembled. Before, she’d heard the drone of a fixed-wing aircraft sweeping over, followed by maybe two helicopters. Now there were none.
Patricia tried to hold onto the other world. The smell of coffee. Sausage patties in the morning, with eggs sunny-side up. Pink rhododendrons. Daffodils pushing up in spring. She couldn’t let the memories fade. She had to remember. She had to keep them with her. All those things were still waiting at home. Her hairdryer. Colorful bands for her ponytail. Her fluffy white robe. She remembered bags of apples at the market. She recalled the rain gutter she had helped her father put up; the aluminum ladder she’d stood on. She remembered the rolled towels on the bathroom shelf. She tried to recall the taste of iced tea. She fought to remember everything she could. Anything. She couldn’t let that world slip away. She couldn’t. That was her home. This place—this place here—was cruel and brutal. The pitiless heat. The ruthless soldiers. The repetition of days. This place would never become her home.
Patricia moved to the window in the back of the hut. It was forbidden for her to be there. Twice they had caught her looking through the hole and had yanked her away and struck her each time. She didn’t care now. She wanted to see what was there, and maybe find a breeze, some cooler air.
At the window, she noted that the wood around it was pitted. She looked closer and saw an insect emerge from inside the wood. It looked like a tiny wingless ant, but not as dark. It was the same blond color as the hut itself. Then she saw more of them. She was surprised that one strip of wood seemed to be covered with them. Termites. Camouflaged and wingless.
She peeled back a layer of the wood where it had split. Thousands more inside. An amazing workplace, a metropolis with hundreds of tiny termite children. She pressed her finger lightly against the wood, careful not to injure any of them. She studied them as they wiggled and shifted but did not run.
Patricia heard a creaking noise, a bicycle outside. She quickly moved bac
k to the corner and sat with her knees pulled up. The creaking sound got closer, and a moment later a man on a bicycle passed by, hunched over from the weight of a hundred bananas strung over his shoulders, like a yellow vest. She listened to the squeaks as the bike got farther and farther way. Then, no more sounds. Quiet. As if she were the only person in the world.
Patricia thought about her watch, the one they had taken. OD band. Black buckle. For a moment she wondered what time it was. Then she laughed out loud. Minutes and hours had once been the segments of her day; tidy increments marking the beginning and end of each event. Clockwork. Everything before was constructed on clockwork. The classroom schedules, the military trainings, the breaks, the meals, the vacations, the countless arrivals and departures. Here a watch was no more than a strange and useless object growing on an arm. She thought of how time still went forward in the world she had known. Then she remembered Vang’s words to her: “Yes, Phatri, soon.”
Patricia had read about the Chinese warriors who came here a thousand years before. Then the French conquerors, until the savage Japanese arrived to push the French out. When the Japanese were defeated at the end of World War II, the French returned, only to be defeated by the communists in 1954. The country was divided then, north and south according to the Geneva Accords. Elections were to be held in 1956, and Vietnam would be reunited. But because of distrust on both sides, the elections never took place.
Now the South was fighting two enemies—the communist soldiers from North Vietnam and their sympathizers in the South, known as the Viet Cong. American advisors soon arrived to help the South, followed by American combatants who would finally take it to the communists. Success wouldn’t be far off, because the impatient Americans had a sure timetable for victory. Yes, a timetable.
She laughed out loud. And after the Americans—who will come here next? She also considered how the monsoons would return each year on their own time. The rice would grow tall again and people would again stoop to harvest it. There would be births and deaths and maybe even rebirths, as they believed. Perhaps more arrivals and exits of foreigners. It was a different timetable on a grander scale than any timepiece.
Again she heard it in her head: Soon, Phatri. Soon. But in this land there was no time, no timetable; so there was no soon. She understood that now. She had denied it before, pushed it away from her thoughts. But now it sank in. She would live here like this. Each day like the next. And then one day she would die here, just like this.
It was at that moment that Lieutenant Pavlik began her plan. As she formed it, her body began to shake. The quivering started in her arms and moved to her shoulders until she was trembling everywhere. She knew. She knew that she had only one choice.
She would escape.
23
JANUARY 16, 2006
ST. ELIZABETHS HOSPITAL, 2:16 P.M.
WE COME ALONG HORSEBRANCH Road and follow the signs to the Edgewood campus near St. Elizabeths’ main entrance. The hospital is on our left, situated on a bluff overlooking the point where the Potomac joins the Anacostia. I hang a left into the parking lot, and there’s the hospital. Red brick, four stories. It could double for a movie set of a castle or a fort. I think imposing. I think cold. I think I wouldn’t want to live here.
Towers had printed out some information before we left, and he shared it as I drove. We learned that the hospital goes back to the 1850s. It was originally known as the “Government Hospital for the Insane.” Nice. Notable residents include Richard Lawrence, who attempted to assassinate Andrew Jackson, except that his pistols misfired and Jackson beat the guy raw with his cane. Then in the 1940s, the OSS, a predecessor to the CIA, experimented here with mescaline as a truth serum. More recently John Hinckley was kept at St. Elizabeths. He’s the one who tried to kill Reagan on his way to see Jodie Foster. On Hinkley’s way to see Jodie Foster, that is. Not Reagan’s.
There’s a gift shop just inside. Flowers and baskets and things. And an information desk. The attendant looks sleepy. He’s working on a crossword puzzle. He’s black, fifties or early sixties, like me. Not so big as I am, and without glasses or a broken nose. Neat pencil mustache. He sees me coming and puts away what he’s working on. He nods as if he knows me. He does. Probably grew up in the same kind of neighborhood. Probably raised by a fine woman too, in a three-floor walkup. Probably a high school dropout. I like him even before I say hello.
“Hello.”
He nods again and leans forward. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a patient.”
“Name?”
“Noah Abraham Levinson.”
He straightens up. Peers at me oddly. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend.”
He laughs, shortly. “Are you now?”
“Yeah.”
“Doubt it,” he says, with a thin smile.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
We have a staring contest. He rubs his chin. “He doesn’t have friends. You don’t want to have nothing to do with that guy,” he says.
“Look, I’m trying to be nice,” I say. “How’s he doing?”
“Can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“Not in my job description.”
That’s Nam-speak. It means, fuck you, I’m doing as little as I can. I forgot it was a military hospital.
“Is it in your job description to be an asshole?”
He tries to stand taller but he’s still six inches shorter than I am. He chuckles something under his breath. “You’ll see how he is.” He points vaguely to his left. “Wing A, the unrestricted wing. Twenty-four-hour visitors. You’ll need these badges. I’ll get you the nurse.”
“We’ll find it ourselves.”
“Big place. You’ll get lost.”
“No, we won’t.”
He smirks. “What happened to your nose?” he asks.
I stare at him until the smirk fades. He looks away as he points down the corridor again. “Room 2139. Second floor. Keep the badges on.”
“Sure.”
Towers and I head to the elevators.
“Remind me not to profile people,” I say.
“Sir?”
“Never mind.”
We take the elevator to the second floor and head down the hallway, following the room numbers. It’s a narrow hall with cream-colored walls and a cream linoleum floor. It smells like a hospital. Antiseptic, bleach, and something else that I can’t name. We pass cream-colored doors with numbers above them. We pass two nurses in light blue uniforms, then a janitor with a mop and bucket. He steps aside to let us pass.
We come to 2139 just as a woman comes out of the room. Nice looking. Sweater. Slacks. Hair tied back. Good smile when she sees us. Maybe she’s a relative, or perhaps a hospital manager checking up on things.
“Excuse me,” I say, “are you a friend of Mr. Levinson’s?”
“Oh, no. I’m a nurse on this floor. Can I help you?”
“We came to see Mr. Levinson.”
“First time, I take it?” She looks from me to Towers. “Or you’d know that you can’t wear that uniform in there, Corporal. He doesn’t like uniforms. Not even nurses’ uniforms.”
She smiles at me. “Are you friends?”
“We know him,” I say.
She turns to Towers. “I’m sorry,” she says, pointing at his uniform.
“He’ll stay outside,” I tell her.
“Two visitors in one week,” she says. “That’s a record for Noey. He’s getting famous.”
“Is it okay if I go in?”
“Sure. Be careful…. I mean, be friendly.”
“Always am, ma’am.”
She smiles again and continues down the hallway. I watch her. She looks back twice.
There’s a window on the door. Through it I see a single bed with someone in it. Dresser. Cream walls and floor. A writing desk. A wooden chair. I knock on the door. No answer. I knock harder.
“Yes?”
/> I open the door.
“Come in,” a voice says.
Noah Levinson looks to be about sixty, with gray and blue eyes. He’s clean-shaven and has a wide smile. He’s sitting up in bed. White sheets, multiple pillows fluffed up.
“Thank you,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m real good.”
There’s a TV in the room. Some books on a little desk and a few magazines. There’s a picture on the wall opposite his bed, of a barn and a field.
“I’m—”
“You’re Ames. I know who you are.”
“How do you know me?”
“Guy came by. Said you were coming.”
“A guy?”
“Guy who didn’t have a name. Wanted to know some things. Said you’d be coming.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big guy. Not as big as you. White, though. Short hair. Missing an ear. He was angry.”
“What things did he ask you about?”
“You know. About things before.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I don’t remember things. Can’t even remember yesterday. He said you’d be coming and I should watch out for you.”
“You don’t have any memories?”
“Not from back then. All gone. All of it. You weren’t an officer, were you?”
I shake my head. “A buck sergeant.”
“Good. The guy said you might cause me trouble. But you look all right to me. He wanted to know about the dentist. And the woman.”
“The dentist? And what woman?”
“The ones on the beach. That’s what he wanted to know about.”
“But you don’t remember anything?”
“You sure you weren’t an officer?”
“Buck sergeant,” I say again.
“You were over there, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I can tell.”
“Firebase Mary Ann in Quang Tri,” I tell him. “Pleiku, too.”
“You got around.”
“Yeah. Do you remember anything at all?”
“Sure, I remember things. I can’t forget. Wasn’t going to tell him, though. Guy was still in the military, I’ll bet. Army. An officer for sure. They’re still trying to get at me. So I tell them I don’t know nothing. Can’t remember last year or last month. Can’t remember yesterday. That’s what I tell them.”