CHAPTER 63
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2008
Chief Warrant Officer Shuck Deveroux had just removed his plastic bankcard from the credit union ATM when his cell phone began playing “Play That Funky Music, White Boy.” He looked over at his two boys wrestling like bear cubs in the cab of his truck, and smiled.
For months he’d been promising them that as soon as things returned to normal—which they knew to be a relative term—that he’d make some time, to do something with them, but in the aftermath of Bergeron’s death, and Tenkiller’s, and Ngo’s, and the others’, he’d been so completely ensnared in a tailless ball of red tape and debriefings that it simply hadn’t worked out. They’d come close a couple of times, but at the last minute someone had lit some sort of administrative fire that required stomping out, and Shuck Deveroux always seemed to have the biggest set of fireman’s boots.
But not today. Today he was taking time off—it had been cleared for weeks—and nothing was going to derail his plan. Fast breakfast of powdered doughnuts and twenty-ounce Coca Colas, hour drive to Memphis, and a long, pleasant autumn afternoon with his boys watching the Mississippi State Bulldogs whup-up on the Memphis Tigers at Liberty Bowl Memorial Stadium. The boys were in the truck, waiting patiently, if not quietly. A quick stop at the ATM and then on into the city for some serious college football.
And then the phone rang.
He started to not answer it. The tiny LCD screen showed it was the office number. Almost against his will, his thumb moved and hit the Talk button. He sighed. “This better be good.”
“Shuck, my man. Hey, buddy, sure hate to bother you on your day off and all,” Mark Abbott was again covering the office. “Know you had this all planned out, and I really hate to do this…”
“Then don’t, Mark. Just don’t. As I recollect, the last time we waltzed this dance, it ended up with four or five folks dead. I got other plans today.” He looked again at his sons.
“Sorry, brother. Really am, but the boss called.”
“I assume you mean my wife?”
“You wish. No it’s the old man. Anderson. Correction; make that the weasely little prick major who guards the inner sanctum for him. He says the general wants you over at his office P-D…”
“I know, I know, P-D-friggin’-Q,” Deveroux clipped him short. “C’mon on, what’s it all about? This is a Saturday mornin’ last time I checked, and you’ve got the desk this mornin’, last time I checked.”
“Beats the living shit out of me, bro. All I know is that Major Limpstick says your presence is strongly requested.”
“I’m sure he used the word requested.”
“I’m sure he did.”
Shuck Deveroux looked at his watch. “Can I take my kids, or is this another you-better-take-’em-home deals?”
“Like I said, you got me. I’m just the designated messenger boy, so don’t shoot.”
“Roger that,” Deveroux sighed. “On my way.”
The drive was short. In fact, had Deveroux’s knees not been barking at him so early in the morning, it would have been faster to walk over to the general’s office than to drive and park. But his knees were barking, and it was going to be a long day. Deveroux just hoped it wouldn’t be longer than he’d planned. He left his kids wrestling in the truck as he went inside.
“The general’s waiting, Warrant Officer. Please go on in,” the aide said as soon as Deveroux entered the outer office. He obviously wasn’t happy about being called into work on a Saturday and seemed to hold Deveroux accountable. “Please be sensitive of the general’s time—this is his day off.”
“Yes, sir, Major,” Deveroux said. “Always.” He smiled at the aide and then turned and rapped on the door to General Anderson’s office.
“Shuck,” the general boomed in response as if they were old fishing buddies. “Come on in here, son. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
Deveroux entered and noticed a thin, attractive brunette occupying a chair in front of Anderson’s desk. She rose as Deveroux entered. So did Anderson.
“Chief Deveroux, let me introduce Ms. Feldman. Ms. Feldman, this is Chief Warrant Officer Deveroux.”
“Ma’am,” Deveroux responded, taking her hand. It was cool and felt small.
“Warrant Officer.”
“Ms. Feldman here is an attorney, Shuck,” the general continued. He walked around to the front of his desk and took up another one of the padded chairs similar to the one the young woman had been seated on. “Sit down, sit down, please.”
Deveroux waited for both the general and Feldman to sit down again before taking a seat on a small couch opposite the general’s desk.
“Once again, thanks for coming in, Shuck,” General Anderson continued. “I understand you had the day off. Spending some time with your children. Boys, I think. More than well deserved. This shouldn’t take too long, should it, Ms. Feldman?”
The young woman smiled efficiently. “I wouldn’t expect so.”
The three of them sat quietly for a moment, no one initiating the conversation.
“Ma’am,” Deveroux finally started. He cleared his throat. “The general said you’re a lawyer. If you don’t mind me askin’, what’s this all about?”
“Of course not, Mr. Deveroux—is Mister appropriate? I’m afraid I don’t deal very much with the military.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’ll work fine. So will Shuck.”
“Well then, Mr. Deveroux, as General Anderson has already said, I’m an attorney with Kaiser and Waggoner out of St. Louis. To be exact, I’m the attorney for Paul Fick. General Paul Fick.”
Deveroux caromed a quick look off Anderson. “Yes, ma’am, but I thought that the charges against the general had been dropped. Is there a new problem? I’m afraid I’ve been a little out of the loop.” In the aftermath of the shooting death of John Bergeron, the army had initially brought charges against Paul Fick, but later dropped them. No convincing reason was ever given, but since everyone was quick to pin the tail for all the deaths on Bergeron’s donkey, and no one seemed interested in blaming a respected retired general for ridding the world of a sadistic multiple murderer, it wasn’t too much of a surprise. Deveroux harbored mixed feelings about the course of events; he was happy that Fick wasn’t facing a trial, but he also suspected that political connections and considerations were more responsible for the decision than was the quality of the evidence. It surprised him, though, that Fick had a civilian attorney rather than a JAG. Fick was by-the-book enough that Deveroux had just assumed he’d use an army lawyer should the need arise, but apparently he hadn’t.
The lawyer’s face took on a mask of confusion, and she looked at General Anderson. Deveroux followed the confused look.
“Chief…ahh…well, I just assumed you’d heard,” Anderson said.
“Sir?”
It was the woman who answered. Clipped and efficient. “Mr. Deveroux, I think both General Anderson and I jumped to the conclusion that you’d heard. I’m sorry. Let me back up a bit. You see, Paul Fick is dead; he passed away last month.”
Deveroux again sought out Anderson’s face.
“Pancreatic cancer, Shuck,” Anderson said softly in response to Deveroux’s look. “Diagnosed about a year ago, I understand. Pretty vicious stuff, so they tell me. By the time it’s diagnosed, well—”
Deveroux thought back to how Fick’s appearance had declined in the short period of time he’d known him. “I guess I should have figured somethin’ was wrong. Now that I think about it, he didn’t look good the last time I saw him.”
Anderson nodded slowly. “Nothing much they could do for him, but even the little they could, Paul refused. Took some painkillers, I guess…to help take the edge off…so that he could function. But it was a matter of time.”
The silence returned, until the woman, having weekend plans herself that did not include spending time at Fort Campbell, decided to move the purpose along. “Mr. Deveroux, I d
idn’t know General Fick well, didn’t know him personally at all. Fact is, I only met him three times. He first contacted me almost twelve months ago when he was first diagnosed; asked me to draft a will and attend to some trust matters. Which I did.” She waited to let the words seep through the thickened silence. “Relatively easy from my standpoint. Paul Fick requested that his entire estate be liquidated—his ranch, some cattle, he had a small airplane, some miscellaneous real estate and investment holdings. Totaled almost one-point-six million and change when we got everything sold.”
Deveroux continued looking at the woman.
She continued. “As I said, easy from my standpoint. Paul Fick left everything to two people; he had no relatives, you see, and…from what I understand…few friends.” She paused, waiting for the words to register. When they didn’t seem to, she continued. “One of those two individuals is you.”
“I don’t quite understand, Ms. Feldman. I hardly knew the general,” Deveroux responded.
“I don’t understand either, Mr. Deveroux, but then that’s the beauty of law, I don’t have to.” She paused again and looked at Anderson and then back at Deveroux, then she bent forward and lifted a paper Famous Barr shopping bag off the floor and onto her lap. She paused and then held it out for Deveroux to take. “Given the…nature…of the bequest, it was easier to deliver it in person. Please excuse the bag, not very formal, I’m afraid, but it was the only thing I had that was big enough.”
Deveroux took the bag and looked again at Anderson. He found no answer in his eyes. He turned back to the woman. “Yes, ma’am, uh…thank you,” he said. “Ahh…”
“There’s an envelope with it.” The lawyer nodded at the bag. “I can only assume that it explains everything. Any questions, Mr. Deveroux?”
Shuck Deveroux was looking down into the paper bag at the strange contents. He didn’t know what to say. “Ahh, no, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am, I suspect I’ve got lots of questions, but none that I guess you can answer.”
The woman smiled professionally. “Well, if you should think of any, my card is in the sack as well. Give me a call.” She smoothed her skirt and stood up, offering her hand to the general. “And so, General Anderson…”
Both Anderson and Deveroux rose to their feet. Deveroux was still painfully confused and it showed.
“Ms. Feldman,” General Anderson replied as he shook her hand.
“General,” she responded. She then offered her hand to Deveroux. “And Mr. Deveroux. A pleasure. Give me a call if you think of anything. Now, if we’re finished here, I’ll—”
“Ma’am?” Deveroux interrupted.
“Yes.”
“Ahh, yes, ma’am, I do have a question, if you don’t mind. You said General Fick didn’t have any family.”
“That’s correct.”
“But he left everythin’ to me and one other person. Do you mind if I ask who that was? The other person?”
“Not at all, Mr. Deveroux.” She smiled again. “Her name is Penny Kegin.”
CHAPTER 64
Vietnam War Memorial, The Wall, Washington, D.C.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 2008
It was a sunny day, cool and sharp, but bright and full of unsuspecting promise. Soon the late-season gray would arrive, and it would all change.
It was a good day for his purpose. He was glad he hadn’t waited any longer.
Shuck Deveroux sat on a bench, The Wall back over his left shoulder, the bronze statue of the Vietnam soldiers off to his right. His family—Susan Elaine and the boys—had gone on ahead and were slowly working their way along the panels, one by one, reading the names. They’d been here once before, several years ago when he’d had to attend a week-long meeting at Fort Belvoir, but the boys, especially Thomas, the youngest, remembered very little.
He’d brought the box with him, still in the white Famous Barr shopping bag that the lawyer, Ms. Feldman, had put it in. He’d brought the envelope with him as well, the one with his name written on it in Fick’s small, precise hand. He’d already opened it and read the letter from Fick. He’d read it several times, but now it was time to act, to follow the instructions. His first inclination had been to wait until Veterans’ Day; it was only a couple more weeks away and certainly more symbolic, but then he’d reread the letter. Fick was a simple, pragmatic soldier, a simple, pragmatic man who hadn’t needed symbolism or gold braid or rows of color on his chest for self-validation, and he’d wanted it done sooner rather than later—that’s what he’d written. Veterans’ Day would be busy, full of more eyes than necessary, and the task before Deveroux seemed best accomplished with quiet and reserve.
He opened the letter and read it one last time:
30 August 2008
Chief Deveroux,
I will not insult you with some hackneyed, melodramatic phrase. I will leave the—“If you are reading this I am already dead” language to the movies and shoddy novels. But as I write this, my cancer has entered into a terminal stage that requires attending to some final administrative matters. If I were a poetic man I might allude to the cancer that has been eating at my soul for forty years—but I am not a poetic man—I am simply a dying man.
I will not insult you by saying that I sensed a bond between us, some sort of kindred spirit. In fact, I hardly know you. I have no family. I have few friends who are still alive. I have few acquaintances whom I fully trust for this purpose. I chose you because I have few other options and even less time.
Accompanying this note is a box. If you’ve ever been to Vietnam you’ll recognize it as a common tourist souvenir—a simple black, lacquered box with some mother-of-pearl inlay. I purchased it in Saigon thirty-seven years ago when I was young and thought that buying a souvenir was the thing to do. It has no symbolism or meaning other than that—the impulsive act of a very young man very far from home. Inside the box, however, are some items that do have some symbolism and meaning to me, for me. If I were a poetic man I might say that the contents were my attempt at self-medication, but then I am not a poetic man, I am simply a dying man, and I will not glorify my actions nor imbue them with nobility and worth. I did what I did because I had to. No other reason. I did what I did because I thought that it would help in some way. Because I thought that it would somehow balance the scale. Because sixteen young men have kept me awake for thirty-seven years, and I am so very tired. Because the time left to me is so fleeting.
Chief Deveroux, I am asking for a favor. I realize that you have no obligation to grant this, but my health will no longer allow me to accomplish this task myself—an admitted miscalculation on my part—and I must rely on your goodwill. Goodwill and what I perceive as your sense of honor and duty.
My request is simple. I would like the box to be placed at the base of panel W4 at The Wall—the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. I will leave the time in which this is to be accomplished to your judgment, though the sooner the better. The box is sealed, and I would prefer it to remain so. Of course, I have no way to ensure this request will be fulfilled, and once again, must rely solely on the strength and quality of your character.
I have always believed that being a soldier is an honorable and worthy profession. I have found that it is a profession often followed by those with no honor and little worth, by those unworthy of the title.
I consider you a soldier.
Paul Fick
Shuck Deveroux folded the letter and put it in his shirt pocket. He tugged up the zipper on his jacket and sat quietly for a moment. He was thinking of General Fick when he overheard a man standing over at the statue. He was loudly telling two or three young boys—high-school-aged by the looks of them—some improbable war story of how he was decorated twice for taking up an M-16 and single-handedly beating back a VC attack on his motorpool. He choked and caught his throat in a practiced manner as he told how he was haunted by all the men he had killed. He was overweight and had a long, graying ponytail. His wrists clanked with silver and turquoise bracelets, and he was wearing a
sleeveless black leather biker jacket over a long-sleeve POW/MIA T-shirt. Deveroux stood, his knees popping loudly, and he thought of men like Paul Fick, who suffered his demons quietly, and he thought of loud, overweight men and women who invented demons to compensate for their deficient lives.
I consider you a soldier, Paul Fick had written. Now it was time to act like one and do his duty.
It was a short stroll over the grassy hillock and down the cobbled walkway to the center of the wall. He saw Susan Elaine and the boys at the far end of the memorial, pointing at names and talking among themselves. He knew that the west panels would be to the left of the center of the vee, toward the Lincoln Memorial; his eyes scanned the black granite panels as he walked. He stopped when he got to the panel with the small number W4 etched into the lower righthand corner. The names on the panel meant nothing to him. Name after name, indistinguishable from those on the panels to the right or the left. Indistinguishable from the other 138 black panels. Names.
The crowd was light, despite the clear skies and seasonally warm afternoon weather, but it obviously had been heavier before noon. The detritus of grief lay scattered along the base of the panels. An odd assortment of offerings. Single-stem red roses, combat medals, an unopened can of JAX beer, dog tags, photographs of soldiers or children or souped-up vintage cars, assorted military patches, envelopes, a Bible, stuffed animals. Lots of little American flags on wooden sticks.
Shuck Deveroux stood in front of W4, awkwardly holding the paper bag, unsure how to proceed. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to just leave the box on the ground.
I consider you a soldier.
Reaching into the sack, he pulled out the lacquered wooden box. The contents shifted as he held it in his left hand and folded the paper bag in two. He looked around; there were no trash cans in sight so he folded the bag again and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jacket.
I consider you a soldier.
Deveroux bent formally at the waist, as much out of respect as out of deference to his stiff and complaining knees, and placed the box at the base of panel W4. He adjusted the angle twice before standing upright. Something wasn’t right. The situation called for more formality, for more ceremony, for some sense of finality for the final act of General Fick’s life.
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