We Were Beautiful Once

by Joseph Carvalko

  “What happened next?”

  “We were committed back to our battalion area... to hold the line.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, the battalion retreated, company by company leap-frogged three, two, one,” he replied, illustrating, by rotating one hand over the other. “The Chinese hit again. Ran us out of our positions, dawn next morning—mass confusion.”

  “Did you continue to fight?”

  “They’d surrounded us; we started regrouping around the first battalion area, three, four miles away.” Jack’s voice weakened, he swallowed hard, reached for the pitcher and observers like Anna heard the reverberating clink of the glass. Jack’s hand trembled. He blinked rapidly and proceeded to mumble. “And Captain, Captain Klein, either Klein or Stein, Mine, Captain, Captain, Oh Captain... Klein.”

  “Excuse me?” Nick blinked. His key witness wasn’t going to lose it now, was he?

  “Sorry, Company Commander Klein shouted, ‘Men, we're surrounded... use escape evasion, every man for himself.’”

  The words, “every man for himself” bounced off the plaster walls. Nick waited a moment before asking the next question. He saw Jack recompose himself.

  “Would you say that your unit became fragmented? During this... ”

  Jack’s eyes moved up and left and not letting Nick finish. Jack continued, “Dove into a ravine. Ravine. Ravine, two guys... hidin’ in a bramble ravine.”

  “How long’d you stay?”

  “Maybe two or three hours, it seemed forever. Below zero, snowing. We heard ’em coming.”

  “You heard who coming?”

  “Someone speakin’ Oriental.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We weren’t sure what to do. They could’ve been ROK.”

  “What happened, next?”

  “Bayonets, all directions.”

  “Were any of you wounded?”

  “Not really, I’d twisted my leg.” Jack pointed down. “No more Jack-be-nimble, you know.”

  “Right.” Nick gave Jack a piercing look, but he seemed calm. “Could you walk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’d they take you?”

  “You have to imagine it was total, mass confusion. They were picking us up all over. We’re not talking a small city block, we're talking miles wide, squatting us down in the snow after they searched us, put us up in a little draw ’til dark.”

  “Did you and the other men stay together?”

  “For a while, but some of us split off into groups, about ten guys each.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Air strikes, plus artillery.” Jack observed Nick begin to rub his hands together and shift uneasily in his chair. “But, too late. In fact, we killed our own.”

  Jack took a gulp of air. Inwardly, Nick willed him to continue, just finish accounting for why he could not have rescued Jaeger.

  Jack continued, “Nobody had no idea where we were. That’s how it happened. Started to get dark, pulled us out of different draws, marched us in circles all night. Few took off their boots, toes froze, lost ’em, had to wrap their feet in rags from long-johns. Next morning they’d put us in another ravine, kept us there till dark.”

  “Sir, are you telling us that it was impossible that on November 27, 1950, you were on a scouting mission, as Mr. Jaeger claims?”

  “I am saying that I was already a POW.”

  Lindquist saw Foster lean over and whisper something to Harris, who kept his eye on Jack and shook his head in agreement.

  Nick, irritated by the mumbling from the defense table, looked over, then put his hands in his pocket, and walked out from behind the podium. “Did you eventually reach an encampment?”

  “We stayed goin’ ’round in circles, round and round like a merry-go—”

  “How long,” Nick intercepted.

  “—Uh, couple of days and then started north.”

  “Where’d you sleep?”

  “Marched us every night and put us in Korean rooms or whatever was available at night —I mean in the daytime. We was marched to the Pukchin-Tarigol Valley collection site. Then marched ’til we got to Sinuiju, near the Manchurian border.”

  “What happened when you got near the border?”

  Nick returned to the podium and turned several pages in his trial notebook.

  “They put us in a bean camp, soybeans and bran. Lot of men already there.”

  “How long?”

  “About a week. Then marched us along the Yalu.”

  “Destination?”

  “Pyoktong, a camp on the south bank of the Yalu. Stopped marching early January ’51, at what later came known as Camp No. 13.”

  “Did you go to any other camps while a prisoner?”

  “No, sir, stayed until February ’53 when... ”

  “You’re, of course, referring to the end of the war, right?”

  “Well, sir, beyond that.”

  Jack waited for Nick to ask why he did not return with the other soldiers.

  “And during this time, did you meet a soldier named Roger Girardin?”

  Jack rapidly blinked several times in succession. “Never!” And, of course, with that answer Jack once again knew that he needed those sanctimonious voices to speak to him about sanity, secrets and sins of omission.

  Nick saw Jack’s eyes blinking fast and thought there might be something Jack was holding back. Perhaps, Nick thought, he hadn’t asked the right question.

  “And, Mr. Prado, I take it from your answer... let me phrase it differently, did you ever meet a soldier named Roger Girardin?”

  Jack listened carefully and heard the word “soldier” in the question. “Can you please repeat that?”

  “Did you ever meet a soldier named Roger Girardin?”

  Jack listened, his head cocked, and heard the word “meet” in the question. He had known Roger before he was a soldier, met him as a civilian, not as a soldier, at least not a meeting that could be ever discovered. He swayed back and forth.

  “Mr. Prado, an answer please?” Nick asked after not getting an immediate response.

  “No, sir.”

  Jack looked down at his notepad, not sure whether to press Jack on what seemed an emphatic “no.” He decided to go in a different direction.

  “Mr. Prado, you and Trent Hamilton were in ROTC. You both went into officer’s training school together?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see much of him there at the training school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see him in Camp 13?”

  Nick noticed that he looked at someone in the crowd and hesitated. “Not that I can remember.”

  “When you returned home, did you see much of him?”

  “Except occasionally at work, our paths didn’t cross... you know, worked in the same place, but he was upper management.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prado, I have no further questions at this time. Counsel, your witness.”

  Harris rose, “Mr. O’Conner or is it Prado?” he asked with a smirk.

  Jack ran his hand through his hair. “Told Mr. Castalano, I prefer Prado.”

  “Well, before you arrived today a Mr. Jaeger testified that you and Private Girardin saved his life on or about November 27, 1950. He testified that he’d been on a scouting mission and in the course of trying to kill an enemy soldier he didn’t realize he was himself a target. He testified that you and Private Girardin came to his rescue. Do you not recall that event?”

  “No, sir, I can’t say that I never saw a Private Girardin then.”

  Nick rose from his chair. “Your Honor, Counsel is mistaken and mischaracterizes Mr. Jaeger’s testimony. He did not testify that this man sitting before us was the Connell or O’Conner he referred to.”

  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 prop
er, 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?”

&n
bsp; “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.

  Pyoktong

  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.