We Were Beautiful Once

by Joseph Carvalko

  At a friend’s house for the night, Mona would be told when she returned in the morning. Having called Mary, Charlie and Julie, Anna went to bed. Jack consumed half a fifth of J&B by 10 p.m. About 11 p.m. he felt the urge to tell Trent. Drunk as he was, he drove north to Fairview, heading for the mansion—a place he had not seen since the night the Hamiltons threw the farewell.

  The hills and valleys were now grey images on the eastern side of the Ford as it climbed the final quarter mile of the long hill, past a vacant roadside stand that led to the drive at the foot of the mansion’s front steps. The moon was high in a sky filled with cirrus clouds. It called to mind his youthful memory of the yellow color that had bathed the Hamilton estate the night he said goodbye to Tracy. He parked in the same place he parked twenty years earlier. He walked to the front entrance. Jack heard music and remembered the sounds of twenty years ago. A butler greeted him.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  The butler took Jack’s measure. Eyes bloodshot. A drunken man in a worn out flannel shirt struggling to keep his balance.

  “Tell Trent Jack O’Conner’s here to see him.”

  “Sir, he is not available right now.”

  “Tell him that Jack’s here,” he repeated. “He’ll wanna see me.”

  “Wait here.”

  Trent appeared at the front door.

  “Jack, what the hell you doing here?”

  “Will is dead!”

  Jack could see a flicker of doubt cross Trent’s face, but it was gone in an instant—the perfect host was back. “What! Oh God, Jack... I am sorry, so sorry. What happened, for Christ’s sake? Come in, let’s go to the library.”

  It wasn’t what Jack wanted, how he had thought it out in his mind, but he could not think it all out anymore. He followed Trent into house. Musicians surrounded a piano, people mingled with drinks in their hands. His eyes glanced beyond the players. On the veranda, guests were caught up in small talk. Maids in white housedresses circulated. Things were as he’d pictured it so many times since that last night so long ago.

  In the library, a Doberman stood next to an easy chair. “He’s okay, long as I’m here,” Trent said as he poured two drinks. Coolly, he asked, “How’s Anna taking it?”

  “Anna?” The thought inflamed Jack, “For Christ’s sake, man, your son just died.”

  “Look, Jack, you’re upset,” Trent said, “Nothing’s going to bring the boy back.”

  “The boy! The boy? His name’s William, William. That’s his name... Trent... remember? William. One of the dozens you left in your wake—like Anna, like Dawn, Roger... me.”

  Trent cocked his head. “You keeping score, Jack?”

  “Yeah, I’ve kept score. I’ve kept score goddamn it.”

  “Who the hell is Roger, or Dawn?”

  “Trent, you killed them, don’t you remember? You killed ’em, and... you can’t even remember their names. Goddamn—can’t even remember their names.”

  “You’re talking crazy, Jack. I never left anyone in any wake, and certainly not you, for Christ’s sake. You’d still be in Manchuria, buried, if it wasn’t for me. Or behind some press on a factory floor, if I didn’t prop you up all these years!”

  “Fuck you, Trent!” Jack screamed. “You, my great benefactor, my great savior.”

  “Jack, calm down or you’ll have to leave. I have some important people out there.”

  The room went silent. The vacuum of non-response was filled by the muffled sounds of the music and the din of cocktail conversation behind the oak door.

  Jack put his face in his hands and began to sob. “No, nothing’s going to bring him back. I know. But you could’ve kept him from going in the first place.”

  “Me? Me, Jack... I had no control.”

  Jack looked up at Trent now standing by the bar. “You’ve always been in control, you were on the fucking draft board,” Jack howled.

  Jack’s face was beet red, the wild-eyed look of a man about to explode. Trent reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. He opened it and reached for a pen on the bar. “Jack, I have to get back outside, but let me help you and Anna out—there’ll be expenses.”

  Jack sneered. “You bastard, you goddamn bastard. You always have a way of skating free. But, you’re not free on this one. You’re not free. I don’t want your fucking money, you hear me? You’re not free,” he yelled, in full rage as he catapulted from his chair, hitting Trent square in the chest. Knocking him against the bar, knocking two stools to the floor. “Keep your motherfuckin’ checkbook.” The doberman stood up, but stayed put.

  The library door opened. Jack spotted Tracy dressed in a sequined crinoline cocktail dress, walking quickly, Grecian-like, toward the central foyer. He had not seen her since the night before they had left for the Army. She stopped at the doorway, half hiding behind a man in a black dinner jacket. With fire in his eyes, Jack gazed at her and figured she did not recognize him. Then she turned her lips pretentiously in the way she had twenty years earlier, and his heart jumped. She reached into her purse for her glasses, but he was already heading for the front door. He turned to take a final look as the crowd drew closer, and he saw Tracy putting her glasses back in her purse.

  ***

  Six-months after Will’s death, Jack lay in a hospital bed, staring at a flaking wall. His eyes shifted to a fan wobbling off-center over his head. An ebony brown orderly, with snow white hair, stood a few feet away and asked in a Jamaican accent, “Heh mon, you comfortable?”

  “Yeah, but where the hell am I?”

  “VA hospital.”

  “VA? What the hell am I doin’ here?”

  The orderly walked toward a door with a small wire mesh window. “Doc will be in, in a few minutes.”

  Ten minutes later a balding, middle aged man in a white smock walked in.

  “Jack, good to see you’re awake. I’m Doctor Kaspersky.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You were admitted last week after an episode. Remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  The doctor filled in the details. A week earlier, Jack had complained to Anna he hadn’t slept in days, kept awake by nightmares where men threatened to chop off his hands. The dreams were as real as if he were awake. “Jack, your wife said that over the past few weeks she’s heard you talking to someone in the basement, where you have toy trains. You took an axe to the layout. Destroyed it. You’re suffering from a psychosis. Probably something brought on by your son’s death. Treatable, for sure. We have you on a new medication.”

  Memories Fast Forward

  NICK’S BULL-LIKE RESOLVE TO GET TO THE BOTTOM of Girardin’s whereabouts, focused on Hamilton’s evasiveness. “Did you know of any POWs that did not return, sir?”

  “Yes, I suppose I knew many,” Hamilton said coldly.

  “Do you know if any soldiers were murdered, shot, hanged, committed suicide? Or died while working at the camp—you know, heart attack, appendicitis... blown up in a minefield?”

  Hamilton looked down, biting his lower lip. “Well, let me think, we had a few suicides and a fight in the Turkish barracks. Someone was killed. But no, I did not know of any odd deaths. Many died of pneumonia, dysentery. Most GIs died before I got there—this happened after they were first captured. Late ’50, the whole of ’51.”

  “What about GIs trying to escape?”

  Hamilton’s eyes shifted side-to-side, “No, not that I recall.”

  “Do you know if there was an escape route leading from the Camp 13 south?”

  “Could have been.”

  “I am going to show you Plaintiff's Exhibit B-1, which had been previously marked for identification. Look at the easel. Have you seen anything like this map before?”

  Hamilton glanced at the map. “Please feel free to walk over.” Hamilton walked to the easel. He studied the map.

  The crowd shuffled, a few coughed and others whispered. The noise steadily increased until Lindquist brought the gavel down.
“Quiet, please.”

  After roughly two minutes of doodling on his yellow pad, Lindquist pulled his eyebrows together. “Is this the first time you have seen this, Mr. Hamilton?”

  Hamilton blinked several times before glancing at Harris, “Yes, sir.”

  Nick caught the contact between the men and moved around Hamilton to put another map on the easel.

  “Have you ever seen this map?”

  Lindquist interrupted again. “Number, please?”

  “B-2, your Honor.”

  Hamilton, moved his finger in the air from side-to-side. “It shows an obvious route leading south from Camp 13, down the east coast.”

  “Would you know what this hex mark means?”

  Hamilton kept his eyes on the map. “No.”

  “Have you ever seen such a mark?”

  “No.”

  Lindquist felt tired. He turned to Nick, “Counsel, are you going to be much longer?”

  “Yes, sir, a bit. But given the lateness of the hour, I can recall this witness when we reconvene?”

  Turning to Harris, “Any objection, Counsel?”

  “No, your Honor.”

  “Mr. Hamilton, can you be here next Tuesday at ten?”

  Hamilton pulled his lips taut, “Fine, yes, I can be here.”

  “Very well, this court is adjourned.”

  As Nick and Mitch walked toward the exit, Mitch mentioned to Nick, “I never saw Hamilton before, but he looks vaguely familiar.”

  “Probably saw his picture on TV or in the newspaper when you were at the library.”

  “Maybe, more recently than that... I have to think about it.”

  ***

  During Hamilton’s testimony Harris had been slipped a note that Russell wanted a call as soon as possible. He and Foster rushed upstairs, closed the office door and had the secretary put the call through.

  Foster yelled into the phone anxiously, “I have you on the speaker, Mr. Secretary.”

  Before Harris could finish saying hello, Russell bellowed, “Listen, the goddamn papers turned up.”

  Harris looked at Foster, “Papers? You mean the orders? I thought they were secret.”

  “Yeah. Well, somebody is playing fucking games with us.”

  Harris looked out the window. “Do you have a copy?”

  “I do.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Turn the speaker off and pick up the goddamn phone.”

  “Go ahead,” Harris said.

  “Well it says:

  ‘September 30, 1950, CIA, U.S. Embassy, Seoul: Top Secret. Arrest without delay Private Roger Girardin and Staff Sergeant Joseph Johns, 1st Battalion, 21st Regiment, 24th Infantry Division. Confiscate all cameras and film... ’”

  When he finished reading, Harris said, “Well, we’re going to have to bring this to Lindquist, get it under the standing secrecy order.” He expected no argument on the necessity for disclosing.

  “Bullshit. It doesn’t exist, you hear me?” hollered Russell on the other end.

  “Sir, but... ”

  “Harris, it does not exist. Do you hear me? Do you have the slightest idea what we are trying to steer clear of?” Russell demanded.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary, but... ”

  The phone went dead.

  ***

  What Russell had refused to share with Harris was that following a briefing in Seoul, the Barclay Task force, Lieutenant Colonel Barclay, Captain Reiner and CIA operative Perrone set out for points north in the direction of the Eighth Army’s 24th Division. By the third week in November, they had reached the Ch’ongch’on River. The ice that had formed in large swaths had begun to bridge the opposing banks. The ice, rain, snow and the sub-zero winds blowing in from the Asian hinterland solidified anything that did not move. The three men eventually arrived at 24th Division Headquarters and informed the brass that they were there to return Privates Johns and Girardin to Seoul for questioning.

  Complicating the assignment was that the NK and the CCF were fiercely defending the valley and the surrounding hills. The 8th Army, 24th Division, 19th Regiment was taking heavy casualties and started falling back. The month of November slipped away. The CCF rounded up more and more Americans, and when it was clear that the U.N. forces were in full retreat toward the 38th parallel, the three man posse headed back to the embassy in Seoul. They reached their intended destination a few days before Christmas. Notably, the men were not relieved of the powers that went with the mission to arrest and, if necessary, keep Roger Girardin and Joe Johns from telling anyone of the atrocity they had witnessed. In fact, when they returned to HQ, they debriefed an entire squad of intelligence officers in the hope of expanding the search rather than abandoning it. One of the officers at the debriefing was Trent Hamilton, who recognized the name Roger Girardin and could only imagine that it was the guy he knew from back home —a guy with whom he had a score to settle, and now doubly so.

  In closing, CIA operative Robert Perrone said, “And remember, confiscate any film they may have in their possession, regardless of how the apprehension goes.”

  “Suppose they’re not in a position to be returned?” Hamilton asked.

  The CIA operative answered assertively. “Use your discretion. These men cannot and will not fall into enemy hands, period.”

  “What’s that mean, exactly?” Hamilton persisted.

  “Do I have to paint a picture, Lieutenant?”

  Out of the Blue

  AFTER NICK LEFT COURT THAT DAY HE WENT back to his office to catch up on some work. As he turned the key, the phone rang. Nick figured Diane wanted to know when to expect him for supper, but when he answered a man started shouting something barely comprehensible about being a vet. Nick considered hanging up, except between mentioning the Girardin case at the top of his voice and moments of labored breathing, he said his name was Kenny Preston—the man, besides Montoya, on the Broadbent list who was unaccounted for. The man sounded drunk, although claimed he was sick, but what he told Nick could have a potentially explosive impact. He decided to accept the man’s claims at face value, until Nick asked him what he had done before he had gotten sick.

  The man slurred his answer, “Twenty-t’ree years was a... milling machine operator.”

  “For who?”

  “Aah, t’was a... Hudson Valley Machine Shop, near Albany.”

  “Can I ask what’s ailing you?”

  “Cancer, goddamn cancer caused by the metal.”

  “What do you mean, ‘metal?’”

  “Worked beryllium, made parts for copters, companies like Bell, Sikorsky and a company down your neck of the woods—Hamilton.”

  “Hamilton?”

  “Yeah, same company as that guy that testified at your trial.”

  “Do you remember him from Korea?”

  “Not sure, but his company signed me a death warrant; they knew those parts caused cancer, those sons-a-bitches.”

  Nick thought about Preston’s timely call, his possible motivations, but had to go the next step.

  “Mr. Preston, if you can get here by Monday, I’ll put you up overnight. Is that possible? And, depending on how things go, I might like you to testify on Tuesday. What do you think?”

  “My daughter will drive me down Monday morning. Should get there around noon.”

  Nick, was feeling buoyed by the call, but when Preston hung up, Nick heard a click in the receiver that sent a chill through his body.

  An Unscheduled Summit

  ART GIRARDIN BELIEVED THAT THE GOVERNMENT had conspired for political reasons to cover up his brother’s disappearance, along with that of the other 450 missing POWs. Nick, while he still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced, was more interested in motive. Nick knew the CIA had intervened on more than one occasion when he had subpoenaed records he thought had bearing on the case, but he did not know why the CIA maintained its interest in a matter that occurred thirty years ago. In more than one instance, like the Broadbent report, Harris claimed a state secret
s privilege. Lindquist reviewed documents, in camera, denying Nick access to most of the documents. There were a string of coincidences that defied explanation, such as Sonny Reiner’s untimely death a mere three days after meeting with perhaps Army agents. Could they all be coincidences? Nick wondered. But for all the thousands of documents Nick reviewed for the case, and for all the witnesses he interviewed, none was more revealing than a meeting with Ambassador J. Rufus Jefferson, from the U.S. State Department earlier that week.

  Seymour Freedman had invited Nick to a joint regional National Security Agency/American Bar Association meeting at the Carlisle Hotel in New York City. Much to his surprise, the meeting host introduced the ambassador by saying that he had been a negotiator at Panmunjom in 1953. After a talk on the subject of Chinese and American strategic interests, he made an abrupt exit, telling his audience he had to testify in Washington the following morning. Nick ran out and cornered him in the lobby, telling him in a nutshell what the Girardin case concerned. The ambassador was to the point.

  “A large number of POWs were not returned. Why? Well, that’s complicated.” He told Nick that the particular answers he needed were not in the United States. Being the diplomat that he was, he hinted that there were venues where Nick would find others more open.

  On the ride back to Connecticut that night, Nick told Freedman what Jefferson had told him. Freedman said that he was planning a trip to Seoul to exercise a long standing invitation to the Blue House. “Nick, the people you’re dealing with are powerful and rich. They use bogeymen that end in‘ation.’You know, we fight for nation, democratization and monetization. Be careful, Nick, these men are treacherous; they don’t give a rat’s ass. They have a lot to protect and hide.”