“Sure, I’ve seen that kind a mark before. Plenty of times.”
“Mr. Prado, it is not true that this mark was the trademark for S-84 Hamilton Helicopter in the mid-1950s when you started working there?”
Jack felt his breath shorten, his legs turn gelatinously weak.
“Are you all right, Mr. Prado?”
Jack’s lips tightened.
“Mr. Prado, I asked a question... ” Nick paused and turned to the stenographer. “Madam Stenographer, please read back my last question.”
“Question: ‘Mr. Prado, it is not true that this mark was the trademark for S-84 Hamilton Helicopter in the mid-1950s when you started working there?’”
“Sir, please answer the question.”
“Yes, come to think of it, Hamilton used that mark.”
“Mr. Prado, would you know why these marks were drawn on this map?”
“No, sir.”
“Your Honor, if I may, I need to confer with my colleagues for a minute.”
The judge raised his eyebrows, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, “Yes, go ahead.”
Nick walked over to Kathy and whispered, “Prado knows what the little ‘hexes’ mean. Let me have that line we drew up yesterday.” Nick returned to the lectern.
“You know Trent Hamilton, do you not?”
Eyes wide open now, Jack answered, “Yes, I do.”
“And knew him before the war?”
Jack hesitated. “Yes, sir.”
“And while you were in Camp 13?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And knew him after the war?
“Uh, yeah.”
“You went to college with Hamilton?”
Nick saw Jack looking for someone in the crowd. “Yes.”
“You went to ROTC with Hamilton?”
“Right.”
“You joined the Army together?”
“Yes.”
“You were cashiered out of the officer ranks when you were involved in an automobile homicide?”
“No, that’s not... ” Nick saw Jack unnerved. “That’s not true, it didn’t happen that way!” Jack shouted.
Harris did not like the speed with which Nick was buzzing through the cross-examination. “Objection! What does this have to do with this case, your Honor? Mr. Castalano is impugning the character of a man that has nothing to do with this case!”
This slowed Nick down.
“Withdraw the question,” Nick replied.
Lindquist squinted. “Sir, unless you have a good faith basis for calling into question anyone’s reputation in my courtroom, I will sanction you, keep that in mind.”
“Mr. Prado, please tell the court how many times you saw Hamilton when you were in Camp 13?”
“A few times.”
“In what kind of situations did you run across Lieutenant Hamilton?”
“I would often see him on the grounds walking from his barracks to the day room.”
“Isn’t that where the North Koreans and, later on the Chinese, ran operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why would any POW go to the day room?”
“Every day there were indoctrinations and just about everyone had to attend at one point or another. The commies were trying to get us to, well, to believe that America was evil... that communism was good.”
“Was this voluntary?”
“No, had to.”
“And isn’t it true, that you were indoctrinated so well that you didn’t return with your fellow soldiers after the war?”
“No, that was not the reason I returned late. I was sick.”
“You mean physically?”
Jack hesitated. “No, a breakdown.”
“Were there other American soldiers that were with you after the POWs were repatriated in August 1953?”
“Yes, there were a half, maybe a dozen, yes, a dozen or so that I knew about.”
“And in this courtroom, Mr. Harris showed you your DD 214 indicating you received a dishonorable discharge!”
“I did, but it was changed.”
Nick took a breath. “Is it not true that Mr. Hamilton was instrumental in pulling strings to get your discharge upgraded?”
“Yes, sir, the company I worked for.”
“You couldn’t work at Hamilton Helicopters with a dishonorable, could you?”
“Couldn’t get by the security clearance, no.”
“Let me go back to your contact with Lieutenant Hamilton in Camp 13. You say you observed him in the day room?”
“Occasionally, I did.”
“And what would he be doing?”
“It’s been so long ago, I don’t recall any particular instance.”
“But is it not true he had been friendly with one or more of the Chinese in charge?”
“Had that feeling, back then.”
“Were there others in the camp that believed Lieutenant Hamilton was friendly with the Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“How did they come to that conclusion?”
Harris jumped up. “Objection. Calls for hearsay.”
Wanting to hear more, Lindquist ruled quickly. “I will allow it. Please answer, Mr. Prado.”
“Hamilton spoke Chinese, and for some that was enough.”
“And what would be the talk among the other POWs?”
Harris quickly rose from behind his table. “Objection—hearsay.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Prado, I am going to show you Map B-2, and ask you when was the very first time you saw such a map.”
“I saw it in a dayroom, in Camp 13.”
“The room that the Chinese used to grill the POWs in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did the map have the little hexagon symbols on it?”
“Can’t be sure after all these years.”
“And you did see Lieutenant Hamilton in the dayroom?”
“Yes, sir, on occasion, as I indicated to you.”
“Did you know if the Chinese or the NK ever used POWs to do anything connected with military operations?”
“No, not really.”
“I don’t mean take up arms, but did they enlist or force POWs to be used as cover for them?”
“Yes, that they did, like when we were force-marched from where we were captured, to our final destination—to the camp. Many times we were put out in front, in case they were fired upon, or when our planes were overhead.”
“Any other times, after you were in the prison camp?”
“Like Mr. Preston said, groups were forced to clear minefields.”
“I am going to show you Plaintiff’s Exhibit ABR entitled Summary of Interrogatory Respondent, John Millers. Please read it to yourself, sir.” After a minute, Nick asked Jack, “Mr. Prado, please tell the court what the memo refers to.”
“Corporal Millers, in August 1953, tells a U.N. interrogator that there were rumors of POWs being used to clear minefields in North Korea.”
“What, if anything, can you tell us about those kinds of operations?”
“The U.N. had laid land mines at some point south of the camps. At least, that’s what I recall. Supposed to be escape routes.”
“And, sir, is it not true that the very map you have in front of you shows the minefields designated with the symbol we have been referring to as a hexagon?”
“Don’t know that for sure.”
“Is it not true that the symbol on the map is the same symbol that Hamilton Helicopters used as a trademark?”
“Yes, similar.”
“And, sir, if it is the same symbol, the only individuals who might have made those marks are either you or Lieutenant Hamilton?”
“Objection, calls for speculation!” Harris shouted from his chair.
“Sustained. And Counsel, I expect you to stand when you address this court,” Lindquist admonished Harris.
Jack continued, “I do not understand your reasoning, I did not... ”
Harris interrupted. “Yo
u need not answer, Mr. Prado.”
Nick turned to Lindquist. “Your Honor, either this witness or someone at Hamilton Helicopters would have made the marks—otherwise how could they be the same? Especially coming after the war in the form of a trademark?”
Harris abruptly rose to his feet. “Same objection. It’s only speculation on this witness’s part if and whether Hamilton Helicopters or Hamilton himself knew anything about the maps, the symbols or the so-called minefields.”
Lindquist did not address Harris’s objection. He wanted to know what he could on this score. “Please answer the question, sir.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know the Hamilton trademark at the time. I came back in ’54 after Hamilton bought the company. I thought his family bought it during the Korean War. I don’t know... ”
Nick stopped the witness short. “You do not know what?”
“I, I don’t know if Hamilton knew the POWs were clearing minefields.”
“Was Roger Girardin one of the men assigned to clearing the minefields?”
“He may have been, not sure.”
“Sir, you are evading a responsive answer. Need I remind you that you are under oath? Is it not true that Private Girardin was one of the POWs ordered to clear the minefields?”
“I only knew what was being rumored!”
“And what was that?”
Harris stood up again. “Objection, the answer calls for hearsay!”
“Your Honor, I am asking whether there had been a commonly understood reason for the disappearance of dozens of POWs, Private Girardin among them. And given that no records exist on this point—or at least the government has not produced any—this witness may have a recollection of what was commonly understood among the troops.”
Lindquist’s face was flushed from either the heat or a persistent neck-ache. “I will allow it since I am hearing this case, not a jury. And I can decide whether it is reliable or not. Please answer, Mr. Prado.”
Begrudgingly, Jack answered. “We took it that GIs were being used to clear minefields. Girardin may have been one of them.”
“And can you tell us what else you know about this activity?”
“Don’t know much. We were told that the POWs were used to clear the fields, some of them never came back. At least not to our camp.”
“You testified, ‘We were told.’ Who are the ‘we’? And who told you?”
Harris jumped up. “Ambiguous.”
Nick understood, “Who are the ‘we?’”
“’We’ were the guys.”
“And who told you?”
“Don’t remember exactly.”
Nick continued to press Jack about ‘who’ and ‘what’ he knew concerning the mine clearing operation, but Jack was tighter than a drum.
“Is it not true that Private Girardin was one of the POWs ordered to clear the minefields?”
Jack put his hands to his face.
“Sir, do you need some time to compose yourself?” Nick asked.
Jack nodded his head yes.
“Can we make it five, your Honor?” Nick asked.
While the court recessed Julie remained in her chair, stunned, repeating Jack’s confession: “We took it that GIs were used to clear minefields. Girardin may have been one of them.” It was certain that Jack was with Roger and certain that he had kept it from her throughout the years. It wasn’t rage. Rather, she felt stung by the cruelty of his reticence—his cowardice. How could she face the man, the only man that she trusted to tell the truth? She tried to make sense of it, remembering how he went to Korea a wide-eyed, inquisitive boy ready to fight the red menace and had returned a quiet man, impossible to penetrate.
As people made their way out of the courtroom, Jack stayed in the witness chair to avoid facing Julie. His eyes were shut, and he mumbled, counting backward, remembering something that had long been trapped in a screed of subconscious, the place where his darkest dreams lay dormant. Suddenly, his trembling body felt like it had been transported back in time, back to Camp 13.
Rituals
WHEN THE CHINESE CAPTURED JACK, THEY FORCE-MARCHED him and a half-dozen men from Usan to Pyoktong. Fifty miles times seventeen-hundred yards times three feet. In the odd miles he counted every step forward and reversed the count in the even ones, discounting the pain, forcing his legs like clubs of dead meat to pound a path through deep snow, beneath the cover of trees, beneath smoke filled clouds that hung just above the hilltops, through empty countryside, villages. One guy that kept falling behind finally quit, the men hardly noticing as they forged their way north. Another comrade, bared feet turned blue-black, refused to stand after a short break, and as the men pulled away, they heard the unmistakable shot of his execution. Weeks later, the band reached a town nesting in the security of three side by side hills and the Yalu, and cordoned off by a barbed wire fence, inside of which lay a maze-like collection of muddy village roads and stucco-like dirt shacks, some tiled, unclear where one ended and another began. Jack passed burned out buildings, square foundations and an inner compound surrounded by more wire fence, where he later learned his captors lived and officiated. In the distance, brick smokestacks rose out of larger factory-like buildings like slender, red test tubes, belching smoke, smudging the icy skies.
Two guards shoved Jack through the door of a one room hut—thatched roof, hardpan floor resembling something he’d seen in pictures of Native American adobes. Inside, packed like canned fish, were 15 men, weeks unwashed, greasy lice colonies roaming freely through overgrown beards, multiplying and sapping blood. When Jack stumbled in, the wheezing and coughing men hardly noticed. It smelled like a crapper. He found a tiny vacancy. Every now and again diarrhea-stricken men bolted for the latrine; the weaker ones would curl up and shit their pants.
His comrades told him he would be fed a bowl of millet and sorghum and sometimes a ball of soybean, twice a day. Over time, many would contract beriberi, rickets and dysentery and eventually die. A week after he arrived, the guards kicked open the door and dumped a kid, delirious, foul smelling pus oozing from a gangrenous leg wound. He stayed in a coma, death’s rattle disquieting the darkened quarters for several nights until he became silent. Jack helped stack his body behind the shanty, where it would stay until the spring thaw. The man on Jack’s left had the pasty orange and yellow look of jaundice. The following week Jack dragged him to the stack outside too.
In late spring, hushed lilies grew in the woods, on the hills and near the shore. The place could be mistaken for a rustic vacation spot, except for the death and dying still rampant inside the huts. Men exhausted by famine could not lift their arms to keep the flies from feasting on their faces. Beriberi and rickets kept them from using the latrines. And then the shouting started. Chinese held indoctrination sessions outdoors, every morning for hours until noon. They would scream and rant until the POWs recited slogans or chorused that particular day’s message: the Americans were capitalists engaging in war crimes.
Jack reverted to counting numbers, adding, dividing, multiplying and occasionally mumbling odd results. One night he turned to Arsenalt, the guy next to him, and said that he had a recurring dream where, like a character in “Alice in Wonderland,” he dropped into a rabbit hole to feel no pain, a comfortable fairy-like world where he blinked his eyes backward, counting the seconds contained in a year to the cheers of faceless bystanders. Eventually a fellow inmate, tired of his nonsensical ramblings, told him to shut up or they would throw him outside. From that point on Jack kept his dreams and newly emerging visions to himself, although it could not stop the numerological mutterings over which he had no control.
In May, the men were allowed to walk to a shallow inlet to bathe, wash clothes and cut their beards if they had something mildly sharp. Jack kept to himself—or perhaps more accurately, the men stayed away from him because he lived in another world where he held imaginary conversations. He kneeled next to a pool of water and stared at himself. His face was thin, although a good likeness
of his civilian self, something that could not be said for most of the men. Then he heard, “Jack, Jack O’Conner!”
Jack stood up and shot back. “Yeah, who’re you?”
“I’m Roger, from back home.”
Jack’s mouth fell open, his eyes blinked uncontrollably. “Holy Christ.”
Roger grinned from ear to ear and Jack embraced him in a bear hug. “When’d you get to this retreat?” Roger asked.
“They caught me ’round end of November, the Ch’ongch’on River valley. You?” “Yeah, me too, Ch’ongch’on River. November. How you doing? What’s the matter with your eyes?”
“Nervous twitch, got worse when I got here.”
“When was the last time you heard from Julie?”
“Not sure, maybe October. You?”
“Last letter I got, was... early November.”
“How’d she sound? Say anything about my mother?”
The men’s excitement gradually subsided, the conversation turning to small talk, until Roger said, “Say, you know your friend there, Hamilton, I could swear that I’d seen him back in Suwon... yeah, saw this guy standing next to a car, next to this mass fucking grave, weird... really sickening.”
“What?”
“Well, at the time the guy only looked familiar, I wasn’t sure it was him, and it all looked pretty threatening, so I went on my way... it was some time later it sank in—it hadta be him. Just thought it was too much of a happenstance.”
“Where’re you now?”
“Up behind the day room. You got any room?”
“Yeah, we had fifteen, then four passed this winter, dysentery,” Jack replied, eager to have Roger join him, and then added, “Why?”
“We’re shoulder to shoulder.”
It was the better part of an hour later, when they went separate ways. As Jack walked back to the hut, Montoya asked, “Who were ya talking to?” Jack did not answer, walking dead ahead, in another world.
The summer passed into fall, and it was snowing for the first time when Jack saw Roger walk into the hut, a big grin on his face. Jack startled himself out of a gloomy daze. “Roger, where the hell’d you go?”
“No place. They changed our routine, so I never saw you by the river again.”
We Were Beautiful Once Page 32