Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “You know...” Eddie whispered, “I wasn’t sure whether or not I believed you guys. This just flat pisses me off.”

  “I took a damn big chance when I stole this neg,” Spike said. “But I thought I might need it someday. Mostly I was thinking about using it to get a job or create some kind of stink that would get me noticed. I didn’t need that, so I just mostly forgot about it…until Willy Pud blew into town.”

  “We need to get this thing published,” Willy said. “We need to let people see this.”

  “Not until we’ve got a lot more corroborating evidence, Willy Pud.” Spike picked up the photo and carried it into the den. “We’ve got a lot of background work to do before I can even think about publishing something like this.”

  “I’ve got to go on duty,” Eddie said heading for the door. “I’m off at eight tonight. I’ll come by then…hopefully with some information on these three guys who were on the patrol with you.”

  Spike flipped the photo on his coffee table and sat down with a yellow legal pad and a pen. “So where do we stand?”

  “Eddie’s gonna check on Wyatt, Ledsome, Goodman, and Purdy with the FBI. I’m gonna back him up on that with a call to Headquarters. I’m also gonna see if I can get a lead on Captain Stacy.”

  “OK…good start. What about that MACV colonel who interviewed you? Remember his name?”

  “Don’t think I ever knew it,” Willy said. “You know I was pretty banged up and he was a tight-ass, so we weren’t exactly socializing. If we can find Captain Stacy, he might know. But even if we found that MACV lifer, he probably wouldn’t tell us anything. Or he might blow some kind of official whistle and get us shut down. I wouldn’t count on anything from him.”

  “Let me dick around with it a little bit, Willy Pud. It’s been a while since Saigon fell. There are lots of hyper-lifers out there looking to tell their stories.”

  “He was a spook if I ever saw one, Spike. Probably wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.”

  “It’s a low priority right now. We’ve got to focus on the big questions relating to this picture. Ask yourself a couple of questions, Willy Pud; try to think like you didn’t know the truth. How do we know these guys in the picture are Americans? How do we know the picture was taken where and when we say it was? It’s a hell of a photo but it isn’t iron-clad evidence that it shows two turncoat Americans. People who want to discredit our story wouldn’t have much trouble.”

  “I know that, Spike! I know we can’t just run this thing in the paper and ask anyone who recognizes the dudes to give us a call. I know we can’t go off half-cocked.”

  “OK…so we work to compile conclusive evidence. That’s our mission, our objective. In the meantime, life goes on. Eddie does his shift, I go to work…what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m the CP, I guess. I hole up here and use the phone. I compile what you guys find. I help any way I can. I think Eddie Miller has got the right approach. He said we need to build this thing like a homicide investigation. We do whatever we have to do to build a case. We go after any surviving witnesses. Then we find out who these guys were. Then we go public…or you do, right?”

  “It’s the only logical plan. The key to credibility is to find out who Salt and Pepper really were, tie names and personal histories to these guys. To do that, we need to make some assumptions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Think about it, man. These guys were in the service at some point, right? They had to be. And the service sent them to Vietnam where they defected to the gooks. That means they might be among the names listed in the database as missing in action. I figure we start the process of elimination by trying to get pictures of every American that’s currently listed as MIA by the Pentagon. We do a comparison and just maybe we find Salt and Pepper.”

  “Can we do that?”

  “I can or you can by exercising a little clout. And let’s not overlook the obvious. I’m gonna see if I can find this MACV colonel. You never know, he might steer us in the right direction.”

  “Looks like your phone bill is gonna be an issue, Spike. I don’t have much on me, but I’ll be able to pitch in when my pension money arrives.”

  “Just keep beer in the fridge. You don’t need money while you stay with me.”

  j

  Willy Pud was at the kitchen table the next morning when Spike Benjamin came down dressed for work and poured himself coffee from the pot on the counter.

  “You’re gonna call your contact about the photos today, right?”

  “Not much else on my calendar, Spike…which brings up an issue I need to talk to you about. I mean, I make a couple of calls and that’s it? Is there something I can do to help out around here…you know clean up or run errands or something?”

  “You’ve got a full-time job, Willy Pud. As of noon yesterday, you’re a paid research assistant at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. I called over there and set it up.”

  “I’m a what?”

  “Research assistant…you look into things for me…for stories I might write. Like the story of Salt and Pepper when the time is right. Better go down to my bank and open up a checking account. I’ll leave the address for you.”

  “Wait a minute, Spike…”

  “It’s a done deal, Willy Pud. All you’ve got to do is write down the hours you spend, I turn that into accounting and the checks will come to this address.”

  “Jesus Christ, Spike. You thinking about making money on this story?”

  “I’m always thinking about making money…and a Pulitzer wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Well, that’s your business buddy. I didn’t come to St. Louis and contact you looking for bucks…and I’ve got enough medals.”

  “Well, if this thing breaks the way I hope it will, there’s a best-seller in it. And there’ll be plenty of cash for all three of us. Share and share alike…except for the Pulitzer.”

  When Spike left for work, Willy walked to the local branch of his bank and opened a checking account with his last fifty in cash. When the checks from the paper started to clear, he intended to send most of what he made to the old man in Chicago…which reminded him that he needed to call and check in with his father. It was too early for that. The old man would be working. He’d call later and catch him at Hogan’s.

  Back at the apartment, he showered and shaved just as he would have preparing for a day’s work in Chicago. It made him feel better, stronger, but that wasn’t the only thing improving his morale. He wasn’t thinking about Ricky anymore, hadn’t thought about her since he arrived in St. Louis, in fact. Willy Pud toweled steam off the bathroom mirror and stared at himself. There was no visible difference that he could detect beyond a new luster to his eyes. It was as if there was a light in his head burning somewhere behind his eyeballs. What an extraordinary thing, he thought as he ran a hand over his forehead and cheeks. It was the same Wilhelm Pudarski…but different. Missing was a certain sag to his cheeks and chin. He had that lean and hungry look again, and it made him smile. The last time he could remember that vivid gleam in his eyes, he’d been looking into a scratched and rusty mirror he used for shaving in Vietnam.

  “Salt and Pepper,” he said to his image in the mirror, “Willy Pud is on the track…and you motherfuckers are mine.”

  He fussed for a while setting up coffee, smokes, a notepad, and a telephone extension on Spike’s kitchen table where he planned to make his office. Then he settled into a high-backed chair and made a call to the west coast.

  “Schaeffer…”

  “Sergeant Major, its Pudarski. I’m calling from St. Louis.”

  “Good to hear from you. You just visiting or did you P-C-S out of Chicago?”

  “Just visiting a friend of mine down here. We’re working on something…maybe something that could help veterans, you know?”

  “I’d call that gainful employment, Willy Pud. What do you need from me?”

  “Well, this thing sort of involves MIA
s. Can you steer me in the right direction? I’m trying to get pictures of everyone we’re carrying on the list as missing in action from Vietnam.”

  “Holy shit, Pudarski! You do realize there are a couple hundred guys on that list.”

  “I didn’t know it was that many, Sarn’t Major…but this is really important. We might be able to do some good. I was hoping you and the Society could flex a little muscle for me.”

  “It would help if I knew what you’re working on.”

  “I can’t say a lot on the phone but it’s about…” Willy paused wondering how much he could afford to tell the Sergeant Major. He decided to keep it simple and vague. “It’s about trying to put faces to names, you know? We’re trying for a little accountability before everybody just forgets about it.”

  “Well, somebody’s got to account for all those missing…either them or us, I guess.”

  “So, can you help me out with the photos? We’ll pay any admin costs or anything else required.”

  “There’s a special office in the Pentagon that does nothing but handle POW and MIA affairs. I’m wired into them pretty tight. Maybe I can make it happen. What’s your address and phone there in St. Louis?”

  Willy provided the information and waited for Schaeffer to read it back to him.

  “That’s it, Sergeant Major. I’d really appreciate anything you can do.”

  “No sweat, I’ll call the Pentagon when I get to the airport.”

  “You going somewhere?”

  “Bangkok. It’s a nasty job, but somebody’s gotta go over there among all those bars and hookers.”

  “You’ll get it squared away.”

  “Might not be time for liberty. I’m on a mission. It seems some local entrepreneurs up near the Laotian border are reporting sightings of live American POWs. I don’t put much faith in it but they got a regular industry going over there selling bones, artifacts, and information. Some people think I’m the guy to look into it. I gotta go.”

  “Just one more thing, Sergeant Major…”

  “Make it quick and easy, Pudarski.”

  “I need to find my old Recon CO. His name is Captain Phillip A. Stacy. I think he’s from somewhere in Oklahoma.”

  There was a long silence on the line before Willy Pud heard Schaeffer’s reply.

  “He was from Ceiling, Oklahoma.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I knew him, Willy Pud. He’s dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “He never made it out of Vietnam. Report I got was that a helo he was in down around An Hoa got hit by an RPG. He was a good buddy. We used to go on liberty all the time on Okinawa before he got commissioned. It damn near broke my heart when I heard about it. Sorry, son…I thought you knew.”

  j

  “I found it!”

  Retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Bud Devere chuckled and hoisted his wingtips onto a clanking air conditioner unit behind his desk. Over his toes he could see scull crews slicing down the Potomac where it flowed past the Naval Photographic Center at Anacostia.

  “Hey, that’s great. Bud! And thanks a lot. I know it was a pain in the ass.”

  “No sweat. Spike. It gave me something interesting to do. You know how it is. A guy retires and goes right into Civil Service, it gets boring. Anyway, I got a kick out of seeing the names on some of our old photo orders…brought back a bunch of memories.”

  Spike Benjamin tapped the keyboard of his machine and found the Salt and Pepper file. He cradled the phone receiver on his shoulder, ready to type and proud of himself for remembering about Bud Devere, his old boss in the division photo section who retired to run the Navy and Marine photo archives. He’d been thinking about the MACV Colonel who interviewed Willy Pud when he recalled the Marine Corps’ strict penchant for accountability. If that guy confiscated all the photos from the Salt and Pepper mission, his name had to be somewhere in the records. Old lifers like Bud Devere would never let anyone walk off with official U.S. Marine Corps negatives without a cover-your-ass signature on a transfer document.

  “So, what have we got, Bud?”

  “Well, you gave me the year and date, so I went digging around in the files from the 1st Marine Division Photo Lab and there it was…under a job for 1st Recon Battalion with you listed as shooter. Problem is, almost everything about subject, place and all the other info is what they call redacted. It’s just a bunch of black lines.”

  “But you found the custody document?

  “Yep, every job that leaves the lab with negs and all has to have a custody doc so we know where it went and we can account for it.”

  “And who signed for the negs?”

  “Paydirt there, Spike. It took me a while to decipher the guy’s scrawl but I did some digging and came up with it. The guy was one Colonel, U.S. Army, Military Intelligence, by the name of Halley, initials, Juliet Bravo.”

  “Colonel J. B. Halley,” Spike confirmed the spelling as he typed the name into his file. “And he got all the negs and notes I turned in?”

  “He took it all, Spike. I looked. There’s absolutely nothing else on file about that recon mission—at least there’s nothing that made it to the archives.”

  “I owe you, Bud…make it up next time I’m in Washington. That’s a promise.”

  “No problem, Spike. You were a rascal in my shop over there, but you were a good one. We still print some of your stuff for shows and displays. Too bad we can’t pay royalties.”

  Spike hung up the phone and punched his intercom button for his assistant. “Julie, put in a call to Jake Arquette at the Military Records Center over on North Broadway. See if you can get an address on an Army colonel—or maybe a general—named Halley. H-A-L-L-E-Y, initials are J. B.”

  NEW YORK

  Eileen Winter took the call immediately when the receptionist told her who was on the line. It was the second time she’d spoken to the caller from St. Louis. He’d been more than helpful with her inquiries about Wilhelm Pudarski. When she’d submitted that report, Justin Halley was so pleased he’d put her on the authorized list of space-available flights on Emory Technology’s fleet of corporate jets. She’d wanted that for some time, but her boss had always come up with an excuse for denying the perk.

  “Mr. Arquette! It’s so nice to talk to you again. How are things in St. Louis?”

  “Hot and muggy, Eileen. I need to talk to your boss. Is he around?”

  “I’m sure he’ll take your call. Just hold a minute and I’ll get him.” When her boss clicked onto the line, Eileen Winter went back to her vacation planning. There was a corporate jet due to swing through the Bahamas in two weeks.

  “Jake! What’s up? Did you get the stereo components?”

  “Oh, yeah, Justin…and I really appreciate it. The kids went nuts. I can’t hear a damn thing around the house now.”

  “No better way to advertise Emory Technology, Jake. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “I will, but I know you’re busy, so let me tell you why I called. We got this guy here in St. Louis, pretty well-known photo-journalist for the Post-Dispatch. Pretty high-profile. He’s a Vietnam Veteran, won a bunch of awards—that kind of thing. Anyway, he called my office this morning out of the blue with a request for your last known address.”

  “Any idea why he would be asking?”

  “I didn’t talk to him personally. His assistant called. Seemed like a routine request from a reporter, and we get that kind of thing all the time. We don’t give out addresses or phone numbers, but she told him you were in New York and working for Emory Tech.”

  “No secret about that, Jake.” Justin Halley thought it was probably innocent. He was high enough on the financial food-chain to merit occasional interest from the press. But St. Louis? The reporters who called were usually from New York or Washington. “What did you say this guy’s name was?”

  “Spike Benjamin.”

  Halley’s fingers froze holding his
pen over a notepad. He heard a buzzing in his ears and squeezed his eyes shut against the sound. It couldn’t be the same guy…could it? Benjamin was fairly common. There were thousands of people right here in New York with that last name, he told himself. But how many of them were photographers? It was disturbing, unsettling, and worrisome, conditions he hated.

  “What do you know about the guy, Jake? You said he was a veteran?”

  “Yeah, plenty of ink about that around here, Justin. He was a Marine, a photo-journalist in the service. The Post carries a story with some of his pictures from Vietnam every once in a while. He’s talented.”

  “Anything else you can recall about him?”

  “Been divorced a couple of times, I hear…no kids. Lives here in the city somewhere, but I don’t know much else. I can look into it if you want.”

  “OK; thanks, Jake. Do me a favor and don’t give him anything else from the records. I’m not interested in any press right now…especially if it has to do with veterans issues. That’s a touchy subject around here. And thanks again for the heads-up.”

  For the next hour, Justin Bates Halley walked around his spacious office and tried to calm himself. No matter how many angles he computed, no matter how he squinted and twisted for different points of view, for routine rationale, he couldn’t convince himself that interest in him from a reporter that was a Marine Corps photographer in Vietnam was innocent happenstance.

  Benjamin...I’m sure that was the name on the notes. The man who shot the photos of Salt and Pepper was a Sergeant Benjamin. I remember that clearly. And this Benjamin calling for information on me was a Marine in Vietnam. It has to be the same man. He survived and now he’s a reporter in St. Louis? What the hell is he after asking about me? The only connection there could be is the Salt and Pepper thing. But I destroyed all the negatives and notes. They’ve all been destroyed. Everything else including my debunking report is still classified. He can’t get to that. What the hell is the man doing?