Veterans' Day
Lawrence Farrar
Like many veterans, Harry Stone was disinclined to talk about his Vietnam experiences, except in the sparest detail. Consequently, the fact he rebuffed an invitation to speak at the upcoming dedication of a new memorial on Veterans’ Day came as no surprise to the sponsors. With the event still more than a month off, Ted Satterfield, editor and proprietor of the Valley News, had already lined up Walt Dodd (who had gone ashore at Normandy) to represent the World War II vets and young Jack McCaskill (wounded in the Gulf War) to stand in for the newest generation. Now Satterfield trained his sights on Harry.
Everyone in Mercerville knew Harry had served, and it struck Ted that the former Marine would be a perfect candidate to say a few words after Mayor Buzbee delivered his remarks. Although two boys (sadly, they were first cousins) from Monroe High School had been killed early in the war, Harry, who had come east from California, apparently was the only Vietnam vet in the upper valley.
At forty-five, Harry Stone carried himself as if he was still on active duty. Even when he dressed casually, his shirts were starched and pressed. He walked with a purposeful stride, as if he was crossing a parade ground instead of crossing a street. Whenever he passed the window or dropped by for coffee at Millie’s Family Restaurant, the waitresses (who considered themselves the arbiters of such things) reaffirmed their assessment that he must have been “real good-looking in his day” and, for that matter, still was. And they inevitably remarked on his posture, so erect, so much evident pride. Harry kept his once blond hair, now ash gray, cut in the USMC style, high and tight. Firm jawed and clean shaven, he had a weathered face dominated by gray eyes the waitresses agreed led you to believe he’d “seen things people shouldn’t see.”
From time to time cyclists and runners spotted Harry jogging along the river. Everyone agreed; for a man his age he was lean and fit. He often sported a crimson ball cap with the letters “USMC” stitched in yellow across the front, and the tattoo on his right forearm--Semper Fi-- caught the attention of runners who stretched, as he did, at the start of the trail. The tattoo, however, competed for their attention with a vivid scar that crossed his arm just below the elbow, perhaps, they suspected, the stigmata left by some jungle battle. Once a Marine always a Marine--that’s what they said.
Harry might be resistant, but Satterfield hadn’t given up. “I know he doesn’t talk much when it comes to Vietnam,” Satterfield told intern Ronnie Higgins, one of his four reporters, “but we’re not asking him to make a speech; just say a few words.”
Ronnie, hands folded in front of him, stood like a journalistic acolyte before Satterfield’s cluttered desk. He paid close heed to what the boss had to say. Hanging on the outer edge of middle age, Satterfield, a red-faced man with wavy gray hair, had abandoned efforts to contain a sagging paunch. Chewing a lifeless cigar, he realized he came across as something of poseur; nonetheless he sought to portray himself as a man of the world, a cynic first class. Thumbs hooked in his suspenders, he happily referred to himself as a newspaperman from the old school. “I’ve only run into him a couple of times myself,” Ronnie said. “He seemed real polite. About all I know. I guess Vietnam was before my time.”
“Well, I intend to ask him again. I told the committee, I’d keep trying. If anyone’s used to talking, it should be him.”
“Yeah. He’s been selling cars at Valley Toyota ever since I can remember.”
“How old are you, Ronnie?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Maybe you should try to get an interview with him. Might learn a thing or two.”
~ ~ ~
On an unseasonably warm September day soon after, Ronnie sauntered into Valley Toyota. Early afternoon sun gushed through the tall windows. Ronnie scoffed up one of the crullers the dealership put out for its customers and, munching that pastry, he wandered about for a time admiring cars on the showroom floor. Since he was really there hoping to meet Harry Stone, when he sighted Harry seeing off a customer, Ronnie trailed the salesman to his office.
“I thought maybe your folks were thinking of getting you a car, maybe that used Corolla, before you go back to school,” Harry said. Seated behind a utilitarian metal desk, Harry did not invite Ronnie to take a chair.
“No sir, I’m off this semester. I’m interning over at the News for Mr. Satterfield. Mostly sports. Sort of a utility infielder, you might say.” Harry offered an accommodating smile. “I even do the obits,” Ronnie added.
A tousle-haired, pale young man, Ronnie looked fragile. He had a nervous little laugh triggered by embarrassment whenever he came up short on comprehension. Outfitted in brown gabardine trousers and plaid short sleeved shirt, he had the appearance of a retro cast member from “Happy Days.”
Ronnie took his internship at the paper seriously--very seriously. Intent on honing his reportorial skills, like a spy in training, he let his eyes rove about the office cubicle assigned to Valley Toyota’s top salesman. Framed awards and plaques attested to Harry’s years of “devoted service.” The printed certificates all seemed pretty much the same--only the year changed from one to another. Ronnie catalogued a wall calendar, auto brochures, papers, pencils, order forms--all items standard in such a place. No family photos though--Harry had never married and lived with his brindle-colored bulldog in a modest bungalow on the edge of town.
When Ronnie again confirmed that he had not come by to inquire about a car, Harry said, “Then what can I do for you?”
“Isn’t that a picture of the Vietnam Memorial? In Washington?” Ronnie asked. Nicely framed, but not prominently displayed, the black and white photo hung in a corner behind Harry’s desk.
“Yes. It is. Now what is it that brought you in today?”
“What are those other pictures--or whatever they are--the ones underneath?”
“Pencil rubbings from the Wall. Names of men who perished in Vietnam. We lost a lot of good people in that war.” Ronnie assumed a sober demeanor; he’d rarely, if ever, heard anyone use the word perish in conversation.
“I was wondering--that is, Mr. Satterfield was wondering--if you might talk to me about your experiences over there. Says we should do some articles leading up to Veterans’ Day. I guess it’s in November.”
“He’s an old friend, but I’ve already told your boss I’d rather not speak at the dedication. Same goes for an interview. It was all a long time ago.”
Like an Egyptologist deciphering hieroglyphics, Ronnie hunched forward trying to make out the names on the rubbings; there were five. “Did you know them? The names on the rubbings.”
“Yes . . . You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a customer waiting,” Harry said. “Sorry, I just can’t help you. But, if you change your mind about a car, stop by.”
“If you change your mind, Mr. Stone, I’d like to talk to you again.”
As Ronnie navigated the show room floor crowded with vehicles, an inspiration flashed through his mind. Hank Gelbard, the service manager, had worked at Valley Toyota for years, probably longer than anyone there. On top of that, Gelbard lived next door to Ronnie’s parents and played cribbage with Ronnie’s dad. If anyone could give him some leads for his story, Gelbard was the man. Ronnie found his way out to the service department and leaned through Gelbard’s office door.
“Got a minute, Mr. Gelbard?”
“Hi, Ronnie. Your folks finally give in on that Corolla?”
“Nothing like that. I’m interning over at the paper this term. Doing a story for Veterans’ Day. Wondered if you could help me out?”
Gelbard, a balding, sober-faced man, waved Ronnie into his cramped office. “Why me?’ he said. “I was never in. Asthma, you know.”
Ronnie perched on the edge of a black vinyl chair with chrome legs. “No. I want to ask about Harry Stone. Already tried him, but he seemed reluctant to say anything. Were you here when he came to town?”
“Sure was. It had to have been in ‘70; he’d recently come out of the service. If memory serves, moved here from the West Coast somewhere. Started out washing and parking cars. I was a mechanic in those days. Still Valley Motors; we changed the name later on. We were just getting off the ground.
“What was your impression? Just back from Vietnam, right?”
“Don’t know if he was just back. Anyway, he was well spoken, friendly, at least most of the time. But, Harry could be real touchy. Come to think of it, he still can be. I remember one time I said something about him being an ex-Marine. He flew off the handle; said the term was former Marine. I didn’t get the difference--still don’t.”
“Did he talk about what he went through, in Vietnam?” Ronnie extracted a pocket notebook from his shirt, intent on jotting down Gelbard’s words.
“Sometimes. Not a lot though; you know how those vets are. But, I remember he said more than once, ‘we lost a lot of good men over there.’ Talked about Khe Sanh two or three times. Seemed really troubled by it. I guess he must have had a pretty rough time there.”
“Anything else?”
“Not much. It seemed like he wanted us to know he’d served--proud, real proud.”
“Did he ever open up, I mean . . .?”
“No war stories, if that’s what you mean. Even today, he holds back. Just when you think he’s going to say something, he clams up.”
“I guess it was too painful,” Ronnie said.
“Well. Maybe that. But, he sort of implied it was because it was all still secret. You have to remember the war was still going on when Harry came to town. Anyway, he told one of the boys out in the shop he’d been inserted, that’s the word he used, inserted behind enemy lines. We all figured he’d been some kind of sniper or rescuing pilots--something like that.”
“That can’t matter anymore can it? That it was secret, I mean.”
Open hands uplifted, Gelbard shrugged. “Guess not. Funny, though, he still says it’s all classified; says his lips are sealed.”
~ ~ ~
Harry parked the old Toyota in front of his detached garage, picked up the Valley News lying in the driveway, and intercepted a skittering dry oak leaf. An American flag flanked the painted front steps on one side and a Marine Corps flag, with the Corps emblem (eagle, globe, and anchor) in yellow and gray on a scarlet field, flanked the other. The house shone with fresh paint, eggshell white, with gray trim and a gray roof. Harry had cleaned out the gutters a few days before. Sharp lines, precision--everything in order, like base housing at Pendleton. Here and there buff-colored spots afflicted the marine green lawn. Not much he could do, the grass had set about its autumnal rite of dying off. Harry stepped onto the porch, examined two pots of always thirsty red geraniums, pulled open the screen door, and went into the house. He returned immediately with a watering can, tended the plants, then went back in the house and straight to the little kitchen. He crouched in front of the refrigerator and discovered he was out of beer. He had hoped to have a cold one.
In the living room, Harry kicked off his shoes, wind milled his arms, and lolled back in a Naugahyde recliner, looking indifferently at the blank television screen. Another day, another dollar--wasn’t that what people said? Nearly twenty years convincing customers they needed a new car, nearly twenty years letting them think they were bargaining with him--not what he’d planned, certainly not what he’d hoped for. But, all things considered, it could be worse. People at work liked him, he’d paid off his mortgage, he held a nice stock portfolio, he managed a trip to a Nevada “ranch” once or twice a year, he owned an up-to-date computer--hell, yes, it could be worse. Those thoughts freshly minted, Harry chuckled in a self-derisive way. He was kidding himself.
The Veterans’ Day dedication had set it all in motion again. Harry carried an emotional burden, a burden from which he had struggled to free himself for years. Quiescent for a time, the emotions had reasserted themselves, weighed in on him with increasing power and frequency. He sought to suppress them, but they were always there.
He heard scratching at the back door. He’d forgotten all about PX; she probably wanted to eat. He went back to the kitchen, filled her dish, and let her in. Ignoring the dry food, she trotted to him, wagging her stubby tail and quivering with dog happiness at seeing him. The third English bull dog he had owned; he wished PX wouldn’t slobber so much, but then it went with the bulldog territory. He rubbed her ears, and she followed him back to his recliner and lay down at his side as she always did.
Happy dog, happy man. It sounded good, an idyll of contentment. If only it were so. Instead, in his mind, once again Harry, wet with perspiration, stepped into a fetid black-green jungle, each minute drawn irresistibly further and further in. It was both a waking dream and a nocturnal dream that repeatedly woke him. Sometimes he worried for his sanity.
Harry flipped on the television set, surfed a half dozen channels, came across nothing that grabbed his attention, and decided to go into the second bedroom he used as an office. A social creature, PX trailed behind. Harry settled into his swivel chair and turned on the computer. Rather than checking his e-mail, he allowed his thoughts to travel; they almost always delivered him to the same destinations. Harry spent a great deal of time in this office--he kept the memories there.
From a photo directly above his desk, one with Harry barely visible on the third riser, a company of grim-faced Marine recruits looked straight at the camera. Delta Company, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego. March 1969. Tough guys; ready to go--Semper Fi. A mahogany framed shadow box, resplendent with ribbons and medals, hung next to the window on his right. His eyes swept across the awards: Silver Star, Navy and Marine Corps Medal, Purple Heart, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic of Vietnam Gallantry Medal, and Expert Rifleman. He had kept the display in the dealership for a while, but people asked too many questions, questions he just didn’t want to deal with.
Immediately below the shadow box Harry exhibited a collage of three photos; one was of his mother, Evelyn, as a young woman (he’d had it made from an old snapshot). Another was a grainy picture of a father he barely remembered (he died in the snow at Korea’s Chosen Reservoir). The third photo was of his older brother, Ben, then a Marine somewhere in Vietnam--the place where he had been killed, an old-timer all of twenty-three. Hands on hips and surrounded by sand bags piled high, like the walls of a medieval fortress, the towheaded first lieutenant gave his photographer a big grin. Amazing, how much Harry and Ben looked alike, the eyes, the set of the mouth. But, of course, death had placed its seal on him; unlike Harry, Ben had never grown older.
Harry pivoted in his chair and, as he often did, gazed at his family members--all of them gone. He shook his head. Sad. Damn sad. Already suffering with emphysema and a weak heart, Harry’s mother had declined quickly after they heard about Ben. She had pleaded with Harry not to enlist, but a sense of obligation and an insistent urge toward emulation of the father and brother who had served before him propelled him to the recruiting office. Still in her fifties, his mother suffered a heart attack and died three weeks before he climbed onto the bus for boot camp.
And Ben. Had there been an award for exemplary older brothers, crowned with a laurel wreath if one had been handy, Ben would have carried it away hands down. Harry had tried to fit himself into the mold that shaped his older brother, but he considered the product that emerged to be flawed. When Ben had the lead in the school musical, Harry sang in the chorus; when Ben made first team all conference, Harry counted himself fortunate to get into a game; and when Ben won acceptance at half a dozen universities, Harry headed off to the local community college. Not for want of trying, Harry never quite measured up. It seemed a recipe for envy, but, in fact, it hadn’t turned out that way--not at all.
Ben had been so decent, so supportive of Harry and their mother, so generous with his time and money. He always stood by him when Harry ran into problems. Never envious--quite the contrary--Harry idolized his brother and from an early age lived vicariously through him. You could only love the guy. At times, Harry imagined he was Ben; not really, he told himself, it was just a turn of phrase. But, yes, really--he did. Ben’s achievements became his own; Ben’s disappointments became his own. And the bullet that penetrated Ben’s heart might just as well have penetrated his own. In a sense he died with Ben and in a sense Ben lived on through him.
Now came this pressure to appear on Veterans’ Day. Harry had always worried something like this would happen someday, surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He had to think like Ben. How would Ben have handled the request to speak at the dedication? Ben had been a modest person, always giving credit to others. He’d been through so much, but he would never have boasted--or complained--of it publicly. Instead, he would likely have spoken in behalf of those who served, in behalf of those with their names on the Wall in Washington. People pushed these dead heroes out of mind; people needed to be reminded. But, Harry knew he wasn’t Ben and his circumstance was substantially different.
Harry mulled the editor’s invitation, confident he hadn’t heard the last of it. And there was the kid from the paper. He’d been asking Gelbard questions. Harry plunged into an emotional maelstrom, one that had periodically sucked him down for more than twenty years. Ben would know what to do. Oh, Ben . . . the war, the God damned war . . .
~ ~ ~
In the early 1980s, Harry had avidly followed the dispute surrounding the character and artistic merit of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in Washington. But, over time, he realized the controversy had dwindled and the Wall had become one of the most visited monuments in Washington, polished black in a city mostly dull white--and the one most likely to break your heart.
People offered to make them for you, but Harry had created the Wall rubbings himself. It had taken a long time before he could bring himself to take the trip, but two years earlier he drove to Washington and, wearing an old camouflage jacket, stood at the Wall with tears streaming down his face. He was not alone. Even the skylarking teenagers trooping in from their centipede-like columns of orange buses and all but the most slow-witted tourists in shorts fell quiet, speaking in low, reverential tones. That’s how it should be, Harry thought--a place for remembrance, a place for respect, a place for reflection.
Like Ben, Harry had never believed in lost causes, in pointless heroics. But, Harry resisted the inclination to surrender himself to a denunciation of the war, despite the siren logic that enticed him to do so. He could not bring himself to believe the thousands and thousands of names on those Wall panels constituted a collective summary of useless sacrifice. The deaths had to have meaning, they had to. Harry felt an urge to ask a biker leaning against the wall, head down, his hand covering a name, what meaning there might be. Harry yearned for solace, but could not bring himself to approach that man or any other. Instead, he concentrated on locating the names.
With the aid of a directory, Harry found Ben’s name first--Benjamin Hamilton Stone. He let his fingers caress the computer incised letters, their edges neat, but not sharp. Harry discovered two other Stones; could they have been relatives? He mingled with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other veterans and family members who searched that day. They didn’t speak much; there was no need. One man gently placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, one vet to another. People came and people left, like a repetitive changing of the guard, in its own way one every bit as solemn as that at the Tomb of the Unknowns across the river in Arlington.
One by one, he located four more names and created pencil rubbings: Ted Bushnell, Roberto Cuadrado, Dexter Hardwick, and Oliver Krebs. He borrowed a ladder to reach Ollie Krebs’ name. Other names, several other names, came to mind he had intended to trace, but he could go no further, simply too torn apart, too drained to do so.
His sense of loss vied with his sense of guilt; individually the twin emotions toyed with him; together they crushed him. Apart from his brother, all these men had left the bus with him in San Diego, had begun basic training with him. They had all died in Khe Sanh or Hue, most in unremembered ways. Now they were nothing but names set in slabs of polished black granite, nothing but bones and fillings in the ground. They died; he lived. Why them? Why Ben? Harry sold cars, drank beer, screwed Nevada whores, watched television, and teased his dog.
Harry considered the veterans gathered before the Wall. How many bore the same burden of guilt, the same emotional scar, he did? He had no idea; he only knew his own was intense. It was irrational, he knew it was irrational. Yet, the guilt clung to him like the leeches that had tormented young soldiers and Marines in the paddies and jungles of Vietnam.
~ ~ ~
The first thing Satterfield said after Harry picked up the phone on Saturday was, “Look, Harry, folks will understand if you don’t want to make any remarks. Mayor Buzbee says, all you’d have to do is sit up on the platform while he dedicates the Memory Garden.”
“Memory Garden?”
“That’s what they’re calling it--nice fountain in the middle. They wanted an eternal flame, but couldn’t figure out a way to make sure it stayed lit.”
“I don’t think that’s . . .”
“Benches, flower beds, and a bronze plaque with the names of all the folks from this area who served over the years. Special section for the fallen heroes. Inscriptions are already done by the Crestview Monument Company. I guess some on the committee think they charged too much. Anyway, Harry, we’d all be honored to have you.” “You don’t give up, do you, Ted?”
“We just want you there. You deserve to be acknowledged with the others.”
“You’re certain I wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Absolutely.”
Harry knew Ben would have gone, would have wanted to honor his fallen comrades.
“I’ll have to give it some thought and . . .”
“You know your own dealership is one of the sponsors; made a very generous contribution.”
“I know. The manager already approached me. I’ll be in touch.”
Harry put down the phone, went into the kitchen, and pried the cap off a bottle of San Miguel beer. He took a gurgling swallow, glanced at PX snoring on the living room rug, and slumped into his recliner. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why stir it all up again?
Could they possibly understand how ripped up he felt--still alive and the others all dead at eighteen or nineteen. The years slid by, but the insoluble torment lingered, sometimes quiescent, but always there, embedded in his gut, stitched in his heart. He chugged the rest of his beer, then placed the bottle on a side table, his eyes fixed on the label. San Miguel, a lot of the boys drank it when they were over there--came from the Philippines. Harry closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face. Ben, Ollie, Dex, . . . They asserted their insubstantial selves, like dead soldiers marching across the screen while the credits ran at the end of old war movies. He silently recited their names, unable to escape the stomach twisting remorse. Other people had put it behind them, gone on with their lives. Why couldn’t he?
Someone rapped on the door. “Mr. Stone. Are you home? It’s me--Ronnie. I have something for you from Mr. Satterfield.”
His anguished reverie interrupted, with PX waddling along at his side, Harry went to the entrance and let the young reporter in.
“Mr. Satterfield thought you might like to see these sketches of the memorial. Also gave me a copy of the preliminary program for you.”
“Have a chair, Ronnie. Put the papers on the table. Be right back. Dog needs to go out.” In fact, Harry needed a moment to collect his thoughts, to settle himself. Left alone, Ronnie wondered if he should try again to learn more about Harry’s Vietnam days. Even a few lines would nicely wrap up the story he planned to turn in on Monday. From where he sat in the small living room, Ronnie could see into Harry’s office. The shadow box captured his attention, as did the photos. He heard Harry outside urging the dog to do her business. Ronnie stepped over to the office door and peered in. First he eyed the recruit company photo, dated March, 1969. Then he scanned the individual photos. Naturally Harry had been much younger, but Ronnie assumed the Marine in the picture had to be him. Someone had scrawled a place name across the bottom: Khe Sanh.
The kitchen door closed and Ronnie retreated into the living room.
“That must be your picture in there, I suppose. When you were overseas.”
Harry said nothing, making a show of perusing the sketches of the memorial site.
Undeterred, Ronnie pushed on. He craned his neck and looked through the office door. “All those your medals?”
“That’s my private office. You’ve run your errand. Now I have some things to do,” Harry said and, with an open hand, ushered Ronnie to the door.
“Can’t you at least tell me what years you were over there?” Ronnie was determined not to come away with nothing.
Harry snapped at him. “1969-70. I mean ‘68 . . . Okay? Does it matter? 1969-70.”
“No, sir. Just wondered. That’s all. I’ve been reading up on Vietnam. We never got that far in my high school history class.”
When he returned home, Ronnie opened the library book he’d started, following up on Satterfield’s recommendation to learn more about Vietnam. After all, Veterans’ Day was only weeks away, and it didn’t look like Harry Stone intended to give him a story. The book was Stanley Karnow’s Vietnam: A History. Ronnie had read only a few chapters, so he looked up Khe Sanh in the index (it was spelled Khesanh there) and skipped ahead. The account of the siege took up just a few pages, but Ronnie realized the Marines had withstood persistent attacks and taken heavy casualties in one of the great battles of the war. And to think Harry Stone had survived it. That was really something. Ronnie wished he could at least mention it in his story. But, Stone had been adamant--no interview.
~ ~ ~
On Monday morning Ronnie paced back and forth waiting for Satterfield to get back to the office from a Chamber of Commerce breakfast. Brushing his teeth that morning, Ronnie had experienced an epiphany--the photos and Harry’s words, lodged there since the night before, had coalesced in his mind--with certainty. Now in Satterfield’s office, clutching the Karnow book in his hand, he brimmed with excitement--his first scoop.
“Morning, Ronnie, what’s up?” the editor said. “You go to that football game Saturday?”
“Better than that, I’ve got some real news.”
“Good. That’s what we hired you for.” Satterfield sat down at his desk and snipped the end off a cigar. “What if I told you Harry Stone is a liar, a phony? Ronnie spoke with all the gravity of a judge passing sentence on a felon.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a car salesman.”
“I’m not joking, Mr. Satterfield. I’m convinced he was never in Vietnam, at least not when he says he was.” Satterfield’s grin disappeared. “You realize what you’re saying, Ronnie? Everybody in town knows he was in the Marines. Just look at him.”
“You ever hear he was at Khe Sanh?”
“Not straight out, I guess, but heard him mention it and other places. Yes. What of it?”
“Because he told me he was in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. The siege at Khe Sanh was at the start of 1968. Right here in this book.” Like a prosecutor offering Exhibit A, Ronnie placed the book, open to the Khe Sanh narrative, on Satterfield’s desk.
“He probably misspoke.”
“I don’t think so. Even if he meant 1968, it’s hard to believe. There’s a picture too; his recruit class was in 1969, Mr. Satterfield, 1969. I keep hearing a lot of these vets don’t want to talk, but I think he’s been just too careful. Always implies things, but doesn’t say them outright.”
“It’s a serious charge you’re making, Ronnie. We’ve all held him in high regard for years.”
“I just read about a guy who pretended to be a lawyer. Got away with it for a long time. Stone acted like I was . . .”
“But, why? What would Harry have to gain?”
“Beats me, Mr. Satterfield. I just think . . .”
“Have you told anyone else about your . . . your theory?”
“No, sir. Not even my folks.”
“Well, don’t. First rule of being a newspaperman is to confirm your information.” Satterfield sank back his chair and fiddled with a string of paper clips. He had long kept his doubts close hold, but Satterfield had himself from time to time wondered about Harry’s bona fides. Could Ronnie have it right?
The young reporter had asked too many questions. And there was the damned memorial dedication. Oh, Harry realized he’d brought it on himself, but he had hoped it would never come to this. And when Satterfield called and asked if he could meet him for lunch at Millie’s, Harry asked himself if it simply meant one more appeal to show up on Veterans’ Day; after all, his name had been penciled in on the program? Not likely--Harry knew better. He knew what the editor probably wanted to discuss. Harry was in hot water and sinking fast.
The first time Harry lied about his military service, it had been impulsive, indirect; he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, at least not the whole truth. It became easier over time, facts, wishes, and memories intermingled, molded and shaped like pieces of plastic. He’d assumed a persona that wasn’t entirely false, and after a time he’d begun to believe it himself. Others would have thought him a fool for feeling guilty at being alive, have thought he should count himself lucky. But, Harry’s greater guilt derived not only from his survival and his comrades’ deaths; it derived from the fact that, while others served, he had never set foot in Vietnam. Harry Stone was a fraud.
~ ~ ~
The two men occupied a corner booth; it provided a modicum of privacy. Behind the lunch counter and in the kitchen the waitresses twittered like judgmental birds--Harry had not been in for a long time and now he looked, well, awful. Haggard from lack of sleep, his eyes red-rimmed.
Satterfield dipped a French fry in a mini cup of catsup. “Harry, we’ve known each other a long time. It’s not easy, but I have to ask you straight out if . . .”
“If I served in Vietnam?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“My brother was killed in Khe Sanh, Ted. My wonderful brother, Ben. Night patrol. Did you know that?”
“Why, no I . . .”
“It should have been me. He was good, so good. Smart, too. People say I look a lot like him. I hope so. I was so ashamed. He went over there and got killed, and I . . .” Harry paused to gain control of his emotions. “Glad I can finally tell somebody. I wanted to be like him; in a way, to be him. So I enlisted, right after we heard.”
Satterfield looked at him quizzically. Was the man unraveling? “But, you were a Marine, weren’t you? I mean, we’ve always believed . . .”
“Yes. For all of six weeks, Ted. Six weeks. I wanted so much to be a Marine like Ben. My dad was a Marine--killed in Korea. Bet you didn’t know that either.” Satterfield shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“During those first weeks in boot camp, I just couldn’t get the hang of it. The drill instructor jumped on my case from day one, even though I was giving it everything I had.”
Harry stopped again, as if exhausted, covering his face with his hands.
Satterfield sat transfixed, another French fry dangling from his fingers. “Are you all right, Harry? I mean . . .”
“Started. Have to finish.” Harry’s voice caught. “We got our first liberty and three or four other fellows and I went into San Diego. Ollie Krebs, Dex Hardwick, Fred Toddman and some others. We wanted to let off steam--glad to be off the base and free of the DI. Eighteen, nineteen years old, what did we know? Anyway, we went out drinking, making the rounds of bars and beer joints that catered to military folks. Bartenders didn’t care how old you were if you had a uniform.”
“Yes, go on.” Satterfield returned the fry to his plate.
“It must have been the third or fourth place--I can’t forget the name--it was called The Wagon Wheel. Pretty liquored up and clowning around. Right next to the parking lot there was a pole with a lamp on top, like one you’d expect to see with an old lamp lighter. Who knows what possessed me? I grabbed on to the pole with one hand and started swinging around it. Just goofing off. Can you picture it? “More or less.”
Apparently one of the glass panels was loose and, worse, it was cracked. My spinning around must have jarred it loose. All of a sudden a shard came falling straight down and slashed my arm. I woke up in Balboa Naval Hospital. They said it nearly severed a tendon. After the doctors patched me up, the Marines gave me a general discharge--I couldn’t perform.”
“But, surely, there’s nothing wrong with . . .”
“Don’t you see, Ted? I didn’t go because I screwed up; almost like I was trying to get out of it, expecting I’d be dropped. My buddies all went over there and got killed--just like my brother. He’d have been disappointed in me. It just happened.”
“We all thought . . . the medals?”
“All his. I picked them up in our old apartment and when I came here, I told people . . . I figured nobody really cared much about what a young guy parking cars and running errands,” he said. It just snowballed.” Shaking with emotion, Harry paddled through a sewer of self-vilification. “Anyway, it’s all out in the open. Now you know why I can’t sit on that platform. Believe me, I’d like to--for Ben and all the others.”
Satterfield looked at Harry, trying to grasp where he was coming from. “But, Harry, you haven’t hurt anyone. You haven’t collected any benefits, as far as I know. You’ve just been playing a kind of role.”
His face fraught with humiliation, Harry said, “What do you mean? Playing a role? I’m an impostor, Ted. Don’t you get it?” He tapped his chest. “In here I’ll always be a Marine. But, the fact is, I’m a God damned fraud.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Thanks for hearing me out. Tell the kid I’m sorry for the way I talked to him. Gotta go do some PT now.” With that, Harry Stone marched out of Millie’s Family Restaurant, leaving Ted Satterfield dumbfounded in his wake.
The next morning, alerted by her whimpering, a neighbor noticed PX pressed against Harry’s garage door. When the man saw rags stuffed under the door, he rushed back into his house and called 911.
Ronnie wrote the obituary. Harry Stone, long time resident of the Upper Valley and Vietnam era veteran (United States Marine Corps), died Thursday. The apparent cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. Mr. Stone was a twenty year employee at Valley Toyota and . . .
Neither Ronnie Higgins nor Ted Satterfield mentioned Ronnie’s scoop to anyone. People would find out about Harry soon enough; but they wouldn’t hear it first from them.
Everyone in Mercerville knew Harry had served, and it struck Ted that the former Marine would be a perfect candidate to say a few words after Mayor Buzbee delivered his remarks. Although two boys (sadly, they were first cousins) from Monroe High School had been killed early in the war, Harry, who had come east from California, apparently was the only Vietnam vet in the upper valley.
At forty-five, Harry Stone carried himself as if he was still on active duty. Even when he dressed casually, his shirts were starched and pressed. He walked with a purposeful stride, as if he was crossing a parade ground instead of crossing a street. Whenever he passed the window or dropped by for coffee at Millie’s Family Restaurant, the waitresses (who considered themselves the arbiters of such things) reaffirmed their assessment that he must have been “real good-looking in his day” and, for that matter, still was. And they inevitably remarked on his posture, so erect, so much evident pride. Harry kept his once blond hair, now ash gray, cut in the USMC style, high and tight. Firm jawed and clean shaven, he had a weathered face dominated by gray eyes the waitresses agreed led you to believe he’d “seen things people shouldn’t see.”
From time to time cyclists and runners spotted Harry jogging along the river. Everyone agreed; for a man his age he was lean and fit. He often sported a crimson ball cap with the letters “USMC” stitched in yellow across the front, and the tattoo on his right forearm--Semper Fi-- caught the attention of runners who stretched, as he did, at the start of the trail. The tattoo, however, competed for their attention with a vivid scar that crossed his arm just below the elbow, perhaps, they suspected, the stigmata left by some jungle battle. Once a Marine always a Marine--that’s what they said.
Harry might be resistant, but Satterfield hadn’t given up. “I know he doesn’t talk much when it comes to Vietnam,” Satterfield told intern Ronnie Higgins, one of his four reporters, “but we’re not asking him to make a speech; just say a few words.”
Ronnie, hands folded in front of him, stood like a journalistic acolyte before Satterfield’s cluttered desk. He paid close heed to what the boss had to say. Hanging on the outer edge of middle age, Satterfield, a red-faced man with wavy gray hair, had abandoned efforts to contain a sagging paunch. Chewing a lifeless cigar, he realized he came across as something of poseur; nonetheless he sought to portray himself as a man of the world, a cynic first class. Thumbs hooked in his suspenders, he happily referred to himself as a newspaperman from the old school. “I’ve only run into him a couple of times myself,” Ronnie said. “He seemed real polite. About all I know. I guess Vietnam was before my time.”
“Well, I intend to ask him again. I told the committee, I’d keep trying. If anyone’s used to talking, it should be him.”
“Yeah. He’s been selling cars at Valley Toyota ever since I can remember.”
“How old are you, Ronnie?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Maybe you should try to get an interview with him. Might learn a thing or two.”
~ ~ ~
On an unseasonably warm September day soon after, Ronnie sauntered into Valley Toyota. Early afternoon sun gushed through the tall windows. Ronnie scoffed up one of the crullers the dealership put out for its customers and, munching that pastry, he wandered about for a time admiring cars on the showroom floor. Since he was really there hoping to meet Harry Stone, when he sighted Harry seeing off a customer, Ronnie trailed the salesman to his office.
“I thought maybe your folks were thinking of getting you a car, maybe that used Corolla, before you go back to school,” Harry said. Seated behind a utilitarian metal desk, Harry did not invite Ronnie to take a chair.
“No sir, I’m off this semester. I’m interning over at the News for Mr. Satterfield. Mostly sports. Sort of a utility infielder, you might say.” Harry offered an accommodating smile. “I even do the obits,” Ronnie added.
A tousle-haired, pale young man, Ronnie looked fragile. He had a nervous little laugh triggered by embarrassment whenever he came up short on comprehension. Outfitted in brown gabardine trousers and plaid short sleeved shirt, he had the appearance of a retro cast member from “Happy Days.”
Ronnie took his internship at the paper seriously--very seriously. Intent on honing his reportorial skills, like a spy in training, he let his eyes rove about the office cubicle assigned to Valley Toyota’s top salesman. Framed awards and plaques attested to Harry’s years of “devoted service.” The printed certificates all seemed pretty much the same--only the year changed from one to another. Ronnie catalogued a wall calendar, auto brochures, papers, pencils, order forms--all items standard in such a place. No family photos though--Harry had never married and lived with his brindle-colored bulldog in a modest bungalow on the edge of town.
When Ronnie again confirmed that he had not come by to inquire about a car, Harry said, “Then what can I do for you?”
“Isn’t that a picture of the Vietnam Memorial? In Washington?” Ronnie asked. Nicely framed, but not prominently displayed, the black and white photo hung in a corner behind Harry’s desk.
“Yes. It is. Now what is it that brought you in today?”
“What are those other pictures--or whatever they are--the ones underneath?”
“Pencil rubbings from the Wall. Names of men who perished in Vietnam. We lost a lot of good people in that war.” Ronnie assumed a sober demeanor; he’d rarely, if ever, heard anyone use the word perish in conversation.
“I was wondering--that is, Mr. Satterfield was wondering--if you might talk to me about your experiences over there. Says we should do some articles leading up to Veterans’ Day. I guess it’s in November.”
“He’s an old friend, but I’ve already told your boss I’d rather not speak at the dedication. Same goes for an interview. It was all a long time ago.”
Like an Egyptologist deciphering hieroglyphics, Ronnie hunched forward trying to make out the names on the rubbings; there were five. “Did you know them? The names on the rubbings.”
“Yes . . . You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a customer waiting,” Harry said. “Sorry, I just can’t help you. But, if you change your mind about a car, stop by.”
“If you change your mind, Mr. Stone, I’d like to talk to you again.”
As Ronnie navigated the show room floor crowded with vehicles, an inspiration flashed through his mind. Hank Gelbard, the service manager, had worked at Valley Toyota for years, probably longer than anyone there. On top of that, Gelbard lived next door to Ronnie’s parents and played cribbage with Ronnie’s dad. If anyone could give him some leads for his story, Gelbard was the man. Ronnie found his way out to the service department and leaned through Gelbard’s office door.
“Got a minute, Mr. Gelbard?”
“Hi, Ronnie. Your folks finally give in on that Corolla?”
“Nothing like that. I’m interning over at the paper this term. Doing a story for Veterans’ Day. Wondered if you could help me out?”
Gelbard, a balding, sober-faced man, waved Ronnie into his cramped office. “Why me?’ he said. “I was never in. Asthma, you know.”
Ronnie perched on the edge of a black vinyl chair with chrome legs. “No. I want to ask about Harry Stone. Already tried him, but he seemed reluctant to say anything. Were you here when he came to town?”
“Sure was. It had to have been in ‘70; he’d recently come out of the service. If memory serves, moved here from the West Coast somewhere. Started out washing and parking cars. I was a mechanic in those days. Still Valley Motors; we changed the name later on. We were just getting off the ground.
“What was your impression? Just back from Vietnam, right?”
“Don’t know if he was just back. Anyway, he was well spoken, friendly, at least most of the time. But, Harry could be real touchy. Come to think of it, he still can be. I remember one time I said something about him being an ex-Marine. He flew off the handle; said the term was former Marine. I didn’t get the difference--still don’t.”
“Did he talk about what he went through, in Vietnam?” Ronnie extracted a pocket notebook from his shirt, intent on jotting down Gelbard’s words.
“Sometimes. Not a lot though; you know how those vets are. But, I remember he said more than once, ‘we lost a lot of good men over there.’ Talked about Khe Sanh two or three times. Seemed really troubled by it. I guess he must have had a pretty rough time there.”
“Anything else?”
“Not much. It seemed like he wanted us to know he’d served--proud, real proud.”
“Did he ever open up, I mean . . .?”
“No war stories, if that’s what you mean. Even today, he holds back. Just when you think he’s going to say something, he clams up.”
“I guess it was too painful,” Ronnie said.
“Well. Maybe that. But, he sort of implied it was because it was all still secret. You have to remember the war was still going on when Harry came to town. Anyway, he told one of the boys out in the shop he’d been inserted, that’s the word he used, inserted behind enemy lines. We all figured he’d been some kind of sniper or rescuing pilots--something like that.”
“That can’t matter anymore can it? That it was secret, I mean.”
Open hands uplifted, Gelbard shrugged. “Guess not. Funny, though, he still says it’s all classified; says his lips are sealed.”
~ ~ ~
Harry parked the old Toyota in front of his detached garage, picked up the Valley News lying in the driveway, and intercepted a skittering dry oak leaf. An American flag flanked the painted front steps on one side and a Marine Corps flag, with the Corps emblem (eagle, globe, and anchor) in yellow and gray on a scarlet field, flanked the other. The house shone with fresh paint, eggshell white, with gray trim and a gray roof. Harry had cleaned out the gutters a few days before. Sharp lines, precision--everything in order, like base housing at Pendleton. Here and there buff-colored spots afflicted the marine green lawn. Not much he could do, the grass had set about its autumnal rite of dying off. Harry stepped onto the porch, examined two pots of always thirsty red geraniums, pulled open the screen door, and went into the house. He returned immediately with a watering can, tended the plants, then went back in the house and straight to the little kitchen. He crouched in front of the refrigerator and discovered he was out of beer. He had hoped to have a cold one.
In the living room, Harry kicked off his shoes, wind milled his arms, and lolled back in a Naugahyde recliner, looking indifferently at the blank television screen. Another day, another dollar--wasn’t that what people said? Nearly twenty years convincing customers they needed a new car, nearly twenty years letting them think they were bargaining with him--not what he’d planned, certainly not what he’d hoped for. But, all things considered, it could be worse. People at work liked him, he’d paid off his mortgage, he held a nice stock portfolio, he managed a trip to a Nevada “ranch” once or twice a year, he owned an up-to-date computer--hell, yes, it could be worse. Those thoughts freshly minted, Harry chuckled in a self-derisive way. He was kidding himself.
The Veterans’ Day dedication had set it all in motion again. Harry carried an emotional burden, a burden from which he had struggled to free himself for years. Quiescent for a time, the emotions had reasserted themselves, weighed in on him with increasing power and frequency. He sought to suppress them, but they were always there.
He heard scratching at the back door. He’d forgotten all about PX; she probably wanted to eat. He went back to the kitchen, filled her dish, and let her in. Ignoring the dry food, she trotted to him, wagging her stubby tail and quivering with dog happiness at seeing him. The third English bull dog he had owned; he wished PX wouldn’t slobber so much, but then it went with the bulldog territory. He rubbed her ears, and she followed him back to his recliner and lay down at his side as she always did.
Happy dog, happy man. It sounded good, an idyll of contentment. If only it were so. Instead, in his mind, once again Harry, wet with perspiration, stepped into a fetid black-green jungle, each minute drawn irresistibly further and further in. It was both a waking dream and a nocturnal dream that repeatedly woke him. Sometimes he worried for his sanity.
Harry flipped on the television set, surfed a half dozen channels, came across nothing that grabbed his attention, and decided to go into the second bedroom he used as an office. A social creature, PX trailed behind. Harry settled into his swivel chair and turned on the computer. Rather than checking his e-mail, he allowed his thoughts to travel; they almost always delivered him to the same destinations. Harry spent a great deal of time in this office--he kept the memories there.
From a photo directly above his desk, one with Harry barely visible on the third riser, a company of grim-faced Marine recruits looked straight at the camera. Delta Company, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego. March 1969. Tough guys; ready to go--Semper Fi. A mahogany framed shadow box, resplendent with ribbons and medals, hung next to the window on his right. His eyes swept across the awards: Silver Star, Navy and Marine Corps Medal, Purple Heart, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic of Vietnam Gallantry Medal, and Expert Rifleman. He had kept the display in the dealership for a while, but people asked too many questions, questions he just didn’t want to deal with.
Immediately below the shadow box Harry exhibited a collage of three photos; one was of his mother, Evelyn, as a young woman (he’d had it made from an old snapshot). Another was a grainy picture of a father he barely remembered (he died in the snow at Korea’s Chosen Reservoir). The third photo was of his older brother, Ben, then a Marine somewhere in Vietnam--the place where he had been killed, an old-timer all of twenty-three. Hands on hips and surrounded by sand bags piled high, like the walls of a medieval fortress, the towheaded first lieutenant gave his photographer a big grin. Amazing, how much Harry and Ben looked alike, the eyes, the set of the mouth. But, of course, death had placed its seal on him; unlike Harry, Ben had never grown older.
Harry pivoted in his chair and, as he often did, gazed at his family members--all of them gone. He shook his head. Sad. Damn sad. Already suffering with emphysema and a weak heart, Harry’s mother had declined quickly after they heard about Ben. She had pleaded with Harry not to enlist, but a sense of obligation and an insistent urge toward emulation of the father and brother who had served before him propelled him to the recruiting office. Still in her fifties, his mother suffered a heart attack and died three weeks before he climbed onto the bus for boot camp.
And Ben. Had there been an award for exemplary older brothers, crowned with a laurel wreath if one had been handy, Ben would have carried it away hands down. Harry had tried to fit himself into the mold that shaped his older brother, but he considered the product that emerged to be flawed. When Ben had the lead in the school musical, Harry sang in the chorus; when Ben made first team all conference, Harry counted himself fortunate to get into a game; and when Ben won acceptance at half a dozen universities, Harry headed off to the local community college. Not for want of trying, Harry never quite measured up. It seemed a recipe for envy, but, in fact, it hadn’t turned out that way--not at all.
Ben had been so decent, so supportive of Harry and their mother, so generous with his time and money. He always stood by him when Harry ran into problems. Never envious--quite the contrary--Harry idolized his brother and from an early age lived vicariously through him. You could only love the guy. At times, Harry imagined he was Ben; not really, he told himself, it was just a turn of phrase. But, yes, really--he did. Ben’s achievements became his own; Ben’s disappointments became his own. And the bullet that penetrated Ben’s heart might just as well have penetrated his own. In a sense he died with Ben and in a sense Ben lived on through him.
Now came this pressure to appear on Veterans’ Day. Harry had always worried something like this would happen someday, surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He had to think like Ben. How would Ben have handled the request to speak at the dedication? Ben had been a modest person, always giving credit to others. He’d been through so much, but he would never have boasted--or complained--of it publicly. Instead, he would likely have spoken in behalf of those who served, in behalf of those with their names on the Wall in Washington. People pushed these dead heroes out of mind; people needed to be reminded. But, Harry knew he wasn’t Ben and his circumstance was substantially different.
Harry mulled the editor’s invitation, confident he hadn’t heard the last of it. And there was the kid from the paper. He’d been asking Gelbard questions. Harry plunged into an emotional maelstrom, one that had periodically sucked him down for more than twenty years. Ben would know what to do. Oh, Ben . . . the war, the God damned war . . .
~ ~ ~
In the early 1980s, Harry had avidly followed the dispute surrounding the character and artistic merit of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in Washington. But, over time, he realized the controversy had dwindled and the Wall had become one of the most visited monuments in Washington, polished black in a city mostly dull white--and the one most likely to break your heart.
People offered to make them for you, but Harry had created the Wall rubbings himself. It had taken a long time before he could bring himself to take the trip, but two years earlier he drove to Washington and, wearing an old camouflage jacket, stood at the Wall with tears streaming down his face. He was not alone. Even the skylarking teenagers trooping in from their centipede-like columns of orange buses and all but the most slow-witted tourists in shorts fell quiet, speaking in low, reverential tones. That’s how it should be, Harry thought--a place for remembrance, a place for respect, a place for reflection.
Like Ben, Harry had never believed in lost causes, in pointless heroics. But, Harry resisted the inclination to surrender himself to a denunciation of the war, despite the siren logic that enticed him to do so. He could not bring himself to believe the thousands and thousands of names on those Wall panels constituted a collective summary of useless sacrifice. The deaths had to have meaning, they had to. Harry felt an urge to ask a biker leaning against the wall, head down, his hand covering a name, what meaning there might be. Harry yearned for solace, but could not bring himself to approach that man or any other. Instead, he concentrated on locating the names.
With the aid of a directory, Harry found Ben’s name first--Benjamin Hamilton Stone. He let his fingers caress the computer incised letters, their edges neat, but not sharp. Harry discovered two other Stones; could they have been relatives? He mingled with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other veterans and family members who searched that day. They didn’t speak much; there was no need. One man gently placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, one vet to another. People came and people left, like a repetitive changing of the guard, in its own way one every bit as solemn as that at the Tomb of the Unknowns across the river in Arlington.
One by one, he located four more names and created pencil rubbings: Ted Bushnell, Roberto Cuadrado, Dexter Hardwick, and Oliver Krebs. He borrowed a ladder to reach Ollie Krebs’ name. Other names, several other names, came to mind he had intended to trace, but he could go no further, simply too torn apart, too drained to do so.
His sense of loss vied with his sense of guilt; individually the twin emotions toyed with him; together they crushed him. Apart from his brother, all these men had left the bus with him in San Diego, had begun basic training with him. They had all died in Khe Sanh or Hue, most in unremembered ways. Now they were nothing but names set in slabs of polished black granite, nothing but bones and fillings in the ground. They died; he lived. Why them? Why Ben? Harry sold cars, drank beer, screwed Nevada whores, watched television, and teased his dog.
Harry considered the veterans gathered before the Wall. How many bore the same burden of guilt, the same emotional scar, he did? He had no idea; he only knew his own was intense. It was irrational, he knew it was irrational. Yet, the guilt clung to him like the leeches that had tormented young soldiers and Marines in the paddies and jungles of Vietnam.
~ ~ ~
The first thing Satterfield said after Harry picked up the phone on Saturday was, “Look, Harry, folks will understand if you don’t want to make any remarks. Mayor Buzbee says, all you’d have to do is sit up on the platform while he dedicates the Memory Garden.”
“Memory Garden?”
“That’s what they’re calling it--nice fountain in the middle. They wanted an eternal flame, but couldn’t figure out a way to make sure it stayed lit.”
“I don’t think that’s . . .”
“Benches, flower beds, and a bronze plaque with the names of all the folks from this area who served over the years. Special section for the fallen heroes. Inscriptions are already done by the Crestview Monument Company. I guess some on the committee think they charged too much. Anyway, Harry, we’d all be honored to have you.” “You don’t give up, do you, Ted?”
“We just want you there. You deserve to be acknowledged with the others.”
“You’re certain I wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Absolutely.”
Harry knew Ben would have gone, would have wanted to honor his fallen comrades.
“I’ll have to give it some thought and . . .”
“You know your own dealership is one of the sponsors; made a very generous contribution.”
“I know. The manager already approached me. I’ll be in touch.”
Harry put down the phone, went into the kitchen, and pried the cap off a bottle of San Miguel beer. He took a gurgling swallow, glanced at PX snoring on the living room rug, and slumped into his recliner. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why stir it all up again?
Could they possibly understand how ripped up he felt--still alive and the others all dead at eighteen or nineteen. The years slid by, but the insoluble torment lingered, sometimes quiescent, but always there, embedded in his gut, stitched in his heart. He chugged the rest of his beer, then placed the bottle on a side table, his eyes fixed on the label. San Miguel, a lot of the boys drank it when they were over there--came from the Philippines. Harry closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face. Ben, Ollie, Dex, . . . They asserted their insubstantial selves, like dead soldiers marching across the screen while the credits ran at the end of old war movies. He silently recited their names, unable to escape the stomach twisting remorse. Other people had put it behind them, gone on with their lives. Why couldn’t he?
Someone rapped on the door. “Mr. Stone. Are you home? It’s me--Ronnie. I have something for you from Mr. Satterfield.”
His anguished reverie interrupted, with PX waddling along at his side, Harry went to the entrance and let the young reporter in.
“Mr. Satterfield thought you might like to see these sketches of the memorial. Also gave me a copy of the preliminary program for you.”
“Have a chair, Ronnie. Put the papers on the table. Be right back. Dog needs to go out.” In fact, Harry needed a moment to collect his thoughts, to settle himself. Left alone, Ronnie wondered if he should try again to learn more about Harry’s Vietnam days. Even a few lines would nicely wrap up the story he planned to turn in on Monday. From where he sat in the small living room, Ronnie could see into Harry’s office. The shadow box captured his attention, as did the photos. He heard Harry outside urging the dog to do her business. Ronnie stepped over to the office door and peered in. First he eyed the recruit company photo, dated March, 1969. Then he scanned the individual photos. Naturally Harry had been much younger, but Ronnie assumed the Marine in the picture had to be him. Someone had scrawled a place name across the bottom: Khe Sanh.
The kitchen door closed and Ronnie retreated into the living room.
“That must be your picture in there, I suppose. When you were overseas.”
Harry said nothing, making a show of perusing the sketches of the memorial site.
Undeterred, Ronnie pushed on. He craned his neck and looked through the office door. “All those your medals?”
“That’s my private office. You’ve run your errand. Now I have some things to do,” Harry said and, with an open hand, ushered Ronnie to the door.
“Can’t you at least tell me what years you were over there?” Ronnie was determined not to come away with nothing.
Harry snapped at him. “1969-70. I mean ‘68 . . . Okay? Does it matter? 1969-70.”
“No, sir. Just wondered. That’s all. I’ve been reading up on Vietnam. We never got that far in my high school history class.”
When he returned home, Ronnie opened the library book he’d started, following up on Satterfield’s recommendation to learn more about Vietnam. After all, Veterans’ Day was only weeks away, and it didn’t look like Harry Stone intended to give him a story. The book was Stanley Karnow’s Vietnam: A History. Ronnie had read only a few chapters, so he looked up Khe Sanh in the index (it was spelled Khesanh there) and skipped ahead. The account of the siege took up just a few pages, but Ronnie realized the Marines had withstood persistent attacks and taken heavy casualties in one of the great battles of the war. And to think Harry Stone had survived it. That was really something. Ronnie wished he could at least mention it in his story. But, Stone had been adamant--no interview.
~ ~ ~
On Monday morning Ronnie paced back and forth waiting for Satterfield to get back to the office from a Chamber of Commerce breakfast. Brushing his teeth that morning, Ronnie had experienced an epiphany--the photos and Harry’s words, lodged there since the night before, had coalesced in his mind--with certainty. Now in Satterfield’s office, clutching the Karnow book in his hand, he brimmed with excitement--his first scoop.
“Morning, Ronnie, what’s up?” the editor said. “You go to that football game Saturday?”
“Better than that, I’ve got some real news.”
“Good. That’s what we hired you for.” Satterfield sat down at his desk and snipped the end off a cigar. “What if I told you Harry Stone is a liar, a phony? Ronnie spoke with all the gravity of a judge passing sentence on a felon.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a car salesman.”
“I’m not joking, Mr. Satterfield. I’m convinced he was never in Vietnam, at least not when he says he was.” Satterfield’s grin disappeared. “You realize what you’re saying, Ronnie? Everybody in town knows he was in the Marines. Just look at him.”
“You ever hear he was at Khe Sanh?”
“Not straight out, I guess, but heard him mention it and other places. Yes. What of it?”
“Because he told me he was in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. The siege at Khe Sanh was at the start of 1968. Right here in this book.” Like a prosecutor offering Exhibit A, Ronnie placed the book, open to the Khe Sanh narrative, on Satterfield’s desk.
“He probably misspoke.”
“I don’t think so. Even if he meant 1968, it’s hard to believe. There’s a picture too; his recruit class was in 1969, Mr. Satterfield, 1969. I keep hearing a lot of these vets don’t want to talk, but I think he’s been just too careful. Always implies things, but doesn’t say them outright.”
“It’s a serious charge you’re making, Ronnie. We’ve all held him in high regard for years.”
“I just read about a guy who pretended to be a lawyer. Got away with it for a long time. Stone acted like I was . . .”
“But, why? What would Harry have to gain?”
“Beats me, Mr. Satterfield. I just think . . .”
“Have you told anyone else about your . . . your theory?”
“No, sir. Not even my folks.”
“Well, don’t. First rule of being a newspaperman is to confirm your information.” Satterfield sank back his chair and fiddled with a string of paper clips. He had long kept his doubts close hold, but Satterfield had himself from time to time wondered about Harry’s bona fides. Could Ronnie have it right?
The young reporter had asked too many questions. And there was the damned memorial dedication. Oh, Harry realized he’d brought it on himself, but he had hoped it would never come to this. And when Satterfield called and asked if he could meet him for lunch at Millie’s, Harry asked himself if it simply meant one more appeal to show up on Veterans’ Day; after all, his name had been penciled in on the program? Not likely--Harry knew better. He knew what the editor probably wanted to discuss. Harry was in hot water and sinking fast.
The first time Harry lied about his military service, it had been impulsive, indirect; he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, at least not the whole truth. It became easier over time, facts, wishes, and memories intermingled, molded and shaped like pieces of plastic. He’d assumed a persona that wasn’t entirely false, and after a time he’d begun to believe it himself. Others would have thought him a fool for feeling guilty at being alive, have thought he should count himself lucky. But, Harry’s greater guilt derived not only from his survival and his comrades’ deaths; it derived from the fact that, while others served, he had never set foot in Vietnam. Harry Stone was a fraud.
~ ~ ~
The two men occupied a corner booth; it provided a modicum of privacy. Behind the lunch counter and in the kitchen the waitresses twittered like judgmental birds--Harry had not been in for a long time and now he looked, well, awful. Haggard from lack of sleep, his eyes red-rimmed.
Satterfield dipped a French fry in a mini cup of catsup. “Harry, we’ve known each other a long time. It’s not easy, but I have to ask you straight out if . . .”
“If I served in Vietnam?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“My brother was killed in Khe Sanh, Ted. My wonderful brother, Ben. Night patrol. Did you know that?”
“Why, no I . . .”
“It should have been me. He was good, so good. Smart, too. People say I look a lot like him. I hope so. I was so ashamed. He went over there and got killed, and I . . .” Harry paused to gain control of his emotions. “Glad I can finally tell somebody. I wanted to be like him; in a way, to be him. So I enlisted, right after we heard.”
Satterfield looked at him quizzically. Was the man unraveling? “But, you were a Marine, weren’t you? I mean, we’ve always believed . . .”
“Yes. For all of six weeks, Ted. Six weeks. I wanted so much to be a Marine like Ben. My dad was a Marine--killed in Korea. Bet you didn’t know that either.” Satterfield shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“During those first weeks in boot camp, I just couldn’t get the hang of it. The drill instructor jumped on my case from day one, even though I was giving it everything I had.”
Harry stopped again, as if exhausted, covering his face with his hands.
Satterfield sat transfixed, another French fry dangling from his fingers. “Are you all right, Harry? I mean . . .”
“Started. Have to finish.” Harry’s voice caught. “We got our first liberty and three or four other fellows and I went into San Diego. Ollie Krebs, Dex Hardwick, Fred Toddman and some others. We wanted to let off steam--glad to be off the base and free of the DI. Eighteen, nineteen years old, what did we know? Anyway, we went out drinking, making the rounds of bars and beer joints that catered to military folks. Bartenders didn’t care how old you were if you had a uniform.”
“Yes, go on.” Satterfield returned the fry to his plate.
“It must have been the third or fourth place--I can’t forget the name--it was called The Wagon Wheel. Pretty liquored up and clowning around. Right next to the parking lot there was a pole with a lamp on top, like one you’d expect to see with an old lamp lighter. Who knows what possessed me? I grabbed on to the pole with one hand and started swinging around it. Just goofing off. Can you picture it? “More or less.”
Apparently one of the glass panels was loose and, worse, it was cracked. My spinning around must have jarred it loose. All of a sudden a shard came falling straight down and slashed my arm. I woke up in Balboa Naval Hospital. They said it nearly severed a tendon. After the doctors patched me up, the Marines gave me a general discharge--I couldn’t perform.”
“But, surely, there’s nothing wrong with . . .”
“Don’t you see, Ted? I didn’t go because I screwed up; almost like I was trying to get out of it, expecting I’d be dropped. My buddies all went over there and got killed--just like my brother. He’d have been disappointed in me. It just happened.”
“We all thought . . . the medals?”
“All his. I picked them up in our old apartment and when I came here, I told people . . . I figured nobody really cared much about what a young guy parking cars and running errands,” he said. It just snowballed.” Shaking with emotion, Harry paddled through a sewer of self-vilification. “Anyway, it’s all out in the open. Now you know why I can’t sit on that platform. Believe me, I’d like to--for Ben and all the others.”
Satterfield looked at Harry, trying to grasp where he was coming from. “But, Harry, you haven’t hurt anyone. You haven’t collected any benefits, as far as I know. You’ve just been playing a kind of role.”
His face fraught with humiliation, Harry said, “What do you mean? Playing a role? I’m an impostor, Ted. Don’t you get it?” He tapped his chest. “In here I’ll always be a Marine. But, the fact is, I’m a God damned fraud.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Thanks for hearing me out. Tell the kid I’m sorry for the way I talked to him. Gotta go do some PT now.” With that, Harry Stone marched out of Millie’s Family Restaurant, leaving Ted Satterfield dumbfounded in his wake.
The next morning, alerted by her whimpering, a neighbor noticed PX pressed against Harry’s garage door. When the man saw rags stuffed under the door, he rushed back into his house and called 911.
Ronnie wrote the obituary. Harry Stone, long time resident of the Upper Valley and Vietnam era veteran (United States Marine Corps), died Thursday. The apparent cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. Mr. Stone was a twenty year employee at Valley Toyota and . . .
Neither Ronnie Higgins nor Ted Satterfield mentioned Ronnie’s scoop to anyone. People would find out about Harry soon enough; but they wouldn’t hear it first from them.
