The Farewell Medallion

Chapter 3

“Look Scott, there aren’t many things that could make me change these plans.  I swear, you should have looked into those eyes.  She wants so much to get some information about what happened to her dad.  .. .. Uh huh!  You’ve heard me talk about Art Trammble a million times.  He’s one of about fifty of the missing that they can’t really nail down what their fate was.  I’ve always figured he must be dead, but they’ve never located his body, or for that matter, anything about him.  I was the last one known to see him alive.”

Grant made the wall-mounted phone look like an old friend getting a privileged bit of information.  His left arm draped loosely over the top of the box while, head down he stared at the pavement, right hand pressed the receiver tightly to his ear.  The red tie and black coattails hung swaying in the mild March breeze.

“Okay, so I’ll just change the flight until the same time tomorrow and we will make it happen from there.” 

During the forty-five minute drive to the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport, Grant had stewed the entire way.  He couldn’t make up his mind; accept Lorna’s invitation to delay his flight, have dinner with her and talk about her father or keep his commitment to Scott in San Diego.  Finally, three exits before the airport, he told Jeff, “Get off here, I gotta make a phone call.”

Scott was the primary reason he had stayed with Betty when he returned from Vietnam in March of seventy-three after almost six years as a prisoner of war.  It had been difficult to accept that Scott had been abandoned to the care of Grant’s parents.  When he had discovered that Betty was having an affair with another man, what should have been a joyful homecoming turned into three months of psychological hell.  The tenuous marriage stumbled along when Betty returned begging forgiveness, vowing that she could be the person Grant thought he had married.

Scott became the justification for sticking with it through the years.  “And damn well worth it,” Grant would say, even though he couldn’t take much credit for the years he had avoided reality through work while Betty escaped through alcohol.

Okay, new plan, Grant thought, unconsciously avoiding the Civic hatchback with the booming four thousand amp speakers, as he made his way back to the double-parked mini-van in front of the Love’s convenience store.  The commitment to Scott could wait twenty-four hours while he attended the even more neglected responsibility to his old friend.  He was familiar with the sometime naive viewpoint of families of MIAs and he just hoped he could help foster a realistic understanding of the random inconsistencies of war for Lorna.

“So, how’s Scott?”  Jeff asked as he dropped the shift lever into drive.

“Doing fine.  Hey, I’m sorry to cause all this trouble.  I hope you can put up with me for another day.”

“No problem really.  My Saturday is free tomorrow.  Maybe we will even have some time to look through that old suitcase of Betty’s things that she left in our basement, you know, the stuff she left right before you were due back from Vietnam.”

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It was nearing seven and twilight when Grant made his way up the front walk of the modest red brick patio home in the north Dallas suburb softly whistling the theme from Carmen.  Two pizza boxes balanced on his right arm, a dozen fresh cut yellow chrysanthemums in the left, he tapped the doorbell with his elbow.

Something that looked like a white dust mop without the handle barked then decided to make a hasty retreat when the door opened.  Lorna looked like a college coed, casually decked out in jeans and extra large maroon sweatshirt.  “Ooh, they’re lovely.”  Her raised eyebrows showed her approval as she took the flowers.  “I hope you plan to eat a lot, Mr. Tiger.  C.L. won’t eat much and even though I’m eating for two it looks like you overdid it.”

“I wasn’t sure what you would like, so one’s hot and spicy and the other is a veggy mix.  I’d be a lot more comfortable if you would call me Grant.”

“Okay Grant, just set it on the table.  May I get you something to drink?”

“Sure whatever you’re having.”

“Well, for the benefit of the little tyke, I’m having water.  However I happen to have an excellent Berringer White Zin that I recommend.”

“That sounds superb.”  Grant glanced approvingly around the efficiency plan of the upscale starter home.  Framed Mondrian prints decorated the living room walls and a quiet Paderewski piano number formed the background.

“Who’s C.L.?” 

“C.L. is short for Coors Light, the brave dog that is waiting for curiosity to replace fear.”

She arranged the flowers in a white vase in the center of the table.  Then anticipating where his thoughts were going, “My husband, Stan works for a computer company that is doing most of its business in Houston.  I’m afraid we haven’t spent much time together since we moved here.”

Lorna took out a wineglass, retrieved the bottle of wine from the cabinet and handed it along with a silver corkscrew to Grant.  “Look, I hope you can eat and talk at the same time because I have an awful bunch of questions.”

There was an awkwardness at first as they reviewed the amazing coincidence of destiny that had brought together a past that had been separated for so long.  Lorna offered a brief description of what it was like to grow up on the farm in South Dakota with her five cousins all older than she was.

After a couple of slices of pizza and a glass of wine, Grant began to relive the old times of sharing Mrs. Heller’s apartment at the University of Indiana.  He had flipped a coin with Art to see who would sleep on the unheated sun porch in December.  Art had lost but convinced him over a couple of beers that Grant’s Native American heritage better prepared him for such rigors.  A bloodline from southern Italy wouldn’t stand a chance out there.

Then he remembered the time he borrowed Art’s fifty Ford coupe for his first date with Betty.  When it wouldn’t start, it was no problem.  Art just agreed to double with Carla and so they wouldn’t have to walk, Art and Grant pushed while Betty steered.

Lorna didn’t know any details about her mother, only that when Carla died in a single-car accident the medallion was found hanging on the corner of her crib.

She took the medallion from around her neck and placed the edge of her little finger in the channel indentation in the side.  “Is there something special about the emblem?  I’ve always wondered why the edge turns here.”  She held it out for Grant to take.

He looked again at the detail letting it take him back in time.  “There were four.  Each was different, connected by the channel that allowed them to lock together into a single piece.  We decided it was the perfect memento for four souls that had the intense affinity for togetherness that we did.

“There was nothing like Hong Kong in those days.  From the minute Betty and Carla met the ship we lived like royalty for a week; clothes from Sam the Taylor, high tea at the Peninsula Hotel and dinner at the Floating Restaurant.  It couldn’t get any better than that.  So after a perfect week the medallions became the special symbol of our commitment to a lasting friendship.”

He paused, suddenly aware that he had drifted away in retrospection, then glancing at Lorna hanging intently on every word, he continued.

“That was the last time the four of us were together.”  He handed the medallion back to her.  “It’s the only one left, and now I’m the last of the Hong Kong four.”

“Wasn’t that just before I was born?” Lorna asked.

Grant smiled.  “That’s right, I hadn’t thought about that.  In a way you were there too.”

Lorna, about to ask another question, was interrupted by C.L. giving credence to his name by streaking across the room like a silver bullet.  Grant held out a piece of sausage.  C.L. wheeled around a chair leg and studied the situation like a bull trying to decide whether or not to charge the matador.  “Time for you to get some fresh air, buster.”  Lorna scooped him up with one hand and headed for the patio door.

Grant moved his wineglass to the Ethan Allen coffee table and settled complacently into the black leather recliner.  With each gesture Lorna evoked a new memory of Carla and Art.

Kicking off her loafers, she sat with her feet curled under on the couch.  She leaned forward, blue eyes focused intently on his.  “Grant, do you think my father could still be alive?”

Caught with his guard down, he gulped.  This was clearly a question with no suitable answer.  He began slowly trying to choose the right words.

“There’s a DOD office known as DPMO; it stands for something like Defense Department POW/MIA Office.  They are extremely dedicated men who have worked continuously on this problem since the end of the war.  They painstakingly research every scrap of evidence and every detail to determine what happened to each person listed as missing in action.  Your father is one of the few cases where there is no clear determination.  We became separated after I saw him alive on the ground.  No one ever saw or heard from him after that.”

“Then he could still be alive.”

“Highly unlikely.”

Lorna turned and opened the drawer of the end table.  From a large manila envelope she took an eight by ten grainy black and white photograph and handed it to Grant.  The picture, faded and tattered, showed a gaunt, stoop-shouldered man in a flight suit walking just in front of a diminutive oriental carrying a 1917 Remington army rifle twice his size.

“Could that be my dad?” She asked.

Grant knew how much she wanted to believe that it was.  He had seen many pictures like this before but was aware the authentic ones had been exhaustively checked out and unfortunately, there were also some that were simply a hoax.

“I really can’t tell.  I wish I could be more positive.  There just isn’t enough detail.  Where’d you get it?”

“It came in the mail after I wrote to the National Alliance of Families of MIAs.  That was just before Christmas last year right after I got pregnant; Stan was away and for the first time I became concerned about who my real parents were.  Aunt Alice and Uncle Wes couldn’t have been better parents but they never told me anything about my real mom and dad.”

She continued talking as she got up to let C.L. back in.  He was not quite content until he surveyed his options, then vaulted to her lap, and readjusted his position three times before reaching the appropriate snugly position, commander of his environment.

“There’s more.  I’ve met some other people this year who are very positive and sincere about helping me find out more information.  That’s why I am so excited to get to talk to you.  I think it’s destiny.  Do you think I’m crazy to think that?”

“Not at all.  It’s not crazy as long as you don’t become obsessive and get carried away.”

“Uh oh!  Carried away?  Is it getting carried away to trust in someone who conveys hope”

“I just think hopes have to be realistic.”

Lorna pushed the manila envelope across the couch.  “Do you think these people are realistic or carried away?”

“LIVE Americans being held against their will in SE Asia.”  The caption sprang from the page in red on black letters.  Another bordered in red and blue with a picture of the American Flag stated, “It is not we who served who abandoned our comrades to enemy captivity.”  Several pages had names and addresses of contacts and a few messages seeking support for the cause.  The last sheet was an article, no date, entitled “Broderick Jasper, Former Green Beret Searches for POW Camp” printed on newsprint with the warning, <CONFIDENTIAL>, on top and bottom.

The article described a mountain camp in a cave in northern Laos near the border of China and Vietnam rumored to be supported by a coalition of fringe element Laotian and Vietnamese guerrillas.  It reported sightings of Caucasian prisoners and quoted Jasper as saying he will not rest as long as there is a chance that an American POW is there.

Grant surveyed the papers spread out on the coffee table and took a deep breath letting the air whisper through his teeth.  “This is troubling stuff.  There just isn’t anything to back it up.”

“What if there was?” Lorna asked.

“U.S. intelligence would know.”

“They might decide it’s politically expedient to look the other way.”

Grant shook his head.  “I don’t think so.”

Lorna paused, a hint of a pout on her lower lip.  C.L., now resting his head on his front paws with eyes closed, exhaled in a low growl.

“I talked to Mr. Jasper on the phone,” she said.  I believe him.”

“You – did – what?  Uh, what did he say.”

“He said he found the location of the camp.  He used some kind of night vision surveillance equipment and estimates about a half dozen prisoners are still being held there.”

“And?”

“And, he wants to take a small expeditionary force; go in and rescue them; highly secret, of course.”

“I would hope highly secret.  How does he think he can pull off something like this?  Even the real Special Forces would need all the intelligence, training and support they could muster.”

“He says he has better contacts and not as many constraints as they have.”

“So where does he get his resources?”

“Several MIA families have contributed to the cause.  There is a fund of over two hundred thousand.  He could use more he says, to increase the chance for success, but by using some of his own money he will be able to make it.”

“I see.  And did you give him some money?”

“I hope you can understand.  The money is what was left of the trust established when I was young; from my dad’s pay and survivor’s benefits.  I had to believe it was the best use for it.  Don’t you think so?”

“How much was it?”

“Seventy thousand.  Grant, do you think I did the right thing.”

Grant took a deep breath and raised his heavy eyebrows undermining the attempt to mask his increasing suspicion and anxiety.  “I wish I knew.  How did you get in touch with this Jasper guy?”

“Through the author, Tracey Halberson.  Are you familiar with her book, ‘Prelude to Cataclysm’?”
Grant nodded.  It sounded vaguely familiar.

Lorna continued, “I got to meet her last month in Albuquerque when she met with members of six families in the area.  I feel comfortable that she knows what she’s doing.  She has worked with Mr. Jasper through the Alliance.  They plan to meet so that he can bring her up to date on any last minute details and she can get the funds raised from the MIA families to him.”

Grant managed to hide the little cringe that he couldn’t avoid.  “Have they met already?”

“I don’t think so.  I believe it’s sometime in the next few days, maybe Monday.”

“Do you know where?”

“No.  They said we should keep it pretty hush-hush.  Of course I’m sure you know all about the need for secrecy and only knowing what is essential.  They say there are many dangerous factions that are trying to undermine the truth about our MIAs including some in the government.”

“I understand.”  He really didn’t.  He couldn’t understand how anyone could twist the extended grief and confusion of the MIA families for their own ends; or how Lorna was buying in to this.  He wore his gloom on his face.

“Do you think it would help if you talked to Tracey?  I think she would like to talk to you considering the circumstances.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt anything.”

C.L. awoke abruptly when Lorna got up to get the phone from the bedroom and grumbled a circle on the carpet before deciding to accept a palm shaped elevator ride into the recliner with his head resting on Grants arm.

Lorna returned and handed Grant a yellow post-it note. “That’s her phone number.  Her machine answered.  I left a message saying you would be calling.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Lorna smiled, pointing to C.L.  “He must sense the relationship of our spirits.  He’s never taken up with a stranger that quickly before.”

“He’s a highly perceptive dog.”  Grant seemed calmer and more relaxed now.

“Lorna, I have to confess.  I’m very skeptical about all of this.  I mean, it sounds kind of wild, and doesn’t seem to fit with my concept of the order of things.  I’ve lived with the mystery of why I came back and Art didn’t for thirty years, believing that he died and that everything possible was being done to locate his body.  At the same time, I’ve always held the conviction that if there’s the slightest chance that any American remains in captivity we must do everything in our power to find out the truth and if they are found, bring them back.  I’d do anything I could to find out what happened to Art. . . And I will do my best to see this to the end.”

Lorna leaned over and kissed Grant gently on the side of his forehead.