Authors: Greg Dinallo
“There was a body,” I exclaim, pushing the copy of the field casualty report into her hands. “Look, they recovered a body. My name, my serial number.”
T
he identification block on the copy of the report I’m holding reads
A. Calvert Morgan.
This document is responsible, beyond any doubt, for my name being on the Vietnam Memorial. I put it on my desk in the den and spend the weekend thinking about it, going back to it again and again, deducing whatever I can from the wealth of information it contains.
Not only does it confirm that a body with my dog tags and military ID was recovered; it also confirms the time/place parameters—12 May 1968, Bolikhamsai Province, Laos. Furthermore, it has three names and signatures that confirm, and perhaps promise, more:
Sergeant Richard A. Foster—graves registration officer, 24th Evac, which not only confirms that the body was recovered but also that the reporting process, which provided the information on the master casualty list, was initiated.
Warrant Officer Mario Farina—helicopter pilot, 1st Air Cav, which confirms graves registration carried out their procedures and released the body for shipment to the morgue.
Staff Sergeant John Bartlett—in-processing NCO at the main mortuary, Ton Son Nhut Airbase, Saigon, which confirms the body was actually delivered and accepted by mortuary personnel.
Despite them, and despite a body being identified as mine by mistake, I’m no closer to learning the man’s identity, or to answering the other questions that have been confounding me.
Why the BNR entry on the master casualty list?
Why the cross, the MIA designation on the wall?
Why the failure to come up with a loss scenario that matches the parameters I’d provided? Captain Sullivan agreed that a soldier, whoever he was, had to be listed as unaccounted for if a body had been recovered and incorrectly identified as mine—and one had.
The report also contains one puzzling surprise. Contrary to what I and others have reasoned, the Cause of Casualty block reads
Killed hostile, small arms fire, torso.
It’s clear that these wounds didn’t obscure the man’s identity, creating the potential for error. How could my dog tags and military ID, which included my photograph, be accepted as someone else’s? It eventually occurs to me that just because I asked for copies of everything in my mortuary file doesn’t mean I got them.
Monday morning, I’m sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee, reviewing the casualty report for the umpteenth time, when Nancy comes from the house with a refill and the newspaper. She pauses briefly as she approaches the table and looks off across the hill, then, mimicking a line from a movie about supernatural phenomenon whose name escapes me, sing-songs the words “They’re back.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Over there,” she replies, pointing behind me to a section of road that, unlike the part visible from the den, winds around the rear of the house.
I look back over my shoulder and see a patch of blue hood and section of windshield visible between the trees. “You’re right. It’s the same car.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I say, pushing back my chair.
“Cal—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
I saunter down the steps from the deck, and walk casually toward the road that is about fifty yards away on the far side of a rocky slope. The underbrush is stunted and sparse. Through a gap in the trees I can make out a figure behind the wheel. I’m fairly certain it’s the same man I saw several days ago. He’s staring straight ahead unaware of my approach, then he senses he’s not alone and his head snaps in my direction. The reflections on the windshield tend to obscure him; but he appears to be thirtyish, his
face narrow and tanned, topped by dark hair that’s slicked back. I can feel his eyes boring into me from behind his sunglasses and I become a little apprehensive. Maybe Nance was right. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I pause, then deciding that giving in to fear and apathy produces only more fear and apathy, I resume walking. I’m about halfway there when the man suddenly starts the engine and the car drives off. I stand there for a long moment watching the blue reflections vanish in the distance, then return to the house and report the incident to the County Sheriff’s department, describing the car and driver as best I can.
“You didn’t happen to get the license number, or maybe part of it?” the officer asks.
“No, I’m sorry. It was too far away.”
“Well, as you probably know, Mr. Morgan, we’ve had some burglaries up in your area lately. Evidently the perpetrator waits until people leave for work, then he goes to work. We’ve been increasing our patrols as a deterrent.”
“Well, maybe I scared him off for good.”
Nancy and I secure the house, activate the alarm system, and leave. As soon as I get to the office, I call Army Mortuary Affairs in San Antonio. The line is busy. The invention of the redial button ranks third behind the wheel and computer. When I finally get through, it takes the duty clerk less than a minute to confirm that the casualty report is the only document in my file.
“Is this normal?” I wonder.
“No, sir.”
“Well, what else should be in the file?”
“Hell, all kinds of stuff. I got me the list right here,” he replies a little too eagerly. “There ought to be a toe tag with a mortuary processing number; an anatomical chart showing the location and nature of the wounds; an embalming statement from the mortician; a ready notice, which means the body’s been prepared for shipment; shipping records, which would include a transfer case number; and a form thirteen hundred, which is the official death certificate.”
“Sounds like a few things are missing.”
“Sure does.”
“Any idea why?”
“Well, yeah. I think it’s pretty obvious a mistake was made somewhere along the line, don’t you?”
“If one wasn’t, the odds of us having this conversation would be pretty slim, wouldn’t they?”
“Oh, yeah, right,” he says, amused by his own denseness. “Of course, it’s been more than twenty years, and to tell you the truth, I’m kind of new at this. I can’t explain it, but I’ll ask around.”
“Sure. I’ll check back with you,” I say, knowing I’m wasting my time. I kick back in the chair and spin toward the windows, taking stock of the situation, which seems iffy at best.
If
the key to solving this exists, it lies with the men who signed the casualty report twenty-four years ago.
If
they survived.
If
they can remember. At least there’s someone I can call to help track them down. I dial the NPRC in St. Louis, get Jack Collins on the line, and brief him.
“No kidding,” he exclaims, clearly intrigued by the existence of a body.
“Look, Jack, I need to find these guys. Can you help me?”
A long breath hisses through the phone. “Not officially, no. But I’m curious as hell to find out what this is all about. Give me a little time to do some free-lance digging and I’ll get back to you.”
A couple of hours later, my secretary tells me Collins is on the line.
“I got good news and bad news,” he says with enthusiasm, which makes me optimistic. “Farina, the chopper pilot, was killed in action, but the other two made it.”
“You have locations on them?”
“On one of ’em. Foster. He lives in a town called Paradise just outside of Las Vegas. He’s a musician, works at the Stardust Hotel.”
“Nothing on Bartlett, the mortuary guy?” I ask, jotting the information down.
“Not enough. The last address we have for him is a V.A. hospital in Wyoming. That was eight years ago. He seems to have dropped out of sight after being released. It’ll take a little time but I can check with veterans’ organizations in the area. They might have something on him.”
“Great. I’ll run with what I’ve got for now.”
I hang up smiling. Not only do I have a lead, but Vegas is less than an hour by plane from Los Angeles. Better yet, it’s one of my all-time favorite getaways. Nancy and I go there at least a couple of times a year.
“So, what do you say?” I ask after briefing her over dinner. “Want to hit Vegas tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll tell my class I’m taking the day off to go on a gambling junket with my husband.”
“Come on, Nance, they can get along without you for one day.”
“Why not go on the weekend?”
“Somehow I knew you’d say that.”
“But that’s five days away and it’s driving you crazy. Right?”
“Right.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“I could,” I reply, breaking into a grin. “But then I wouldn’t get to go to Vegas, would I?”
“Somehow I knew you’d say that.”
“Besides,” I explain more seriously, “there’s something about this. I feel the need to meet these guys, see their eyes, you know what I mean?”
She nods thoughtfully and kisses my cheek.
Late the next morning, having taken care of some business that required my attention, I drive to LAX—mirrors free of metallic blue cars—and catch a flight to McCarran International Airport in the desert southeast of Las Vegas. I hire one of the chauffeured limos that are lined up outside the terminal and head for the Stardust.
One of the oldest and most luxurious hotels on the Strip, the Stardust is no Disneyland like the Excalibur or Mirage, but an updated fifties-style gaming palace with a dazzling neon tower and an immense, totally illuminated facade that advertises the spectacular Lido de Paris and its troupe of topless dancers.
The glitzy lobby is alive with the unmistakable cacophony of things spinning, whirring, and clacking, the throbbing pulse of the casino that never fails to raise the hair on the back of my neck when I first hear it. I ask the stunningly attractive woman in the information booth about Richard Foster. She points to a poster that proclaims
Constellation Lounge, The Piano Stylings of DICK FOSTER,
and informs me he’s on now. I thread my way between the gaming tables to a dimly lit cavern on the far side of the casino.
The handsome black man at the piano is playing the blues with feeling and virtuosity as much for himself as for his audience. I write CAL MORGAN G COMPANY RANGERS on the back of a Keno slip, and have the cocktail waitress deliver it to him. As he nods in acknowledgment, two tall, shapely women in elegant skintight
dresses glide into the lounge. Jet-setters? Hookers? Probably both. This is Vegas. One of them catches my eye and smiles. I pretend not to notice, hoping she hasn’t mistaken my curiosity for something more. A few minutes later, the piano player finishes his song and joins me.
“Morgan, G Company Rangers,” Dick Foster says in a soft, deep-South accent as he folds his lanky frame into a chair and studies my face trying to remember it. “We cross paths over there somewhere?”
“Sort of. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
We order drinks, and I show him the copy of the casualty report with his name and signature. His expression darkens as I shorthand my story, and ask if he remembers opening a body bag and finding my military ID and dog tags inside with the remains. When I finish, he flicks the report onto the table as if it’s a piece of radioactive waste and leans back staring at me with angry eyes. An avalanche of silver dollars comes from a nearby slot machine and fills the silence.
“I don’t need this, man,” he finally says in a threatening whisper. “Spent half a lifetime putting it out of my head.”
“I’m sorry. I explained how important it is.”
“Well, that don’t mean jack to me.”
“Look, you signed that report. You had my tags in your hand. They were laced to my boots. You’re as close as I’ve come to licking this. Come on, try and remember the guy.”
“Hell, you know how many bags I handled? Like thousands. Besides, for three hundred and sixty-five days all I cared about was making it.” He pauses and holds his long expressive fingers in front of my face, then adds, “
All
of me making it. That’s where my head was at.”
“Yeah, and you pulled it off. I’m trying to do something for a guy who didn’t.”
“And you figure that gives you the right to walk in here off the street and put me through this fucking pain?”
“Bet your fucking ass, I do,” I reply matching his tone. “This thing came my way, and I saw too many men die to let it go. Now, try and remember, will you?”
He sighs, shoulders sagging with the weight of the memory. “Oh, I remember, man, do I ever remember,” he finally says, then he sees my expression brighten and, with a measure of disgust,
quickly adds, “No, man, not your fucking tags. Bloody chunks of meat that used to be human beings, that’s what I remember. The recovery teams shoveled ‘em up and put the tags and ID in with the ones they figured they belonged to. No way they didn’t make mistakes sometimes.”
“Yes, but take another look at this,” I plead, pushing the casualty report toward him. “Chest wound, small arms fire. This guy wasn’t disfigured or dismembered. How could there be a mistake?”
He peruses it and shrugs. “Good question. Maybe some kind of fuck-up at the mortuary. Who knows?”
“But they had fingerprints, dental records.”
“I don’t know, man,” he says, becoming frustrated. “I worked collection points. Far as we were concerned, every KIA was identified as believed-to-be.”
“Yes, I know. I was just hoping you might be able to recall something that’d give me a clue to the poor bastard’s identity.”
He nods and glances to the copy of the casualty report again. “A. Calvert Morgan,” he says rolling the syllables, his brow furrowing as he searches for a connection, then he shakes his head. “My screen’s blank, man. Nothing.”
My lips tighten into a thin line. I nod glumly. “Well, thanks for trying,” I say, accepting that he can’t give me what I want. I feel beaten and discouraged, and I realize it shows because his eyes are compassionate now, not angry.
“Sorry I popped off before,” he offers, pausing thoughtfully before adding, “It’s a good thing you’re doing.”
I smile, then nod to the piano. “You too. Got a real nice touch.”
“Thanks.”
“You do ‘Dock of the Bay’?”
“You kidding? When I was in-country there was Otis Redding, and then there was everybody else.”
“Jimi, Aretha, and B.B. King,” I say, rapid-fire.