1981–1983
NICK CASTALANO RAN WHAT THE LOCAL WHITE-SHOE firms called a one-lung law practice, a two-room office over Zorba’s Luncheonette, where he could set his watch by the smells that wafted up the ventilation shaft, where the only items he actually owned were a few law books, a chess set and a phone with an extension that sat on the secretary’s desk. Everything else, the desks, the credenza, a side chair and a gray steel filing cabinet was leased. Over the past few years he had done contract work for the VA, defending the agency when it had turned down claims and veterans sued. That work had dried up, so Nick resorted to advertising divorce, DUI and debt collection. Most days he stayed holed up in his office, working on cases, reading and playing chess with a few luncheonette regulars he had gotten to know, but on Fridays, to get away from the smell of fried fish, he left the office early and walked two blocks to the American Legion Club. One particular Friday, while Nick sat at the bar watching a Yankee shutout, Art Girardin, an infrequent patron, took up the stool next to him, ordered a beer and began to tell him a wild tale about his brother Roger, last seen twenty-seven years ago in a North Korean POW camp along the Manchurian border.
Art told Nick about the day a letter came from the Army notifying the family that it listed Roger as MIA, somewhere in North Korea. Four years later another letter arrived, indicating that the Army entered a presumed finding of death, based upon having received no further reports. Art never believed that his brother could simply have vanished. And years later, when families were raising issues about Vietnam MIAs, he began his own investigation by perusing declassified Army records. He told Nick he believed that Roger was then, and now, a POW. Art, picking up on Nick’s curiosity, excused himself, went to his car and returned with a battered briefcase full of “evidence” gathered over the years. Intrigued by what little he had read—an International Red Cross report listing Roger Girardin as a POW, and a later, official Army letter stating Girardin was MIA, presumed dead—Nick invited Art back to his office to make a better assessment of Art’s collection. More than curiosity, though, Nick’s instinct told him that this could be one hell of an opportunity for his struggling practice.
Art Girardin, slightly overweight, early-fifties, had worked in the Department of Transportation for the past nineteen years, spending most of that time inspecting roads throughout Connecticut. He had a ruddy complexion and thick muscular hands that did not go with the image of a guy who had painstakingly rifled through the arcane records of a complicated war. Now seated in Nick’s office, he started from the beginning.
“Yeah, this old bastard at the National Archives told me I was wastin’ my time. But I said to this little prick, get the goddamn records out, an’ let me decide. That was the middle of, no, beginning of ’77 when I first went to D.C. The fucking Army was, well, they were worse than the guy at the Archives.”
Nick perused one document after another while Art briefed him and let off steam.
“For almost three goddamn years I went back and forth to the Archives, running down leads going nowhere, others pointing to people who vaguely remembered a Girardin, writing admirals, generals, staffers at the Department of Defense, the U.N. Military Armistice Commission and the CIA. Then the minute I found a guy, out in California, who definitely could place Roger in Camp 13 in ’52, he turns up dead two weeks later. It was like either collective amnesia, or the thing was hexed.”
Nick tried to size up this man, who had worked himself into a lather, to make sure he wasn’t some whacko on a crusade.
“Yeah, useless politicians mostly humored me. Promised more than they delivered,” Art continued sullenly. “And depending on who was in, they talked to one or more of these asshole bureaucrats in the Defense Department.”
“Which ones did you contact?” Nick asked.
“Oh, Goodsmith, from Georgia, Walkovich, Welsh, Connecticut. Yeah, these suckers have short-term attention. They read from a patriotic script and eventually move on. But, I never let them forget me, what it means to find some poor foot soldier, the gullible kid who drank the Kool aide and enlisted. And who now may be living in hell somewhere.”
“Have you been in touch lately? With the politicians?”
Art threw his arms in the air. “No, these jerks all called it quits after a little publicity.” Art looked at his puffy hands. “I wished I had a crystal ball, so I could see what goes on in those bureaucracies.”
“They hide a lot, Art, they hide,” Nick commiserated.
Bemoaning, Art continued, “Now, well, the Pentagon dropped us. Like a sack of shit. They don’t even take my calls.” He slammed a fist into his palm. “Goddamn it, I want my day in court. This is my last chance. We gotta get them to listen, Nick. Can you do that?” he was pleading now.
“Art, before I say yes, I need to know what you’re trying to do. I mean, your brother’s been gone thirty years. A lot of boys didn’t come back. What is it, Art?” Nick looked deep into the man’s eyes.
“Listen, Nick, on my dad’s sixty-fifth birthday, I made him a promise that I’d find out what happened to Roger. My brother, dead or alive is over there, unclaimed. I’ve come to bring him home, the only way I know how.”
Nick had a military habit of standing ruler-straight in his 5’11”, one-hundred and fifty pound frame, which as of late shouldered the gathering disappointments of life. But tonight he rose from his chair, shoulders curved and an unmistakable weariness in his eyes adding ten years to his already advancing forty. He had grown up not far from the town center in a working-class family; his father had hammered home the idea that hard work built character. Yes, he knew about fathers, the heavy burden of expectations, the hopes unrealized, and the torment of those that lose or come close to losing their sons altogether. Drifting to the window overlooking West Street, he saw that the stores were dark, and his eyes focused on the reflection of his face—sunk behind a five o’clock shadow. At street level, people scurried for home. He took a deep breath.