A Hideous Beauty (20 page)

Noonan. I recognized the name. “You're talking about Lieutenant Roy Noonan . . . the man the president attempted to rescue in the Ho Bo Woods.”

Doc Palmer looked at me with great sadness. He took no joy in what he said next. There was no righteous indignation, no satisfaction at setting the record straight, only sadness, the kind that comes when you're forced to peel back reality's skin and show someone how ugly life can be. He said, “Lloyd Douglas may have pulled Noonan out of the Ho Bo Woods, but only after he murdered him.”

“No . . . I can't accept that.” My denial rang hollow. Even as I stood there with coffee grounds on my feet, the story I'd written, now a screenplay, was being filmed for a television special, and all of a sudden I sensed what I hadn't sensed before—that the reason it would make such a great television movie was because it was no more real than any other movie made in Hollywood.

The account as I had heard it portrayed Lieutenant Noonan as a likable fellow, dashing, handsome, but ambitious, and his ambitions often put his platoon in needless danger.

Living in the shadow of a famous father—all-American at Yale, World War II hero, congressman-turned-senator—Roy Noonan was in Vietnam for one reason only, as a springboard to political office. His father, inspired by Joseph Kennedy, had charted a path for him that would lead to the White House.

Fresh from personal leave, Noonan returned just as Alpha Company had come off a long, difficult mission. To curry favor with his superiors, Noonan volunteered his platoon for a particularly dangerous mission in the Ho Bo Woods. The location was a notorious death trap. Alpha Company could expect to come up against fresh Vietcong units, elite units of Vietcong sappers, and a complex system of tunnels and speed trails. All of this under a triple-thick jungle canopy.

It was a suicide mission. That's how everyone in Alpha Company saw it. Everyone except their ambitious platoon leader. He saw it as a chance to impress a few generals.

The night before the mission the men were unusually quiet. They drank heavily to numb their nerves and prepare themselves for certain death. Sensing their mood, indeed sharing it, Douglas moved among the men, encouraging them, praying with them.

The next morning, with a whine of turbines, Alpha Company was airlifted to a savannah-like clearing where they were dropped into smoke and confusion. With gunfire erupting from the woods, they maneuvered their way around tree stumps, termite mounds, and the skeletons of a hundred or more cattle. Fighting their way to the perimeter, they dug in.

The plan was to press the initiative, to keep the enemy off balance and not give them time to react. After establishing their night defensive position, they sent out ambushes along the enemy's speed trails.

Shaken by the heavy resistance during the drop, Lieutenant Noonan fell apart. He began whispering excitedly that he could hear the enemy all around them. He insisted on staying where they were. The only way to get him to carry out the mission was for Douglas to promise to remain at his side and protect him, and then, only with repeated encouraging could Douglas keep Noonan focused on the mission.

Twilight came and darkness crept through the jungle with surprising speed. Everything they touched was wet and slimy and dripping. Traversing the forest was like walking in a cave or a tomb that was covered with vines.

The enemy struck without warning, lighting up the area with a barrage of mortars, grenades, and tracer bullets. Everyone scattered from the trail, diving into the woods. True to his word, Douglas stuck with Noonan.

That's when Noonan lost it. He fell to the ground in a fetal position, refusing to move. While Douglas returned fire, an enemy grenade landed between them.

In a frozen moment, the two men exchanged glances. Noonan's eyes crystallized with the realization of what he had to do. He threw himself on top of the grenade.

Douglas fell to his knees and cradled his platoon leader in his arms. Just before he died, Noonan said to Douglas, “It's better this way, that you live and I die. Go home. Make your life count. Remember, from this moment on, you're living the hopes and dreams of two men.”

Despite heavy fire and at great personal risk, Douglas carried his fallen friend back to the medevac helicopter, and when Vietnamese regulars, scared from the fighting, tried to pull American corpses from the helicopter so that there would be room for them to climb in and escape, Douglas held them back at gunpoint, threatening to shoot them.

For his heroic actions in the Ho Bo Woods, Lieutenant Lloyd Douglas was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. And when his party nominated him as their candidate to run for president, his campaign slogan was: “He carries the hopes and dreams of all Americans on his shoulders.”

At Doc Palmer's farm, I shuffled my feet in the dirt and sat next to him on the front bumper. “Enlighten me,” I said. “If it didn't happen as I recorded it in my book, how did it happen?”

Doc sighed as though debating whether or not he wanted to relive the pain that would come with the telling. “You have the basic timeline and events of the mission correct. We had just come off a long march and our tails were dragging. We were surprised when they told us we'd be going out again so soon. But Noonan had nothing to do with our unit being selected for the mission. We were notified of the mission before he returned
from leave. Like the rest of us, he didn't like it, but when the orders came down, he obeyed them.

“As for Noonan falling apart under fire? He was no more scared than any of the rest of us. You'd be nuts not to be afraid. But to the point of cowardice or incapacitation? Hogwash. Your characterization doesn't fit the man.”

I was willing to concede his point. “You claim that Douglas murdered Noonan. How can you know that? They were separated from the rest of the platoon.”

“Douglas was there,” Doc said. “He told me.”

“Now I know you're blowin' smoke. Douglas told you he fragged Noonan? You expect me to believe that? What . . . did he just come up one day and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Doc, that heroic act that has become the cornerstone of my entire political career? It didn't really happen the way everyone thinks it did. What really happened is that I dragged my commanding officer into the woods and murdered him.'”

Had my sarcasm been spittle, it would have hit Palmer in the face. He made no effort to wipe it off.

Staring sadly at the ground, in a low voice Doc said, “I didn't want to believe it either.”

Having forgotten all about the coffee grounds on my feet, I waited for him to offer an alternative account. He repositioned himself on the bumper. “Let me tell you something about Roy Noonan,” he said. His eyes took on an unfocused stare as in his mind Doc Palmer returned to Vietnam. “We had holed up in a bombed-out pagoda at an intersection of sorts, little more than a cluster of dirt lanes that connected the nearby farms and villages. We set up an ambush.

“Just before dawn we heard an ominous creaking sound. At first we couldn't tell which direction it was coming from, but it was getting louder. There was a curfew in effect, so we interpreted any sound as unfriendly. We figured it was a twenty-
millimeter gun, or maybe one of those recoilless rifles on wheels. Anyway, the order came down to take it out as soon as it entered our kill zone.

“The next thing we know, there was a blinding flash of claymores—antipersonnel mines—being set off, and in the middle of it all was an old man and a team of oxen pulling a heavy cart. The oxen were riddled with shrapnel, and they began bellowing something awful and thrashing about. They blindly pulled the cart off the road and into a field where it got mired down.

“In all the confusion, an order was given to hit the position with mortars. But even after several rounds, the oxen were still alive and still bellowing while the old man found a place on the side of the road and began wailing over the loss of his oxen and his crop—peanuts—which were scattered all over the road.

“As the sky grew lighter, the situation got worse. The bellowing of the injured oxen was getting on everyone's nerves. So was the old man's wailing. That he had survived was a miracle itself. The only thing we can figure is that the thick sides of the cart protected him.

“Some of our men became so fed up with the cries of the oxen, that they began to throw hand grenades into the field, hoping to kill them. By now about a hundred local peasants had gathered on the roads and in horror were watching what the soldiers were doing. Finally, one machine gunner couldn't take it anymore. He walked to the side of the field and opened up on the oxen until they were all dead.

“That's when Lieutenant Noonan arrived to assess the situation. Also drawn to all the noise was the enemy. They chose that moment to open fire. We all scattered, diving for the nearest hole we could find, while the farmer, stunned by his loss, continued wailing on the side of the road, caught between two armies.

“Noonan took out after him. Under heavy fire he sprinted across the road, grabbed the farmer by his shoulders, and dragged
him into a ditch where he tended the man's wounds. Then he called for a medevac to airlift this wounded farmer to the hospital. Under a hail of bullets, Lieutenant Noonan carried the farmer to the chopper.

“Does that sound to you like a man who would wimp out during an exchange of enemy fire in the Ho Bo Woods?” he asked.

I had to admit it didn't.

“A few days later,” Doc continued, “I was at the hospital getting supplies when I saw Lieutenant Noonan visiting that same farmer. I overheard him apologize to the farmer for the actions of his men and instruct the man where to submit the necessary forms to recover his loss.

“You don't hear stories like that on the news. You hear about the atrocities, the ugliness. But that day I witnessed a man acting like a man. Taking responsibility. Doing what he could to make things right. For what? A peasant farmer he didn't know. There were no cameras there to record what he did. Noonan stood up for what was right and decent. To me, that's a true leader and I knew I would follow that man anywhere.”

Sometimes the way a man speaks of another man is more revealing than the words themselves. I felt a respect for Lieutenant Noonan I'd never had before simply by the way Doc spoke of him.

But Doc still hadn't answered my question. “What reason did Douglas have for killing such a man?” I said.

“What reason does any man have for killing another man?” Doc replied philosophically. His face became drawn and saddened again. “Douglas told me what happened shortly before he announced he was running for a second term. At the time he was depressed and in a lot of pain.”

“Physical pain?”

The knowing smile reappeared. “Vietnam took its toll on Douglas more than is generally known. Not only his combat wounds, but diseases he contracted while on leave, and a degenerative disk disease in his back. We managed to hold him together for the rigors of the first campaign, but in doing so he became addicted to his pain medication.”

“Addicted?” It was the first time I'd heard any of this.

“As his personal physician it was my role to make him presentable to the public and lucid during key conferences and meetings. Each year my job grew increasingly difficult. I told them I would do it for only one four-year term and when Douglas decided to run again I opted out. At the levels he's at, the medication is as much of a killer as the diseases. Most of the time anymore the man is so heavily medicated he isn't competent.”

“Isn't competent! I don't believe this!” I cried.

“Naturally, it's kept secret. Only a few people know how serious his condition is. As for what you believe . . . you came looking for the truth. Whether you accept it is not my concern.”

When I was researching the book my access to the president came in ten- and fifteen-minute chunks of time, and on more than one occasion was canceled without warning. Pressing affairs of state was the standard excuse.

“You said he was depressed when he told you about Noonan,” I prompted.

“He overreacted to my decision to leave him, threw a tantrum. He knew how I felt about Noonan and wanted to hurt me.”

Doc fell silent for a few moments. Digging up the memory dug up old pain with it.

“He told me that when they separated from the rest of the platoon in the Ho Bo Woods, he saw his chance to rid himself of Noonan, who he saw as a threat. Not so much in Vietnam, but when they got back home and into politics. Douglas could see himself playing second fiddle to Noonan for the rest of his life.

“You know . . . now that I think of it . . . I remember Douglas's attitude changing soon after Thorson arrived. Under normal circumstances, new guys aren't readily accepted. Their lack of experience can get a whole unit killed. This guy, Thorson—Thor's son, he made a big deal of it—latched onto Douglas the moment he arrived and was constantly huddled together with him.

“I'm telling you, the man was strange—this Thorson fellow. One time in the middle of a firefight I happened to look up and there he was sitting at the top of a tree paying no attention to what was going on down below. Well, one of the VC saw him and fired at him. The guy dropped out of the tree like a ripe piece of fruit. Then, when we went to get him—to pick up the pieces, we thought—the guy wasn't there. It was as though the earth had swallowed him up. No one saw him until later that night when he came strolling into camp, pretty as you please. Said he'd gotten confused and it took a while for him to find us.”

“Thorson . . .” I said, reaching for a writing pad I keep in my shirt pocket. “I don't believe I came across that name in my research.”

“First name, Gregory. I think he was from New Jersey, but that don't matter. Don't bother to look him up. Near the end of our tour of duty, Thorson wandered off during an ambush and never came back. Presumed MIA.”