Friendly Fire (12 page)

The boy's mother lived in a little tenant farmhouse outside Waverly, the county seat of Bremer County, about fourteen miles north of Waterloo. The Mullens found her farm and were surprised that no other cars were there. Peg was particularly shocked because they were surrounded by people at their own home. She and Gene got out of their car, walked up to the small porch and knocked. After a long wait a middle-aged woman opened the front door, but remained behind the locked storm door looking through the window at Peg and Gene.

“May I see Mrs. F_______?” Peg asked.

“I'm Mrs. F_______,” she said.

“Are you alone here?” Peg asked.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I'm Peg Mullen,” she said. “This is my husband Gene. Our son was killed last week in Vietnam and … well, we know your son is missing, that he's missing in action and we thought maybe we could help you.…”

The woman remained behind the locked door.

“Really,” Peg said, “can't we come in?”

The woman did not answer.

“We've had so many people, friends come to see us, and they've been such a help to us.… I can't believe you're here all alone. Can't we come in?”

The woman finally nodded yes and unlocked the storm door. Peg and Gene followed her inside, where two little girls stood watching wide-eyed and frightened, knuckles pressed to their lips. The woman brushed some books and papers off the old sofa and gestured that that was where the Mullens were to sit. She lowered herself onto a worn upholstered chair across from them and remained there, looking at the Mullens as if waiting for them to speak, so Peg did.

“Where was your son in Vietnam?” Peg asked.

“I don't know,” the woman said.

“You don't?” Peg asked, astonished.

The woman didn't answer.

Gene asked, “You mean, he never wrote to you from Vietnam?”

“He wrote me.”

“But didn't you write him?” Peg said. “Didn't you ask where he was?”

“I wrote to his APO address in San Francisco,” she said.

“Didn't he tell you anything in his letters?” Peg asked.

“Yes, but he never said where he was.”

“And you don't know what unit he was with?” Gene asked.

“No, I don't.”

“I can't understand this,” Peg said. “You mean you never asked your son where he was or … or what unit he was with, or what he was doing?”

“Yes, I asked him.”

“And he didn't tell you?”

“He told me,” the woman said.

“But then you say you don't know,” Gene said. “You said—”

“He told you where he was and what he was doing and you say you don't know where he was or what he was doing,” Peg said.
“What is the matter with you?”

The woman stiffened. “I can't talk.”

“What do you mean?” Peg asked.

“I just can't,” she said.

“But your son is missing in action,” Peg insisted. “He was in a tank that was burned and you say, you say you can't talk. What on earth is wrong with you?”

“Well, now I'll tell you,” the woman said. “We've been informed by the Army that we can't discuss this with anyone because it might—it might ‘aid and abet the enemy.' Until they confirm or deny that my son is dead or wounded, I'm simply not allowed to talk to anyone. And I won't.”

“Well, if I were you,” Peg said, “I'd get down on my knees and pray to God that they find your son, because I read in the newspapers—”

“Peg!” Gene warned.

“—about the battle he was in, and I don't think your son could have surv—”

“PEG!” Gene took his wife firmly by the hand and pulled her to her feet before she could finish. “We'd better be going, Mrs. F_______,” Gene said. “If there's anything we can do for you, please let us know. We hope we haven't upset you.…” He got Peg out the door, then turned back. “It's so very sad, so hard.…” The woman closed the door on them and turned away.

“What was the matter with her?” Peg asked as she got into the car. “Her son is dead! He was burned to death in a tank! For God's sake, they're not going to find her son, there's nothing
left
of him. And she still does what they tell her!”

From Waverly, the Mullens drove due east on Route 3 through Fayette County, then south to Dundee, a tiny town on the banks of the Maquoketa River, the home of the mother of a boy who had been killed the same day as Michael. The Mullens stopped at the general store to ask directions, and a man there said, “It's so kind of you to come to see those people that I'll take you out to where they live myself.”

“You don't have to do that,” Gene said. “Just tell us the way.”

“Nope, I'll take you,” the man said. “You'd never find it otherwise.”

The Mullens followed the man along the dirt section line roads, zigged and zagged until finally they reached a dilapidated and paint-peeled farmhouse and a broken-down barn. When Peg and Gene came up to the door, the woman invited them in right away. The Mullens explained why they had come, that Michael had died the same day as her son, and Peg noticed that here, too, no one had visited or brought any food. The mother thanked and thanked them for coming, explained that she was on welfare, that it had been very hard for them lately, but she hoped things would be better.

“You know, Mrs. Mullen”—the woman sighed—“this was the third of my sons to go to Vietnam.”

“Your
third?”
Peg asked.

“I have seven sons,” she explained, “and I prayed the first two out of the war, but when they drafted my third son, I was so discouraged.… He was my best son, mentally, physically, in every way, and when they drafted him, too, well I kind of lost faith in God. I guess I couldn't pray hard enough to pray him back home. But,” she said, smiling bravely, “the draft board is so kind. When I went to visit with them, they told me they would only draft five of my sons for Vietnam.”

Chapter Seven

It was now Friday morning, February 27, the seventh day since the Mullens had learned of their son's death and the third day since Captain Pringle had told Peg Mullen to call the Pentagon herself. The Mullens had not heard from the captain since. They knew neither who would be escorting Michael's body nor when it would arrive. The Mullen family, anxious, tired of waiting, was beginning to grow angry with Peg. In their impatience, they blamed Peg, she felt, because she had “defied the Pentagon and demanded our rights.”

That morning Peg recalled that Senator Hughes' aide had told her to wait no longer than three days, that if no word had come from the Army concerning their request for the special escort by then, the Senator would have Michael's remains released and sent home. It was the third day, so Peg telephoned the Senator's office to find out what she should do. The aide told her to wait a little longer; he would contact the Pentagon himself to see what was going on. He called back almost immediately. One of the escorts had, in fact, been located and was in the air on his way to Oakland. The aide did not, however, know which one. Peg thanked him and told him not to worry, that Captain Pringle would be able to tell them when he got in touch.

By four o'clock that afternoon, when the captain had still not called, Peg decided to telephone his office herself. She was told that Captain Pringle was not in, was not expected back, and that she might try him later at his home.

Moments later one of the ladies of Father Shimon's Sacred Heart Catholic Church telephoned that they were making their preparations for the dinner to be served those attending the funeral on Saturday, the next day.

“You're getting the dinner ready?” Peg asked, surprised. “But there isn't going to be any funeral tomorrow!”

“What do you mean?” the lady asked. “We thought you told Father Shimon—”

“I told him—I told Father Shimon yesterday morning that if we heard anything, if Michael's body arrived yesterday, we would hold the funeral Saturday,” Peg said. “But Michael's body isn't here yet, and … well, we just don't know when it will be.”

“Then you won't be holding the funeral tomorrow?”

“I don't see how we can,” Peg said tersely.

“Peg, I don't understand. What are you
doing
to Father Shimon?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he's so … so disturbed by all this.”

“I don't know what I'm doing to him,” Peg said, “but I do know what he's doing to me.”

“I think it's terribly cruel,” the lady said. “Father Shimon built the hall for this sort of thing, and now you don't even want to use it.”

“Look,” Peg said, “if we have the crowd we're expecting for the funeral, then we'll probably need the whole space, the dining room back of the church and all. If we have the Don Bosco Chorus and John's high school class, they'll simply overflow the church. We'll need all that extra room. That's why we sort of decided among ourselves today that we'd be better off if we go to dinner at the country club—that's where we went before the church was built anyway.”

“What do you want me to tell Father Shimon?”

“I don't care what you say,” Peg replied. “Tell him we can't make plans yet. We don't know when Michael's—when the funeral will be held. How many will attend. We just don't know.”

“So you don't want to have dinner down here?”

“We don't really care whether we have the dinner or not. Do what you want,” Peg said. “All we're sure of is that the funeral will not be tomorrow.”

When Peg did try Captain Pringle's home, there was no answer, so she called his office again. The office phone was busy. For the next hour Peg tried both phones. The office continued busy, and there was no answer at the house. Peg began to worry.

Captain Pringle told Peg he would have to contact the four other families that week whose sons had been killed in Vietnam. She could tell how these deaths disturbed him, how much he hated his job. She believed him to be a compassionate man, and she began to worry that, like the Waterloo Marine survivors' assistance officer they'd heard about, Pringle might have suffered a nervous breakdown. Maybe even taken his own life. She discussed her concern with the telephone operator, who suggested Peg call a Mrs. Mason with the Red Cross. Mrs. Mason did everything in her power to locate the captain but was unable to find him. When Pringle's office phone remained busy for several hours that evening, Peg called a friend in the Waterloo telephone company to ask whether there might be something wrong with the captain's line. Peg continued trying to reach Captain Pringle before finally giving up that night at eleven o'clock.

Peg's friend with Northwestern Bell in Waterloo reported early Saturday morning that Captain Pringle's office phone had, in fact, been taken off its hook. The Mullens decided to help themselves. They first contacted Ozark Airlines, one of the airlines servicing their part of the Midwest, and explained that they were entering their second weekend since having received notification of their son's death. Might Ozark Airlines, they asked, have any record of an advance booking indicating when their son's body would return? Within minutes an Ozark employee was able to tell the Mullens that Michael's body was scheduled to arrive at the Waterloo Airport on their 7:45
P.M.
Sunday evening flight.

At about ten o'clock that same morning, Sergeant Fitzgerald checked in. He told the Mullens that the captain should not have gone off without notifying Sergeant Fitzgerald that he was to act for him. Peg said they had been able to learn when Michael was to reach Waterloo, but could the sergeant discover which of the two boys they had requested as the escort would be the one to accompany him? The sergeant explained there was no way for him to find out; he knew only that the body would be escorted.

Gene called Ozark Airlines again, and the same employee who had assisted them before was able again within minutes to check the passenger manifest and tell them that Tom Hurley, Michael's classmate at Rockhurst, would be coming. The Mullens telephoned Hurley's parents in Missouri and informed them that their son would be arriving in Waterloo the next night. His parents could barely conceal their delight and surprise, although, they were quick to add, they were terribly sorry for the circumstances which had permitted him to return. The Mullens understood.

At 7:45
P.M.
on Sunday the Ozark Airlines flight carrying Michael's casket touched down at the far end of the Waterloo runway. The airplane braked, reversed its thrust, shuddered, slowed, braked some more and taxied in toward the terminal.

Peg was not there to see it. She simply could not make herself drive out to the airport where six months earlier Michael had kissed her good-bye and told her not to worry, saying, “Come on now, Mom, please? It'll all be over March first.” It
was
March 1, and it
was
all over. Peg, therefore, remained behind, and her daughter Patricia stayed to keep her company.

Gene Mullen, his son John and daughter Mary went with the Hurleys and Sergeant Fitzgerald to meet the plane. The six of them stood by the picture window looking out at the nearly deserted airfield. As the airliner braked to a stop next to the terminal and shut down its engines, Gene Mullen asked Sergeant Fitzgerald what had impressed him most about Vietnam.

Without turning away from the window, Fitzgerald replied, “The corruption.”

Tom Hurley was the last passenger to leave the plane. As his parents crowded forward to watch, Hurley walked down the boarding steps and stood next to the freight bay, watching while Michael's casket, covered by an American flag, was slid onto a baggage cart. The cart backed away from the plane, turned and gently lowered and guided Michael's casket into the hearse. Only when the hearse's back doors were closed did Hurley enter the terminal to embrace his family.