“We were told that routes south of the camp were mined with claymores.”
“Would you explain what a claymore is, sir?”
“A landmine. Set off when you push a little plunger, like if you step on it.”
“How were you selected for this detail?”
“Don’t know, orders came from the commandant.”
“Do you know who that was?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, name was Jo or Cho.”
“Did you not tell me on the phone on Saturday, that the man’s name was Cho Tat Wah?”
“I may have, but the meds sometimes make me forget what I say,” he smiled.
“Were there guys from around the camp?”
“About fifty or sixty. Only remember guys from my hut.”
Nick studied Preston’s face for an instant. “Okay, sir, if you can, please recall how many men were on each crew to clear these mines.”
“About a dozen, more or less, in my crew. We had about fifteen guys.”
“Remember who stayed behind?”
“Only remember a few.”
“Did Girardin go?”
“Think so, can’t be sure.”
“Do you recall how you were told of the detail?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “When they came an’ got us, we didn’t know what they were up to. But it wasn’t unusual that they’d line us up, bring us to the dayroom where they’d try an’ brainwash us.”
“Any other details you went on?”
“When they wanted us to move dead bodies across the river to the burial place or dig latrines... when it got warm. We had things to keep us busy. Didn’t give it much thought.”
Nick continued. “Were there any rumors what they’d planned?”
“Nope, they come got me, rounded us up.”
“Where’d the rest of the men come from?”
“Around the camp, fifty, seventy-five guys.”
“When we fell out in the yard, there were lines of men. I fell in the back of one of them. It was cold, dark, nobody shootin’ the bull.”
“What happened then?”
“Waited. Waited, freezing, must’ve been five below, wind blowing... eyes almost froze. Most of us had light jackets. Then they gave us these heavy coats, like U.S. issue.”
“And, did you know who the enemy guards were? Did you recognize them?”
“They were Chinese, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes. Tell us what happened next.”
“They marched us out of camp.”
“Can you describe what a clearing operation was?”
“We were put into units of two to four men, and at some point, the guards put us in a long line.”
“What happened next?”
“Marched to where we were put on hands and knees, crawled around with these pointy rods.” Preston demonstrated by bending his fingers on both hands, walking them in the air in front of him. “We poked the ground, about four feet, maybe five, in front of us to see if we hit somethin’ hard. It was a crazy idea,” he said, pointing to his head and twirling his finger.
“Aside from it being potentially deadly, why was it crazy if someone wanted to blow up a claymore?”
Preston sighed, “The ground was covered with snow, Mister. Though, someone may have tried clearing it—small truck, maybe even shoveled by hand.”
“How’d you know where to start poking?”
“The Chinese had a map they were goin’ by. I think it musta showed where the mines were.”
Nick stepped toward to the easel. “Mr. Preston, if you will, would you please bring your chair over here? This is map B-2 for identification. It’s been established as a map of Camp 13. Is this the layout of the camp to the best of your recollection?”
Preston studied the map for maybe thirty seconds. “More or less.”
“Do you see on that map the place you were detailed to clear mines?”
“Yes, sir. See all these little hexagons?” he said, without hesitation.
“Yes, I see,” said Nick, now on the receiving end of the question.
“Where these hexagons are?” Preston said, breathing hard. “This is where we cleared mines.” He moved his hand along the section of road shown on the map.
“What was the road like?” Nick asked.
“Well the road they were trying to clear was pretty narrow, lined both sides with a ditch and woods.”
“What was the procedure—if that’s the right word?”
“Well, the idea of poking the metal rods and digging around places that looked suspicious didn’t really work, so they put us in the woods—to get out of the wind, I guess. Then, we were waiting in the woods when they called the first team and put them into a ravine along the road. Took about six, eight guys at first. We didn’t know what they were up to. We lost sight of them pretty quick.”
“Did you know where they went?” Nick asked.
“Not at first. But later, when our turn came, we found out,” Preston said with a grimace.
“What’d you find out?”
“Give me a second to catch my breath.”
In the back row, Jack sat mesmerized by Preston’s testimony. Every so often, he affirmed Preston’s statement with a shake of the head.
“Yes. You okay? need a break?”
Preston shook his head “no” and continued. “Lashed us, about three or four on a side, to these logs, to drag them down the road.”
“Why were you dragging logs?”
“Plan was to explode the mines.”
“Wouldn’t your weight explode the mine if you stepped on it?”
“Maybe and maybe not. The snow distributes your weight over an area, and anyway we were mostly pulling from the side of the road.”
“What happened next?”
Preston came back quickly. “Whatcha think? Some of the logs exploded. When a mine went off it blew ’em to kingdom come.”
Preston looked at the crowd and saw a man in the back row—Jack Prado O’Conner—nodding his head in agreement.
Preston continued, “Piece of wood hit my shoulder like a fastball... dislocated it.”
“It disabled you, then?”
“Wasn’t life threatening, but I couldn’t go back. Saved me from the detail after that.”
“Do you know anyone who died?”
“Only half of us marched back. The first day, that is. In the end, only three or four of us were left back at the hut. Learned that the guys that’d completed the detail either died or were moved someplace.”
“Remember the names of the guys that were in the hut in the end?”
“Jameston, me, another guy came in much later, Mexican guy.”
Nick looked over at Lindquist—it looked like his eyes were shut. “When’d they let you go?”
“After a full day, it seemed. My shoulder was aching pretty bad. Yeah, I came back from the drag and rested alongside the road in the ravine.”
“Did you return other days?”
“Not me—shoulder you know—but the guys that were okay, yes.”
“You knew Roger Girardin from Camp 13, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, was in my hut for a while.”
“Did you see Roger Girardin on the detail?”
“Don’t know. Later that first day, must’ve been late afternoon when we were marching back from the detail, there was a body alongside the road. We was walking close to the other side. Looked like one of ours was just lying there. On his side.”
Nick wanted to make sure that Lindquist heard Preston say that he’d seen the soldier. “So you did see a GI on the ground?”
“Yeah... ”
Wanting a more definite statement, he pressed, “You seem unsure.”
Preston responded defensively. “Well, was thirty years ago... but yeah, probably forty, yeah, forty feet away, on his side, wasn’t moving.”
“Might you recall if you thought that he was wounded or dead?”
“Wasn’t sure what to make of it. Too
far away, but it wasn’t a good sign. Boy was hurt, or worse.” Preston brought his lips back, his chest labored in every breath, and he contorted his face.
“Was there anybody next to him?”
“A dog... few feet away.”
“A dog?” Nick asked surprised.
“Yeah, big, brown mother... big, standing next to him.”
Nick took a drink of water. “Now, why’d you remember that?”
“Don’t know, just popped up,” Preston said apologetically.
Nick inhaled and let his breath out slowly. “Did you see Girardin again, after that day?”
“Never. Not after that. Didn’t see him in the hut that night.”
“Did you imagine he’d died?”
Harris rose up, “Objection, calls for speculation.”
“Overruled.”
The courtroom went silent. Preston looked around, but did not answer. Lindquist looked at his watch.
“Did you imagine he had died, sir?” Nick repeated.
Preston grabbed his wheelchair’s arm rests. “Don’t know,” he mumbled.
“So is it your statement that you never saw Roger Girardin again?”
“Nope, never saw him again.”
“Do you remember meeting a Jack O’Conner in Camp 13?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“How about Trent Hamilton?”
“Yes, I think he was a translator.”
“What else can you tell us about him?”
“He owns a helicopter company.”
Nick looked at Harris. “Counselor, your witness.”
Harris rose from his chair, twisting his ring around his finger. He looked down at his two colleagues.
“Mr. Preston, how long have you known about this attempt to locate Roger Girardin?”
“Maybe two or three years, read about it in my VFW magazine.”
“Why did you not come forward before?”
“I don’t know, guess because I took sick.”
“How long did you talk to Mr. Castalano the day you called him?”
“’bout an hour.”
“And how long did you talk to Mr. LeBeau or anyone else from his office?”
“Talked yesterday morning to Mitch over there, maybe ’nother hour.”
“This is an important case, as far as you are concerned, right?”
“I’m not long for this world and need to set things straight.”
“Isn’t it important that we be sure about what we say here?”
“Yes.”
“You want to... do the right thing, true?”
“’Course.”
“This story about blowing up mines... sounds... if you’ll excuse me for saying so... incredible?”
Preston just stared at Harris.
“How can a log blow up a mine? You have to step on it, don’t you—you know, apply direct force?”
“I suppose. I ain’t no mechanic, just saw what I saw,” Preston said sheepishly.
“Well how’d they tie the chains to the logs?”
“Don’t exactly remember.”
“Were there many chains?”
“Think so.”
“How many men pulled?”
“Mighta been four or six.”
“A chain for each man pulling, is that how it worked?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Wouldn’t they get in each other’s way?”
“No, we was strung out.”
“Why was none of this mentioned in your interrogation report when you were released?”
“Was so many years ago, maybe I did tell ’em.”
“Is it possible that under the stress of being a POW, you came to imagine that all of this happened?”
“No, sir. Saw what I saw,” Preston asserted.
“Is it possible that under the stress of being ill, you have come to imagine this?”
“No, sir.”
“Are on a medication?”
“Morphsul.”
“That’s a morphine. Pill form, correct?”
“Think so.”
“Makes you drowsy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Clouds your thinking?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever hallucinate?”
“What?”
“You know, dream while you aren’t sleeping.”
“No, sir, never did that.”
“And isn’t it true that the first time you heard the name Cho Tat Wah was in this courtroom today?”
“No, sir, aah, well to be honest, like I said, I don’t... ”
“You’re not sure, are you? You’re not sure you ever heard the name before. You’re just trying to follow Mr. Castalano’s lead, aren’t you, trying to do the right thing?”
Nick jumped up. “Your Honor, compound question, and Mr. Harris is testifying—he’s not letting the witness get an answer in edgewise.”
Harris interjected before Lindquist could rule. “Strike the last question. Sir, without prying into your personal life, can you tell us why you’re on medication today?”
“Pain.”
“I assumed so. But from what?”
“Cancer, sir, cancer. Cancer caused by poison metal.”
“Poison metal. I don’t understand—can you elaborate?”
“Metals used in ’copters. I used to machine stuff that caused the cancer.”
“You’re not involved in any lawsuit because of your illness, are you?”
“Worker’s comp, that’s all. But the ’copter companies are the ones that caused my sickness, no doubt.”
“You hold these companies responsible for your cancer?” Harris asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yes, sir, all those ’copter ones.”
Harris turned to Lindquist. “Your Honor, may I have a moment to confer with my colleagues?”
Lindquist looked at the clock over the jury box. “Proceed, but make it short, please.”
Harris and his cohorts put their heads together; Nick imagined the conversation had to do with the mention of helicopters. He figured that Harris wanted to ask more, but the first rule of cross examination is not to ask a question that you don’t already know the answer to. Harris walked back to the podium.
“Mr. Preston, may I ask if you have ever met Mr. Trent Hamilton?”
“No, don’t think so.”
Harris breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you know who he is?”
“Only what I read in the papers last couple of weeks, when he testified here.”
Now Harris had a bonus question he could ask—one that could not hurt, but could potentially help. “But, sir, you claim that helicopter companies like Mr. Hamilton’s are responsible for your cancer, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, sir, that’s true.”
“Isn’t it true that you have come here to testify because somehow you believe your testimony will reflect poorly on Mr. Hamilton?”
“Sir, that’s ridicu—”
“In some way to get back at his helicopter company?”
Nick jumped up. “Objection, argumentative.”
“Withdrawn, no further questions.”
“Do you wish to redirect, Mr. Castalano?”
“No, your Honor.”
“Have you any more witnesses?”
“Yes, your Honor, plaintiff re-calls Mr. Jack Prado.”
Lindquist looked at the marshal, “Let’s take our lunch break first.”
***
Harris opened the door to his second floor war room and was greeted by the secretary. “Mr. Harris, this envelope was on my desk, addressed to you.”
Harris opened it. There were a dozen photos of people in a pit—obviously dead— bulldozers, a U.S. Army vehicle with men inside. One picture contained an arrow someone had penned in, pointing to a man leaning against a car. His next move was to have the secretary put a call through to Undersecretary Russell.
“Russell, I have a dozen photos somebody dropped off—you know, like the ones we talked
about... There’s an arrow pointing to a guy, a second louey, looks like. Well not sure... Yes, sir, I’ll get to the bottom, ask what they’re looking for.”
***
Following the break, Jack assumed the witness stand. As he looked out at the crowd he realized that the stiff shot of gin he had for lunch would not control the shakes that coursed through his body all morning or quench the memories that like a fire-breathing dragon had been wakened from a thirty year sleep by Preston’s testimony.
“You already testified in this case, so you’re still under oath. Do you understand?” Lindquist warned.
“Yeah... ah, yes, sir.” Jack responded, nervously.
“Your Honor, plaintiff requests permission to treat Mr. Prado as an adversarial witness at this time.”
Lindquist raised his eyebrows. “Well, Counsel, I suppose you have your reasons. Permission granted, unless Mr. Harris wants to be heard.”
Harris frowned. “No, the government has no objection.”
“Mr. Prado, you previously testified you were in North Korea from late 1950 until after hostilities ended, is that not true, sir?”
Lindquist noticed Jack’s hand tremble when he dabbed his brow with a brown paper towel. “Are you all right, Mr. Prado?”
Jack did not respond.
“Are you all right, Mr. Prado?” Lindquist repeated, louder now.
Jack’s lungs grew tight, his heart pounded. “Can I have a minute?”
Lindquist shook his head slowly. “Is that enough time, Mr. Prado?”
“Yes, thanks.” Jack blew in and out, trying to control his breath. Droplets of sweat had formed on his forehead. His hands were shaking again.
“Can we resume, Mr. Prado?” Hearing Lindquist, Jack opened his eyes. A hundred people were watching, including Father Ryan. And Julie.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
Nick continued, “I’ll try and be brief. I’m going to show you Plaintiff's Exhibits B-2, which you’ve seen before, correct?”
“Yes, you showed me some maps when we met.”
Nick tacked B-2 to the easel. “Can you identify what this is a map of?”
“As I stated before, I cannot definitely say.”
“But you have seen the marks placed on this map before?”
“What marks?”
Nick pointed to the “hexagons within hexagons” marked along the road. “These hexagons.”
“Never tied to a map, no.”
“Have you ever seen such a mark before, in connection with anything?”
We Were Beautiful Once Page 31
