Friendly Fire (14 page)

“Certainly not, Captain,” Gene said. “I want you there in the uniform you represent.”

“Fine, sir,” Pringle said. He paused for a moment, then he added, “I have one more question.…”

“Yes?”

“Where would you like me to sit?”

“Sit?”
Gene asked.

“During the church service, sir,” Pringle explained.

“Oh,” Gene said. “I want you to sit right up in the front of the church where everybody can see you.”

“All right, sir, fine,” Pringle replied.

When Gene and Peg and Patricia returned to the farm, the mail awaiting them consisted of letters from friends and still more families who had lost husbands and sons. Eleven days had passed since Michael had been killed so far and the only expression of regret from the United States government had been the telegram from Major General Wickham which had arrived the week before and the 9-by-12-inch White House envelope containing President Nixon's speeches on how capably and efficiently the South Vietnamese were carrying out their share of the war. They still knew no more about how Michael had died than the information given in Wickham's telegram. If “artillery fire from friendly forces landed in the area,” why, then, did Michael appear to be totally unmarked?

In Michael's next to last letter, dated February 11, he had written his parents, “We are still at bunker line—will be here a couple more days—will move out on a search mission for a week.” The Mullens, therefore, knew their son was on a combat assignment, that he was in the field conducting a search mission February 18 when he died. Now the Army was telling them that although he was killed by artillery “while at a night defensive position,” he was considered a non-battle casualty. The Mullens wanted to know why.

At noon on Monday, Michael Mullen's casket was brought to the farm and placed in front of the picture window in the Mullens' living room. The strained relationship between the family and their parish priest had not lessened. Father Shimon had neither offered them any assistance in planning their son's funeral nor made any effort to contact Father Hemesath, the priest whom the Mullens wished to have officiate at the mass. The only help the Mullens had received had been from the priests and sisters associated with the Don Bosco parochial school.

When Peg and Gene had asked that the music be sung by the Don Bosco Chorus, Father Shimon suggested they instead use the Sacred Heart Choir, whose experience singing together was evidently limited to Christmas, Easter and a few other occasions. When the Mullens persisted in their request for the Don Bosco Chorus, Father Shimon refused to permit the chorus to sing with the organ at the front of the church. He instead required that they stand at the back, where they would be “out of the way,” and, he said, if the chorus wished to have music accompany them, they would have to provide their own.

Tom Loomis had never had a funeral at La Porte's Sacred Heart Church before, and after he delivered Michael's body to the farm, he continued into town to inspect the layout of the church. Sacred Heart is a modern brick building with pews divided into three sections, narrow at the front, then fanning wider toward the rear as in a movie theater. Loomis checked the interior and was preparing to leave when Father Shimon handed him a twenty-pound tub of soft butter which the women of the parish had dropped off in preparation for the lunch now scheduled to be served following Michael's burial the next day. When Loomis asked the priest what he was expected to do with the butter, Father Shimon said he didn't care so long as he got it out of the church. The priest suggested Loomis take it back to the Mullens' farm. That is why not more than an hour after Tom Loomis had brought the Mullens their son's body, he reappeared with a twenty-pound tub of soft butter.

That morning Michael's former girlfriend, Caroline Roby, was also at the farm. She had been driven to La Porte the afternoon before by John Stagg. Although the relationship between Michael and Caroline had evidently cooled prior to his being sent to Vietnam (one had the impression that it had cooled primarily on Caroline's part—at first Caroline wasn't going to attend the funeral. She later relented and called John Stagg, explaining, “I have to go. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't”), there was no strain between her and Michael's family. It was, in fact, Caroline who, along with the Mullens' daughter Mary and Mary's boyfriend, Rick DeJana, drove the tub of butter back to the Sacred Heart Church.

Mary carried the butter into the refectory kitchen and placed it in the refrigerator. Afterward she and Caroline and Rick DeJana began setting up the tables for the next day's lunch. A few minutes later Father Shimon entered and told Mary he didn't want the tables set up until after the service. Mary said there wouldn't be time; they all would have so much on their minds she didn't feel her family would want to worry about dinner preparations left until the last minute. Therefore, they had thought it best to get it done and out of the way.

Father Shimon told several women of the church who were present that if the Mullens wanted to do it, then they could do it on their own and instructed the ladies not to offer them any assistance.

Caroline turned to Mary Mullen in astonishment and asked, “Is he a
priest?”

By the time the two girls and Rick DeJana returned to the farm the Mullens' house was filled with flowers and friends.

Peg's older brother, Bill Goodyear, was pacing in front of Michael's casket. Finally, he pulled his sister aside and agitatedly told her, “Peg, you've got to find out what happened to him.
Look
at Michael! Look at him. He could have had a stroke from the way he looks.…”

Gene overheard Peg's brother and asked, “What's this about a stroke?”

“Our mother's side of the family has a history of strokes in young people,” Bill Goodyear explained.

“No-o-o,” Gene said. “Tom Loomis told me when he brought Michael here, he took me into the bedroom and said that the shell had hit him back here.” Gene pointed above his right kidney. “There was a hole no bigger than a pen top, 'bout as big as that,” he said, holding up the tip of his thumb.

Peg shrugged. “Yeah, Gene, but he couldn't have looked because he—”

“Yes, he did!” Gene insisted quietly. “He wouldn't do it until I told Sergeant Fitzgerald, ‘Now I want to know how my boy died.' He examined Michael up to the funeral home.”

“Do you really think he looked, Gene?” Peg asked. “He couldn't have. How could—”

“HE DID NOT!” Peg answered angrily. “He couldn't have—”

“It was before Michael left the undertaker's parlor. Before they moved him out here.”

“How could they? They only had twenty-four hours. We were—you were with Michael last night. You saw the crowd when we went back out there this morning. When did he have time?”

“Mother, he left—when he was up to the funeral home, he checked Michael,” Gene said.

“When? When?”

“After everybody left last night,” Gene said.

“Well, all I can say is look at him,” Bill Goodyear insisted. “I say you ought to check Michael yourself.”

Gene, stricken, gestured toward their house filled with friends, relatives, young people.
“How?”
he asked. “How can we check him now?”

For the rest of that afternoon and well into that evening a steady stream of friends and neighbors, townspeople, relatives, classmates arrived to attend Michael's wake. Some of Gene's coworkers stopped in, too, as did the general supervisor at John Deere. All the supervisors that Gene dealt with attended but one. The men and women and young people took turns that evening by Michael's casket, bowed their heads and said a rosary for Michael's soul.

Chapter Eight

Shortly before Michael's coffin was closed, his brother and sisters each placed a small envelope in Michael's crossed hands. None of the children ever revealed to their parents what they had written, nor did their parents ask. The coffin was sealed and taken to La Porte City.

Estep Motor Company, the local Ford dealer, provided three automobiles to transport the Mullen family to the Sacred Heart Church. Peg and Gene, their son John and his cousin Kathy Partridge rode in the first car. Mary and Patricia, Mary's boyfriend, Rick DeJana, and Patricia's fiancé, Alan Hulting, rode in the second. The third car carried Michael's uncles and aunts.

It was overcast, damp and chilly at ten o'clock when the Mullen family pulled up at the church and walked inside the vestibule. Tom Loomis had stationed three attendants from his funeral home on either side of the wheeled coffin truck upon which Michael's flag-covered casket rested. He then positioned the six honorary pallbearers chosen from among John's and Michael's friends behind the casket. Tom Hurley, in uniform with a black armband upon his sleeve, was one of them. As soon as the processional cross bearer saw the coffin brought into the church, he hastened up the aisle toward it.

The mass was concelebrated by Father Shimon, Father Ronald Friedell of the Don Bosco faculty, Father William Schwartz, a former Don Bosco teacher and a longtime friend of the Mullens, and Father Robert Hirsch, principal of the Don Bosco High School, who had been invited to deliver the homily. Father Hemesath was not present; Father Shimon had never been in touch with him. The Don Bosco Chorus, led by Sister Richard, were standing around the portable organ she had brought from the school. Mr. Loomis nodded that he was ready, the young boy carrying the cross positioned himself at Michael's casket's head, facing down the aisle toward the altar, and the four priests, wearing the vestments indicative of a Black Funeral, entered from behind the sacristy and gathered in the sanctuary. With their entrance the congregation rose to their feet, the Don Bosco Chorus began “How Great Thou Art,” a hymn chosen by Gene, and the cross bearer led the procession down the aisle toward the altar. Michael's family followed the six honorary pallbearers, and when the coffin reached the altar, Peg and Gene were guided into the frontrow center pew directly behind the casket. John, Mary and Patricia filed into the second row behind their parents, and the uncles and aunts were directed into the row behind that.

Father Shimon made the sign of the cross and said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.…”

The congregation responded,
“Amen.”

Shimon extended his arms out from his sides. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you.”

“The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus be with you all.”

“And also with you.”

Peg suddenly stiffened and poked Gene in the ribs.

“What's the matter?” Gene asked.

“The Lord be with you,” Shimon was saying.

“And also with you,”
the congregation responded. Peg dipped her head toward Captain Ralph T. Pringle, who was standing in uniform all alone in the front-row right-hand pew.

“I told him to sit there,” Gene told Peg.

“You did?” Peg said. “Oh, I was going to blame it on the undertaker.”

“Peace be with you,” Shimon was saying.

“And also with you.”

“My brothers and sisters,” Shimon said, “to prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins.”

There was a moment of silence; then the congregation together prayed,
“I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault”
—they struck their chests—
“in my thoughts and in my words … in what I have done … and in what I failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”

“May almighty God have mercy on us,” Father Shimon prayed, “forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”

“Amen.”

When it was time for Father Hirsch to deliver the homily, he smiled at the congregation, most of whom he knew, and as he spoke, he leaned forward comfortably to rest his elbows on the lectern. He talked about Michael's school record, the scholarships and fellowships he had received, his assistantship at the University of Missouri and the project he was working on there. Father Hirsch spoke of Michael's 4-H Club activities, the interest and enthusiasm evidenced in all his work. He tried to show how Michael's twenty-five years had been rich years, filled with joy and love for his fellowman. And then, to Peg's astonishment, Father Hirsch gave her a little wink, launched into a short speech in behalf of the need for continued support of parochial education, and the homily ended.

The congregation stood as the priests together spoke the general intercessions and the Don Bosco Chorus sang the offertory hymn, “Shalom.”

When the last communicant had been served and while the chorus sang another of Gene's favorites, “The Impossible Dream” from
Man of La Mancha
, Father Shimon, assisted by the altar boy, cleaned the silver paten and chalice used in the celebration of the eucharist. Father Shimon then faced the congregation, saying, “Let us pray.” He paused a moment and asked, “O almighty God, may this sacrifice purify the soul of your servant, Michael, which has departed from the world today. Grant that once delivered from his sins, he may receive forgiveness and eternal rest.… Through Christ our Lord.…”

“Amen,”
the congregation answered.

Father Shimon stepped down to Michael's casket, where he was joined by the other priests and the processional cross bearer. The Don Bosco Chorus began their final hymn, “America the Beautiful.” It, too, had been specially requested by Gene Mullen, and Sister Richard's heavy stressing of the bass chords lent the hymn an almost martial air. The cross bearer moved to the head of the procession, and the funeral director with the help of the six Loomis Funeral Home attendants turned Michael's casket around so that it now faced up the aisle. The four priests arranged themselves behind the cross bearer. The Loomis attendants took up positions on either side of the casket, and the six honorary pallbearers lined up directly behind Michael's body. Next came Peg and Gene, followed by Patricia and Mary and John, and the uncles and aunts after that. As soon as everyone was ready, the cross bearer stepped off and the procession moved slowly up the aisle. As the chorus now sang the third verse, a young tenor's voice cracked, and Sister Richard saw the boy had begun to cry.