Friendly Fire (15 page)

The small well-kept Catholic cemetery at Eagle Center is about ten miles from La Porte City. The cars slowed, then entered the drive and continued up the slight hill past the Mount Carmel Catholic Church,
*
past the Case backhoe machine used to dig Michael's grave, and then, at the crest of the hill, the hearse stopped. The Mullens' cars pulled in behind it. The other mourners parked their cars as best they could nearby.

During the journey from La Porte the sun broke through the overcast and now shone brightly down upon the cemetery. The sun remained out throughout the burial service.

Michael's grave was at the top of the slight hill within the Mullen family plot. Father Shimon waited while the family gathered around the open grave, then said, “Let us pray.…”

Peg slipped her arm through Gene's, and he gently rested his hand on hers. As the first prayers were spoken, Gene began to cry. Peg had wept only at the beginning of the church service. She had pulled herself together and remained dry-eyed through the rest. Now, as she stood at the graveside, the bright sunlight added to her strength, and when she felt Gene's hand tremble on top of her own, she squeezed his arm in sympathy.

“Give our brother peaceful rest in this grave,” Father Shimon was praying, “until that day when you, the resurrection and the life, will raise him up in glory. Then may he see the light of your presence, Lord Jesus, in the kingdom where you live for ever … and ever.…”

“Amen,” Peg said. Gene had to clear his throat, and his “Amen” followed a little after.

The honorary pallbearers held the American flag taut as Michael's casket was slowly lowered beneath it into the grave.

“Since almighty God has called our brother, Michael, from this life to Himself,” Father Shimon continued, “we commit his body to the earth from which it was made.… Christ was the first to rise from the dead, and we know that He will raise up our mortal bodies to be like His in glory.… We commend our brother to the Lord; may the Lord receive him into his peace and raise up his body on the last day.”

The flag was awkwardly folded by Michael's friends with Father Shimon's help while Captain Pringle stood by. The triangle was not crisp, bits of flag stuck out, the folds and the stars did not end up quite right, but it was presented to the Mullens anyway. There were no middle-aged men in VFW or American Legion uniforms with polished rifles to fire a salute over the grave. No bugler played “Taps.”

Michael Eugene Mullen was buried in his Army uniform near the gravestones of John and Ellen Dobshire (1852–1886); Patrick J. and Mary Ann Dobshire Mullen (1886–1927); Oscar L. and Mary Ann Mullen (1927–1951); Gene's sister, Lois Wenner; Daniel Mullen, Peg and Gene Mullen's second child; and the stone reserving the plot for Peg and Gene: Oscar E. and Margaret E. Mullen (1951– ).

The dates on the stones are not those of the family's life spans, but of their title to their Iowa lands.

From Michael's grave only the Mount Carmel Church and a few parish buildings are visible nearby. Everything else is farmland, and when the sun sets, the shadows rush across the rolling hills like an incoming ocean tide.

After the burial the family returned to the Sacred Heart Church in La Porte for the lunch. There Captain Pringle neatly refolded the flag before saying good-bye. Tom Hurley, too, had to leave and drew Peg aside. All he said was: “Mrs. Mullen, whatever you do, don't stop fighting this war!” There was one other young man besides Hurley and Captain Pringle who attended the service in uniform. The Mullens never found out who he was, but they believe he was a soldier home on leave.

By late afternoon the uncles and aunts had departed, the friends had gone back to their own homes, and Peg and Gene and their three surviving children were finally alone on their farm. It was the first opportunity Peg had had to open the mail; a new letter had arrived that morning from Washington. The letter read as follows:

WASHINGTON

25 February 1970

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Mullen:

Please accept my deepest sympathy in the loss of your son, Sergeant Michael E. Mullen, on 18 February in Vietnam.

I know that the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope that you will find some measure of comfort in knowing that your son served his Nation with honor. His devoted service was in the finest traditions of American soldiers who on other battlefields and in other times of national peril have given the priceless gift of life to safeguard the blessings of freedom for their loved ones and for future generations. In Vietnam today brave Americans are defending the rights of men to choose their own destiny and to live in dignity and freedom.

All members of the United States Army join in sharing your burden of grief.

Sincerely,

s/W. C. WESTMORELAND

General, United States Army

Chief of Staff

With a look of disgust, Peg skimmed the letter over to Gene.

*
The first Catholic church, completed in 1868, was destroyed by a tornado the following year. The present building, constructed upon the foundations of the first, has stood since 1870.

Chapter Nine

The day after Michael's funeral Gene Mullen returned to work at John Deere. He was performing the final inspection on one of the big green and yellow tractors that had reached the end of the assembly line when he was approached by the supervisor who had failed to attend the wake or the funeral services. “Say, Oscar,” the man said (at John Deere, Gene is addressed by his given name), “say, Oscar, I'm awfully sorry to hear about your tough luck.…”

“Well, thank you, Arnold,” Gene said over his shoulder.

The supervisor stood there while Gene made a note on his clipboard checklist; then he said, “I couldn't get out there to your farm, Oscar. I just couldn't. I was too busy.”

“You were
‘too busy'?”
Gene asked, turning now to face the man. “You sonuvabitch! My boy wasn't too busy to die for you, was he?”

The supervisor looked down at his feet.

“My boy died because you were too busy,” Gene said. “How many others are you now going to let die for you?”

The supervisor blinked sadly at Gene. “All I meant was I'm awfully sorry.…”

“So am I,” Gene said, “so am I.” He turned his back upon the supervisor and returned to work.

Back at their farm, Peg was reading the letter that had arrived that day from Vietnam:

DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 6th Infantry

198th Infantry Brigade, Americal Division

APO San Francisco 96219

2 Mar 1970

Mr. and Mrs. Oscar E. Mullen

Rural Route 3,

La Porte City, Iowa 50651

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Mullen:

It is with deepest sorrow that I extend to you the sympathy of the men of the 1st Battalion, 6th Infantry, for the loss of your son, Michael.

On the early morning of February 18, 1970, Michael's unit was located in their night defensive position near the village of Tu Chanh, approximately 13 miles south of Tam Ky City, in Quan Tin Province, Republic of Vietnam. At 2:50 AM, the unit was adjusting artillery to provide a predetermined range of fire in the event of enemy contact. During the testing, Michael received a fatal missile wound when an artillery round fell short of its intended target and detonated near his position. May you gain some consolation in knowing that Michael was not subjected to any prolonged suffering.

I sincerely hope that the knowledge that Michael was an exemplary soldier who gave his life assisting his fellowman and in the service of his country will comfort you in this hour of great sorrow.

A memorial service was conducted for your son. Michael's comrades joined me in rendering military honors and final tribute to him. You were in our thoughts and prayers at that time also.

The sincere sympathy of this unit is extended to you in your bereavement.

Sincerely yours,

s/H. NORMAN SCHWARZKOPF

LTC, Infantry

Commanding

The second paragraph was the only one that interested Peg. The others were mere formalities. She picked up a ball-point pen and carefully read that paragraph again, this time underlining key words: “Tu Chanh … 13 … Tam Ky … Quan Tin …” and then, after a pause, she underlined “prolonged.”

What did that mean? It could mean that Michael had suffered from anywhere from a few seconds to fifteen minutes or more. Peg abruptly pushed herself away from the kitchen table and walked to the bookcase in the living room. She searched until she found one of her children's paperback pocket dictionaries.

Prolong, vb 1. to lengthen in time: continue (a meeting)

2. to lengthen in extent or range (a line)

syn: protract, extend, elongate

She returned to the letter and tried the sentence again. Michael was not subjected to any
lengthened in time
suffering … subjected to any
continued
suffering … any
protracted
suffering …
extended
suffering,
elongated
suffering.… She covered her eyes with her hands.
But he had suffered nevertheless
.

“Near the village of Tu Chanh approximately 13 miles south of Tam Ky City in Quan Tin Province, Republic of Vietnam.”

Peg's Hammond map of “VIETNAM and Neighboring Countries” showed Tam Ky about twenty miles north of Chu Lai.

Chu Lai was where Michael got his haircut; it was where he had been when he had telephoned his mother.

“Michael's unit was located in their night defensive position,” the letter stated. “… At 2:50 AM, the unit was adjusting artillery to provide a predetermined range of fire in the event of enemy contact.…” Peg read those two lines again: “Michael's unit was located.… The unit was adjusting artillery.…” It could only mean that Michael's unit was adjusting the artillery. In other words, someone in Michael's own outfit had called in the artillery that had killed her son. Why? And why at two fifty—nearly three o'clock in the morning? It didn't make sense unless,
unless
they were under attack. And yet they said Michael was a nonbattle casualty. The letter clearly implied that the unit hadn't been under attack, that the artillery was called for “in the event of enemy contact,”
in case of
enemy contact. There was nothing in the letter about Vietcong infiltrating radio channels, no mention of the artillery having been from a South Vietnamese unit. In fact, as Peg studied that paragraph, she became more and more suspicious.

Why had Michael's unit, which was not under attack, asked for artillery to be fired over its position at three o'clock in the morning?

How could the one shell have “detonated near his position,” have exploded next to Michael and have left him virtually unmarked except for a small hole in his back the size of a pen top or … or a bullet?

Why, if Michael's unit had called in the artillery, wasn't he in a foxhole? Why hadn't he been wearing his flak jacket?

Why had the shell fallen short?

Why had the only letter received by the Mullens from anyone even remotely connected with their son been from the battalion commander? Why had they not heard from his company commander? His platoon leader? Why had she not heard from anyone in Michael's unit? He had been dead more than two weeks. Hadn't Michael had any friends?

Was no one else hurt?

There had not been any newspaper accounts of an accidental shelling, nothing on the evening news. The casualty list released the week Michael died reported only eighty-eight deaths, and yet three planeloads, planes supposedly carrying seventy-five bodies each, had flown into California in just the first two days of that week.

Peg looked at the letter again. “Approximately 13 miles south of Tam Ky City.…” There was something familiar about “Tam Ky.” Michael had mentioned it in a letter somewhere. Peg went to the box in which she kept all of Michael's correspondence. Perhaps, she felt, if she read all his letters again very carefully, she might discover some clue she had overlooked, some hint to what really might have happened to her son.

Chapter Ten

Michael Mullen regularly corresponded with his family from Vietnam. Sometimes he wrote letters, but for the most part, he simply jotted a few lines on a postcard. Michael had left for Vietnam on September 11, 1969, his twenty-fifth birthday, and after two weeks training at Cam Ranh Bay in the different weapons, the starlite scope and booby traps—the booby traps, Michael wrote, were “rather hairy”—he was assigned to the 1st Platoon of C (“Charlie”) Company, 1st Battalion, 6th Infantry, 198th Infantry Brigade of the Americal Division headquartered at Chu Lai.

Because Michael's arrival coincided with the start of the monsoon season, his early correspondence dealt primarily with his efforts to stay warm and dry. The notes were bright, factual, uncomplaining and indicativa of Michael's characteristic willingness to get unpleasant tasks done. October 5: “Today I got a rubber wet-suit—they keep you dry, but you sweat yourself wet.” October 8: “Same old stuff—am drying socks over a peanut butter jar.” October 16: “Only have a minute to say ‘Hi.' Am going to mts for a spell and have to hump everything. Have a ROTC lieutenant giving orders by the book and the book doesn't mean a damn thing here.”

Late in October, however, Michael's attitude perceptibly changed. His unit, he wrote, was burning out villages during search and destroy missions—operations which the Nixon administration claimed had been suspended. He began complaining about their maps which, because of inaccuracies, nearly caused his platoon on October 24 to be shelled by their supporting artillery. Even Michael's innate respect for authority began to deteriorate. October 27: “We are supposed to have the BN Co [battalion commander] out here sometime this week—kind of a laugh, for they live in a dream world! They have to have figures [body count] and nobody knows what is a VC or a plain ignorant villager, at least in this area.” By November Michael was writing, “Nixon's Vietnamization will eventually fail. Our frontline troops here have little faith in the ARVN.” And after his mother sent the newspaper accounts of 250,000 protesters arriving in Washington for the November 15 Moratorium Day, he responded, “Most of the grunts, E-6's and below, are pulling that things get wilder at home.”