Veteran Phil's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Phil could not finish his memoir with a stranger in it. For three days he had stared at the third name in his notes. The library record had smudged the ink across the page. He could read only one clear letter. Mary found him at the kitchen table, the notebook still open, the pen still dry. "You can't fix it by glaring," she said. She sat and pulled her glasses up. "The library copy was ruined. But the men had other records." She tapped the page. "The Veterans Hall keeps their own. Clearer ones. Let's go ask." The hall stood tall and gray, with heavy columns and the word ARCHIVE carved above the door. Inside it smelled of old paper and wax. Rows of bound books lined the walls. A clerk led Phil to a long table and brought a box marked with his unit number. Phil's hands shook as he lifted the lid. Mary steadied the box for him. Inside lay folders, photos, and a small cloth pouch. Phil opened the pouch first. A pair of dog tags slid into his palm. The metal was dented and worn soft at the edges. He turned them to the light and read the stamped name. It was the third name. The man from the river crossing. Phil closed his hand around the tags. The cold metal pressed into his skin. And the fog lifted. He saw the man now. Young. Freckles. A boy who joined the squad one week before the crossing. He had carried extra rounds for the others. He had barely spoken. Phil had forgotten him because he had known him for only seven days. "I remember," Phil whispered. His voice broke. "He was new. He gave his ration to the kid with the fever. Then the river took him." Mary put her hand over his. She did not speak. She let him weep. The clerk slid a typed page across the table. The record was clean and plain. It gave the man's full name, his town, his birth year, his date of death. Everything the smudged copy had hidden. Phil read it twice. Then he opened his notebook and began to write. The stranger was a stranger no longer. Phil wrote the freckles and the extra rounds and the given-away ration. He wrote the seven days. He could mourn the man now, because he knew him. When he finished the page, he set the dog tags beside his notebook. His hand stopped over the next blank line. He had the man's name. He had the man's town. But the man had a family once, and Phil did not know if anyone was left to receive these tags. A dead man's keepsake did not belong in a memoir drawer. It belonged with his people. Phil looked at Mary. "We have to find where he came from," he said. "Somebody is still waiting on him."