| A deadly tale of revenge and time lost. Patriot Act by Charles Schaeffer
Maynard Dawson glowered at the TV Network anchorman, who was wrapping up a flowery tribute to the National World War Two Memorial in Washington. Dawson snapped off the set with a grunt. He was fed up with the hoopla about the imminent dedication of the Memorial. On May 29, Memorial Day weekend, thousands
of aging veterans would swarm through the neoclassical oval, sunk into the green grass of the Mall in Washington. Like a ragtag army, garbed in remnants of faded uniforms, surviving vets would trade a thousand war stories, real and imagined.
Not Maynard Dawson. Not Maynard Dawson, U.S. Navy gunners' mate, who bore the mark of Cain, a “ less than honorable discharge.” How unfair his fate after battling valiantly for two years across the Pacific aboard the cruiser USS Flagstaff. A single lapse, a solitary instant when he fled from his antiaircraft gun station. The one act had cast a dark shadow over the rest of his life. At the Captain's mast, ordered to mete out punishment, Dawson swore he couldn't even remember ducking for cover when three Japanese Kamikazes, spitting tracers, dove toward the ship, but missing and plunging into the sea on either side of the cruiser.
Chief Petty Officer, Grant McMasters, remembered all too well. No hesitation or mercy softened CPO McMaster's testimony at the Captain's Mast. “Gunners Mate, 3rd class, Maynard Dawson had abandoned his post under fire.” Dawson had replayed the brutal statement over the years in his mind. The movie, “Patton,” made him fully understand what had happened to him. When General. Patton slapped the young soldier in the film, realization also dawned for Maynard Dawson, now struggling in an unforgiving civilian world.
He, too, had suffered battle fatigue. An excess of adrenaline, surging repeatedly, had spilled over, creating a cauldron of paralyzing fear Doctors, Dawson learned later, sometimes call it “soldier's arm,” a cruel, hammer lock
psychological force that freezes the arm of a shell-shocked warrior, blocking the fingers from pulling the retaliatory trigger, and causing him to cower from danger.
The stigma of the tainted discharge had doomed Maynard Dawson to a career of menial jobs. Once when these dried up, he even resorted to a series of clever, but not clever enough, burglaries, and did time. That guaranteed no exit from the minimum-wage pit on work-release jobs. Over the decades Dawson had never been happy, but he eventually adjusted to a minimal life. At length even periodic “flashbacks”, replays of crippling battle fear, faded into the background.
* * *
Dawson had worked himself up to Sundays off as an assistant animal keeper at Baltimore's zoo. At age 77, a retirement celebration should have happened years ago. But not on the meager wages and savings he had managed to squirrel away. Now, Sunday, sitting in the living room of his run-down row house that never lost the rank odor of zoo animals, he thumbed the pages of the Sunday newspaper.
A page two photo caption, reminding readers of the dedication on Memorial Day weekend of the revered World War Two Memorial, splashed across the bottom of the page. Gazing out from the picture, six veterans, bound for the grand celebration, which was a week away, caught the camera's eye. A related wire-service story identified them as a delegation of the “Greatest Generation”, departing soon from Indianapolis.
Dawson was about to turn the page with a snort of contempt when the name of one of the six vets, all Indianapolis residents, who would join thousands of other veterans at the festivities, caught his eye. Dawson stared at the name: Grant McMasters, former Navy CPO. He had to be the McMasters from Dawson's Navy past. How many Navy CPOs were named Grant McMasters? So the bastard survived the war and was still alive. A phrase in the caption, identified McMasters as holder of the Purple Heart.
Hungry for details, Dawson devoured the feature story itself. The text made clear why six particular vets from Indianapolis would travel as a group to Washington. All had been survivors of the sinking of the cruiser,
Indianapolis, shortly before the Japanese surrendered. Because they all lived in Indianapolis, the tie-in was obvious. A chapter of an Indiana Lions Club had even donated cell phone so the group could stay in touch at the huge gathering. Dawson strained to recall the sequence of the long-ago events in the South Pacific. At first specific memories eluded him, but then began to come together in his mind. After disciplinary action by the Captain's Mast, Dawson was put ashore at the closest port to face legalities that led to the sullied discharge. While all this had been going on, Dawson now reasoned, McMasters had transferred to the Indianapolis.
The news-feature story confirmed McMaster's transfer from the Flagstaff just before the Indianapolis took a Japanese torpedo. Dawson had read sensational postwar accounts of the Indianapolis, which went down, leaving survivors struggling in shark-infested waters for three days. The article described the heavy losses from wounds, exposure and attacks by sharks, and then briefly rehashed the fate of the captain, who had been disciplined in a controversial trial, with failure to take evasive zigzag actions.
Dawson turned his gaze back to the photo. McMasters looked good, almost fit, except for extra pounds he'd put on like nearly everybody his age. Too bad, Dawson's thought, that McMasters didn't drown with other victims of the sinking. Instead, he was alive and playing the role of patriot of the year.
At first Dawson wished he'd never stumbled across the ghosts of the past. Forget and forgive--wasn't that how it's supposed to work? Now, he realized, darkly, he'd never managed to achieve either. McMasters had merely been out of sight, out of mind. In a few days, he'd be just forty miles away, reveling in nostalgic military glory.
Dawson couldn't put his finger on the moment that the thought first struck him. But after it did--after he realized McMasters was not only alive, but well and well off, and, unlike Dawson, duly honored by America--the idea
became an obsession. McMasters had stolen Dawson's future. No doubt about it. He would have to pay.
On the first night after the revelation, Dawson fell into troubled sleep, recalling how his brief burglary career cropped up out of sheer desperation. Now, more sinister thoughts--outright murder-- intruded, reprisal for disgrace, humiliation, and a life of near penury. McMasters had a choice--all those years ago. But he chose to play the by-the-book martinet. Now, he would pay for wrong-headedness that changed forever the life of Dawson, then a frightened 17 year-old on the high seas in a terrible war.
* * * Dawson would have to take a few of days off. He could complain of sudden illness. That was the easy part. Nor would it be difficult to slip into Memorial dedication, an anonymity among 800,000 visitors expected over four days of celebration, including a flyover by vintage prop-driven warplanes.
McMasters and his five cohorts were due to receive a special presentation around four o'clock on dedication day, after the President had made his speech and left. From newspaper illustrations, Dawson saw that the recessed oval
Memorial was circumscribed by large pillars, with the name of each state engraved below sculpted bronze oak and wheat wreaths. The presentation would be in front of Indiana's pillar.
Dawson fondled a small nickle-plated pistol that had been his father's, a cop. With it he could shoot a distracted McMasters in the back, then escape among the noisy, milling humanity before the throng knew what happened. But that would be too easy, too kind, really. McMasters had to know just who his executioner was.
Two problems loomed. If McMasters was going to be the sole, sure witness to his own death, Dawson had to separate him from his Indiana buddies. Dawson thought about this a long time. The whole day of the Memorial celebration would be a reunion frenzy of vets, dressed in outlandish uniform remnants, taking pictures of each other, and exchanging long-ago war stories. Dawson recalled a war story of his own McMasters would surely relish. Before Dawson's disgrace both had served on the Flagstaff during the Battle of Leyte Gulf in the Philippines.
Inside the Pacific Arch of the Memorial, one photo showed an engraved inscription marking that very battle. But how to reel in McMasters-- somehow lure him to that marker? Dawson would claim anonymity at first, pleading that he wanted the meeting to be a surprise, to take a snap shot of his old shipmate. He now was an old man just like McMasters, who hadn't seen Dawson since he was a teenager. The calculated scenario would end with Dawson, revealing his identity, pulling out the gun, and swiftly shooting his nemesis-- then scrap the sunglasses and other stuff and meld into the huge post-dedication crowd before anyone could stop him.
Still, there was problem two. Detaching McMasters from his companions just long enough for retribution. The same night, as Dawson tossed restlessly, the strategy eluded him- until he remembered: the cell phones. The ones donated by a Lions Club in Indiana.
Morning came and Dawson, posing on the phone as a longlost fellow vet, anxious to see his old war buddy, wheedled McMaster's cell number from the unsuspecting donors in Indiana. Now, all that remained was to call McMasters from a pay phone on the day of celebration and set up the meeting place at a specified moment. Maynard Dawson was surprised at his own audacity.
* * *
A sense of excitement swept over Dawson as the day of the Memorial's dedication, May 29, neared. Caught up in his plan, he now read and clipped each news and feature article, describing the vastness of the massive monument of granite, bronze and gilt, covering more than seven acres between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Of 16 million veterans who served, one article said, only 5 million survived and they were dying at the rate of 1100 a day. And on one particular day, Dawson thought grimly, 1101.
His reverie was interrupted by a suddenly realized complication. Entry tickets were required. And tight security measures by the city and federal government would be in place. Threat of terrorists! Of course, Dawson grimaced; he should have thought of that.
With goodwill toward veterans awash in the Capitol, Dawson, embellishing his background, had only a slight delay in getting a ticket to the coveted reviewing area from his Congressman. There was the problem, however, of tightened security. That ruled out the chance of smuggling a loaded pistol past security checkpoints. He restudied illustrations of the massive structure, which hinted of numerous places to hide a gun.
Luck, of a sort, stuck with Dawson, because The Memorial had been opened early, a month before the dedication, to accommodate visitors. So he'd go to Washington a few days ahead, rent a cheap room, visit The Memorial, and conceal the gun.
Dawson assembled the regalia he'd purchased from a military surplus store and dropped them into a handbag ready for “R Day.” No, not VJ Day or VE Day.“R Day” --Retribution Day-- his very own day.
He took a train to Washington's Union Station, then following directions, boarded a local bus to a stop near The Memorial, got off around six p.m. and walked the rest of the way. As he did, he pinned on the parts of his
costume--the Pacific Theater bar ribbon, the Philippine Liberation Ribbon, the Victory Medal, and donned a well-worn Veterans of Foreign Wars overseas cap and wraparound cataract sunglasses. A blue denim shirt, stenciled with the gunner's mate insignia, an American eagle over crossed cannons, completed the illusion.
Even the newspaper pictures and adoring TV footage hadn't prepared him for the grandeur of The Memorial, its encircling pillars and pavilions casting shadows from the rays of the setting sun. As he'd rightly calculated, major
security was minimal for the moment, held in reserve for weekend dedication, the time sinister terrorists would most likely strike to kill and wound as many Americans as possible. Dawson entered The Memorial, mingling with evening stragglers. A uniformed National Parks Officer and National Guardsman here and there nodded understandingly towards the bemedaled old sailor.
Dawson strode through the plaza in the well of the Memorial, pausing to read engraved words uttered by old war horses of the 1940s. One was attributed to Admiral Chester A. Nimitz. Dawson smirked. The engraver had confused the military hero, whose middle initial was “W”, with the not-so-illustrious Chester A. Arthur.
The vastness of the Memorial offered various niches to conceal a handgun. Dawson observed the long curved granite benches bracketing a splashing central fountain. Beneath the bench, hidden from view, ran a recessed gully a couple inches wide. Dawson sat down and reached for the pistol strapped to his leg. Certain he was unobserved, he moved with alacrity harking back to his second-story days, and shoved the weapon into the chosen niche. In his mind he marked the hiding spot--opposite the Kentucky pillar. Sunday it would right fifty years of wrong.
* * *
Dawson rose from the motel's hard bed, festooned himself with the prepurchased military paraphernalia, pocketed latex gloves, and waited until about ten o'clock. He withdrew McMaster's cell phone number from his shirt pocket and, in a few minutes, found a pay booth. After three rings, a voice answered on the other end. “McMasters, here,” the voice said, sounding perplexed.“You'll have to speak up. I'm in the middle of a noisy crowd.”
An anonymous Dawson raised his voice a notch into the pay phone speaker. McMasters in the flush of celebration bought into Dawson's rehearsed little reunion speech. McMasters concluded: “Okay, then, meet you at the Pacific Arch, by the Leyte Gulf marker soon as the presentation to the Indiana vets is over. Little after four o'clock. Leyte Gulf, huh? Been a long time since we skunked the Japanese there.”
McMaster's voice had the curt, cold cast Dawson remembered from the Captain's Mast, more than 50 years ago. Still the same old rigid McMasters, Dawson thought. Arriving at the ticketed section of The Memorial about 11:30. He walked through the metal detector, meeting good-natured nods from the guard.“Welcome, sir,” one guard enthused. The metal detector was silent. “Some of you boys with metal plates from the war set it off,” the guard volunteered genially.
Dawson sat through the dedication, starting at 2 o'clock, biding his time. At times the soaring words of praise sickened him. They weren't for him After the ceremony, The Memorial itself, swarming with medal-draped vets, their families and friends, gawking at the structure's imposing European-style facades. Visitors clustered around the
curved Freedom Wall, admiring a field of 4,000 hand-crafted, gold-plated stars, each representing 100 military men and women who perished in the war. Dawson overheard a veteran's wife doing the arithmetic aloud. “Why, that's 400,000 who gave their lives,” she said in awe.
Dawson shouldered his way toward the niche, which concealed the pistol. Withdrawing it unnoticed from the spot was even simpler than he'd imagined. One deft move and it was in his pocket. He checked his watch, 3:50, near the time of McMaster's rendezvous with destiny. Dawson liked the sound of that.
Almost on the dot of the appointed time, there he was, CPO McMasters, decked out in the outfit identical to the one he wore for the newspaper picture back in Indiana.
“Right on time,” Dawson said, standing with the Leyte Gulf marker as a backdrop.
“You'll have to tell me who you are,” McMasters said. “Been a long time. I see the gunner's mate insignia. You wanted a snapshot?”
Dawson felt for the pistol in his pocket. “Gunner's mate 3rd class, Maynard Dawson, reporting for duty,” he said in a voice, low, but menacing enough for McMasters to hear.” For the first time, though, Dawson sensed his hand
trembling as it clasped the pistol. He'd not fired any kind of weapon since the war. Sweat formed on his forehead, over the sunglasses and beneath the VFW cap's rim.
“You remember the Captain's Mast and my ‘less-than-honorable discharge'. Thanks to you, my life was ruined. Now we'll just exchange a life for a life...” With a shaking gloved hand, he pulled out the pistol and squeezed the
trigger.
McMasters instinctively raised his arm in defense. The bullet struck it squarely. But his arm stayed in place. Dawson felt panic rising in his chest. McMasters seemed unhurt. A second shot--it would take a second shot, his head this time---
At that instant a delayed formation of three restored prop-driven P-40 Warhawk fighters from Andrews Field roared low overhead. Dawson's vision blurred. His arm grasping the pistol froze in its outstretched position. “Zeroes, two-o'clock,” he screamed, dropping into into a fetal crouch.
The sudden commotion drew a nervous crowd. A Park Service Swat Team member appeared. A National Guardsman pushed his way to stage center, where McMasters stood over Dawson.
Seeing Dawson's hand clutching the pistol, the Guardsman reached for his own sidearm. McMasters waved him off. “It's okay,” McMasters said, examining the hole in his CPO jacket. “He won't hurt anybody now.” He slipped the jacket off, revealing an artificial flesh-like right hand and arm. “Amazing how real they make them look and work these days,” he said.
“Lost it to a shark when the Indianapolis went down. “ He glanced down at Dawson, rigid in fear. “This fellow has been nursing an old grudge. Tried to shoot me, but hit the arm. Then that late honor flyover pitched him back in
time--a battle ‘flashback'. I know one when I see one.”
The Guardsman lifted Dawson to his feet and pried the pistol from his hand.
“Nobody was really hurt,” McMasters said to Guardsman, as he moved to lead Dawson away.
“Tell them to remember. Life's not been kind to him.” |
