Andrea Millhouse

__________ 17 __________

"How far is it from the hi-way?" Andrea now asked as we passed another shack.

"He told me over the phone that it was eight miles." I replied.

It was quite obvious that we had left suburban America behind us more than twenty five miles ago. The lavish farmland that we had seen an hour ago had now turned into clapboard squatter's shacks littered with derelict cars, discarded washing machines and household trash strewn about their front yards. The further we went along now, the narrower the road became and more dilapidated the shacks, themselves, seemed to become. The movie Deliverance suddenly came to my mind and a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut along with it.

"Andrea, I don't like the looks of this, maybe we should call it off." I said as the hair on the back of my neck began to stand up.

"Three miles, let's at least look, Tim, we've come a long way for nothing otherwise." Andrea said.

I steered the rental car slowly around a huge pot hole and looked at the GPS, three more miles. We passed another dumpy shack sporting a large faded Confederate flag hanging within the carport, its stars and bars waving lazily in the wind. Abolitionists would live in a place like this; I suddenly realized and so would people evading the law. This remote section of road would be an ideal place to set up a meth lab or whiskey still and it wouldn't take much imagination for someone to hide a body out here, one that would never be found...

"...OK, we have gas and GPS. Do you have any bars on your phone now?" I asked.

"Two, want me to call him?" Andrea asked, looking at me.

"Let's call when we get closer." I replied.

Following the route on the GPS, we finally came upon a dirt driveway with several warning signs posted, warning signs which my instincts told me to take seriously. Reaching for my phone now I pushed redial and the phone was answered on the third ring.

"Yeah" came a gruff reply.

"Mister Dibbons, This is Tim Donovan again, we're at the driveway with the mailbox that has hubcaps. Are we at the right place?" I asked.

"Yeah, come in, it's a long driveway and I'll be standing outside" the phone then abruptly clicked off.

Andrea straightened my tie and we began to proceed slowly through a long winding driveway with various kinds of old farm equipment pushed aside into the weeds in a haphazard manner. There were also paper targets attached to several trees which were well shot-up I noticed. I took a deep breath.

"Tim, just be yourself" Andrea said calmly.

"I know" I replied.

We drove another hundred yards whereupon we entered into a clearing and drove up to an old house with weathered paint and stacked cord wood on its porch. A well muscled man, wearing dark aviator sunglasses and a tank top with faded blue jeans stood with arms crossed. I reckoned that he was around seventy five years of age yet he was extremely physically fit. I shut off the rental car's engine, exited the car and walked toward the man with my right hand extended.

"Mister Dibbons, I'm Tim Donovan, thank you so much for seeing us today" I said.

"Call me MARK!" the man snapped at me.

"...Mark" I then said, the man kept his arms crossed and never took my handshake.

"Madam, I was not made aware that I would be honored by your presence today, leave your purse and both your cell phones inside the vehicle." Mark said to Andrea and eyeing us both suspiciously.

Andrea walked up beside me and stood now as we faced Mark, three feet away from us. I handed her my cell phone. Andrea then walked back to the car and left her purse and our phones inside the rental. Andrea then walked back and stood beside me.

"What is it that you people want?" Mark now asked abruptly.

"Well Mark, as I mentioned over the phone last week, we just have some photos of a man we were hoping you might recognize from your Service" I replied as Andrea began to hand me a manila folder.

"I'm not interested in looking at your photographs" Mark replied sharply.

I simply nodded an acknowledgement at Mark's reply.

"Who gave you my phone number, to begin with?" Mark asked looking at me.

"Harland Wyckoff, the gentleman said that he had Served with you" I replied.

"Have no use for the sonofabitch. You've probably seen all of his bullshit seminars on YouTube and then gotten my name off the fucking internet didn't you? I doubt like hell if you've ever been within a thousand miles of the great Harland Wyckoff, whoever the hell he's pretending to be." Mark said as he sneered at me.

"No Mark, I know him personal.." I began as Mark cut me off.

"You're too young to be a fuckin' hippie. What are you, some hotshot yuppie lawyer that's figured out a way to cash-in on dead soldiers and their families now? - No, you look more like a couple of scribes from some rag that wants to spread more lies about men who've faced combat to keep your ass safe. It's MEN like me that keep pencil neck fuckers like YOU, SAFE" Mark said facing me, his tattooed arms still crossed.

"I know when..." I began quietly.

"NO YOU DON'T KNOW BECAUSE YOU'VE NEVER BEEN THERE! You've never Served or been in combat have you BOY? The closest that you've ever come to combat are the Yoga classes you go to, pretty boy!" Mark said speculatively with his face only inches from mine.

"...No I haven't Served ...we aren't lawyers or journalists, Mark. We're just trying to find someone that may know the living relatives of a man that Served in Vietnam, there's no monetary or political angle to any of it." I said earnestly.

"Sure there isn't. You come here in your flashy suit and shiny shoes and expect me to buy some line of bullshit that you're crusaders out to save the world with peace love and dope. Only I'm not buying what you're selling" Mark said.

"No, we..." I began.

"Soldiers who've faced combat are just gun toting idealistic nut jobs anyway, right, Tim? They're not even NICE people are they, Tim? I must have been your very last resort for discovering who this man is, or was; otherwise you would have just stayed safely hidden behind your keyboard and written your lies and filth from the anonymity of your New York office or wherever the hell it is you're from. I doubt like hell if you've even fired a weapon in your entire life, boy." Mark said disgustedly.

"Mark, we aren't journalists and my mother always taught me to respec.." I started to say.

"Yeah, you look like a mama's boy to me, Tim. Are you a mama's boy? C'mon, Tim, be honest about it" Mark chided.

I was suddenly tired of the bantering and decided that a straight answer was the best. "Yeah I am, Mark.' I said wearily. This was something which I was in fact proud of as I had always had great respect for Mom.

There was a deafening silence between us then as Mark stared hard at me.

"We're not journalists, Mark; I spent all summer in Alaska hauling excavation and gravel to the new North - South runway that's being constructed at JBER." I said.

"What the hell's JBER?" Mark asked.

"The Base in Anchorage is now referred to as Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson and we're building a new North - South runway there" I explained.

"Bullshit, you're too toned and thin to have spent much time in a truck. Let's see your gate pass" Mark replied suspiciously.

"The lady and I are passionate about fitness and we bicycle a lot" I answered, indicating Andrea, as I very slowly moved my hands and dug out my wallet and handed Mark my pass for the gate at JBER.

"Alaska -it expires in two weeks" Mark said flippantly, handing the card back after he had studied it briefly.

"We work seasonal, and I'll get it renewed in the spring when we start construction work again." I said.

"That'll give you plenty of time to write your column of lies and bullshit for whichever magazine you're employed with this winter, won't it, Tim." Mark replied sarcastically.

I said nothing in reply as I slowly put my wallet back into the breast pocket of my suit.

"You'd love to take a swing at me and put an old man in his proper place wouldn't you, Tim? Go-on, I'll give you a free shot, c'mon pretty boy take a swing and knock me on my ass" Mark chided as he lifted his chin, still with arms crossed.

"Mark we didn't come here for that, I'm not the brightest guy in the world but I have enough sense to know that you'd make a mess out of me." I replied calmly.

"What makes you say that? I'm just an old man, Tim" Mark replied.

"I can tell by your body language that you're a man who knows how to fight. You're also a man that's faced combat and I haven't." I replied.

"You're smarter than you look, Tim ...I'd walk right through your paper ass before you could even flinch, boy" Mark said looking at me hard.

I then held up my palm and said "Mark, I can see that our presence here is unwelcome. We aren't journalists, the reason I wore a suit and tie is because I wanted to show respect. All we're trying to do is locate someone that may have known this man, a good man. We'll go now. I am genuinely sorry that we invaded your privacy, no disrespect was intended." I said sincerely as I took Andrea's arm and began to lead her toward the car.

"Why now? Why you? The war was decades ago, why the sudden interest now? Mark rapidly fired back.

"...Because we only recently discovered that there actually was a man named Rick Sheffield." I replied turning back toward Mark.

"What's this man to you?" Mark asked.

"...He was my Dad" I said quietly.

"I don't understand. You say he was your dad but you, just recently, discovered that he existed?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"I thought another man was my actual dad, for my entire life, until last year when we found the photos. Now I know it was Rick Sheffield that was really my dad." I explained.

"How do you know this?" Mark asked.

"We know because we discovered a letter which he had written to my mother." I replied.

"Your mom, nor anyone else, ever told you any of this?" Mark asked.

"No one, including Mom, ever spoke about any of this and Mom's gone now" I answered.

With a hard stare and the unexpected quickness of a cat, Mark roughly snatched the manila folder from Andrea and opened it. The first photo showed Mark himself, and the four other men, including Rick Sheffield, in front of the Huey helicopter. Mark seemed to momentarily close his eyes behind the aviator sunglasses.

"The big guy your dad?" Mark asked after a silence.

"Yes, Rick Sheffield" I replied.

"What outfit, First Air Cavalry?" Mark asked.

"I don't know yet" I replied.

There was a long silence then as Mark studied the picture of himself and the others. He then looked up at me and carefully studied my facial features as if comparing me with Rick Sheffield; Mark then looked down at the photo again and slowly shook his head. I suddenly felt as though I had abruptly invaded the man's privacy with a strong reminder of a war that he had Served in more than fifty years ago, a war in which he had most likely tried hard to forget. I suddenly felt extremely self centered and arrogant.

"You even, look, like Rick's kid ...(sigh) ...Another war baby ...Jesus, how do you people find me?" Mark asked to himself as he squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

From his reaction, I doubted that Mark had ever seen the actual photo, himself.

"Discovering who this man was, is really that important to you?" Mark asked suddenly.

"Yes" I replied quietly, looking down at the photos in Mark's hands.

There was another silence between us then as Mark continued to study the photo of himself with the others, a photo that had been taken half way around the world and half a century before. The sound of a car on gravel could be heard in the distance now and we also began to hear sporadic gunshots of someone target shooting in nearby woods, two people were obviously shooting from the sound of it. Mark momentarily looked in the direction of where the shots were being fired before returning his attention back to the photo. A minute ticked by as the shots continued, then another minute. Andrea and I stood silently.

"Come inside" Mark abruptly said as he turned and walked toward the house, carrying the photographs.

"Either of you drink coffee?" Mark asked as we entered the house.

"...Yes we do" I replied as we stood within the living room, once we had entered.

The interior of the house was sparse and didn't seem to hold any clue of the presence of a woman living there or anyone else, for that matter, other than Mark himself. The living room was tidy and there were several books lying about which looked like they'd been read recently. There was a wood burning stove in the center of the room and photos of what I would guess were Marks grandchildren, adorning the walls.

A large and rather old black dog slowly walked out from what looked like a darkened bedroom and made his way over to where Andrea and I stood. Soon Andrea was talking quietly to the old fellow who seemed to relish in her attention as Andrea slowly petted him.

"Raider doesn't get much female attention anymore, madam. Both of you sit down, please" Mark said as he placed two steaming coffee cups on the table.

"Call me Andrea, please." Andrea replied, it was the first time she had spoken since our arrival.

All of us sat down at the table as Mark took off his sunglasses and slowly sipped his own coffee while he silently studied the six photographs carefully. He did so without acknowledging Andrea any further.

"Thank you" I replied to Mark, referring to the coffee and seat offered us.

The cup of coffee that Mark had set before me was inscripted with the profile of a fishing boat and the words "F/V Yukon: Homer Alaska" on it, I noticed, a bit surprised.

"Tell me what you do know, Tim" Mark said without taking his eyes off the photographs.

"All I know is what's in the photographs, themselves, and a letter which was found inside my mother's jewelry box." I replied.

I then told Mark about Mom and my growing up in Stony Brook. I explained that the neighborhood had since been demolished shortly after Mom's passing. I elaborated that I had believed another man to be my actual father, for most of my life until our recent discovery of, first, the letter signed by Rick Sheffield and then later the, chance finding of the decades old, photographs. I went on to explain that with combining the letter and annotated photographs together, that I had come to the realization that Rick Sheffield had been my actual father. I gave Mark the condensed version of the story but highlighted the significant parts relevant to our search for the living relatives of Rick Sheffield.

"Harland Wyckoff, who we know, mentioned that he recognized you in the photo and that he actually Served with you. He gave me your phone number and that's when I called." I explained.

"Harland was a nobody then and he's a nobody now." Mark replied sharply, to which I kept silent.

Mark looked at all of the photographs and when he came to Mom's school photo he paused.

"This' your mom?" Mark asked, tapping the photograph.

"Yes, she was a school teacher. That was her school photo during the relevant time." I replied.

Mark seemed to treat Mom's photo with considerable respect as he carefully set it aside and continued studying the others. After several minutes he then set the helicopter photograph in front of Andrea and me, the photo with Mark himself in it.

"This photo was taken a few days after the failed Tet Offensive. That bird we're standing in front of pulled us out of the field when we came under significant NVA fire. The three of us, front left is Dale Hunter, me beside Rick, and far right, Dan Wade, were all on patrol when Kim and Hart came in and got us. This guy is Paul Kim, his copilot was Andy Hart, who's not in the photo. The gunners were RayRay Manning, this guy, and Earl Kent, who's also not in the photo. I'll remember their names for the rest of my life. Those men flew in and extracted us out of a very hot L.Z. and that bird in the photograph was uncertified to fly, to begin with." Mark said tapping the photo and pointing to each man.

I said nothing in reply and simply nodded my head.

"The big guy or, Rick Sheffield as I later learned, got all of his people together when he was told there were still soldiers that needed to come home, which were us. Rick and his guys cobbled that thing together out of two other destroyed helicopters and they put that machine together and back into the air in record time -four hours, I think, after our first radio contact.

That Slick was uncertified but it flew well enough to come in and get us. Most of the other machines had been severely damaged while on the ground during Tet and there was hardly anything left that could fly at all, much less, anything certified. I don't think the First Air Cavalry had a single machine left that was certified after Tet but that didn't stop these men from flying into a hot L Z and getting us out.

We took a lot of small arms fire when they extracted us that day, look at the photo, Tim, see the oil on the sides of the machine, and the bullet holes?" Mark asked pointing to the engine compartment and starboard windscreen.

"Oh ...yes ... I never noticed that before. So you're saying Rick was with First Air Cavalry then?" I asked, noticing the bullet holes in the machine for the first time.

"Yes he was, Rick went by the moniker of 'Captain Logical' as I remember. Apparently his approach to any mechanical problem was something along the lines of 'There's a logical explanation with anything mechanical.' I made damn good and sure to shake that man's hand and buy him and all of his people each a beer when we got back that day." Mark said.

"So he was a technician and not a pilot at all, then?" I asked.

"TIM, LOOK AT THE MAN! DOES HE LOOK LIKE A PILOT?" Mark asked disgustedly, his blue eyes staring hard at me.

I said nothing in reply; unsure of what Mark was alluding to.

"...(sigh)... Rick is a big man, if you've got a pilot, copilot and gunners that are all big men then you've just lost three or four hundred pounds worth of lift, which might mean one or two guys have to stay behind in a hot L Z. Big guys are also bigger targets; we're talking about helicopters in combat, Tim. We want little flyweight guys to fly them not big heavy guys like Rick" Mark explained patiently.

"Oh, I see" I said, nodding my head. What Mark was alluding to, suddenly made perfect sense.

"That's all I remember about Rick, I'd never seen him before Tet and I never saw him again after the photo was taken, and I would have remembered if I had. I don't remember who took the photograph, either, maybe it was Harland as you've suggested." Mark said.

Andrea and I said nothing.

"Tim, why haven't you ever Served your country? You said, over the phone that you've never been in the Military, why not?" Mark then asked, looking at me.

"...Mark I strongly considered it when I graduated but I had always wanted to go into business for myself, which I did. I've been in business for myself, thirty six years now. Another reason I chose not to enlist was because it would have been during peacetime. I was born in sixty four which meant my Service would have occurred during peacetime. I know from history that during peacetime, politicians have been known to send troops into some distant battle simply to divert the press's attention away from something as trivial as an illicit love affair within the political machine. I didn't want to die in battle because a president or some senator or congressman got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I didn't want to go and fight a war that was meaningless, in that sense, or one we could die in but wouldn't be allowed to win." I said earnestly.

"Like Vietnam?" Mark asked.