degenerative brain withering, some “slipping into the vast unaware.”
From the kitchen came an interruption in the nibbling and crunching.
He heard Thurman shake his head, his ears flapping like soft leather straps whacking on a wooden post. Then he growled, No. No worry .
Wilson smiled, then shut his eyes, and began to worry, just a little, and then a little more.
“You’re not supposed to be here this week,” Henry Karch, an insurance auditor at the agency where Hazel worked, whispered as Hazel appeared in front of his desk, as if her being there while on vacation was some manner of corporate disobedience that might involve him somehow.
And Henry did not want that at all.
“I’m still on vacation, Henry,” Hazel said with some patience. “And I’ve already said hello to Mr. Shupp. So they know I’m here. It’s okay.”
Henry glanced in the direction of the corner office, and, seeing no security guards hurrying toward them, not just yet, he relaxed, if only a little.
“Henry,” Hazel said calmly, “you know a lot about military history, right?”
Henry wore camouflage ties on occasion, and often mentioned, unbidden, his involvement in a war-gaming group that met in a basement room of the civic center twice a month.
“Maybe.”
Hazel reached into her purse, and Henry’s eyes followed her hand closely.
She pulled out the photograph.
“What branch of service is this uniform?”
Henry leaned in closer, then leaned back, opened his desk drawer, and retrieved a rather large magnifying glass.
Why would he have a magnifying glass at work? Hazel thought and was about to ask, but decided against it.
He did not actually touch the photo, but simply leaned closer and peered at it with intensity.
“That’s easy. Army. Regular issue. Vietnam time frame. He’s wearing a Vietnam campaign ribbon. Can’t see his nametag. Well, maybe that’s a W there. Could be. He’s a corporal. No big deal there. Everyone was a corporal.”
Hazel’s eyes widened.
“Wow. You can tell that much?”
“And he’s from the 25th Infantry Division. The Army called it ‘Tropic Thunder.’ See the divisional ID patch there? The soldiers called it the ‘Electric Strawberry.’ I guess it does look like one, sort of. An electrified strawberry, I mean.”
Hazel turned the picture back to herself, hiding her mother’s handwritten note, and stared at it again, as if hoping to see something different this time.
“Did they see much combat? The 25th?”
Henry shrugged.
“A good bit. The division was among the last to leave the country…when the war, such as it was, was ending. So, depending, this soldier could have seen a lot of combat. Or not.”
Henry looked up.
“Who is he?”
Hazel slipped the photo back into her purse. She looked at Henry. Her eyes were weary.
“I don’t know exactly. Someone my mother knew, I guess.”
Henry nodded as if such requests were a regular occurrence at the sedate insurance agency, which they were obviously not.
“You could check with Facebook. I bet the 25th Division has a page. There would have to be some sort of veterans’ group, somewhere. Maybe someone will recognize him. I mean, if you really want to find out. But Vietnam happened a while ago now.”
Hazel offered Henry an honest smile and then hoped he wouldn’t interpret it as something else, and hurried toward the front door.
She was pretty sure he had already started misinterpreting it.
Chapter Eleven
H AZEL WALKED out of her office building, modern and glass and sleek and antithetical to all that transpired within the walls—which involved business intricacies of a turn-of-the-last-century insurance company rife with arcane evaluations and formulas and policies and products and a staff nearly chained to their desks during the day, unwilling to risk being seen enjoying the work by a boss with no apparent happy emotions in him. She stopped for coffee, her fifth cup of the day so far. Her nerves were already
From the kitchen came an interruption in the nibbling and crunching.
He heard Thurman shake his head, his ears flapping like soft leather straps whacking on a wooden post. Then he growled, No. No worry .
Wilson smiled, then shut his eyes, and began to worry, just a little, and then a little more.
“You’re not supposed to be here this week,” Henry Karch, an insurance auditor at the agency where Hazel worked, whispered as Hazel appeared in front of his desk, as if her being there while on vacation was some manner of corporate disobedience that might involve him somehow.
And Henry did not want that at all.
“I’m still on vacation, Henry,” Hazel said with some patience. “And I’ve already said hello to Mr. Shupp. So they know I’m here. It’s okay.”
Henry glanced in the direction of the corner office, and, seeing no security guards hurrying toward them, not just yet, he relaxed, if only a little.
“Henry,” Hazel said calmly, “you know a lot about military history, right?”
Henry wore camouflage ties on occasion, and often mentioned, unbidden, his involvement in a war-gaming group that met in a basement room of the civic center twice a month.
“Maybe.”
Hazel reached into her purse, and Henry’s eyes followed her hand closely.
She pulled out the photograph.
“What branch of service is this uniform?”
Henry leaned in closer, then leaned back, opened his desk drawer, and retrieved a rather large magnifying glass.
Why would he have a magnifying glass at work? Hazel thought and was about to ask, but decided against it.
He did not actually touch the photo, but simply leaned closer and peered at it with intensity.
“That’s easy. Army. Regular issue. Vietnam time frame. He’s wearing a Vietnam campaign ribbon. Can’t see his nametag. Well, maybe that’s a W there. Could be. He’s a corporal. No big deal there. Everyone was a corporal.”
Hazel’s eyes widened.
“Wow. You can tell that much?”
“And he’s from the 25th Infantry Division. The Army called it ‘Tropic Thunder.’ See the divisional ID patch there? The soldiers called it the ‘Electric Strawberry.’ I guess it does look like one, sort of. An electrified strawberry, I mean.”
Hazel turned the picture back to herself, hiding her mother’s handwritten note, and stared at it again, as if hoping to see something different this time.
“Did they see much combat? The 25th?”
Henry shrugged.
“A good bit. The division was among the last to leave the country…when the war, such as it was, was ending. So, depending, this soldier could have seen a lot of combat. Or not.”
Henry looked up.
“Who is he?”
Hazel slipped the photo back into her purse. She looked at Henry. Her eyes were weary.
“I don’t know exactly. Someone my mother knew, I guess.”
Henry nodded as if such requests were a regular occurrence at the sedate insurance agency, which they were obviously not.
“You could check with Facebook. I bet the 25th Division has a page. There would have to be some sort of veterans’ group, somewhere. Maybe someone will recognize him. I mean, if you really want to find out. But Vietnam happened a while ago now.”
Hazel offered Henry an honest smile and then hoped he wouldn’t interpret it as something else, and hurried toward the front door.
She was pretty sure he had already started misinterpreting it.
Chapter Eleven
H AZEL WALKED out of her office building, modern and glass and sleek and antithetical to all that transpired within the walls—which involved business intricacies of a turn-of-the-last-century insurance company rife with arcane evaluations and formulas and policies and products and a staff nearly chained to their desks during the day, unwilling to risk being seen enjoying the work by a boss with no apparent happy emotions in him. She stopped for coffee, her fifth cup of the day so far. Her nerves were already
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