We Were Beautiful Once Read Online Free

having received no further reports.  Art never believed that his brother could simply have vanished. And years later, when families were raising issues about Vietnam MIAs, he began his own investigation by perusing declassified Army records.  He told Nick he believed that Roger was then, and now, a POW.  Art, picking up on Nick’s curiosity, excused himself, went to his car and returned with a battered briefcase full of “evidence” gathered over the years.  Intrigued by what little he had read—an International Red Cross report listing Roger Girardin as a POW, and a later, official Army letter stating Girardin was MIA, presumed dead—Nick invited Art back to his office to make a better assessment of Art’s collection.  More than curiosity, though, Nick’s instinct told him that this could be one hell of an opportunity for his struggling practice.
    Art Girardin, slightly overweight, early-fifties, had worked in the Department of Transportation for the past nineteen years, spending most of that time inspecting roads throughout Connecticut.  He had a ruddy complexion and thick muscular hands that did not go with the image of a guy who had painstakingly rifled through the arcane records of a complicated war.  Now seated in Nick’s office, he started from the beginning.  
    â€œYeah, this old bastard at the National Archives told me I was wastin’ my time.  But I said to this little prick, get the goddamn records out, an’ let me decide.  That was the middle of, no, beginning of ’77 when I first went to D.C.  The fucking Army was, well, they were worse than the guy at the Archives.”
    Nick perused one document after another while Art briefed him and let off steam.
    â€œFor almost three goddamn years I went back and forth to the Archives, running down leads going nowhere, others pointing to people who vaguely remembered a Girardin, writing admirals, generals, staffers at the Department of Defense, the U.N. Military Armistice Commission and the CIA.  Then the minute I found a guy, out in California, who definitely could place Roger in Camp 13 in ’52, he turns up dead two weeks later.  It was like either collective amnesia, or the thing was hexed.”
    Nick tried to size up this man, who had worked himself into a lather, to make sure he wasn’t some whacko on a crusade.
    â€œYeah, useless politicians mostly humored me. Promised more than they delivered,” Art continued sullenly.  “And depending on who was in, they talked to one or more of these asshole bureaucrats in the Defense Department.”
    â€œWhich ones did you contact?” Nick asked.
    â€œOh, Goodsmith, from Georgia, Walkovich, Welsh, Connecticut.  Yeah, these suckers have short-term attention.  They read from a patriotic script and eventually move on.  But, I never let them forget me, what it means to find some poor foot soldier, the gullible kid who drank the Kool aide and enlisted. And who now may be living in hell somewhere.”
    â€œHave you been in touch lately?  With the politicians?”
    Art threw his arms in the air.  “No, these jerks all called it quits after a little publicity.” Art looked at his puffy hands.  “I wished I had a crystal ball, so I could see what goes on in those bureaucracies.”
    â€œThey hide a lot, Art, they hide,”  Nick commiserated.
    Bemoaning, Art continued, “Now, well, the Pentagon dropped us.  Like a sack of shit.  They don’t even take my calls.”  He slammed a fist into his palm. “Goddamn it, I want my day in court.  This is my last chance.  We gotta get them to listen, Nick.  Can you do that?” he was pleading now.
    â€œArt, before I say yes, I need to know what you’re trying to do.  I mean, your brother’s been gone thirty years.  A lot of boys didn’t come back.  What is it, Art?”  Nick