Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

The yelling on D-Ward hadn’t stopped and now it sounded to Everly like somebody down there had started throwing furniture around. A number of orderlies were in sight and Everly motioned for them to handle the disturbance while he went to the front entrance to answer the shrill buzzing of the doorbell.

The young woman standing outside was not unattractive, though she looked like a drowned rat in the driving rain. She was dressed for business and had an official-looking clipboard in her hand. Everly’s first thought was that she was some kind of a state inspector, which wouldn’t be good at all, but when she pressed her ID against the glass it said she was from the newspaper.

“Thanks,” she said, after he’d let her inside the foyer. “I’m Julia Geller, from the Courier-Post . I made an appointment a couple of days ago. I’m here to interview one of your residents.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Because nobody told me.”

“Sorry to hear that, mister . . .” She wiped the rainwater from her glasses, and squinted at his name tag. “Mr. Davison.” She replaced her spectacles and made a note on her pad. “Should we call up your boss, because—”

“No, no,” Everly said. “I believe you, let’s not make any waves. Come on with me, we’ll find whoever you want to talk to.”

She told him to call her Julie and relayed the name of the resident she’d come to see. When Everly checked the room assignments it was clear that this was more bad news for the trouble-free evening he’d planned. This reporter wanted to talk to that man on D-Ward, the very one who was still down there raging like a lunatic.

“Do you mind if I slip back there so I can see your screen?” Julie asked, edging past him without really waiting for his answer.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to—”

“It’s okay, thanks.” She sat at the computer and started typing and clicking.

“I don’t want to lose my job,” Everly said quietly.

“Neither do I.” In a few seconds she’d found the records for room D-31. “Tell you what, there’s a hundred dollars cash in it for you, if I get what I need for my story. How does that grab you?”

He gave a look around the security station to make sure the coast was clear. “Sounds fine to me, I guess. Just—”

“Good.” After a bit more searching she seemed to find what she was looking for. “Morgan Campbell, age fifty-nine,” she said to herself, and she began writing again on her pad. “No next of kin . . . VA transfer, diabetes, emphysema, cancer survivor, diagnosed in ’01 with early-onset Alzheimer’s. . . .”

“Alzheimer’s,” Everly repeated. “So how’re you going to interview him if he can’t remember anything?”

“Memory’s strange in these patients,” she said, still scrolling through the screens of confidential data. “It’s first-in, last-out. He might not know who the president is, or what day it is, he might not even remember his breakfast this morning. But I’m betting he can tell me all about what happened forty years ago. Tomorrow’s the anniversary.”

She’d said this as though Everly might know what she meant. “Anniversary of what?” he asked.

In the silence that followed, Julie looked up from the computer. “Ever met a mass murderer, Mr. Davison?”

His checkered past being what it was, he had to think about that for a moment. “What do you mean, like three or four people?”

“Like three or four hundred . Maybe more.”

The lights flickered for a second as thunder rolled outside, and right then Everly Davison felt the full weight of the gold plastic badge pinned on his chest.

“No,” he said, “I never have.”

She nodded. “Then come with me.”

• • •

When they got to Morgan Campbell’s room, the old guy was strapped down hand-and-foot and the safety rails on the bed were lifted and locked in place like sideways prison bars. All in all, he didn’t look like much of a threat.

Campbell watched them intently as they stood in his doorway. Everly had quite an array of guard’s accessories dangling from his belt, but much like his badge, they were largely for show. The most serious weapon allowed in his possession was a sample-size tube of pepper spray, its contents probably about as potent as the hot sauce at Taco Bell.

“Who is this guy?” Everly whispered.

“Ever hear of My Lai?”

“Me lie?”

“My Lai, Quang Ngai Province, Vietnam. It’s a little town in a region the Americans called Pinkville during the war. That’s where Mr. Campbell was, forty years ago tomorrow.”

“What did he do?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” She stepped to the side of the bed with Everly behind her. She raised her voice a bit; it had said in his record that he was somewhat hard of hearing. “Mr. Morgan Campbell?”

The man nodded, his eyes locked on hers. He reached out, to the extent that the straps would allow. There was a tremor in his right hand, and the skin of his palm looked like it had been ravaged by an old burn that had never fully healed.

“My name is Julia. I’m a reporter. I’d like you to tell me what you remember about March 16, 1968.”

“Pinkville,” he whispered.

“That’s right.” She had her pad and pen ready, resting on the bedrail. “I want you to tell me all about it.”

“Why?” The old man looked at Everly, and then back at the reporter again.

“Why not?” she replied.

“Because once you’ve been there,” Morgan Campbell said, “you don’t ever come all the way back.”

June 1967

Morgan Campbell was nineteen years old when his number came up in the draft. He knew boys who’d dodged their service one way or another, but that kind of thing wasn’t for him. His dad had been a bombardier in World War II, so going overseas to fight for freedom and stop the spread of communism seemed like the right and natural thing to do.

Before Morgan knew it he had become a soldier. He was too young to buy a six-pack of beer, but after nine weeks of basic the army suited him up, gave him an M60 machine gun, and put him on a transport bound for the last phase of preparation before their first tour in the Vietnam War.

The troops of Charlie Company trained in Hawaii for a time, learning guerrilla tactics and how to survive in jungle terrain. Those were grueling weeks, but Morgan and his squad had made it through with honors. Under the hard and watchful eye of Captain Ernest “Mad Dog” Medina they’d posted some of the highest marks on record. By the time their training was over they were tough as nails and had bonded like brothers, all 140 of them.

• • •

Four men stood out to Morgan Campbell in those early days, all for different reasons.

The first was Captain Medina. War truly is hell, Medina reminded them, and so the highest goal must be to win as soon as possible. He told them the only proven way for a fighting force to win was simple: You kill people and break things, better and faster than the other side. He called his men “death dealers” and handed out packs of cards that were all aces of spades. One of those cards was to be left on every dead gook body, to let others know that Charlie Company had been there. Medina hated the enemy, loved his country, was admired by most, and respected by all.

The second memorable man was Lieutenant William Calley. The soldiers of his First Platoon saw him as something of a blowhard and a bungler, and from what the men could tell he was little more than a butt-kissing yes-man to his superiors. Medina had nothing but scorn for Calley, but that just made the lieutenant try all the harder to impress him.

The third man was Billy Weber, whom everyone genuinely liked and vice versa. Billy may have been the only soldier in the U.S. armed forces whom Lieutenant Calley could call a friend.