Owen Meany-concerning what progress or success he had encountered with his efforts to be reassigned. All Owen said was: 'MAJOR GENERAL LA-HOAD IS THE KEY. I SCRATCH HIS BACK . . . YOU KNOW THE REST.'
It was December before he mentioned that he'd sent another Personnel Action Form to Washington, asking for transfer to Vietnam; those forms, as many times as he would submit them, were routed through his chain of command-including Major General LaHoad. By December, the major general had Owen working as a casualty assistance officer in the Personnel Section. Apparently, Owen had made a favorable impression upon some grieving Arizona family who had connections at the Pentagon; through the chain of command, the major general had received a special letter of commendation-the Casualty Branch at the post had reason to be proud: a Second Lieutenant Paul O. Meany, Jr., had been of great comfort to the parents of a LT infantry type who'd been killed in Vietnam. Owen had been especially moving when he'd read the award citation for the Silver Star medal to the next of kin. Major General LaHoad had congratulated Owen personally. At Fort Huachuca, the Casualty Branch was composed of Second Lieutenant Paul O. Meany, Jr., and a staff sergeant in his thirties-'A DISGRUNTLED CAREER MAN,' according to Owen; but the staff sergeant had an Italian wife whose homemade pasta was 'SUCH AN IMPROVEMENT ON HESTER'S THAT IT MAKES THE STAFF SERGEANT OCCASIONALLY WORTH LISTENING TO.' In the Casualty Branch, the second lieutenant and the staff sergeant were assisted by 'A TWENTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD SPECS AND A TWENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD SPEC.'
'He might as well be talking about insects-for all I know!' Hester said. 'What the fuck is a 'Spec Four' and a 'Spec Five'-and how does he expect us to know what he's talking about?'
I wrote back to him. 'What exactly does a casualty assistance officer do!' I asked. On the walls of the Casualty Branch Office at Fort Hua-huca, Owen said there were maps of Arizona and Vietnam- and a roster of Arizona men who were prisoners of war or missing in action, along with the names of their next of kin. When the body of an Arizona man arrived from Vietnam, you went to California to escort the body home-the body, Owen explained, had to be escorted by a man of the same rank or higher; thus a private's body might be brought home by a sergeant, and a second lieutenant would escort the body of another second lieutenant or (let's say) of a warrant officer.
'Hester!' I said. 'He's delivering bodies*. He's the one who brings the casualties home!'
'That's his line of work, all right,' Hester said. 'At least he's familiar with the territory.'
My 'line of work,' it seemed to me, was reading; my ambitions extended no further than to my choice of reading material. I loved being a graduate student; I loved my first teaching job, too-yet I felt I was so undaring. The very thought of bringing bodies home to their next of kin gave me the shivers. In his diary, he wrote: 'THE OFFICE FOR THE CASUALTY BRANCH IS IN THE PART OF THE POST THAT WAS BUILT JUST AFTER BLACK JACK PERSHING'S EXPEDITION AGAINST PANCHO VILLA-OUR BUILDING IS OLD AND STUCCOED AND THE MINT-GREEN PAINT ON THE CEILING IS PEELING. WE HAVE A WALL POSTER DEPICTING ALL THE MEDALS THE ARMY OFFERS. WITH A GREASE PENCIL, ON TWO PLASTIC-COVERED CHARTS, WE WRITE THE NAMES OF THE WEEK'S CASUALTIES, ALONGSIDE THE ARIZONA PRISONERS OF WAR. WHAT THE ARMY CALLS ME IS A 'CASUALTY ASSISTANCE OFFICER'; WHAT I AM IS A BODY ESCORT.'
'Jesus! Tell me all about it!' I said-when he was home on leave for Christmas.
'SO HOW DO YOU LIKE BEING A GRADUATE STUDENT?' he asked me. 'SO WHAT'S HE LIKE FOR A ROOMMATE?' he asked Hester. He was tan and fit-looking; maybe it was all the tennis. His uniform had only one medal on it.
'THEY GIVE IT TO EVERYONE!' said Owen Meany. On his left sleeve was a patch indicating his post, and on each shoulder epaulet was a brass bar signifying that he was a
second lieutenant; on each collar was the brass U.S. insignia and the red-and-blue-striped silver shield of his branch: the Adjutant General's Corps. The MEANY name tag was the only other hardware on his uniform-there were no marksmanship badges, or anything else.
'NO OVERSEAS PATCH-I'M NOT MUCH TO LOOK AT,' he said shyly; Hester and I couldn't take our eyes off him.
'Are they really in plastic bags-the bodies?' Hester asked him.
'Do you have to check the contents of the bags?' I asked him.
'Are there sometimes just parts of a head and loose fingers and toes?' Hester asked him.
'I suppose this might change how you feel-about going over there?' I said to him.
'Do the parents freak!' Hester asked. 'And the wives-do you have to talk to the wives?'
He looked so awfully composed-he made us feel as if we'd never left school; of course, we hadn't.
'IT'S A WAY TO GO TO CALIFORNIA,' Owen said evenly. 'I FLY TO TUCSON. I FLY TO OAKLAND-IT'S THE ARMY BASE IN OAKLAND WHERE YOU
