Chapter 6
“Family Man”
Norman never made it to the U.S. Department of War the day he was almost killed. In fact, he didn’t get another chance until after World War II had ended some five and half years later. But, in February of 1946, when he kissed his wife, Nancy, and his four-year-old son, Randall, good-bye at the front door of their home in Chicago, he was determined to embark on a quest that he would most certainly finish. He would drive slowly, obey all traffic rules, and keep alert the entire drive to Washington, D.C., just to make sure he got there alive and in one piece.
The hardest part for him, though, was getting out of the house.
Nancy was a traditional girl. She viewed marriage as a partnership, not a decades-long date. In her mind, family was the husband’s number one priority. And though that priority was established in his ability to support them, and though his ability to support them might’ve sometimes required travel, Nancy was clear that any travel Norman did without them needed to have its roots in the assurance that dinner came home with him.
So, when he’d explained to her why he was returning to Washington, he didn’t get the glowing support he’d hoped from her.
“You do have a son now,” she told him, as he was packing his bags. “A family. You don’t have the luxury of just picking up and going whenever you want like you did before.”
“Yes, honey. I’m aware of that.”
He had tossed his suitcase on the bed and dumped some clothes inside. Then he climbed onto the bag to weigh it all down so that he could close it. Nancy watched him from the door to the bedroom.
“I don’t like that you’re continuing this frivolous mission. It does nothing to feed us. And it does nothing to form a bond with your son.”
He glanced over his shoulder as he pushed his knee against the suitcase and reached for the zipper.
“Nance, it’s just for a few days. Probably not more than three. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
“Not true.”
“Nance. This is important to me.”
He studied her face as she studied his. After a few seconds of silence, she nodded.
“Yes, I know. So, I’ll drop the subject here. Just be aware that we need you. Please be back in three days, as you’ve promised.”
When he kissed his family good-bye, he tried not to feel guilty about it. But, he understood Nancy’s position as much as he’d hoped she understood his. She was the mother of a four-year-old, and she would be taking care of him by herself until Norman got back. Not at all impossible for her, but certainly not ideal. Raising a child alone for any length of time beyond the standard workday was not her idea of strong family health. She was a traditional woman to the core. When she said she needed Norman around, she meant it.
He got into his car and fired up the engine, he was determined to honor his wife’s wishes, even if it meant cutting his investigation short. Then he was off to the War Department in Washington to continue what he’d started in 1940.
This time, he was able to finish the trip.
“Sorry,” said the clerk, when Norman finally got to sit with an official and discuss the Great War’s casualties. “There’s no record of a Maxie McWalter having ever fought for us.”
“You sure?” Norman asked. “Check the records for the Thirty-third Division out of Illinois. Company B.”
The clerk rifled through a few pages and checked again.
“Sorry, sir, but the records don’t show that name.”
“Company C?”
“Sir, I’m checking all companies who served in the Thirty-third, as I am the Eightieth, the Seventy-seventh, and anyone else who might’ve been in the Meuse during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. I’m not seeing his name.”
Norman squeezed his eyes shut, thought about the situation.
“Could he have given me a fake name?”
“It’s possible, sir. Or maybe a nickname.”
Norman glanced at the official record of wartime losses. It was cluttered with names. Millions of them. Even in alphabetical order, they were intimidating to skim.
“Is there a Max McWalter listed?”
“Sir, I’ve checked all the McWalters on record. No one matches that name.”
Norman furrowed his brow as he considered his next move. No root, no real name, and a cure for the flu that he couldn’t reproduce or market or use to help anyone.
“Have you checked McWalter Maxie? Or maybe Walter Maxie?”
The clerk turned a hundred pages to the left and skimmed the names starting with MA with his finger.
“No such name on the fallen soldiers list.”
Norman couldn’t believe he’d left his wife and young son behind for this. Or his store. So much of his life back home needed his attention, yet he was wasting his time here in Washington trying to get to the bottom of a problem that had no answer, or a problem that was protected by a man incapable of doing his job properly. But he pressed on anyway, even if his heart was steadily checking out of this stage of the search. Nancy had promised him a hearty meal of steak and wine when he returned. He would’ve much rather been eating that than dealing with this.
“What about Max Walter?”
The clerk hefted the records for M to the side and left to retrieve the records for W. Repeated the same process.
“There are a few of those. But I don’t see any from Division Thirty-three.”
Norman folded his arms over the table and leaned into them. This experience was getting under his skin.
“What about Walter McMax?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you’re going to find your fallen comrade this way. Maybe you should check with your old unit?”
Norman gave that idea some thought. As productive as he thought that could’ve been, he realized that Maxie McWalter was just a guy he had met in the bunker. He hadn’t actually been part of his company. He wasn’t sure how straight of an answer he would get from his old division headquarters.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said.