Every Precious Thing

C HAPTER E IGHTY- E IGHT

Three Weeks Later

Manila, The Philippines

Logan met his father in the lobby of the hotel.

“You ready?” he asked.

Harp looked nervous, but he nodded and tried to smile.

Logan guided him out the front door to the car waiting for them at the curb. Harp climbed in first, sliding over so that Logan could get in behind him. Moments later, their driver was navigating them through the notorious Manila traffic.

It took nearly an hour to reach their destination southeast of downtown, near Aquino International Airport. The sign out front read:

MANILA AMERICAN CEMETERY AND MEMORIAL

They passed through an open gate in a gray, barred fence, but had to stop just on the other side for a guard. The driver rolled down his window and the guard stuck his head in.

When he saw Harp and Logan in the back, he said, “American?”

“Yes,” Logan said.

“Okay. Park over there.” He pointed at a white building off to the right with the word VISITORS etched in the stone at the top of a small portico.

Suddenly, it was like they were in a different world. The chaos of Manila disappeared, replaced by an empty road running up a tranquil, grass-covered hill. At the apex of the gentle slope, Logan could see their destination.

“I can ask if it’s okay to drive up there,” Logan said to his father. The road did go all the way up.

“I’d rather walk.”

They exited the car and headed up the road. On either side of them was a well-kept expanse of grass, lined with row after row of white stone grave markers, crosses, and Stars of David. These were soldiers and sailors and marines who had died in World War II, but Harp and Logan weren’t there to see one of those tombstones.

As they neared the end of the road, the monument came into full view. Two arcs, each half of a circle separated enough so that a wide stone walkway ran through the openings at either end. The arcs, constructed of a similar stone, were maybe fifteen feet high, the curving roofs held in place by dozens of walls set up like dominos in side-by-side pairs.

These were what the two Harper men came to see. Carved on both sides of the walls were names, nearly forty thousand in all. These were the ones who had never been able to receive a grave like their fellow servicemen buried nearby. There was nothing of these men to bury, for they were the missing in action.

“Just a second,” Harp said as they reached the steps that led up to the arcs.

“Sure, Dad.” Logan was actually glad to rest a moment.

As a former soldier himself, he couldn’t help but think about those he’d served with who had never come home. Those he was surrounded by here were as much his brothers and sisters as the ones back in Afghanistan had been. A wave of sadness and loss threatened to overwhelm him. Feeling his eyes grow moist, he turned away from his father and took a few deep breaths.

When he was finally back in control, he said, “Whenever you’re ready, Dad.”

Harp waited a few more seconds, then nodded.

They found the wall they were looking for about halfway down the arc on the right. Logan spotted the name first.

HARPER THOMAS J AVN ORDNANCEMAN 2C USN KANSAS

Harp let out a gasp when he saw it. He reached out and touched the letters, gently brushing against them as if they might vanish if he pushed too hard.

For nearly five minutes, neither of them said a word.

Then Harp pulled Len’s envelope from his pocket and removed the one that was inside, the letter he had sent to his brother, Tom.

Harp had finally told Logan this was the trip he and Len had talked about so many years ago, the one Len was never able to make, the one he wanted to make sure Harp didn’t miss, too. Logan had immediately booked the flight, and now here they were.

Harp broke the seal, but seemed unable to pull out the letter.

Logan leaned over and carefully removed the paper from inside.

“Here, Dad,” he said, handing over the letter.

“I don’t know if I can,” Harp said.

Logan smiled at him. “I do.”

For several seconds, silence threatened to take over again. Then Harp looked down at the words in front of him, the words he had written as a child, and began to read aloud.

“Dear Tom…”