One of the vets, I'll call him Mike, seemed especially uncomfortable in front of the lights. As our interviewer asked him questions about his time in Korea, he was difficult to understand. He spoke in a deep baritone rich with experience, but he also spoke quickly, often in a kind of laughing mutter, and he didn't seem comfortable.
At one point, Sam and I looked at each other and wordlessly communicated: "Let's let Mike off the hook." Sam thanked Mike for taking the time, told him we "got what we needed" (a white lie if there ever was one), and said we could be done with the interview unless there was anything else Mike wanted to add. To our surprise, he kept right on talking over Sam. In fact, at one point, he paused and looked to the side. His voice lowered a pitch, his speed slowed down, and I remember him suddenly being much more intelligible, as if he was a different person.
We kept the camera rolling as Mike proceeded to tell us about the time he was on the front lines and found a 5-year-old North Korean boy near an air compressor. The boy, clearly lost, abandoned or both, emerged from under a tarp and hugged Mike like there was no tomorrow. When Mike offered him some food, he ignored the spoon and fork and dug right in with his hands. Not knowing what else to do, Mike drove the boy back to camp.
The camp ended up "adopting" the boy, even giving him odd jobs and teaching him some English. Mike grew more and more attached to him, and with the boy refusing to go back home (wherever that was) and no one emerging to claim him, Mike decided to go through the process of legally adopting him.
Everything was all set for the boy to board a plane for the States. Mike had filled out all the paperwork. The Army was providing transportation, and Mike's parents were waiting on the other end of the world to give him a new home. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, a South Korean aunt swooped the boy up. Mike never saw or heard from him again, despite two attempts to do so once he was stateside.
Some time after digesting that story, we turned the lights off, everybody took a minute, and we again thanked Mike. "You know," he said. "This is the first time I've talked about the war since the day I got home." My jaw dropped. Not only had this man told a story worthy of its own movie, but he had just informed us that the first time he had shared his war experiences was over half a century later in front of complete strangers, with lights blinding him and a camera in his face.
This is when I realized what this movie could really do. It was the moment I understood that most vets actually want to tell their stories; they're just waiting for someone to ask, even to insist. And it almost doesn't matter who's on the other end of the conversation, just as long as they're listening.
Why is "Memorial Day" worth your time? Because nearly everyone who has already seen the film in screenings has approached me, Sam or the dozens of others who made this movie and said, in effect, that they know a Mike. If he's still living, they suddenly feel inspired to talk to him. If he's not, they feel a twinge of remorse that they never got the chance.
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