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fact that he has my father who was a 25-year-old man, a son of a postman from a tiny town in Missouri . . ." Her voice trailed off. "A lot has happened between now and then."
Perhaps, but Kerry doesn't let go. You can see that in his study, on the top floor of Kerry's Beacon Hill townhouse, which overlooks Boston Harbor. Kerry calls it "my thinking place. A place to keep things that are old and meaningful." There are no plaques or political trinkets; it is a private space, for Kerry. Beside snapshots of Kerry's daughters stand photos of Droz and Pershing in uniform. There's a picture of Kerry holding VC, the puppy he had in Vietnam. Sandusky the helmsman is on the wall, too, smiling. On a recent afternoon, Kerry spent more than an hour there, rummaging through old boxes, dipping into files. It was almost as though he had forgotten that someone else was in the room. "This is going back in time," he said, finding a map of the Mekong Delta. he pointed to a turn in the blue, jagged river: "This is where we got ambushed on Christmas." Kerry dug out the legal pad where he'd scribbled notes for his 1971 speech to the Foreign Relations Committee. It began as a letter: "Dear American, supporter of the boys in Viet Nam . . . I want you to understand the anger and sense of betrayal . . . "
He opened his diary and read about his last day in Vietnam: "When I left there was no rainbow arcing into the runway. And there was no rain. But especially I remembered the rainbow because I had been stupid enough to wonder if there was a 'pot of gold' waiting for me in Vietnam. There was romance then: People only died in accidents, in hospitals, in war stories . . . but there was no romance the day that I left. . . . I had learned about stupidity, and absurdity, and war crap, and dead men -- " He interrupted himself. "You can see how angry I was."
An aide walked into Kerry's study for the third time. "Your 4:30 phone call is waiting." It was 4:50 pm. He walked down the stairs, toward the living room. In his striped shirt and tie Kerry looked like any other politician. Then he reached into his suit pocket. In the light of the stairwell, a piece of metal glinted in his hand. It was his dog tag, his identity, stripped to its essentials: "Kerry john f. Service # Usn Rom cath. Blood type O." He carries the chain in his pocket, always: "This brought me home safe." In Vietnam, he had taped the dog tags together so they wouldn't rattle during secret missions. There's still a piece of tape on it, but the second dog tag is missing. "Alex, my daughter, has it," he said.
Kerry had given it to Alexandra when she was going through a hard time. He wanted her to know that her father was with her always. That she would never be alone.
Staff writer Dale Russakoff contributed to this report.
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