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I’m Mrs. William Schuddy, she said over the phone. She and two friends were in town for a couple of days making the rounds and they’d like to see my brother, or me, or anyone I’d designate on the staff. “My husband’s been a prisoner in North Vietnam for five years,” she explained, “and we’re organizing to do something about it,” because, she didn’t add, it doesn’t look as if any one else will.

I don’t know what I expected. Middleaged women, I suppose, emotional, pentup, driven. But the three who came in the door were, well, kids. Bright, attractive, with that clean tanned outdoor look of so many young American women. Attractive, and determined.

PL

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Priscilla L. Buckley

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I’m Mrs. William Schuddy, she said over the phone. She and two friends were in town for a couple of days making the rounds and they’d like to see my brother, or me, or anyone I’d designate on the staff. “My husband’s been a prisoner in North Vietnam for five years,” she explained, “and we’re organizing to do something about it,” because, she didn’t add, it doesn’t look as if any one else will.

I don’t know what I expected. Middleaged women, I suppose, emotional, pentup, driven. But the three who came in the door were, well, kids. Bright, attractive, with that clean tanned outdoor look of so many young American women. Attractive, and determined.