Finding Angus: A True Story of Love, War, and Family

A World War II love affair and the efforts of two families to learn about the mysterious man who has brought them together.

The February after my mother died, my brother, Allen, left his New Mexico home and boarded a plane for Honolulu. He carried a backpack that carried a rosewood box that carried our mother's ashes. The next day, on Maui, he bought six leis and rented a sea kayak. With the leis in a shopping bag and our mother's ashes in his pack, he paddled into the Pacific.

That day nine years ago was the sort one hopes for in the tropics: warm and balmy, with a breeze that pushed cat's paws over the water. Beyond the mouth of the bay he could see rising plumes, the spouts of humpback whales gathered to breed. He paddled toward them. When he was closer to the whales than to the shore, he shipped his oar and opened his pack. He pulled out the box and sat with it on his lap, letting the boat drift. He watched the distant spouts. Without any prelude, a whale suddenly but gently surfaced about 30 yards in the distance and released a gush of air. It bobbed, noisily breathed, and dove.

Allen wouldn't get a better cue. He lifted the leis one at a time and dropped them onto the water. They formed a loose, expanding circle around him. He turned the latch on the box and opened it; the contents looked denser and darker than he expected. They shished and gently rattled when he tilted the box. He had traveled a long way to bring her here, but there wasn't much to return. Five pounds of hard ash. He tilted the box and poured her into the sea. Evelyn Jane Hawkins Preston Dobbs, as if eager to get there, dove straight for the bottom.

Four months earlier, she had been lying in a bed in Houston's Methodist Hospital, where decades before she and my father had trained as physicians and where she had given birth to four of her six children. She had long been fearsomely strong. Tough? we used to joke. Our mother's so hard you can roller­skate on her. Now she struggled to breathe. Her once thick hair lay thin and dank. Tubes fed and drained her. Purpura stained her skin. She was 80 years old and had been sick for most of the previous decade—breast cancer, hip replacement, bowel obstruction, pelvic stress fracture, arthritis, pulmonary fibrosis. She'd had enough. "A stroke," she said. "Why can't I just have a stroke and die?"

Allen, an emergency‐room doctor, stood at the head of the bed holding her hand. "Mom, I hate to say it. But a fatal stroke is about the only thing you don't seem at risk of."

"Damn it, Allen, I'm a doctor, too," she said. "I'm quite aware of that." Allen looked at us helplessly. Until then it had seemed as if the world would need her permission to finish her. Now she had given it. She closed her eyes. Allen shuffled. No one said anything. After a while she said, "Children, I want to talk about later."

"Okay, Mother," said Sarah. Sarah was the fourth of the six children, the one who lived nearest to her and had done the most to look after her. "What about later?"

"When I'm gone," she said, "I'd like to be cremated."

This was new. In the past, she had talked about getting buried next to her father, who was in a leafy cemetery in Austin.

"Okay," said Sarah.

"And I want you to spread my ashes off Hawaii. In the Pacific. Will you do that for me?"

"Sure, Mom," said Allen. "We can do that." My mother smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

"Mother?" Sarah asked. "May we ask why the Pacific?"

She closed her eyes. "I want to be with Angus."

We children exchanged glances: Had anyone seen this coming? Heads shook, shoulders shrugged.

What we knew of Angus was this: Angus—the only name we had for him—was a flight surgeon our mother had fallen in love with during World War II, planned to marry after the war, but lost when the Japanese shot him down over the Pacific. Once, long ago, she had mentioned to me that he was part of the reason she decided to be a doctor. That was all we knew. She had confided those things in the 1970s, in the years just after she and my father divorced. I can remember sitting in a big easy chair my dad had left behind in her bedroom, listening to her reminisce about Angus as she sat with her knitting. I remember being embarrassed, and not terribly interested.

I was interested now. Even 30 years before, her affair with Angus had been three decades old. Now, 60 years after he had fallen into the sea, she wanted to follow him.

"Of course," said my brother. "We'll do that for you, Mom."

A week later, seemingly on the mend, she was sent home to the elder center where she lived. For a week or so she continued to gain strength. But then she started to have trouble breathing, was admitted to the home's care center, and, on her second day there, suddenly stopped breathing. Despite a standing do‐not‐resuscitate order, the staff tried three times to revive her, to no avail. The doorman told me later that when the ambulance arrived and the medics rolled her out, she was "blue as can be, Mr. Dobbs. Blue as can be." The hospital, too, tried to bring her back, and they were still trying when Sarah arrived. By that time, our mother was brain dead but alive and could breathe only with a tube. Exactly what she sought to avoid. Sarah gathered her strength and told the nurses that this was against her mother's wishes and she must insist they remove the breathing tube. "It was like jumping off a cliff," she told me later. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was harder than pushing out a kid." The nurses called the doctors. As they pulled out the breathing tube, my mother bit down on it. Sarah screamed, "Oh my God she's fighting for life!" The doctors assured her that this was a common reflex and tugged it free.

Then they left. Sarah sat next to the bed and put her head next to my mother's and held her hand. With the tube gone, her breathing slowed. Sarah cried against her neck. It took about 10 minutes. Finally, the room was quiet.

An hour later, my brother, sitting in his car on the side of the highway in New Mexico, called me to tell me she had died.

"So it wasn't a stroke," he said after we'd talked a while. "But at least it was fast."

"Have to admire it," I said, laughing. "Mom always got pretty much what she wanted."

Or so a child likes to think.

By the time Allen got her to Hawaii, three months had passed. After the memorial services in Texas, I returned to my home in Vermont, where the coldest winter in a generation had the place in a lock. When I opened Allen's email describing the ceremony he had fashioned, I sat at a desk overlooking the North Branch of the Winooski River, frozen three feet deep and topped by three feet of snow. I read my brother's email, looked at the pictures, looked out my window, read his email again. I wondered how much you could discover about a person 60 years dead when all you knew about him was that his name was Angus, likely a nickname. I'd had three weeks to ask my mother such things before she died—three decades, actually—but had not. Now, with the snow outside and Hawaiian light sparkling in my head, I picked up the phone and called my mother's cousin Betty Lou.

"What do I know about Angus?" said Betty Lou, repeating my question. Betty Lou has a beautifully soft north Texas accent. She was down in Wichita Falls, Texas, where she and my mother had grown up together, sometimes in the same house, much as sisters.

She took a deep breath. "Well, there's not a whole lot I knew about Angus. But I knew his real name was Norman, I'm pretty sure it was, and he came from Iowa. He was divorced. They met in San Antonio when he was stationed there awhile. She was out of her head with that man. At one point, when he got stationed to Hawaii, she followed him clear out there for a while. He ended up getting sent way out in the Pacific—Guam, Iwo Jima, somewhere like that—and got killed right near the end of the war."

"How'd she find out?"

"Somebody in his outfit wrote her. Letter actually got there after the war ended. And that letter, David, just about destroyed your mama. She could not be consoled. Weeks. I've never seen anybody grieve like that. Before or since. She did eventually pick herself up and go on, because you knew her, David—your mama was a strong woman. She even scared me sometimes. But I'm not sure she ever got over losing Angus."

"You remember his last name?"

"Best I recollect, was Z‐something. Zert, Zaret, Zart. Something like that."

"You sure it started with a Z?" I asked. "That could make things a lot simpler."

"I hope so, David. Because beyond that it gets pretty dang complicated."

It took me about 20 minutes online to find a copy of the World War II Honor List of the Dead and Missing, State of Iowa. The book was just scanned pages, not digitized, with the names listed alphabetically by county. All I had to do was scroll down to the end of each county's listings, past the Adamses and Joneses and Moores and Smiths and Thompsons. There were not too many Zs. I found him about halfway through the book, at the end of the listings for Johnson County:

ZAHRT NORMAN E 01700383 CAPT M

The M meant he was missing.

I started searching genealogy sites for anyone in Iowa named Zahrt. Every time I found someone, I sent an email saying I was seeking information about a Captain Norman E. Zahrt, who was a close friend of my mother—sometimes I phrased it as "a dear friend of my mother"—who according to a letter she received was either killed or went missing in action toward the end of the war. I sent about a dozen of these emails and got a few replies, all negative. After a couple weeks, I opened my email one morning and found a new response:

I didn't have to imagine the questions. He listed 19 of them:

I had never seen a note at once so prosecutorial and generous. I dithered for days. Finally, I wrote and answered all 19 of his questions as best I could.

When David, along with his sister, Christy, responded, they did so with an openness that showed they really did want to own their scars. My mother posed as big a mystery to them as their father did to me.

To buy the full version of "My Mother's Lover," visit The Atavist's website. Images: Courtesy of The Atavist.