Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Phil.”

  Sloan looked at his watch. “I have to get back.” He stood. “Look, the point about ‘should have known’ and all that is somewhat esoteric. The Army is not going to charge you with anything after all these years unless you were actually at the scene of the incident. Were you?”

  “Quite possibly.” Tyson stood.

  “Did you actively participate in any way? I’m still not clear about what your role was in this alleged incident.”

  Tyson picked up his attaché case. “Well, it was a long time ago, Phil, and I’ll have to think about what my role was.”

  Sloan seemed miffed at the evasive answer. He walked toward the door and turned back. “The best defense is an aggressive offense. That’s true in football, combat, and law. You ought to give serious consideration to suing this guy Picard. If you don’t sue, then this will be noted by the government and the Army, and may well influence their decision on if and how to proceed.” Sloan waited for a reply, then added, “Also, you ought to consider how your friends, community, family, and employers will look on this if you don’t sue for libel.”

  Tyson had already considered all of that. He knew, too, that Sloan was baiting him, asking in an oblique manner, Of the charge of murder, guilty or not guilty, Tyson?

  “Of course I’ll consider a lawsuit,” Tyson said.

  Sloan nodded slowly. “All right, Ben, keep me informed if anything further develops. Meanwhile, leave me the book to read. Get another copy and do the same.” He walked through the door, and Tyson followed. They parted in the corridor. Sloan said, “Don’t make any statements, public or private.”

  Tyson looked over his shoulder. “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “Best to Marcy.”

  Tyson left the office and walked up the tree-shaded avenue. The danger, he thought, was more clear now and more palpable, which in a way made him feel better. But the thing had grown another head, and the teeth were far bigger than he’d thought from a distance.

  * * *

  Ben Tyson recrossed Hilton Avenue and entered the village library. He went directly upstairs to the reference law library. After some searching he sat at a small desk with four thick books. He pulled a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and headed the first page: The Peers Commission Report on the My Lai Massacre. On the second page he wrote: Byrne’s Military Law. Pages three and four he headed, respectively: The Uniform Code of Military Justice and The Manual for Courts-Martial.

  Tyson opened the Peers Commission report and began reading, making notes as he went along. After half an hour, he pushed it aside and opened The Uniform Code of Military Justice. He was familiar with this book and was fairly certain it hadn’t changed in the eighteen years since he’d last opened a copy of it. Military law transformed itself at roughly the same rate as the evolution of a new species.

  As an officer he’d sat on court-martial boards and had even acted as defense and trial counsel at Special Courts-Martial. Military law as written had seemed fair, logical, and even compassionate. There was a certain element of common sense to it that he knew instinctively was not present in civilian law. Yet some of the courts-martial he’d observed, especially those overseas, had a surreal quality to them; grim, dreary, little Kafkaesque affairs whose sole function was to process the accused into the convicted as quickly and quietly as possible.

  Tyson skimmed the pertinent parts of the UCMJ, made some notes, then picked up the Manual for Courts-Martial. The book was actually a three-ring binder that held loose-leaf pages. He perused the book quickly, more out of curiosity and a perverse sense of nostalgia than for legal strategy. The manual was little more than a primer, a blueprint, and a script for a trial. Everyone’s part was neatly spelled out in black and white. As an officer he had gone to this book only when all signs and omens pointed to court-martial. Tyson closed the book, rubbed his eyes, and stood. The light was dying from the west-facing window, and the library seemed unnaturally still, even for a library. Tyson looked at his watch. Nearly 6 P.M. He collected his notes, slipped them into his attaché case, and descended the stairs. He left the building and walked to a bench in the small war memorial park, a stretch of lawn between the library and railroad station. A late commuter train pulled in, and wives or husbands in cars and station wagons were there to meet it. Across the street the large hotel sat serenely in its own treed park.

  Several things that he’d read, especially in Byrne’s and the Peers Commission Report, preyed on his mind. He had thought briefly that perhaps he was beyond the reach of the law; that time, distance, and the course of his own life had forever separated him from that fetid little white stucco hospital. But now he was not so sure.

  Tyson stood, turned, and began walking. He pictured himself in his pressed officer greens, sitting again in a court-martial room, not on the government side but in the accused’s chair. He held on to that image as he walked, trying to make it so vivid that he felt impelled to take any steps necessary to avoid its becoming reality.

  He headed toward Franklin Avenue where there was a bookshop. And then, without further delay, he knew he must head home to his family.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Ben Tyson walked up the flagstone path to his home, a prewar Dutch Colonial on a pleasant street lined with stately elms.

  There was a good feeling to the house with its white cedar shingles, shutters, hipped roof, and Dutch dormers covered with reddish slates. Two carriage lanterns flanked the black-paneled door, and through the fanlight above the door he saw the foyer chandelier.

  He opened the mailbox and extracted a thick sheaf of mail, mostly third-class junk, which reminded him that he lived in a prestigious zip code and was on every mail-order hit list in the nation. It also tipped him off that Marcy was not yet home.

  He tried the door and found it was unlocked, meaning David was home. He entered and called out, “Dave!”

  A stereophonic sound emanating from the second floor reverberated through the walls and floor, about a 4 on the Richter scale. Tyson threw the mail on the foyer table and went through the living room into the rear den, or as Marcy called it, “our office.” The first time his father heard her say that he looked as if he was about to have another coronary.

  Tyson threw his jacket over the desk chair and sat in an Eames recliner. He surveyed the room whose original masculine flavor had been altered, neutered by Marcy into a sort of eclectic potpourri of things that struck her fancy. Things that did not strike her fancy were conspicuously absent from the room, most notably his Army memorabilia, which couldn’t seem to find a home.

  The remainder of the traditional home had undergone the same transformation. Only David’s room, which contained Tyson’s boyhood maple colonial furniture, circa 1953, had escaped Marcy’s imprint. David had shown a strong sense of territoriality that Marcy could not crack, though Tyson was fairly certain that the boy didn’t care either way about the bedroom furniture.

  Marcy was, he reflected, a coercive utopian. Their house was run as though it were a commune. Decisions were shared, housework was shared, things and thoughts were shared. Yet, Tyson felt that he was somehow not getting his share. If nothing else, he thought, he made twice her salary and worked longer hours. Although Marcy would not use Marx’s words, her philosophical rebuttal was: From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. Apparently his needs were less, though any suggestion that his ability was greater met with an icy silence. He often wanted to point out to her that he’d fought a war to keep a country from being run the way his house was run. But that was a lost cause, too.

  Tyson put his head back and listened to the stereo. Primitive. Jungle music. He couldn’t identify the song, if in fact it was a song. But he could not deny its appeal on some primal level.

  Tyson drew from his attaché the two books that he’d purchased earlier, a paperback novel by Picard called The Quest, and Hue: Death of a City, which had set him back another $18.95, plus tax. At
this rate, he thought, he’d drive the book onto the Times bestseller list and make Picard rich.

  He set the novel aside and opened the Hue book, scanning some of the pages that did not relate to the incident at Hôpital Miséricorde. Picard, he judged, was not a terribly bad writer. The book was in the style and format favored by pop historians, stressing personal tragedy, anecdotes, and interviews with survivors—from peasants and privates to generals and provincial governors. And it was impressionistic—the big picture painted or suggested by a series of tiny points like a Seurat.

  He read from an early chapter:

  Hue. The city had an almost ethereal nature to it. It was one of those small city-jewels of the world that transcended the meaning of city. It was the soul of Vietnam, North and South. It was a center of learning, culture, and religion; an historical and evocative place, the seat of the old Annamese Empire for twenty-one centuries. And like all great cities, it was a blend of the exotic and the sophisticated, the urbane and the bucolic. It was more Vietnamese than French, but the old cafés on the south side of the Perfume River still had a colonial air about them, and the great Phu Cam Cathedral was a tribute to the city’s ecumenicalism.

  Hue was a mélange of sights, smells, sounds, and sensations. It was vitality and otherworldliness all in one. It was the heart and embodiment of the nation, and as long as it existed, the Vietnamese people, from the simple villager to the corrupt Saigon politician, had reason to hope. . . .

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Tyson closed the book and looked up at his son. “Hello, David.”

  “Whatcha readin’?”

  “Try that again.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “A book. You didn’t take the mail in.”

  “I took the garbage out.”

  “You left the door unlocked.”

  “I took the milk and paper in. Where’s Mom?”

  “That was my question.”

  David smiled.

  Tyson regarded his son. The boy dressed well, but then sartorial splendor was in vogue at the moment. His hair was of a length that would offend only a master sergeant, and the boy was good-looking, though in Tyson’s opinion too lean, like his mother. But also like his mother, his coloring was dark and rich, and he had her striking green eyes.

  David drew closer and glanced at the book in Tyson’s lap. “Hew?”

  “Pronounced ‘way.’ The French gave the Vietnamese the Latin alphabet, then misspelled every word for them.”

  “Oh. It’s about Vietnam.”

  “Right. Jeet?”

  David laughed. “No. What’s for dinner? You cook tonight. I have K.P. Mom serves.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Check the chart.” He said it with barely concealed disdain. David picked up The Quest. “What’s this?”

  “Another book. I’ll bet you’ve seen them in museums or on television. They make movies out of them.”

  David ignored the sarcasm and studied the cover art, then read the flap copy. “The Holy Grail. I read something about that. King Arthur. Is that a true story?”

  “It is a legend, and a legend is like the truth, but a legend is also like a myth, and a myth is like a lie. Follow?”

  “No.” His eyes drifted back to the Hue book. “Is that a true story?”

  Tyson did not reply.

  David put the novel down on the end table, then said, “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  Tyson thought a moment, then replied, “I’d rather not discuss it at the moment.”

  “Are you and Mom getting divorced?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  David smiled. “Okay. We can hold a family council later.”

  Tyson again detected a note of mockery in David’s voice. “There are some things, David, that do not lend themselves to solutions by family councils. There are things in this world that children should not be privy to nor burdened with.”

  “Tell that to Mom.”

  “I will. But I will speak to you privately about what’s troubling me without giving you all the details.”

  “Okay.” The boy hesitated, then said, “You want me to call out for dinner?”

  “Yes. Please. Make it a surprise. No pizza.”

  David nodded and moved toward the door. Tyson could see he wanted to say something more, but Tyson did not encourage him. David left, and Tyson stood, moving to the bar in the shelf unit. He poured himself a small Drambuie.

  Tyson sometimes wondered if they should have had more children. He was one of four children, the other three, girls. Conversely, Marcy had three brothers, and he suspected that she had been somehow traumatized by the experience. He, on the other hand, had been treated affectionately by his sisters. David would know neither sibling affection nor rivalry. The decision not to have more children had been made eight years ago when Jenny was born, lived, suffered, and died, all within a week. Marcy said it was a result of the LSD she took in college. Tyson offered that it could have been Agent Orange. His minister, Reverend Symes, said it was God’s will. The doctors had no opinion.

  Yet, David was healthy in every way, and Tyson sometimes thought it was worth another try. But neither of them had the temperament to cope with a deformed child who lived.

  Tyson put this out of his mind and picked up the Hue book. He looked at the index to see if his name appeared anywhere other than the pages dealing with the Hôpital Miséricorde incident. There was a page reference near the front of the book and one near the end. He turned to the earlier page and read while standing:

  The soothsayers had foretold that the Year of the Monkey would bring bad luck, and never had the prophets of doom been proved so right so soon. The year was not three hours old when the enemy offensive began.

  But notwithstanding this dire prediction, a festive mood filled Hue that day. It was a time of traditional family reunions, feasting, and street festivals. It was like Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Mardi Gras rolled into one. Ancestors were honored at family altars, and religious ceremonies were held at the city’s many pagodas and temples. Paper dragons snake-danced through the streets, and, forebodingly, fireworks and skyrockets reverberated throughout the city.

  There was a declared truce, but the military was uneasy. American troops were on normal alert, and the South Vietnamese had canceled holiday leaves for some, but not all of their troops. Nearly half the Vietnamese armed forces and a high percentage of key commanders were not on duty. And of those who were, it can be assumed that many were engaged in some sort of celebration.

  On the evening of 30 January, seven thousand soldiers of North Vietnam’s 4th, 5th, and 6th regiments marched boldly, in parade formation, across the bridges that spanned the canals in Hue’s southern suburbs. And no one stopped them.

  Within the city, thousands more Viet Cong had infiltrated and mingled with the holiday revelers. Other enemy formations were poised around the city, waiting to strike. Hue’s time had come.

  But the battle of Hue actually began earlier in the day, though at the time no one realized the significance of those opening shots. Alpha Company, Fifth Battalion of the Seventh Cavalry, First Air Cavalry Division, was patrolling an area six kilometers west of the city in the late afternoon. The company, nearly two hundred strong, was commanded by Captain Roy Browder of Anniston, Alabama. Alpha Company began a standard sweep through the supposedly deserted village of Phu Lai when it encountered a unit of well-armed enemy troops, later identified as the Ninth North Vietnamese Regiment, whose strength was estimated at over a thousand men. The enemy regiment was hiding in the village in preparation for their midnight assault on Hue.

  The first platoon of Alpha Company was led by Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson, of whom we will learn more later. Tyson’s lead platoon was actually inside the village when, according to a survivor, whom I will call Pfc X for reasons that will become clear later, “All of a sudden the place started to move. I mean haystacks opened up, and gooks came out of the wells and holes in the ground. Gooks were sta
nding in the windows and doors of the hootches around the village square, and we were in the middle. It was like a nightmare. I couldn’t believe my eyes. No one fired for a really long time. But maybe it was a few seconds. Then it exploded.”

  Tyson found he was sitting in his chair again. He nodded to himself. It was curious to discover after all these years that his company was one of the first to make contact with the enemy before the Tet offensive actually began. But then the grunt in the field rarely saw the bigger picture. And though he never knew that he’d tangled with a thousand enemy troops, he could believe it. It was for people like Picard to supply the regiment designations and other details that seemed unimportant then, but which allowed others, veterans such as himself, to interpret what had happened. If they cared to.

  He put his head back and yawned, feeling very drowsy. The book slipped from his hand onto the floor.

  “What the hell are we going to do? What? What? What are we going to do?”

  Tyson lay in the village square between the dead radio operator and the dead squad leader. He turned to the rifleman lying wounded beside him and replied, “We’re going to die.”

  Machine-gun fire raked the square, and rocket-propelled grenades burst among the living and the dead. Tyson had never heard or seen such sustained and heavy enemy fire and had never been in so exposed a position to fully appreciate how quickly a cohesive military unit could wither and die. He knew of no tactics that would extricate them from this massacre in the muddy square. One just had to wait one’s turn to die, or stand up and get it over with.

  A rocket-propelled grenade landed in front of his face and splashed filthy water into his eyes. Tyson stared at it, half submerged in the brown puddle, realizing it was the last thing he’d ever see. But it did not explode, and he would learn later from the other men who had stared that khaki egg-shaped death in the eye that many of those Russian-made grenades were faulty. Some unmotivated, vodka-soaked munitions worker in Volgograd had done something wrong, and Ben Tyson was alive for the time being.