Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Brown continued, “You see, Ben, justice has to be balanced with compassion. More to the point, there are popular cases and unpopular cases. There is theory and there is reality.”

  Tyson tuned out as the man went through his warm-up. Tyson rubbed the sweat from his eyes, then looked at the glass door. An attendant had stuck up a sign, and Tyson assumed it said something like “keep out.”

  Tyson yawned and stretched. No, he reflected, he certainly didn’t feel awkward sitting naked with this man. Nor did he feel at a psychological disadvantage. He felt somewhat relaxed and somnolent as he suspected he was supposed to feel. He also felt he should keep in mind that he was discussing his fate with his enemy.

  Brown was still speaking, and Tyson tuned back in. “You see,” said Brown, “this issue has obviously become too well known, nationally and internationally, to be ignored. We’d like to ignore it, but we can’t.”

  “Try harder.”

  “You see, Ben, this has become a real emotional issue. We knew it would. All the old shit is being dredged up again.”

  Tyson closed his eyes.

  Brown went on. “Public opinion is divided. Right? The national debate is following the old pattern—some columnists and commentators have pointed out that Picard’s book discusses at length the infamous enemy atrocities at Hue. But, as usual, they say only America’s alleged crimes are given media attention.”

  Tyson liked that argument.

  “But,” continued Brown, “other people have pointed out that America is expected to behave better than its enemies. Double standard. Right? And in any case, carping about enemy atrocities doesn’t get you anywhere. The perpetrators of the Hôpital Miséricorde massacre”—Brown pronounced it in good French—“those perpetrators are within U.S. jurisdiction.”

  “But actually,” replied Tyson, “they aren’t any longer.”

  “Well,” said Brown musingly, “that is the point, isn’t it, Ben?”

  “Yes, Chet, that is the point.”

  Neither man spoke for some time. Then Brown said, “People are beginning to talk publicly about court-martial. You may have read that in the newspapers. Or heard it on radio and TV.”

  “I think I did read that somewhere. I don’t watch much TV. I listen to tapes on my car radio. Fifties sounds. Incredible stuff. Do you like fifties music?”

  “I love it. I could listen to the Everly Brothers all day.”

  “How about the Shirelles?”

  “They don’t write them like that anymore. Listen, Ben, there are a lot of people on your side. Including me.”

  “What is my side, Chet?”

  Brown leaned down so his face was just inches from Tyson’s. “Please don’t play games with me, okay?”

  Tyson stared hard at the man until Brown returned to his sitting position on the tier above Tyson. The steam came on again, and Brown disappeared in the white vapor. Both men sat quietly listening to the loud hissing. Tyson closed his eyes. The steam stopped suddenly, and Tyson drew a breath through his nostrils.

  Brown spoke in a soft voice. “This is how it stands—the people who are on your side are mostly the civilians: the White House, the secretaries of the Army and Defense, the Justice Department, and others. It is the Army itself that wants your ass.”

  “No gratitude.”

  “Whatever. I think the Army and the Judge Advocate General Corps in particular are very anxious to redeem themselves. I’m speaking of the My Lai screw-up, of course. They can’t retry that one, but they’ve been given another one.”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  Brown continued, “Regarding this hospital incident, the Army wants to clean its own house, and the JAG is anxious to provide the broom. Fellow by the name of Van Arken.”

  Tyson nodded. That name had been mentioned a few times in news stories.

  Brown added, “You see, the Army’s memory of My Lai is long and clear. There is a continuity in the Army ranks that you don’t have in the White House, for instance, where a half dozen administrations have come and gone since My Lai. And the folks in the White House can’t seem to call the JAG Corps off or even get them to pull a few punches.”

  Tyson nodded to himself. It made sense. The military would remain forever obsessed with honor lost and honor regained. Tyson suspected that somehow, in the collective psyches of the military, this case transcended Miséricorde Hospital and had to do with Vietnam as a whole.

  Brown spoke slowly and deliberately. “The Army has initiated the procedure to recall you to active duty.”

  Tyson felt a tightness in his stomach, but his face revealed nothing.

  “Do you understand you can’t be tried except by court-martial?”

  “I understand that.”

  “You have an attorney named Sloan.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you have any other lawyers?”

  “Do I need more than one?”

  “Just checking. Look, I want to be honest with you—”

  “Good.”

  “The Army is going to have a hell of a time making that recall order stick in court. But you know what?”

  “No, what?”

  “They’ll get you back. It may take two years, but they will. Do you have the resources to fight the government?”

  “That’s my secret.”

  “Do you have the will?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Brown swung his legs down from the ledge and leaned forward. “I’d like to offer you some advice.”

  Tyson construed that to mean a deal. “Shoot.”

  “Don’t fight the recall order.”

  Tyson slid off the tile ledge and stood. “Great advice, Chet.” He bent down and touched his toes. “Okay, what’s in it for me?”

  “A speedy trial.”

  “You mean just like in the Constitution?” Tyson began a series of stretching exercises. “You’re wasting my time.”

  Brown mused, “God bless America, Ben. How many countries in the world are there where a suspected mass murderer can jerk around a government man who’s trying to offer him a deal?”

  “One, at last count. And here we are.”

  “Right. But if this was someplace else, this white-tiled room would be used for another purpose. Like me beating the shit out of you.”

  Tyson straightened up. “Try it, sonny.”

  Brown seemed to be considering the offer, then shook his head. “Look, let me get my business out of the way. Then if you want, we can go a few rounds. We’ll both feel better.”

  Tyson dropped into a push-up position.

  Brown slipped down to the floor and came closer to Tyson. “I’m prepared to make you an offer in exchange for your cooperation.”

  Tyson jumped to his feet. He faced Brown, and the two men stood an arm’s length apart. “Is this legal?”

  Brown shrugged. “I’m not a lawyer. Neither are you. You said on the phone you’d meet me without a lawyer present.”

  Tyson walked toward the door. “Let’s grab a shower.” They exited and walked down a short passage to the showers.

  Tyson felt his head clearing under the cool, pulsating water. Brown stood under a shower head a few feet away and said, “You see, Ben, Van Arken believes he has sufficient grounds to recall you. But if you challenge this recall, then the President may have to sign an executive order recalling you. He’d rather not be put in that position.”

  “Tell him I’d challenge his executive order.”

  “He’s not only thinking of himself. He thinks that if he got personally involved in your case, it would prejudice the case against you.”

  Tyson shut off the shower and walked into the locker room. An attendant handed him a towel. Brown came up behind him and said, “I’ve reserved two masseurs. My treat.” He led Tyson to a small massage room. Two tables sat side by side. Tyson jumped on the closer one and lay on his stomach. Brown sat on the table beside him. “They’ll be along in a while.”

  Tyson closed his eyes and
yawned. He felt relaxed despite the unpleasant subject of conversation. A dreamy lassitude came over him. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like in jail, and in truth he was prepared to listen to anything that would keep him from finding out. He faced Brown on the nearby table. “If you really want to be honest with me, you’ll tell me on what grounds this recall will be made. Then I’ll tell you how I’m going to beat it.”

  “Once an officer, always an officer,” Brown said.

  “I don’t feel like an officer. You’ll have to do better than that, Chet.”

  Brown said, “‘To all who shall see these presents, greeting.’ Sound familiar? That’s what your presidential commission says. And mine too.” He continued, “‘Know ye, that reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of Benjamin James Tyson, I do appoint him a commissioned officer in the Army of the United States.’”

  Tyson stared at Brown.

  Brown went on. “‘This officer will therefore carefully and diligently discharge the duties of the office to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto.’” Brown smiled. “The language is pretty archaic. But that’s the kind of language that has some cachet in court. Sounds like it was handed down from George Washington’s administration. Which it was. Anyway, here’s the part that’s of immediate interest to us—‘ This commission is to continue in force during the pleasure of the President of the United States of America.’”

  Tyson snorted. “Nice performance, Chet.”

  Brown continued, “Your commission was signed by Lyndon Johnson, but any President could enforce it at his pleasure. And you accepted that commission. You raised your right hand and took a solemn oath.”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  * * *

  Tyson hung his toes over the edge of the diving board, bounced, and dove into the swimming pool. He did a few laps, then swam to the middle of the pool and treaded water.

  Brown floated on his back close by. There were two other men in the pool, both elderly, some distance off. A disinterested lifeguard sat on a deck chair reading a paperback book. Brown said, “I’m glad there are a few places left where a man can swim au naturel. How much longer can these private clubs hold out? I’m going to write a book someday called The Feminization of America.” Brown yawned lazily. “Your wife, I understand, is an active feminist.”

  Tyson said nothing.

  Brown rolled forward and treaded water beside Tyson. “The last point in this recall business. . . .” Brown’s eyes moved toward Tyson. “Did you know you are still listed on the rolls of inactive reserve officers?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Tyson lied.

  “Well, it’s a fact. You were asked once by letter to indicate if you wished to remain on the inactive rolls or be dropped from the rolls. You didn’t check either box. Instead, you wrote a nasty little note on the letter and sent it back to the Department of the Army. You’re not supposed to do that, Ben. You were supposed to check a box. A lot of modern life depends on what box you check.”

  Tyson swam to the edge of the pool and rested his head on the tile rim. He closed his eyes, extended his legs, and floated. He remembered that standard form letter from the Department of the Army. It had come in mid-April 1975. Cambodia had fallen to the Khmer Rouge, Laos was falling to the Pathet Lao, and the North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong were about to enter Saigon. Tyson, like a number of men he knew who had served in Vietnam, was bitter and angry. He thought he’d gotten Vietnam out of his system years before, but the names in the news awakened old memories. City after city, camp after camp, fell to the enemy in rapid succession. Quang Tri, Hue, Da Nang, Pleiku, and one night, his former base camp, the First Cavalry headquarters at An Khe. And each name that he heard or read evoked images of blood, death, sacrifice, and bravery. He said aloud, “That letter came at a bad time.”

  Brown was standing beside him in the shallow water. He replied, “It must have. You scrawled across the letter these words: ‘Fifty thousand Americans dead, one hundred fifty thousand wounded. For what?’”

  Brown continued. “That little impetuous note has been seen by everyone in the JAG office. There was, I understand, some discussion regarding the type of man who would write something like that for the posterity of the Army Records Bureau.”

  Tyson opened his eyes. “I resent the fact that people are analyzing me and talking about me as though I were a specimen. I don’t like people reading my Army records, though I know you have a right to do that. I’m getting pissed off, Chet.”

  “Of course you are. I don’t blame you. But remember, please, that though we’re not discussing mass murder at the moment, that’s what this thing is ultimately all about.”

  Tyson glanced at the big wall clock across the natatorium.

  Brown said, “I won’t keep you much longer. You probably have work piling up on your desk. I just wanted to inform you of this recall. If you fight it, the Army will counterattack. Eventually, you know, they will break through. You’ll have bought some time, but at great cost.”

  “That’s better than going quietly to the slaughter.”

  “It’s not a slaughter. It’s a trial. And I’ll tell you something else, Ben. Even if you reach the Supreme Court with this and they find for you, you’ll be beaten. You will never have had the opportunity to have these allegations resolved. Your entire fight to escape jurisdiction will appear as an admission of guilt. If, on the other hand, you voluntarily come back to active duty, you will have gained an important psychological advantage, and you will have scored a tremendous public relations coup on your own behalf. The Army would look favorably on any such voluntary action on your part.”

  Tyson said, “What are you offering in exchange for my cooperation?”

  Brown caught hold of the pool wall and rested his folded arms on the rim. “Well, I can’t promise you anything concerning the legal proceedings themselves. I’m not in the business of thwarting an Army investigation, or if it goes to trial, I can’t tamper in any way with a military court-martial. But I can make a few guarantees in exchange for some promises from you.”

  Tyson climbed the concrete steps of the pool and sat on the pool edge, his feet in the water. “Let’s hear the guarantees.”

  Brown moved closer to him. “First, if you voluntarily place yourself under Army jurisdiction, you will be assigned to a post within twenty-five miles of the metropolitan area.”

  “Sounds like an enlistment pitch. How about a new uniform?”

  “Sure. Also—and this is important—you will not be placed under restraint of any sort. You will be as free as you are now, within the parameters of your duties, if any. Okay so far?”

  “No, but go on.”

  Brown’s tone was impatient. “Look, Ben, if they get you back in after a court fight, it won’t be so easy on you. They’ll assign you to Fort Bumfuck in the Arizona desert, and you’ll be confined to quarters.”

  “Don’t threaten me, junior.”

  Brown stood in the shallow water on the concrete step and clenched his right fist, cracking his knuckles. He said, “You don’t want to be confined to quarters, Ben. You won’t like that. Neither will your family. Your wife. She’d probably have to stay in New York to work. It would get very lonely for her, buddy . . . or maybe it wouldn’t—”

  Tyson drove the heel of his foot into Brown’s solar plexus. Brown’s eyes and mouth opened wide as he doubled over and stumbled back down the pool steps.

  The two old men at the far end of the pool didn’t notice, and the lifeguard kept reading his book. A young man in a nearby deck chair stood suddenly and made eye contact with Tyson.

  Brown straightened up and caught his breath. His head bobbed quickly several times, and he motioned with his hand toward the young man. Tyson stood and took a step back from the pool as he kept an eye on the man. The man sat back in his chair.

  Brown drew several deep breaths and stared up at Tyson. “Okay . . . okay. . . . I had that coming.
. . .” Brown put his hands on the edge of the pool. “I’m getting out. Okay? Truce.”

  Tyson nodded.

  Brown lifted himself out of the pool and turned from Tyson. He walked slowly to his deck chair and wrapped a towel around his waist. He sat on the edge of the chair and patted the chaise longue beside him.

  Tyson walked to it, grabbed his towel, and put it around his waist.

  Brown said, “Feel better? Sit down.”

  Tyson felt much better. He stretched out in the chaise longue.

  Brown massaged his midsection. “Christ . . . you see, you are a violent man. You’re normal.” Brown affected a smile.

  Tyson relaxed but kept his eye on Brown. It came to him that since Vietnam he hadn’t felt much deep passion, anger, or challenge. In a way, he realized, he was reverting, regressing in time and temperament, to the type of person he had been before Marcy, suburbia, middle age, and the corporate structure began limiting his aggressiveness. He was taking more control over his life, which in other ways was coming apart. He said to Brown, “I’m sorry. But if you piss me off again, I’ll hit you again.”

  Brown forced a weak smile. “Okay. Can I finish my business?” Brown leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. “Where was I? Restraint. Right. If you are actually court-martialed I can also guarantee that you won’t be placed under restraint even during the trial. Therefore, if things don’t seem to be going well in the courtroom, you at least have the option of removing yourself in the ultimate sense from Army jurisdiction. In fact, you can go now if you wish. No one is watching you.”

  Tyson said nothing.

  Brown added, “Your passport will not be revoked or confiscated as is the normal procedure. But if you decide to go, now or at anytime, please go someplace where you won’t embarrass the government with an extradition problem. Brazil is the choice of most, but you might consider Sweden.” He leaned closer to Tyson. “Listen, everything I’m offering is within the power of the executive branch to do—”

  “Sweden! Are you trying to tell me that eighteen years after I served my country and came home, I should run to Sweden? I should run to Sweden where—”

  “Please lower your voice.”