Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  The entry for 15 February had begun in much the same way as other days: BMNT [Beginning of Morning Nautical Twilight] 0632 hrs. 68 F, rainy, cold, windy. Then followed the platoon roster, people on sick call, notes regarding resupply, a change in a radio frequency, grid coordinate objectives, and other small details of infantry life in the field. He’d made one personal note that morning that read: Morale awful.

  The next entry for that date was written in almost total darkness sometime after sundown, the words scrawled across two pages. It read: Platoon on verge of mutiny. Overheard death threats. Filed false radio report re: hospital battle this A.M. Investigate. God—

  And there it ended. God what? he thought. God forgive? God help us? He’d forgotten what he was going to write.

  He had slid the book into his waistband as someone drew close in the dark and spoke to him; they might not think to search his body for his logbook.

  Investigate. And they were. But not, unfortunately, posthumously. The entry in itself was not revealing, but in light of recent developments it was incriminating enough; incriminating enough to put him behind bars. Yet he could not bring himself to destroy the book and had mailed it to his sister Laurie in Atlanta for safekeeping.

  “Lieutenant Tyson? Did you keep a log?”

  He looked at her. “Actually I did. But I recall that after I was evacuated to the hospital ship it was lost.”

  “Lost.”

  “Yes, along with most of my personal effects. They helicoptered you onto the ship, pretty nurses stripped you and scrubbed you, and injected you, and what personal effects you had were put into a small plastic bag. Government property was put into another bag. Give back to Caesar that which is Caesar’s. You were damaged meat that needed processing and mending. And if you couldn’t be mended, then you were put into a plastic bag. Give back to God that which is God’s. Get it?”

  She seemed to have some trouble following him, then said, “So . . . the logbook was . . .”

  “Probably put into the government bag and recycled or burned or whatever they did with bloody clothes and equipment. When my bag of personal effects was returned—watch, wallet, letters, and cigarette lighter—I noticed my diary was missing.”

  She nodded, and Tyson had the impression she appreciated a well-constructed lie. She said, “That would have been a nice keepsake, the basis for your memoirs.”

  “I don’t think anyone is interested in my memoirs.”

  “But they are.”

  Tyson lit a cigarette. “So, these five—Kelly, Beltran, Walker, Simcox, and Kalane—are unaccounted for?”

  Karen Harper nodded. “But we’re looking for them.” She drew another piece of paper from her briefcase. “I’ll give you a rundown.” She glanced at the typed sheet. “There were, we believe, nineteen of you who approached that hospital on the afternoon of 15 February 1968. Does that sound right?”

  “I suppose. Except we didn’t know it was a hospital.”

  She looked annoyed. “The building. Structure. Edifice.”

  “Right.”

  “Of the nineteen, we are in contact with five—Brandt, Farley, Sadowski, Scorello, and you.” She continued, “Arthur Peterson was wounded by a bullet to the chest during the . . . assault or approach to the hospital and died there. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Moody was lightly wounded but was returned to duty the following week.”

  “Correct.”

  “According to what you told me, Larry Cane was killed in the room-to-room fighting. The Army death certificate lists a bullet through the heart. Correct?”

  Tyson said nothing.

  She looked at him a few seconds, then said again, “A bullet through the heart.”

  Tyson nodded.

  She continued, “Two men, Peter Santos and John Manelli, were killed at Hue in the incident described in Picard’s book. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “That was the day Captain Browder was killed and you became company commander.”

  “Right.”

  “And Michael DeTonq disappeared in the city of Hue on 29 February, the same day you were wounded. He has never been accounted for.”

  Tyson did not respond.

  She added, “And you were evacuated that day, leaving your platoon with thirteen men who had been at the scene of that incident. Later, after you’d gone back to the States, Brontman and Selig were killed, as we know. Holzman and Moody died, as I said, in civilian life, leaving five possible witnesses: you, Brandt, Farley, Sadowski, and Scorello, whose whereabouts we know; and five witnesses who we believe to be alive but whose whereabouts are unknown at present: Kelly, Beltran, Walker, Simcox, and Kalane. Also one possible witness, Michael DeTonq, who is officially listed as missing in action and presumed dead. Is that correct?”

  Tyson glanced at his copy of the typed sheet. “Sounds right.”

  “Have you ever heard from any of these men who are unaccounted for?”

  Tyson shook his head. Men sometimes kept in touch after having shared the common experience of war. In fact, there were reunions sponsored by the First Cavalry Division Association. But, he thought, we shared something that would make it unlikely we would attend such reunions or that we’d send Christmas cards to one another.

  “What do you think happened to Michael DeTonq?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Do you think he deserted?”

  “He’s listed as missing. Why dishonor his memory?”

  “If he deserted, there is no honor attached to his memory.”

  Tyson replied curtly, “Why cause pain to his family?”

  “What sort of pain? If he deserted, he may be alive. That would give them some hope.”

  “Hope is nothing more than deferred despair. Leave it alone.”

  She said, “This is important. He is a potential witness, perhaps a witness for you. The Army commission on MIAs will investigate his status, if even a shred of evidence can be found to suggest he may be alive . . . perhaps a statement from you indicating why you believe he deserted, as opposed to the official conclusion of missing, presumed dead.”

  “Even if he did desert I doubt he survived the fall of Vietnam.”

  “He may have made it back to the States before then. If so, he could be back with his people in rural Louisiana. And the statute of limitations on desertion has run out.”

  “Has it? Who writes these laws? And who gives a damn anyway? Not Michael DeTonq. Not me.”

  She seemed deep in thought, then said, “Under the category of silver linings, then. Okay? If nothing else comes of this, help the Army account for another one of its lost men. Tell me something I can transmit to the Army commission on MIAs.”

  Tyson rested his chin in his hand contemplatively, then replied in a faraway tone, “When I was wounded, as the helicopter was landing to take me away, Michael DeTonq knelt beside me, lit a cigarette for me, and said, ‘The war is over for you today. For me too. We’ll meet again, back in the world. Adieu, mon ami.’”

  Karen Harper leaned forward. “May I write that down?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a notebook and pen from her purse and wrote, then read it back to him. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from what he said and perhaps how he said it and under the circumstances, you had the impression he was going to desert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She added, “Back in the world—that was GI jargon for back in the States—he meant to make it back.”

  “So did everyone.”

  “Would you consider making a public appeal for these men—DeTonq, Dan Kelly, Hernando Beltran, Lee Walker, Harold Simcox, and Louis Kalane—to come forward?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Won’t they corroborate your story? If you line up enough witnesses for the defense, there may be no court-martial.” She added, “I told you I would help locate witnesses for the defense. That’s my job.”

 
“Then do it. Work hard.”

  “I will. Why won’t you help?”

  Tyson contemplated his glass of Scotch and soda, pressing an ice cube down with his fingertip. At length he said, “I thought about what you’re suggesting. I’ve decided that it would be unfair of me to make such an appeal. Each man has to be found by you or has to decide in his own way to come forward.” He looked at her. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “But you will at least give me some clues? Some background?”

  “Within limits.”

  “All right, then let’s continue. Have you ever heard from Dan Kelly?”

  Tyson observed, “This is beginning to sound like a class reunion attended by only us two. Except you weren’t in my class.”

  “How long was Kelly your radio operator?”

  “Want another cigarette?”

  “I understand he was your radio operator for about seven months. I understand, too, that you had a close relationship. So I wonder if you heard from him recently.”

  “No.”

  “A long time ago, then?”

  Tyson realized that as the scope of the investigation widened, as she spoke to more people, she would learn things or pretend to have learned things, and his chances of getting caught in a lie grew exponentially. For all he knew, Kelly had already spilled his guts into a tape recorder, and Karen Harper would pluck the recorder and tape out of her black bag of tricks and replay it for him. He said, “Have you spoken to Kelly?”

  “No. I’d have to tell you if I did.”

  “But I have to ask.”

  She shrugged. “You make me ask the right questions.”

  “I have more rights than you. I’m the suspect.”

  “I have to work harder.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you heard from Kelly?”

  “Actually I did. In about August of ’68, then again about seven or eight years ago.”

  She waited.

  Tyson lit another cigarette. “Kelly enjoyed soldiering. He enjoyed war. There are always a few like that. . . . Anyway, he wrote to me in August 1968, saying he was taking his discharge at an American installation in Ethiopia instead of back in the States. You probably know from his personnel file that he was discharged overseas.”

  “Yes. I know that a soldier can take his discharge almost anywhere there is an American military installation. But I found it odd that he should pick Ethiopia instead of Rome, for instance.”

  “Well, there was no war in Rome at the time. But there was one in Biafra. Remember that one? Anyway, he wrote me saying he was going to join the mercenaries in Biafra. I figured he was killed there. Then . . . yes, it was 1976 . . . Bicentennial time, remember? . . . he wrote to me again, from Portugal—”

  “Excuse me. How did he have your address after so many years?”

  “Well, he alluded to the fact that he was working for a civilian concern. In Nam this used to mean the CIA. And they have everyone’s address, don’t they?”

  She asked, “What did he write to you about?”

  “About joining him in Portugal. Then taking a little trip down to Angola to look into the civil war there. A thousand a week, banked in Switzerland, and all expenses paid.”

  “Were you enticed?”

  Tyson thought a moment, then replied, “I was married . . . had a son by then. I remember thinking that the Army paid me eighty dollars a week as an infantry officer in Nam and that the CIA paid twelve hundred percent more for the same shit work.” He smiled grimly, then added, “And I’ll bet the CIA never asked their people questions like the Army is asking me. If you want to investigate suspicious deaths, ask the CIA about their Operation Phoenix in Nam. They murdered, or caused to be murdered, about five thousand civilians who may or may not have been VC sympathizers. Go down to Langley tonight and ask them, Major. They’re open all night. I’ll go with you.”

  “Did you respond to Kelly’s letter?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear from him again?”

  “No. I remember seeing the published names of American mercenaries who were captured and executed by the leftist faction in Angola after they’d won the war. But Kelly’s name wasn’t among them.”

  “I may be able to check on that.”

  “Right. Go ask the spooks if they know of him or of his whereabouts. If you think I’m good at stonewalling, wait until you talk to those jokers. Maybe you’ll learn something else about the law at Langley.”

  “If you hear from any of these men as a result of the national publicity surrounding the case, will you let me know?”

  “Perhaps.” Tyson stubbed out his cigarette.

  “I’ll let you know immediately if I locate any of them.”

  “A little more immediately than you let me know about Sadowski or Scorello, please.”

  “I have the right to question possible witnesses first.”

  “So do I, if I find them first.” He looked at his watch.

  “Just one or two more things.” Karen Harper regarded Tyson and said softly, “Of course there is one more possible witness, someone whose testimony would be, I think, beyond reproach.”

  “And who might that be, Major?”

  “You know. The French government is cooperating in trying to find her. So is the Vatican.” Major Harper took a sip of her wine and continued, “It should not have been difficult to locate a French-Vietnamese nun, but it is proving so. We believe she really exists, beyond what Picard has said and you have said. Actually the records of the Catholic Relief Agency list a Sister Teresa at that time and place, with other pertinent details of age and ancestry. What do you remember about her? Her age, for instance.”

  Tyson said, “The Eurasian nun I knew was then in her mid-twenties. She was strikingly beautiful, though the Catholic Relief Agency might not have that fact in their records. She worked at the dispensary attached to the Joan of Arc School. She lived at a convent nearby.”

  “How did you know she was a nun?”

  “Little clues. Like the nun’s habit. A cross around her neck. Living in a convent. Didn’t date much.”

  “You’re being sarcastic. I asked because the Vatican has no record of her having taken her final vows.”

  Tyson remembered something Sister Teresa had said to him. If we sin, it is not so great a sin as you think. He said to Karen Harper, “You know, over there, credentials were not carefully checked. If this woman had been educated by the Catholics, especially in a convent, and if she’d somehow acquired passable medical knowledge, then she could present herself as a nursing nun whether or not she was a nurse or a nun.”

  Karen Harper nodded. “So . . . if she were an impostor then and continued to be when Picard met her in a French hospital, she might be lying low as a result of all this.”

  Tyson shrugged. “Possibly. But you should not use a pejorative word like impostor. Understand that Eurasians were outcasts in Vietnamese society. A woman like that would find protection, comfort, and a means of survival within the Catholic Church. I’m sure she earned her keep.”

  Karen Harper replied, “I’m sure she did. It’s hard to comprehend that, isn’t it? I mean being born into a society where the moment you are born you are an outcast with limited prospects. And you have to do something like impersonate a nun . . . and lead a life of . . . confined social opportunities. . . .”

  “Celibacy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, most Eurasian women—those born of French soldiers and Vietnamese women—had the choice of the convent or the whorehouse. The whorehouse provided a similar sort of comfort and protection, without the celibacy requirement obviously.”

  “Obviously.” She asked, “Did you know Sister Teresa before this incident?”

  Tyson did not want to lie about peripheral matters, but neither did he want to fashion a hangman’s rope for the Army out of small threads of truth. The less said about Sister Teresa, the better. On the other hand, she, like the others, might appear at any moment. He
said, “Yes, I knew her prior to that day.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “I met her briefly, in happier times, before Tet.”

  “How?”

  “By chance. At mass in the Phu Cam Cathedral.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Looking for my dog.”

  “I meant, you are not Catholic.”

  “I went with a Catholic officer. To see the cathedral mostly.”

  “When was the next time you saw her?”

  “A week before Christmas. I was delivering some . . . aid packages to the convent. She happened to be there. Then a day or so later there was a children’s Christmas party at the Joan of Arc School in Hue. The MAC-V civic action officer was looking for someone to play the piano.”

  “You play the piano?”

  “As well as I speak French. But I can do Christmas carols. I’ll play for you someday.”

  “We’ll wait until Christmas. So you met her then—at the Christmas party—and spoke to her?”

  “Yes. A short conversation.”

  “In what language?”

  “French, Vietnamese, and English.”

  “What was discussed?”

  “Nothing that has any bearing on this case. We spoke of war, children, God’s grace . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “Yes, it’s fashionable now. Except at Peregrine-Osaka. There I’m a Buddhist from nine to five.”

  “Were you a Christian then, in 1968, when it wasn’t quite so fashionable?”

  “I tried to be. Why?”

  She shrugged, then asked, “Did you see Sister Teresa again, after that Christmas party?”