Tyson felt his penis move as it hardened.
She said, “Want to see any more?”
“All of you.”
She slid the jumpsuit and panties down to her ankles and kicked the bunched clothing to the side. Tyson stared at her black pubic hairs, which seemed to cover more area than the bathing suit she’d worn when she’d gotten her tan. She came beside the bed. “How do you want to do this?”
“Female superior, as they call it in our manual. I don’t think I can get my leg moving even for this.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Sure. Thought about it while I was drowning.”
She came into the bed and straddled him with her knees.
“Too heavy?”
“I’m fine.” He reached out and massaged her breasts, then let one hand slip down to her crotch and ran his fingers between her labia. “Long time, Marcy.”
She nodded. “Feels good.” She cupped his testicles with one hand and stroked his stiffening penis with the other. “If we can get this as stiff as your knee, we’ll be in business.”
He smiled as he felt her getting moist on his fingers.
She leaned forward and kissed his lips. “Salty.”
He put his moist finger to his mouth. “Very salty.”
“Pig.”
Tyson felt her hand guiding him, and he slipped into her easily. She wiggled her groin until she fully enveloped him, then still in the kneeling position began a slow rhythmic movement. “Ben . . . oh, my . . .”
He stroked her back and buttocks, then massaged her feet.
Marcy stretched out, covering him with her body, and they embraced. She picked up the tempo, and Tyson heard her deepening breath in his ear. She murmured, “Oh, God, Ben. I missed your cock.”
“My cock missed you.” He felt her coming—not all at once, but in small rippling tremors with rests between each series of undulating waves; like the sea, he thought, the primeval seas from which we came, the salty moon tides that still surge within us. She took in a short, deep breath of air, then her body stiffened a moment and went limp. He thrust upward hard and felt a sharp pain in his knee shooting up and down his leg, but he thrust again, the pain fighting for attention with the pleasure. He came and almost passed out.
Tyson breathed slowly and steadily. His fingers ran through the cleavage of her buttocks, and he felt the sweat that always formed when her orgasm was intense.
She whispered in his ear. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Hurt?”
“A little.”
She rolled off carefully and lay on her side. “You’re pale.”
“All the blood went south. Just give me a second.”
Marcy slid out of the bed and walked to the bathroom. She returned with aspirin and a tube of liniment.
Tyson took the aspirin, and Marcy rubbed the liniment into his knee. He felt drowsy but was aware of her leaving again and returning with a basin and sponge. She washed his groin, then sponged the salt from his body. She lay down beside him and covered them both with the sheets. “Shock and exposure. You need rest and body warmth.”
“Wake me at four.”
“Okay.” She snuggled up to him, and he fell asleep with her arms around him.
Marcy waited, then got out of bed. She put the clock radio on the floor, turned off the table lamps, put her robe on, and walked to the door. She turned back and looked at her husband in the shaft of light coming from the hallway. He never slept in a supine position, and that he was doing so now was vaguely disturbing. She watched the rise and fall of his chest thinking how much she felt for him and wondering why the best man she had ever known had to suffer for the past sins of an army and a nation. She left the room and closed the door softly.
* * *
Tyson opened his eyes and saw that the ceiling had lightened almost imperceptibly. He could hear gulls and jays screeching, and a boat’s horn echoed over the cove. A faint touch of dawn lightened the window, and he could see the tree outside.
“I’m alive,” he said. “I’m home.”
CHAPTER
25
Ben Tyson drove west on the Shore Parkway. The Triumph’s top was down, and the afternoon sun shone brightly in the southwest sky. To his left he saw the parachute towers of Coney Island, and beyond, the deep blue Atlantic. It was a fine afternoon for a drive.
Tyson had chosen a nice tan suit of summer-weight wool in which to report for duty, though the Army had requested something green: a uniform actually. “Well,” he said aloud, “maybe they won’t notice.”
The radio was turned to WNBC-FM, golden oldies, and Bobby Darin was belting out “Somewhere, Beyond the Sea,” and Tyson hummed along.
Tyson thought about the first time he’d reported for active duty, September 15, 1966. The draft was sweeping up young men by the thousands, and the procedure in his draft board was to report to a parking field on the campus of Adelphi University. From there, chartered buses took the draftees to the induction center on Whitehall Street in lower Manhattan. Reporting time at the parking field, recalled Tyson, had been 6 A.M. And Tyson never knew if that was simply because the Army liked to begin the day at dawn or because the Army thought it wise to take away these suburban boys under the cover of morning darkness.
He looked down now at the dashboard clock. He would arrive at Fort Hamilton before 5 P.M., early enough to report directly to the post adjutant, but late enough not to have to begin the processing procedure of getting a physical, ID card, payroll records, and all the other details of in-processing that he vaguely remembered as clearly distasteful.
He looked at his hands on the steering wheel, then he looked at the speedometer. He was doing sixty-five, but since he was in no hurry, he slowed down and slipped the Triumph into the right-hand lane. The song on the radio was “Mr. Tambourine Man,” Bob Dylan’s version.
A half mile ahead, the massive Verrazano Bridge spanned the Narrows from Fort Hamilton to Fort Wadsworth. Traffic sped by in the outside lane, and gulls circled overhead. The Fort Hamilton exit approached. Tyson downshifted the Triumph, cut the wheel sharply, and exited into the ramp. He came off the ramp, made a series of right turns, and approached the main gate that sat under the bridge’s elevated approach road. He stopped in the middle of the road, took a deep breath, and pulled up to the MP booth.
The MP, a woman of about twenty with short red hair and a pug nose, stepped from the booth. Tyson handed her his orders. She glanced at them, then handed them back. “You have to report to post headquarters. Do you know where that is?”
Tyson thought he detected a note of snippiness in her voice, and had he been a civilian, he would certainly have let it pass. He looked at her name tag, then said, “The next time I pass through this gate, Pfc Neeley, I will have an officer bumper sticker on this car, and you will salute as the car passes. If I should stop to address you, you will address me as sir.”
The young woman came to a position of attention. “Yes, sir.”
Tyson didn’t feel the least bit petty. It’s like riding a bicycle, he thought. Once you learn, you never forget. He snapped, “Carry on.”
She saluted. He returned the salute, his first salute in nearly two decades, and drove through the gate onto Lee Avenue. To his right was a row of vintage artillery pieces on display. To his left stood an old white wood frame building with a sign on the lawn informing him that the house had once been home to Robert E. Lee. As he drove he realized he didn’t know where the headquarters building was but knew he’d eventually find it. He remarked to himself on the extraordinary neatness of the place, the lack of even a scrap of paper on the grounds, and he remembered those prebreakfast police calls, the entire garrison turned out to scour the post for offending litter.
He noticed, too, that the uniforms had changed; male and female soldiers wore camouflaged battle fatigues somewhat similar to the ones that in his day had been authorized only for Southeast Asia. He tried to picture
himself dressed like that now but could not.
Tyson came to a building marked with a sign that said, HEADQUARTERS NYAC COMMAND GROUP. He pulled into a visitor parking slot and shut off the engine. The building was a two-story rectangular redbrick affair, nearly indistinguishable from a 1950s elementary school.
Tyson straightened his tie, took his attaché case, and got out of the car. His knee was stiff, and he was aware that he was dragging his leg. He entered through glass doors into a hallway of painted cement block, further reinforcing his impression of an institution of lower education. The asphalt tile floor, however, was polished to a luster found only in military establishments.
Tyson approached a sort of ticket window on the right-hand wall. A duty sergeant, another young woman, looked up from her desk and came to the window. “Yes, sir?”
Tyson passed his orders through the opening. The young sergeant looked at the name. “Oh. . . .”
“Am I expected?”
“Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you.” She hesitated and noted his civilian attire but said nothing. Tyson thought that reporting without uniform was the least of his problems today. The woman slid a sign-in book across the counter along with a black government ballpoint pen. Tyson hesitated, then took the pen and signed in. The pen clotted and skipped.
The duty sergeant said, “Welcome to Fort Hamilton, Lieutenant.” She handed him back his orders. “Please proceed to the adjutant’s office, up the stairs to the right.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.”
At least, he thought as he walked, no one here said, “Have a good day.” That alone might be recompense for this whole mess. He climbed the stairs and came to an open door above which was a sign that said ADJUTANT. He entered a small outer office staffed by four young soldiers: two male, two female. He found the sight of all these female personnel more than slightly disorienting. Still, the presence of women lent a little reality to what he remembered as an unnatural environment.
One of the young men, a specialist four, stood at his desk. “Can I help you?”
“Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson to see the adjutant.”
He looked over Tyson’s shoulder as though trying to spot the officer, then looked at Tyson. “Oh! Yes.”
“Right.” Tyson was aware that the other people in the room were stealing glances at him. Tyson handed the young man his orders. The man said, “Please follow me, Lieutenant.”
Tyson followed him into a small office that was marked CAPTAIN S. HODGES, ASSISTANT ADJUTANT. The office was sparsely furnished and sparsely populated. In fact, there was nobody there.
The soldier said, “I’ll let the adjutant know you’re here. You can wait here in the captain’s office.” The man went through a communicating door into another office.
Tyson went to the window behind the desk. He could see the great bridge, its massive gray steel piers rising up from the north end of the post and completely dominating the skyline. Across the Narrows, a mile away where the bridge was anchored on the far shore of Staten Island, was Fort Wadsworth, which, like Hamilton, held an old coastal artillery battery, built to protect the sea approaches to New York Harbor. National defense, reflected Tyson, had been simpler in the last century; an enemy warship sailed toward the Narrows, and just in case there was any doubt if it was friend or foe, the ship considerately flew the enemy flag. The coastal guns fired. The ship fired back. The stone forts were picturesque, and so were the ships. Defending New York Harbor, he thought, must have been a piece of cake.
The communicating door to the next office opened, and an officer strode into the room. “Tyson?”
Tyson turned from the window. His eyes took in the pertinent information to be gleaned from the uniform: The name tag said Hodges, rank of captain; branch, Adjutant General Corps; awards and decorations, none. Tyson noticed the West Point ring. The man was in his middle twenties, his bearing was too stiff, and he wore a rather unpleasant, almost nasty expression. Tyson did not like the way the man had addressed him and had the urge to bury his fist in the captain’s supercilious face. Tyson hesitated, then with great and obvious reluctance, came to a position of attention and saluted.
“Sir, Lieutenant Tyson reports.”
Hodges returned the salute perfunctorily, then ruffled the papers in his hand. “It says here you are to report in uniform.”
“I don’t own a uniform.”
“Do you know a barber?”
“Yes . . . yes, sir.”
“How dare you report like that?” He jabbed a finger in Tyson’s direction.
Tyson did not reply.
“Well?”
“No excuse, sir.”
“I should think not.” Captain Hodges seemed to realize that Tyson was actually standing behind Hodges’s desk while Hodges was standing in front of it. He said, “Stand over here.” He switched places with Tyson, then sat in his swivel chair. He said, “Before you report to the adjutant, I want you in proper uniform and your hair cut to regulation length.”
“I’d like to see the adjutant now.”
Hodges’s face reddened. “What?”
“Captain, I have until midnight to report for active duty. This is an unofficial call. I would like a word with the adjutant.”
Hodges seemed to be processing the protocol of such a request. He stared at Tyson.
Tyson stared back.
Hodges nodded to himself as though coming to the conclusion that it might not be a bad idea for Tyson to make a negative impression on the adjutant. He stood. “Wait here.” Hodges disappeared into the adjoining office.
Tyson let out a long breath. He had sudden and vivid fantasies of perpetrating ingenious acts of violence on the person of Captain S. Hodges. But in a way he had provoked the man by his appearance. Tyson may as well have shown up barefoot in dirty jeans and wearing shoulder-length hair and a T-shirt that said FUCK THE ARMY. Still Hodges had not displayed even a modicum of the military courtesy that was due an officer of lower rank.
Tyson looked around the sparse office. Hanging on the walls were Hodges’s West Point diploma, his commission, and a few certificates of completed courses. Tyson also noticed a framed paper with typing on it and came closer to it. It was headed, “An Excerpt from General MacArthur’s Farewell Speech at West Point.” Tyson read:
The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished tone and tint; they have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen vainly for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.
But in the evening of my memory, always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes Duty—Honor—Country.
Today marks my final roll call with you, but I want you to know that when I cross the river my last conscious thoughts will be of The Corps, and The Corps, and The Corps.
I bid you farewell.
Tyson turned away from the wall and stared through the window. “Yes, all right. I see.” Captain Hodges, young West Pointer, about ten years old at the time of the Tet Offensive, considered Benjamin J. Tyson a disgrace to the Corps, to the nation, and to humanity.
Tyson thought about that, putting himself in Captain Hodges’s place, and found himself disliking Benjamin Tyson. I understand, he thought. And I’m relieved to have finally found some overt moral outrage. He suspected he would run into more professional soldiers like Captain Hodges before this was ended. The Army was much tougher on its own than civilians could ever be.
The door opened and Hodges snapped, “The colonel will see you now.”
Tyson replied, “Thank you, Captain.”
Hodges stood at the door as Tyson entered the adjutant’s office. Tyson strode in and stopped, as was customary, in the center of the room facing the de
sk. He saluted. “Sir, Lieutenant Tyson reports.”
The colonel returned the salute from a sitting position but said nothing.
Tyson heard Hodges’s footsteps retreating behind him and heard the door close. Tyson, while keeping head and eyes straight ahead, managed to see the person to whom he was reporting. The adjutant was a rather stocky man, about fifty years of age, and what was left of his hair was gray. His face was doughy, and his jowls hung like pancake batter. Tyson realized he didn’t even know the man’s name, and what was more, he didn’t care to.
At length the colonel said, “Sit down, Lieutenant.”
Tyson sat in a chair opposite the desk. “Thank you, sir.”
Tyson did not overtly look around at the office, nor would he do that in civilian life. He did note, however, that the room was spartan: a steel-gray desk, a number of vinyl chairs, blinds on the windows, and gray asphalt tile on the floor. The walls were the same cream-painted cement block as the rest of the building. Tyson recalled his office at Peregrine-Osaka with more fondness than he’d felt for it while he was there. This office, however, did have something his did not: The wall behind the desk was covered with military memorabilia, photos, certificates, and other symbols of recognition and accomplishment. Tyson realized that he could finally hang his framed military certificates in his new office. He also realized he wasn’t going to.
The adjutant inquired, “Have you been to Hamilton before?”
The man’s voice was gravelly, and the stink of cigar smoke that permeated the room was a clue why. Tyson replied, “No, sir.”
“Had no trouble finding us, did you?”
“No, sir.” Tyson looked at him. He saw that the man wore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel, not the eagles of a full colonel. Tyson’s eyes went to the black name tag over the right pocket: Levin. Tyson looked at the desk nameplate. LTC Mortimer Levin.
Colonel Levin said bluntly, “Are you surprised to find a Jew sitting here?”
Tyson thought of several possible replies but none that would do him any good, so he said, “Sir?” which was the military way of responding to a superior officer without responding.
Word of Honor Page 31
