Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  A man in his twenties, dressed in a gray suit, was sitting at the reception desk. “Your name, sir?”

  “Tyson. Where is the bar, please?”

  The man ignored the question. “May I see some identification, Lieutenant?”

  Tyson replied, “What for?”

  “Club regulations.”

  Tyson showed the man his driver’s license, and the man checked the name against a list, then asked Tyson to sign in, which he did. The man said, “Thank you, sir. Bar is to the right.”

  Tyson walked down an arched corridor. Shorter arched cul-de-sacs extended at right angles in the direction of the Narrows. These were, he knew, the casemates, the places where the big guns had sat overlooking the Narrows. The gun ports here were bricked up also.

  He entered a long windowless chamber that might have been the magazine where powder and shot had been stored but which now was the lounge. A long mahogany bar ran along the left side of the room, and tables sat along the right wall. A hand-painted sign said PATRIOTS’ BAR.

  The barroom was filled, and Tyson was surprised to see more civilian-attired people than uniformed officers. He supposed the clientele consisted of retired military personnel, government workers, civilian guests, and spouses.

  The decor could have been East Side pub, but the patrons were not. For one thing, he noticed, despite the crowd, there was not that raucous noise that you hear in an after-work place. Rather, there was a subdued tone to the room, punctuated by an occasional laugh of the type a lieutenant gives when his captain has said something witty.

  Tyson spotted Colonel Levin sitting by himself at the far end of the bar. Tyson walked down the length of the room and joined him. “Good evening, Colonel.”

  “Good evening, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

  Tyson sat on the barstool beside Levin.

  Levin said, “Did you get a chance to explore the club?”

  “No, sir. I just got here.”

  “It’s an interesting place. They don’t make them like this anymore. It’s a national historical landmark.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, that’s in the post information book. I suggest you read it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want to become a member here?”

  Tyson lit a cigarette. “I’m not certain.”

  “Every officer is urged to join.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “In fact, I took the liberty of signing you up.”

  Tyson drew on his cigarette. “Thank you, Colonel.”

  Levin regarded him. “What’s your drink, Tyson?”

  Tyson thought that Levin put the question the way someone might ask, “What’s your religious affiliation?” as though each man were born with or chose a drink for life. He looked at Colonel Levin. The man was an odd amalgam of U.S. Army and New York Jewish. Tyson would rather have had to deal with either of those two types but not both in the same personality.

  “Tyson? Something to improve your hearing?”

  “Sorry, Colonel. Dewar’s and soda.”

  Colonel Levin said to the barmaid, “Sally, meet Lieutenant Tyson, a new member.”

  The middle-aged woman gave a friendly smile. “Welcome to Fort Hamilton . . . Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She looked at him curiously, taking in his longish hair and probably, he thought, wondering about a lieutenant in his forties. Sally suddenly brightened. “Oh, police.”

  This, thought Tyson, was a logical deduction. A police lieutenant would be in his forties, and that was how Sally fit Tyson’s age to his rank.

  Tyson waited for Levin to say something tactful. Levin said, “No, this is Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson, United States Army, who is the subject of a murder investigation.”

  Sally’s mouth dropped open. “Oh . . . yes.”

  Tyson thought that was probably the best way to do it. He decided he liked Levin.

  Colonel Levin informed Sally that Lieutenant Tyson’s drink was Dewar’s and soda, and Tyson knew he’d be unwise to order anything different next time he came in.

  Levin ordered another Manhattan for himself, then said to Tyson, “Did you get over to finance? You’re entitled to some pay.”

  “No, sir. My attorney advised me not to accept any money.”

  “Did he? Well, try not paying him and see if he gives you the same advice.”

  “Yes, sir. You see, that’s also why I don’t know about joining the club. I’ve signed in as ordered, but there are certain things I can’t or won’t do on advice of counsel. On the other hand, as you suggested, I would be well advised to act like an officer, to become part of this post and its community. So I’m in somewhat of a quandary, and I hope you understand if I don’t appear as gung-ho as most newly assigned lieutenants.”

  Levin replied curtly, “I’m sure it isn’t only the advice of counsel that’s making you less than eager to fit in here.”

  “That’s correct, Colonel. No offense, but I was doing okay as a civilian.”

  Levin lit a new cigar and didn’t reply.

  Tyson continued, “As you just witnessed, I’m a little old to be wearing a first lieutenant’s bar, Colonel.”

  The barmaid set down the drinks and added them to the colonel’s chit. Levin raised his glass. “Welcome.”

  Tyson raised his glass also but did not touch it to Levin’s. “Thank you, Colonel Levin.”

  Both men drank, then Levin said, “Tomorrow you will get your ID card, your physical, your uniform, and all that. Start early. I expect you firmly established in the Army and ready for duty by eight hundred hours, day after tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. What sort of duty?”

  “The Department of the Army has instructed the post commander to instruct me to assign you casual duties so that you have ample time to attend to any personal problems that may have arisen as a result of your unexpected recall to duty. Also to allow you time to attend to any legal necessities that may arise as a result of this ongoing investigation.” Levin ate the cherry from his Manhattan. “In other words, you are attached to my office as I said, and I’m supposed to find something for you to do that won’t take up any of your time.”

  “Why can’t I just report to you every morning, then knock off for the day?”

  “I thought about that, Tyson. But that’s not consistent with the Army work ethic and, I suspect, not consistent with your own work ethic. Casual duties are often boring, demeaning, and demoralizing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyson remembered being on casual duty once and concluding the same thing: It was stressful to be pretending to be doing something when you weren’t. But that was then. Now he’d just as soon spend the time before the final disposition of his case with his family and lawyer.

  Levin said, “Did you notice that granite triangular-shaped building as you came into the club?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was the old fort’s caponier.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Lieutenant. A caponier is a fortification to protect the landward side of the coastal battery. Anyway, that’s where the Harbor Defense Museum is housed. Did you know we have a museum here?”

  “Yes, sir. There was a booklet in the orientation literature.”

  “Right. The curator is a fellow named Dr. Russell. Nice eccentric sort of chap. He’s civil service. In fact, there he is over there.” Levin cocked his head toward a table in the corner. “The guy with the glasses.”

  Tyson looked toward the cocktail table and saw a tall lanky man not more than thirty years old sitting with three other civilians.

  Levin said, “I spoke to him earlier about taking you on as an assistant.”

  “Assistant what ?”

  “Museum curator.”

  Tyson said nothing.

  Levin asked, “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Look, Tyson, I’m doing you a favor. First of all, it�
�s a job that won’t take up much of your time or mental energies. Secondly, it has dignity, as opposed to some other jobs I could cook up for you. Finally, it’s outside the normal activities here, and it will keep you segregated from your brother officers, which is desirable for all parties. And your immediate supervisor will be Dr. Russell, who’s a civilian and an okay guy. And four, it’s across the lane from the O Club so you can hang out here if you get bored. Also it’s a nice little museum and sort of interesting. So what do you say?”

  “I . . . don’t know. . . . Do I have to wear my uniform?”

  “Only on certain occasions. Like when dignitaries come to visit or school groups come.”

  “School groups?”

  “Yes, you’ll give tours to school kids. And senior citizen groups.”

  “Tours . . . ?”

  “Do you need another drink to improve your hearing?” He called to the barmaid. “Another round, Sally.” He looked back at Tyson. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m under orders to walk on eggs with you. That’s between us. And I’m becoming media-conscious. The museum job is good. It looks good. Take it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Fine.” Levin held up his glass, and Tyson took his fresh drink and touched the glass to Levin’s.

  Levin said, “I’ll introduce you to Dr. Russell later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Levin finished half of his drink, and Tyson could see he was feeling the effects. His unhealthy pallor had turned a nice ruddy color, and his wheezing seemed less stertorous. Tyson suspected that Colonel Levin looked good every night around this time.

  Levin said, “The public affairs office has been handling newspeople all day.”

  Tyson looked up from his drink. “Sir?”

  “This is an open post. We really can’t stop the press from coming through the gates unless we have special orders from higher up to keep them out.”

  “I see.”

  “We can, however, keep them out of here because this is a private club.”

  Tyson nodded. “I had trouble getting in.”

  “So did a lot of other people tonight, thanks to you. Point is, you can get waylaid by the press anyplace else on post that isn’t a restricted area or isn’t your place of work, like the museum. That’s the instructions the Department of the Army is giving to the media. So you’re safe in the museum and the club. You have about ten yards to run between the two places and twenty yards to the parking lot. So it’s up to you to use your good judgment in dealing with these people. From what I read, you’ve displayed good judgment in the past.”

  Tyson said, “Is that your personal opinion, Colonel, or is that a compliment you’ve been asked to relay to me?”

  “Both. Subject closed.” Levin said, “Take your drink.” He rose and made his way a bit unsteadily toward the table at which Dr. Russell was sitting. Levin said, “Dr. Russell, may I present Lieutenant Tyson?”

  Dr. Russell stood and took Tyson’s hand warmly. “Has Colonel Levin told you I’m in need of an assistant?”

  Tyson replied, “Yes, he has.” Tyson noted that Dr. Russell had a pleasant professorial accent. The man was taller than Tyson, very thin, and wore the sort of rumpled suit one might expect of a museum curator, not to mention a civil servant.

  Dr. Russell introduced Tyson to the three men he was drinking with, and they seemed genuinely happy to make his acquaintance, as though they’d been introduced to a celebrity. Tyson had come to expect a wide range of reactions from people who knew who he was, and there was always that interesting few seconds as people processed the name and face and decided if they were happy to meet him or not.

  Levin, Russell, and the three other men were making small talk, and Tyson turned back in as Dr. Russell addressed him, “I’ve always thought it desirable to have a uniformed officer conduct some of these tours. I’m glad this opportunity came up.”

  Tyson replied, “So am I.”

  Dr. Russell’s brow knitted as though he were thinking about what he had just said. He added, “Of course I realize this won’t be a lengthy arrangement. You won’t be here long, will you?”

  “I think not.”

  Colonel Levin took Tyson’s arm and announced, “We have a table waiting.”

  Tyson and Levin left the bar and went into the main corridor. Levin observed, “Dr. Russell seemed happy to have you aboard.”

  Tyson responded, “He’ll be sad to see me leave.”

  They entered a medium-sized dining room that looked to be fairly new. Large windows let in the red light of a beautiful dusk. Levin explained, “This is a recent addition. The exterior is built of granite to blend in with the old fort, but Dr. Russell is nonetheless appalled. Everyone else is happy about the room.”

  Tyson saw that about half the tables were empty, and Levin asked the hostess to seat them away from other diners. They were shown to a table near one of the large windows looking out toward the Narrows.

  Tyson said, “You could do a nice court-martial here.”

  Levin didn’t reply immediately, then said, “I thought of it, but it would inconvenience people who normally have lunch here.”

  Tyson put his blue napkin on his lap. “Still, it’s a great view.” He asked, “Where do you hold trials now?”

  “Oh, we have a small room in the JAG building. But that wouldn’t do.”

  “I’ve sometimes wondered why there are no courthouses in the Army.”

  Levin shrugged. “Maybe because there is no permanently convened court. Military justice is ad-hoc, Tyson, unlike civilian justice. Therefore, anyplace will do.”

  A young waitress came to the table and greeted Levin. She said, “Manhattan, sir?”

  “Right. Ann, this is the Lieutenant Tyson who’s been in the news recently. Dewar’s and soda, and I’d appreciate it if you told the staff not to talk to reporters.”

  The waitress took a second to digest all of that, then quickly looked at Tyson. “Oh. Hello . . . hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “Soda and water?”

  “Dewar’s and soda.”

  “Yes, sir.” She dropped two menus on the table and hurried off to get the drinks. Levin lit a new cigar.

  Tyson perused the menu. “How is the food, Colonel?”

  “Compared to what? The Four Seasons or the mess hall?”

  “The Four Seasons, sir.”

  “Never been there. Hey, I guess I should stop baiting you. It’s not your fault you were a successful civilian. I recommend the steak. Good meat, and they have a charcoal grill.”

  Tyson put his menu down. “Fine.” He lit a cigarette. Neither spoke. A new waitress came with the drinks and left with their dinner order. Levin observed, “We’ll have the whole staff come and check you out by dessert.” Levin raised his glass, and Tyson realized the colonel was one of those men who felt that alcohol was a sacred nectar that needed to be offered to some worthy sentiment before it was imbibed. He also realized Levin was getting a little rocky. Levin said, “I wish you a happy stay here.”

  They drank, and they spoke in general terms for a while, discussing the post and how the Army had changed in the last two decades and how it had remained the same.

  Levin had another drink, and Tyson admired his capacity. Levin said apropros of nothing, “I told you I was raised in Brighton Beach. My father used to work here at Hamilton. He was a maintenance supervisor, a government employee. My brother and I used to tell everyone he was a G-man.” Levin laughed.

  Tyson stirred his drink. He didn’t know where this was heading, but he was fairly sure he didn’t want to get there.

  Levin continued, “Anyway, I used to come to work with him sometimes on weekends—when I was in high school—this was during the Korean conflict.”

  “War.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I guess I was very impressed by the officers strutting around. They had nicer uniforms then, and some of them carried swagger sticks. I was very impressionable.”

  Tyson said, “My father
claims he saw Lindbergh take off for Paris, and that inspired him to be a flier. He was a Navy pilot. When was this addition to the club built?”

  Levin seemed intent on his own narrative. “And I would sweep the floors and change the light bulbs. Right here . . . well, I mean in the original section. This was the O Club then, too. Anyway, I would see these gentlemen at their mess on Sundays, and I guess it stuck with me, being from a hard-up family. So in college I joined the ROTC program, and here I am.” Levin drank some water and cleared his throat. “You can put a Jew in the Army, Tyson, but you can’t put the Army in the Jew. I don’t know why I stayed. I guess there must be something about it I like.”

  Tyson commented, “A military career can be very rewarding.”

  “I guess the officer corps is a quick way to achieve genteel respectability. It’s always been for southerners. Why not a Jew from Brighton Beach, Brooklyn? Right, Tyson?”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, I’m not that drunk, and there is a point to this. We are all equal in social standing, we are all gentlemen by act of congress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Levin leaned across the table. “But I want to reveal to you an inequity in the system. Even though the Army does not care about your background, breeding, or social standing for purposes of promotions, assignments, or career advancement, they do care about that when they court-martial you. Follow?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Let me make an unfortunate but necessary comparison. Lieutenant Calley, the platoon leader of My Lai fame, was an underprivileged kid, as I recall, lower-middle-class background. You were quite the opposite type of officer and gentleman.” Levin drew on his cigar and lowered his voice. “Now, I don’t know what the fuck happened at that hospital, Lieutenant, but let’s assume something happened that was not entirely kosher, not precisely in keeping with ‘The Rules of Engagement’ or ‘The Rules of Land Warfare.’ Okay? Then you, Benjamin Tyson, were supposed to be able to make finer distinctions of morality than a man like Calley. Follow?”

  Tyson did not respond.

  Levin continued, “You are more accountable and more liable than the poor schnooks around you who are firing their rifles into helpless people. No one will be sympathetic or understanding or offer the defense that you were just an underprivileged, teenage draftee who was as much a victim as a victimizer. You were an educated, mature man, a volunteer, and an officer.” Levin pointed his cigar at Tyson. “You may not have pulled a trigger, but if you did nothing to stop it—even at the risk of your own life—then God help you.” He jabbed his cigar toward Tyson. The two men stared at each other, then Levin said, “That’s the point.”