Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yeah.”

  Corva kept up with Tyson’s brisk pace. Corva said, “The point is that you, I, and the Army also know that this slaughter was perpetrated by men directly under your command. Furthermore, there is probable cause to suspect that you were present and witnessed all or part of that slaughter. And they’re going so far as to suggest you may have even pulled the trigger yourself a few times.”

  “I didn’t.” Tyson stopped and stared out over the water. Small ripples ran up to the pebbly beach. He drew in a deep breath of salt air. “I did not,” he repeated.

  Corva came up beside him. “Who cares? Not me. You know and I know that the Army does not care if you shot anyone or not. They do not care why it happened or if you tried to stop it or if your troops mutinied and held you at gunpoint or if you just stepped out a minute to take a piss and missed the whole thing. They only care that you did not report that massacre, which was your legal duty, not to mention, if you will, your Christian duty. For reasons known only to yourself you did not wish to see those murderers brought to justice. The irony here is that the men under your command most probably committed a crime of passion. Perhaps they were suffering from battle fatigue, which the Army recognizes under Article 118 as extenuating circumstances for murder. And undoubtedly your men were suffering from a fatal sickness of the soul. Fatal, that is, to others. But you, on the other hand, committed a crime of dispassion each and every day you did not report what you witnessed. You’ve had nearly two decades to set things right, Ben, and you did not. So now the Army is going to set things right, not only for them but also for you. As for the murderers, they have many defenses, but they don’t even need them in a court of law. The peculiarities of this imperfect system pretty much assures they won’t be called to account. Their crime was of the moment, a moment of madness. Your crime is an ongoing one. Army justice may not be perfect, but it is instinctive, unclouded by civilian hocus-pocus, and often uncannily just. You know that. And you also know and I know and the Army knows you are guilty. The charge sheet may not precisely reflect your role in that massacre. But I assure you that after all the witnesses testify and lie, that court-martial board, made up of men like Colonel Levin, men who as officers and leaders see and evaluate the human condition daily, will arrive at the truth. The verdict is a foregone conclusion. You might as well accept that. The only thing I can guarantee you is that when you walk out of that courtroom, even if you are in handcuffs and under armed guard, you will be free. You understand what I mean by free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So am I fired?”

  “No. But I’d like to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Later. Do you want to get drunk tonight?”

  Tyson nodded distractedly. He said, “Why don’t we plead guilty?”

  “Another quirk of military law. You are not allowed to enter a plea of guilty to a murder charge.”

  “Right. I remember that. Good rule.”

  “So to recapitulate, I’m not fired, and you want to get drunk with me tonight?”

  “Right. Anything to get off this post. Even drinking with you.”

  “Fine. Let’s walk back before the post Gestapo realizes you’re missing.”

  They turned back toward the bridge and began walking slowly. Corva said, “When we are both very drunk we are going to swap peace stories. R and R stories. I have to tell you about this whorehouse located in an old French villa outside of Tay Nihn, run by a very crazy half-breed madam.”

  Tyson smiled. “Sounds like the same one we had outside of Quang Tri. Must have been a chain.”

  They passed under the bridge. The traffic overhead made a constant low humming noise, and sea gulls circled beneath the huge superstructure. Tyson said, “I was a damned good combat leader. But by the time I reached the hospital, I was a burnout case. I stopped doing my job. I really didn’t give a shit anymore. I didn’t even care if I lived or died.”

  Corva said, “Then eventually you would have died. But you got lucky and got wounded first. In the Strawberry Patch. And Brandt tended your wound. War is full of ironies.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  They were back on 101st Street now, a commercial street of two- and three-story brick buildings. Tyson looked at the fort’s gates beneath the bridge. “It’s like jail.”

  “No. Jail is like jail.”

  “I always thought,” said Tyson, “that if lawyers take a third of what they win for you in a civil case, they should do a third of the time their clients get in a criminal case.”

  “They would be permanently in jail,” Corva pointed out.

  Tyson stopped on the sidewalk outside the gate. “You took the subway here?”

  “Right. Didn’t want to run up your bill with a taxi. I’ll walk to the station from here.”

  Tyson nodded.

  Corva said, “I’m ready to talk to the witnesses for the defense. Sadowski and Scorello. I’m going to go at Army expense. You are authorized to come along. Sadowski lives in Chicago. Scorello lives in a suburb of San Francisco. Get you off post for a few days. Nice reunion.”

  Tyson shook his head. “I don’t want to see them.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t want to see me. We don’t want to see one another.”

  “Okay. I understand. It’s not important. Do you want to see Brandt and Farley? You have the right to be present at a cross-examination. To confront them before a hearing or court-martial.”

  “Can we beat the shit out of them?”

  “You bet.”

  Tyson smiled. “You’re all talk, Corva.” He lit a cigarette. “I considered killing Brandt.”

  “Did you? That would put a quick end to this business. That’s the Nam solution to an annoyance. Blow it away.”

  “But now I’m under tight scrutiny. Couldn’t get away with it.”

  Corva smiled slowly. “WASPs don’t know anything about these things. You put out a contract. I’ll take care of it if you want.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Are you?”

  Tyson shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, don’t talk about it if you’re not. Do you want to see him? And Farley?”

  “Just Brandt. Sometime before the court-martial.”

  “Good. Did you ever fuck what’s-her-name? Harper?”

  Tyson looked at him quickly. “No.”

  “Too bad.” Corva looked at his watch.

  Tyson threw down his cigarette. “By the way, I read Rashomon.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Is this a test? Well, the answer is that an act—killing—can be legal or illegal, can be interpreted as battle, self-defense, murder, and so forth. And the odd thing is that not even the victim is always sure of his absolute innocence in the act. Such was the case of the samurai in Rashomon. Similarly, as Dr. Jean Monteau lay dying on the floor of Miséricorde Hospital, the thought must have crossed his mind that he contributed to his own death.” Tyson stared at Corva.

  Corva said, “And the perpetrators?”

  “Yes, that’s odder still. A man engaged in intercourse or killing is not always certain even in his own mind if he is making love or committing rape, waging war or committing murder.”

  Corva nodded again. “That’s what juries are for.” He added, “Your case is a bit simpler than Rashomon, however, because there are no surviving witnesses to give their impression of what they thought happened to them. And unlike Rashomon, I doubt if the ghosts of any of the victims will be called to testify at the trial.” Corva added, “However, there is that one surviving witness. Did she see much?”

  “Enough.”

  Corva thought a moment before speaking. “I said before that the verdict was a foregone conclusion.”

  “Right. That’s what a defendant likes to hear from his attorney.”

  “Well, I was trying to set you up for the worst scenario. That’s an old lawyer’s trick. The real situation is more in the balance. What you have here is
a bunch of tainted soldiers giving self-serving testimony. It’s quite possible a court-martial board will be so confused and frustrated that they will decide the government hasn’t proven its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, they’ll have no choice but to return a verdict of not guilty though they know you are. But let me tell you something. It’s the nun that concerns me. If she appears out of the blue and takes the stand, they will accept her testimony as gospel. And I’m assuming that testimony will be very damning for you.”

  “Do you want to know what she’ll say?”

  “Not particularly. If they find her, you can give me a few details. If they don’t find her, it doesn’t matter. Point is, nuns don’t lie. At least that is the conventional wisdom in trial law. And defense counsels don’t try to browbeat or attack the testimony of nuns, priests, rabbis, or ministers, except at their own peril.”

  Tyson said, “I wonder why she hasn’t been found or hasn’t come forward?”

  Corva rubbed his chin reflectively. “If I were paranoid, I’d say the government already knows the whereabouts of not only Sister Teresa, but also of Hernando Beltran, Lee Walker, and Louis Kalane. Kelly and DeTonq are another matter. Your former heros are lying low on advice of counsel. They may never have to be called. But if they are, they will probably be your witnesses. Correct?”

  “Probably.”

  “Because you all made a blood oath to lie. You all gave your word of honor that you would stand by one another. Correct?”

  “Very astute, Vince.”

  “Oh, astute, my ass. Even a JAG lawyer could figure that out. What did Harper say in her report? Lieutenant Tyson made statements which were strikingly similar to those of Sadowski and Scorello. What do you think she was saying? You concocted a story nearly twenty years ago, rehearsed it, until finally you almost believed it. Christ, even if the government presented me with three or five more witnesses for the defense, I doubt if I’d march them all up to the stand to say the exact same thing. But no one can accuse me of coaching them. You coached them, Ben. Twenty years ago. You were their leader, you had the imagination to turn a massacre into an heroic epic. That’s how you saved your life afterward.”

  Tyson’s eyes met Corva’s. Tyson said, “Don’t be humble, Vince. You are astute.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Corva. “Point is, all war stories are bullshit. Did I tell you that?”

  “You know you did.”

  “Don’t forget it. See you tonight. Meet me at my office.”

  Tyson turned toward the fort. Every time he came away from a meeting with Corva, he felt just a bit more frightened yet paradoxically more at peace with himself. Freedom was just down the road, though it looked suspiciously like the walls of Leavenworth from here. He reentered the post without returning the MP’s salute.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Benjamin Tyson stepped off the train at Garden City Station. It was one of those hot, dry August afternoons when everything seemed to move in slow motion, and there was an odd quietness in the still air. Tyson loosened his tie and slung his sport coat over his shoulder. He walked down from the platform and headed toward the taxi stand.

  Three black Cadillacs sat empty in their spaces. Three black drivers sat under the shade of the station house overhang, reading newspapers and drinking canned soda. Tyson approached, and one of the men stood and smiled widely. “Mr. Tyson. You get off that train?”

  “Hello, Mason. Just in for a few hours. Can you drive me around?”

  “Sure can.”

  Tyson fell in step beside Mason, a heavyset man in late middle age, dressed in black chauffeur livery. “Hot today,” observed Tyson.

  “Sure is. Least it’s dry.” Mason opened the rear door of his Cadillac, and Tyson entered. Mason got in and started the engine. “Get that AC workin’.”

  “How have you been?” inquired Tyson.

  “Fine, sir. Fine. How you been keepin’ yourself?”

  “Not bad.”

  “You lookin’ good. Gettin’ your exercise?”

  Tyson smiled. “Doing five miles a day now.”

  “That’s real good. When you gonna stop smokin’?”

  “New Year’s Day.”

  Mason laughed. “Where we headin’?”

  “My house first.”

  Mason put on his billed cap and pulled out of the small parking field. He drove slowly through the tree-shaded residential streets lined with imposing homes. The town seemed deserted. Tyson inquired, “Had a neutron bomb attack while I was gone?”

  Mason laughed again. “August. Folks pulled out. I get a few runs a day. Airports. Couple out east. Slow.”

  “Why don’t you take the month off?”

  “The bills don’t stop in August.”

  “That’s true.” Tyson said, “How is Mrs. Williams?”

  “Gettin’ old. Just like me. Can’t get up those stairs no more. I been lookin’ at a place with an elevator. Air-conditionin’ too.”

  Tyson considered inviting the Williamses to house-sit at his place for the next few months. But his experiences in social engineering were limited, and he didn’t know if it was a good idea. He suspected that Mason and his wife would rather be home, wherever that was. Tyson looked around the immaculate car interior. He said, “You remember that Lincoln you had?”

  “Sure do. Sixty-four. Block and a half long, wide as my mama-in-law’s butt. They gettin’ smaller. Can’t find nothin’ big enough no more. What those turkeys in Detroit thinkin’ about?”

  “The world’s getting smaller and tighter, Mason. Just do me a favor and don’t buy a Japanese car.”

  “Hell no! You seen them things? I got a ’frigerator bigger than them.”

  They talked cars for the next few minutes. Mason pulled up to the curb in front of Tyson’s house.

  Tyson said, “Come on in.” He opened his own door and stood on the sidewalk, staring at his house. The gardener had kept up with it, and no doubt the maid had too. The pest control men did their scheduled spraying, and the seven-zone sprinkler system was on timer, as were all the outside lights. The burglar and fire alarms were hooked up to central station monitoring. The house, in effect, was on automatic pilot. It didn’t need the Tysons. Tyson often envisioned a perfect upper-middle-class suburb, devoid of redundant residents, tended to by machines and service people.

  He walked up the brick path, deactivated the alarm with a key, and stepped inside, followed by Mason.

  The house smelled unfamiliar, not like his house. There was an odd mixture of odors, dominated by the smells of various cleaning products. The maid, Piedad, probably thought it was amusing to clean an empty house every week. Anglos were loco.

  Tyson hung his sport coat on the clothes tree and went to the Parsons table in the foyer where the mail was stacked. He leafed through it. Phil Sloan had a key and took care of small details such as sorting the mail and sending the important items to Tyson at Fort Hamilton. There was a stack of junk mail, a bundle of letters that looked like fan mail, and some bills that Sloan hadn’t gotten around to forwarding. There were also a few parcels on the floor that Sloan had probably picked up from the post office. Tyson lifted one of them, a shoebox-sized package marked “Fragile.” He opened it with his pocket knife, fished around in the Styrofoam packing, and drew out a particularly hideous Hummel of a boy and girl that looked as though it had been designed by Norman Rockwell for Hermann Goering. He placed it on the table and read the enclosed card: Dearest Baby Brother, I’ve treasured this since Aunt Millie gave it to me five years ago, but remembering how much you always admired it, I’m thrilled to send it to you in your hour of need. Keep your nose up. Love to Marcy and David. Love, Laurie.

  Tyson smiled as he placed the card on the table. He dug deeper into the packing foam and extracted his platoon logbook, which he slipped into his hip pocket.

  Tyson turned to Mason. “Can you give me a hand with something in the basement?”

  “Sure can.”

  Tyson went d
own the basement stairs to the storage room and knelt in front of an old black steamer trunk. The padlock was still shut, but it was obvious by the disturbed dust in the area that someone had been there. Bastards. They’d gotten through the burglar alarm and the supposedly unpickable door locks. And they’d undoubtedly been through the entire house, every drawer, every closet, his desk, photo albums, diaries, checkbooks, address books, investment portfolios—every nook and cranny. They had penetrated into the very core of his privacy and had probably cataloged, photographed, and photocopied everything. “Bastards!”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing.” He was fairly certain they were opening his mail, too. But the heavily taped parcel from his sister had shown no sign of tampering. He felt somewhat good about beating them at their own asinine cloak-and-dagger game. Tyson said to Mason, “Let’s get this trunk upstairs.”

  They each took a handle and carried the trunk into the living room and set it before the fireplace. He took a box of firestarter candles from the log bin and threw it onto the grate, lighting the entire box with a match.

  Mason looked around the living room. “Some castle you got here, Mr. Tyson.”

  “Yes, it is.” He stood and went into the kitchen, coming back with two frosted mugs filled with beer. He passed one to Mason. Tyson raised his mug. “To liberty and justice for me.”

  “Amen.” They touched glasses.

  Tyson finished half the beer in one swallow. He took a key from his wallet, knelt, and opened the trunk.

  On the left-hand side of the divided trunk were neatly folded jungle fatigues and khakis, plus a pair of canvas jungle boots, a bush hat, and a powder blue infantry fourragère. On the right was a photo album, maps, R and R brochures, and bundled letters from Hope Lowell, the girl he’d been seeing before he shipped out. There was also a metal ammunition box that held an Army compass, Army watch, Army flashlight, and other purloined government issues.

  It didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed, but when he looked through the photo album, he saw a few photos missing. Also missing were his orders for the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry awarded for actions on 15 February 1968. Missing, too, was his logbook, but he’d lifted that himself.