Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “No, sir.”

  “In the military they call it burning your bridges behind you so you can’t retreat but are forced to advance. Civilians might say it’s just a last farewell.”

  Mason said, “You not ever coming back?”

  “I have to act as though I’m not. If I do come back, well, that’s the way it was meant to be. If I never see this place again I want to remember it as it was when I was happy here, long ago, and happy here again on a late August afternoon.”

  Mason glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. He said, “In your head you never leave the place where you was born and raised. I ain’t been back to Dillon, South Carolina, since I was seventeen. But I still has the place in my head. Strange, ’cause I wasn’t none too happy there. Oh, some of it was happy. I remember we used to go to this little church, and . . . aw, ain’t nothin’ left there. ’Cept an old aunt.”

  “Go see her. See the place where Mason Williams walked the streets and went to school and church.”

  “Might do that.”

  Tyson lit another cigarette. He said, “Mason, are you following all this in the news? Of course you are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And? What are your thoughts?”

  “Well . . . hard for me to say, Mr. Tyson.”

  “How long have we known each other? I remember you driving me places when I was in grade school. My father used to put me in your car and say, ‘Take this fathead to school. He missed the bus again.’”

  Mason laughed.

  “Or, ‘Take him and his juvenile delinquent friends to the movies.’ And a few times you took me into the city to meet my parents for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir. Them was good days. I liked your father.”

  “Me too. So give it to me straight. What do you think about all this?”

  “Well . . . I think, Mr. Tyson . . . you could have found some friends . . . could have stuck closer to your friends . . . and they would’ve stuck closer to you. You got a lot of friends in this town.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, sir. There was people who was on your side. There was talk of honorin’ you at the Fourth of July party at the club. . . . I hear things when people sit back there, ’cause they don’t think I hear nothin’.” He chuckled. “The other drivers talk too. Anyways, I never heard of nobody sayin’ nothin’ bad about you. Mostly they was unhappy for you.”

  Tyson nodded. “Maybe I got real paranoid.”

  “Maybe. Maybe you was unhappy in a lot of ways so you took it out on everybody.”

  “Could be. I’m happy now though.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, sir. I seen it in your face and in your walk. I hear it in your voice. Ain’t seen you like that in lots of years now.”

  “A few other people have told me that. Why do you suppose I’m happy? I’m about to go on trial for murder.”

  Mason drove for a while before answering, “You’re startin’ over. Lots of folks don’t get that chance. You goin’ to get that thing squared away, then you goin’ on, and this time you goin’ to get things right. You got a fine missus, and she’ll stand beside you.”

  Tyson smiled. “I hope to God you’re right. Listen, drive past my father’s house.”

  Mason nodded and swung into Whitehall Street. He stopped in front of the house where Tyson grew up, a brick and stucco Tudor. Tyson couldn’t recall the name of the people who lived there now and didn’t care. He stared at the second-floor window that had been his room. He said, “When my father died, the cortege detoured past this house on the way to the cemetery. All the neighbors were out front. I didn’t know that was going to happen. Took me by surprise. I cried.”

  “I know. You was in my car.” Mason pulled away from the house. “Now you done thinkin’ about the past, Mr. Tyson. Where you want to go now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have to be back until nine. They don’t let me out that often.” He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes to seven, and the shadows outside the car were lengthening. Commuters were home by now, and he could visit any one of a number of people. But on what pretext? Did he need a pretext? “Drive over to Tulamore.”

  Mason headed west, and Tyson directed him to a white clapboard colonial, the home of Phillip and Janet Sloan. He couldn’t tell if anyone was at home and realized he didn’t really want to see Phil Sloan. “Go on to Brixton.”

  They drove past the McCormicks’ house without stopping, then the houses of a few more friends, some of whom were in, some apparently not. Mason said, “You wantin’ to stop anywhere?”

  “I don’t think so. I just feel like an outsider who wants to look in. Do you think I should stop?”

  Mason tipped his hat forward and scratched the back of his head. He said, “I guess you know what’s best.”

  “Well, I’m a little shy these days.” Tyson looked at his watch. “I guess I can catch the eight-ten to Brooklyn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The black limousine pulled up to the station. Tyson said, “Mason, if you were a betting man what odds would you give me?”

  Mason opened Tyson’s door. Tyson got out, and both men looked at each other. Mason replied, “I said you looked happy. No man who done what they sayin’ you done looks happy about it. You just tell them the truth. Let them see your eyes.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that.” Tyson held out a fifty-dollar bill.

  Mason shook his head. “You been overtippin’ me since you was a boy. This one’s on me. You take care now.” They shook hands. “Hurry on. I hear the train.”

  Tyson walked up to the platform and saw the train approaching from the east. A soft breeze was blowing, and it was from the north in contrast to the usual southerly ocean breeze. A harbinger of autumn. The sun was below the horizon, and the large houses on the south side of the station plaza sat in deep shadow. A few cars remained in the parking field, a few wives waited for the city train. Farther down the tracks were tennis courts, and he saw a couple he knew, the Muellers, playing doubles with another couple. The station plaza, the new hotel, the library, and the parks formed a sort of old-fashioned village commons. This was the kind of place people pictured for themselves if they ever got nostalgic for the type of town that used to typify American life. Like many of the other commuter enclaves strung out along the great commuter rail lines radiating from New York, this was the best of worlds and the worst of worlds. It was both insular and part of the main. Marcy was right, and Marcy was wrong. It depended, he realized, on what was on your mind and what was in your heart.

  He liked Robert Frost’s definition of home: the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

  But home was also the place where, when you strayed from it, they came looking for you.

  That was not this place anymore.

  The train stopped, and he boarded. He thought, There is something evocative about trains and railroad stations. The tracks and trains do run both ways. But there is a time in your life—and you don’t always know which time—when you are going only one way.

  He took a seat in the empty coach and drew from his breast pocket the picture of him and Teresa in front of the Hue Cathedral. He stared at it a moment, trying to reconcile the all-American boy in the photo with the man who had turned into a monster less than four weeks later. He stared at Teresa and marveled that even after a lifetime of warfare and death she looked very naive, very shy and innocent. But perhaps that was the answer. She’d been inoculated at birth against the sickness of the soul that follows on the heels of war. His mind and soul had no immunities whatsoever, and he’d become sick the day he went out on his first patrol through the countryside and seen the massive destruction of lives, property, and family.

  He put the picture back in his pocket and closed his eyes. He realized that Fort Hamilton might be the last place he saw before an armed escort took him to a federal prison. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Everything was lo
oking better than he’d ever seen it. If he passed this way again, he’d have to remember that.

  CHAPTER

  36

  The early morning sun slanted in through the venetian blinds of Tyson’s living room. The rented television was balanced unsteadily on a folding snack table pushed against the staircase wall. Dressed in a warm-up suit, Tyson sat at the edge of the couch with a mug of coffee, watching a PBS news show. Marcy was in the armchair with coffee and a buttered corn muffin. David, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a glass of orange juice, said, “Can we rent a VCR?”

  Tyson replied, “Not on my salary.”

  “Well, then, can we get one of the ones from home?”

  “No.”

  David grumbled something.

  Tyson glanced at his son. The boy was becoming surly.

  Perhaps he was just bored or maybe nervous about starting school.

  The news commentator said, “The House Judiciary Committee is meeting to discuss the Tyson case. Lieutenant Tyson’s attorney, Vincent Corva, stated that any such inquiry would only serve to further prejudice his client’s legal and civil rights since the case has not yet been tried. But the House appears to be responding to outside pressure. The agenda for the House Committee includes studying legislation that would clarify jurisdiction in such cases. The Justice Department in past cases has taken the position that an honorably discharged serviceman cannot be tried for a war crime committed prior to his discharge, either by court-martial or in a federal court. Tyson’s status as an ex-officer, however, made it possible to return him to active duty for the purpose of investigating charges against him stemming from this incident.”

  Tyson glanced again at David. The boy was reading a car magazine and seemed to have little interest in this. Bizarre, he thought. Adults give children too much credit. That, too, was a story of the sixties: adults seeking the wisdom of shallow adolescents.

  The PBS commentator continued, “In another development, Colonel Ambrose Horton, an instructor at the Judge Advocate General School at the University of Virginia and a respected jurist, has directed a memo to General William Van Arken, the Army’s Judge Advocate General. The contents of that memo have been revealed through an unidentified source. The memo reads in part: ‘As you know, General, under the Geneva Convention of which the United States is a signatory member, the United States is obligated to enact any legislation necessary to provide effective penal sanctions for persons committing grave breaches of the laws of war.’” The commentator continued, “Colonel Horton further points out that in the nearly four decades since the U.S. signed the Geneva Convention treaty, Congress has failed to enact such legislation though most other signatories have. His conclusion to General Van Arken is that the Army should not take it upon itself to selectively prosecute Lieutenant Tyson while not prosecuting other suspects over whom Congress has failed to establish federal or military jurisdiction. It would appear then that no one in Lieutenant Tyson’s platoon will be or can be charged with a crime. And so it is that at the Army hearing, one week from today, at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn, only one man will face indictment for that crime: Benjamin J. Tyson.”

  Tyson leaned forward and turned off the television. He didn’t know who Colonel Ambrose Horton was, but he knew that the man ought to put his retirement papers in if he hadn’t already done so.

  Tyson sipped on his coffee. He avoided news stories about himself. But when he did watch or listen, he tried to be objective to determine how he felt about this fellow Tyson. Generally the stories seemed to be slanted in his favor. The stuff about Marcy popped up once in a while, but even that seemed to be handled with more sympathy than sleaze recently.

  Marcy said, “Is that going to affect anything?”

  Tyson shrugged. “I don’t think it will for me.”

  Marcy nodded. “Sometimes it takes a landmark case to restructure justice in this country. Even the Civil Liberties Union is behind you on this. That’s comforting.”

  “To you perhaps.”

  David looked up from his magazine. “Dad, why is it if everybody’s on your side . . . I mean, all those people who are contributing money and coming out on your side and all—why is the Army going to court-martial you?”

  Tyson thought about that a moment. He replied, “Because I violated a trust, I broke my oath of office. So they want to . . . to set an example for other Army leaders, now and in the future.”

  “But it happened so long ago. Why can’t they just forget something that happened thirty years ago?”

  “Twenty.” Tyson had read a front-page story once in the Wall Street Journal about how unaware college and high school students were of the war. A professor reported that a senior asked him what napalm was. Another instructor claimed three-fourths of his students never heard of the Tet Offensive. Tyson said, “The Army has the memory of an elephant, and for the first time in our history, the Army failed in its mission, and they will discuss this defeat forever.” He drew a long breath. “Deep down inside, the Army wants a rematch. They would like to be sent again to Vietnam, to regain their lost honor—”

  Marcy interjected, “Oh, God, Ben, don’t even think that.”

  “It’s true, Marcy. I know it’s true.” He looked at David. “But until then, anytime something about Vietnam comes up, they are going to overreact to it.”

  David stayed silent, digesting this. He said, “But you didn’t kill anyone. You said you didn’t kill anyone. The other guys did it, didn’t they?” He looked at his father. “Didn’t they?”

  Tyson met his son’s eyes. He said, “If you were hanging around with a bunch of guys and they got really wild one day and beat up a bunch of younger kids—really beat them badly—and you saw all this but did nothing to stop it, and afterward didn’t tell your mother or the police—would you be as guilty as the rest of the guys? Less guilty? More guilty?”

  “More guilty,” David said softly. “If I couldn’t stop them, then I should have told on them.”

  “Would it make any difference if the guys were very sorry for what they did? I mean, if they didn’t brag about it but were ashamed of it?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so. They hurt people.” David stood. “I’m going out.”

  Marcy asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Out. I’m bored. This place is driving me nuts.”

  Tyson inquired, “Have you made any friends here?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go to Sag Harbor this weekend?”

  David hesitated a moment. “No. . . .”

  “Don’t you miss Melinda?”

  “Yes. But . . . if you guys can stick it out here . . . Dad, as long as you’re under arrest I’m staying here.”

  “You’re not under arrest.” He turned to Marcy. “Look, why don’t you and David drive out east today? You can find a place to stay. I have a lot of work to do with Vince.”

  Marcy shook her head. “We made this decision already, Ben. I’m staying here until this is finished. Anyway, the damned media comments on every move we make. If I go out to the beach, the American Investigator will say something like . . . Marcy enjoys the sun while Ben stews under house arrest.”

  Tyson replied, “Okay. That’s your decision. I was looking forward to not having to wait to use the bathroom.” He smiled. “But you’ll notice the Investigator has not been too hard on us recently.”

  “I noticed that. And Wally Jones’s byline is completely gone. Why is that?”

  Tyson looked at David, who was hovering impatiently by the door. Tyson said, “David, you have stuff in my gym locker, right? I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

  “Okay.” David left.

  Tyson turned to Marcy. “I’ve gotten into incredible shape. It’s my mind that’s shot now.”

  “Sound mind, sound body—take your pick. So why do you think the Investigator dropped us?”

  Tyson poured himself more coffee from a carafe. “Well . . . perhaps having reached new lows of journalistic
depravity, they couldn’t follow their own act. Especially with Major Harper out of the picture.” Tyson added, “Also, I beat the shit out of Wally Jones.” He stirred his coffee.

  She laughed. “I bet you’d like to. By the way, I didn’t think you handled David’s questions very well.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s just that you press him too hard.”

  Tyson lit a cigarette. He could see this was going to be a bad day. The strain of this confinement and inactivity, coupled with uncertainty, was beginning to tell on Marcy and David. He rifled through some envelopes on the coffee table.

  Marcy said, “The mortgage payment is late and there’s a notice there from the village saying they’re going to list the house for a tax sale unless we pay up.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You see? The Tysons have paid taxes in that fucking village since year one, but miss one goddamned payment—you see what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “I mean, damn it, that it doesn’t matter how you’ve lived your life, brought up your kids, paid your stinking bills for twenty years. You miss a few payments, and you go to the top of the shit list. You’re a nobody. A deadbeat.”

  “Yes, that’s what I keep saying about my situation. Just one lousy massacre, and everybody gets on your case.”

  “Poor analogy.”

  “Anyway, take heart. I heard from Phil Sloan yesterday that our bank is suspending our mortgage payments and paying all property taxes for us. It’s a loan of sorts which we will eventually have to repay.”

  Marcy looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Now, isn’t that a nice bank? Doesn’t it restore your faith in humanity?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “Well, don’t be too reassured. Near as I can figure it, someone went to the bank and twisted their nuts.”

  “Who?”

  “Who cares? A guardian angel, I think. A G-man. Someone from this shady cabal that has been reading our mail and dogging our every movement. The point is, even if we wanted to commit economic suicide, declare bankruptcy, and all that, we couldn’t. The Army doesn’t want that in the news before the trial. What if, God forbid, I’m innocent, and they’ve ruined me? Well, this is an enviable position in which most Americans will never find themselves.”