Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Tyson said nothing.

  Corva went on, “That was quick work. Of course they knew all along where these men were. But the Justice Department wanted to see if you were going to be charged before they told you that.”

  Tyson said, “I never really understood why they weren’t found sooner.”

  “And the government never released the names of the men in your platoon because if they had, people who knew these men would have blown the whistle to the media.”

  Tyson nodded thoughtfully. “But you know, Karen Harper wanted me to make a public appeal for them to come forward.”

  “Karen Harper was operating in a vacuum. For every hour she put in on the investigation, there were bureaucrats, JAG people, Justice Department lawyers, and FBI agents who were putting in hundreds of hours. She was the visible tip of an iceberg she didn’t even know was attached to her. I think she knows that now. Doesn’t matter though. Point is, she was asked to contact Beltran, Walker, and Kalane by telephone. And she did.”

  Tyson stood and walked to the window. He stared out at the headlights of the traffic crossing the bridge.

  Corva said, “Harper reports that she spoke to each of the three men briefly by phone. Beltran and Kalane put her in touch with their respective attorneys. Walker did not have a lawyer. He is a mechanic, someplace outside of Macon, Georgia. Anyway, the attorneys for Beltran and Kalane indicated that their clients would not make any statements unless they were subpoenaed. Beltran is a successful Miami businessman. Kalane is involved somehow in the tourist business in Honolulu. Harper asked these two attorneys if their clients’ prospective testimony would characterize them as witnesses for the defense or the prosecution.”

  Tyson lit a cigarette and continued to stare out the window.

  Corva said, “Harper informs me that they are your witnesses.”

  Tyson exhaled a stream of smoke.

  “So,” observed Corva, “it seems you engender some sort of loyalty in your troops, Lieutenant Tyson.”

  Tyson said, “They kept the faith, Vince.”

  “So they did. I’ll tell you something though. If I had been the attorney for either of them, I would have advised them to jump on the government side.”

  Tyson turned from the window. “Why?”

  “Well, they will never be charged with murder even if they get on a witness stand and give a blow-by-blow account of a massacre. On the other hand, if they tell the altered version of the hospital incident but you are convicted anyway, they may then be liable for charges of perjury.”

  Tyson said, “I’m sure their attorneys advised them of that.”

  “I’m certain they did. Yet they want to stand up for you, Ben. I’m deeply touched. But not too deeply.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, meaning that if this case had come to trial in 1968 or anytime before these men had been honorably discharged, then they would have been charged with the actual murder. Also, whether or not they are immune from prosecution, they are still not going to stand up in a public trial and admit to mass murder. I’d like to think they are going to stand up for you totally out of loyalty, but they have other motives as well.”

  “Perhaps, Vince. Perhaps. But it’s not up to us to judge their motives.”

  Corva stood. “Do you have any loyalty to them?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Would you protect their reputations on a witness stand?”

  “I suppose I would. But I do feel ambivalent toward them. They did something for which I’m now left holding the charge sheet, as you pointed out.”

  “That’s your fault, Ben. I can see why you didn’t prefer charges immediately. But afterward . . . when you were safely on that hospital ship and had time to think—what was that if not loyalty?”

  “I suppose I felt loyal. The Army ingrains in you the concept of loyalty between an officer and his men. But when something like this happens, that loyalty can cause a miscarriage of justice.”

  “I know that.”

  Tyson went on, “When I was wounded, they all said good-bye. And they were truly sorry to see me go. A small thing, but it loomed large while I was lying on the hospital ship, a writing pad in my hand, wondering if I should write a love letter to my girlfriend or a memo to the battalion commander.”

  “I understand.” Corva poured two more glasses of strega and handed one to Tyson. Corva said, “What I meant by my question about loyalty is this: If you are convicted, it is essential that you take the stand and offer true testimony in extenuation and mitigation before the board votes on a sentence. True testimony—as much as any war story can be true—would obviously be very damning toward Messrs. Sadowski, Scorello, Beltran, Walker, and Kalane. And it might leave them all open to perjury charges, which the Justice Department might well pursue in a federal court. And perjury is a very bad rap.” He looked at Tyson.

  “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?” He put down his drink. “Tell me about Lee Walker.”

  “Oh, yes.” Corva took a sheet of paper from the coffee table and perused it. He said, “Karen—Major Harper reports that Mr. Walker’s initial statements to her led her to believe he was a witness for the defense.”

  Tyson nodded. Somehow he’d had no anxieties about Walker’s testimony.

  Corva continued, “Unlike when she questioned you, Sadowski, and Scorello, she was obligated to end the interview with Walker as soon as she determined that he was a witness for the defense, because you have now had charges preferred against you, and you have an attorney. So, Major Harper turned Mr. Walker over to me. I spoke to him by telephone. What do you remember about him?”

  Tyson finished his drink and noticed the bottle was nearly empty. He put his glass down and lit another cigarette. “I don’t know . . . a simple man. Honest. Kept out of trouble. Rural southern black. You know the type.”

  Corva said, “He was a little jumpy. Kept saying you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Put him on the stand.”

  Corva smiled. “Well, that is the question. Who of the five do we put on the stand?”

  “All of them.”

  “No, I told you why we can’t do that. It would sound like they were all reading from the same TelePrompTer. What I have to decide is not only who will do the best acting, but who will stand up under cross-examination. That is very important.”

  Tyson observed, “You haven’t gone to see Sadowksi or Scorello yet.”

  “No, I have not.”

  Tyson said with a touch of sarcasm, “I’ve heard of armchair detectives. Now I’ve met an armchair lawyer.”

  Corva looked at him awhile. “There is such a thing as overpreparing for a case. I’ve seen that.”

  Tyson laughed despite himself. “Okay, you’re the lawyer.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Corva. “Anyway, in conclusion, Major Harper also advised me that neither Daniel Kelly nor Michael DeTonq has been located. Nor has Sister Teresa.”

  Tyson nodded. The blinds rattled as a breeze blew in off the water. Tyson spoke musingly. “It’s cooling off. It was a hot summer. Summers are sort of memory markers of the mind. I’ll remember this summer for quite some time. I recall the summer of 1966, before I reported for duty. I was out of college, and I took the entire summer off. It was one of those perfect times in one’s life: no obligations, no pressures, a sense of accomplishment at having graduated, and the prospect of a new adventure in front of me.” He looked at Corva. “At times like these, it’s normal to return to the past. But not particularly healthy, is it?”

  “It’s all right. If there is a refuge in the mind, Ben, hide out there awhile.”

  Tyson sat again and poured the remainder of the liqueur into his glass.

  Corva shuffled through his papers. He said, “I was impressed with her.” He looked at Tyson. “You were too. And she was impressed with you.”

  “Maybe if she gets out of the Army before my court-martial, I’ll fire you and hire her.”

  Corva finishe
d his drink. “Well, she won’t get out of the Army while this is going on. They want her where they can keep an eye on her.”

  Tyson went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of port. “Real Portuguese stuff. Thirty-five bucks a bottle. Float a little of this on top of the strega.” He filled Corva’s glass to the brim, then filled his own. They both drank the port, then drank another. Corva mumbled something about having to drive. He suppressed a belch, then said, “Also, Harper would not take the job of defending you, Lieutenant—”

  “Cut the Lieutenant shit.”

  “Because she believes you are guilty.”

  Tyson slumped into the armchair and poured himself another. “How about you?”

  “I would not have taken this case if I did not totally believe you should not pay for what happened there. I was there, buddy, and I would not want to pay again.”

  “You didn’t say you thought I was innocent.”

  Corva shook his head several times. “Of course I didn’t say that. I think you are guilty. I only said you should not have to pay.”

  Tyson leaned forward and stared at Corva. “You said you would not want to pay again. Are you indictable? What did you do over there?”

  Corva stood but did not move from his spot. He swayed slightly, and his eyes seemed to be focused on something a long way off. At length he said, “Pretty much what you did, Ben. Looked the other way. Oh, it wasn’t as grand as a massacre . . . but it was more than one incident.”

  “Tell me,” prompted Tyson out of a perverse curiosity. “Picard told me. You tell me.”

  “Fuck Picard.” Corva seemed to forget what it was he was going to say, then blurted, “My machine gunner mowed down three enemy soldiers who approached us under a white flag. I was sick for a week over that. Three kids who’d had enough and wanted to surrender. He cut them down like they were nothing . . . nothing.” He glanced at Tyson. “I had a sharpshooter, Ben, with one of those fancy hunting rifles and high-powered scopes . . . he used to like to check the rifle’s aim by shooting peasants running through the fields to get to their villages before curfew. He said his watch was fast. Get it? His watch was fast. He did it three times before I put a stop to it. Another time, we approached a village bomb shelter where a few villagers had taken cover, and—”

  “All right!” Tyson stood. “All right, Vince. Enough. For God’s sake, enough.”

  Both men stood in silence for some time. Then Corva walked over to Tyson and, to Tyson’s utter amazement, embraced him.

  Tyson stiffened, not knowing what to do. He hadn’t been embraced by a man or embraced a man since . . . Vietnam. He moved his arms awkwardly and patted Corva on the back.

  Corva stepped back. “Sorry . . . you know how Italians are.”

  Tyson cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s all right. I was getting . . . emotional too.”

  Corva took a deep breath. “And those were only the offenses that are indictable today—the murders. There were other things—the beatings, the sexual . . . well, you know.” He looked at Tyson. “Why did I let him do it three times before I put a stop to it, Ben? Why?”

  Tyson replied, “Because you didn’t believe what you were seeing the first two times.”

  Corva nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, that was it. I guess. . . .”

  Tyson rubbed his face and said wearily, “Is that about it? I mean, are we finished here?”

  Corva began packing his briefcase. He said, “This is Monday night . . . the Article 32 hearing convenes Friday morning. I guess we ought to talk about that next time. See what we can do about not getting you indicted.”

  Tyson said, “I might be a free man by Friday afternoon.”

  Corva nodded. “Might be.”

  “And they will probably release me from duty the following week.”

  “Probably.”

  “Except none of that is going to happen, is it?”

  “Probably not.”

  Tyson could see that Corva was both upset and drunk and had become taciturn.

  Corva picked up his briefcase and walked to the door. He said, “I tried to get you a pass to meet me in the city tomorrow. But I think Colonel Hill thinks if you skip out, his career will be over. And he’s right.”

  “I’m not running.”

  “I know that. But they don’t know you. So I’ll be here tomorrow, sometime before noon. Will you be here?”

  Tyson forced a smile. “Call my secretary, and she’ll give you my schedule for the morning.”

  “Right.” Corva opened the door and drew in a long breath. He looked back at Tyson. “I broke my rule. About war stories. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Won’t happen again.” He stepped onto the stoop. “Kiss your wife good-bye when she leaves for work tomorrow. Kiss your son too.”

  “Can you drive?”

  “No. I’ll take a cab.” Corva walked unsteadily down the path.

  Tyson watched him turn toward the main gate. He said softly to himself, “God, do we all have blood on our hands? Did anyone return from that place with his honor intact?”

  Corva, he thought, like so many of them, had seemed to come through it without a scratch until you looked inside his head.

  CHAPTER

  38

  The rain beat heavily against the windows. Tyson threw the morning newspaper aside and turned on the television, then shut it off. He poured himself another coffee but did not drink it, then lit another cigarette and stubbed it out. “Damn it!”

  He stared at the broken windowpane and smelled the damp cool air that blew in. He paced the length of the living room: five paces, turned around, five paces. He dropped to the floor and did thirty push-ups. He stood and wiped his face with the sleeve of his gray sweat suit. The sweat suit was grimy, and he wondered if he was allowed to go to the post Laundromat, or if he had to send his son after school or his wife after work.

  His eyes focused on a bud vase atop the TV in which was a single yellow tea rose. Somehow the idea of that flower in this dismal place offended him. Marcy’s efforts to make the place a home angered him. He picked up the vase and went to the front door as the door bell rang. He stood motionless, resisting the urge to answer it quickly. It was probably Corva, and he could stand in the rain awhile. Good for his character. The door bell rang again. Tyson waited a full minute, then opened the door.

  Vincent Corva hurried in and closed his umbrella. He looked at the vase and tea rose in Tyson’s hands. “For me?”

  Tyson opened the door again and threw the bud vase out on the lawn.

  Corva said, “Hell of a day for the first day of school. I had to march my kids to the bus at gunpoint.” He took off his black raincoat. “Reminds me of a monsoon I once walked in for two months. Did you have the monsoon up north?”

  “I don’t remember.” Tyson took Corva’s raincoat and hung it in the minuscule coat closet.

  Corva observed, “Everything is small here. This place is so small you have to go outside to change your mind.” Corva moved into the living room.

  Tyson looked at his watch. “It’s noon. What kept you?”

  Corva put his briefcase on the coffee table. “Traffic. I said before noon.”

  “It’s after noon. Five after.”

  “Your secretary said for lunch.” He looked at Tyson. “Are you stir crazy?”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  Corva opened his briefcase and took out a brown paper bag. “My wife made sandwiches. Italian cold cuts, provolone, and caponata. I want you to taste this.”

  “I’m not hungry. I’m bored. I can’t even take a walk in this fucking weather.”

  “Well, you have to walk to post headquarters to sign in. That’s a nice break in the day.” Corva began unwrapping the sandwiches.

  “Fuck post headquarters. I haven’t signed in for three days.”

  Corva looked at him. “Hey, don’t break the rules of your arrest, Ben, or they will put you in confinement. That means the slammer. All they need is an excu
se.”

  “At least there are people to talk to in jail.”

  Corva shrugged. He spotted the coffee carafe and a clean mug on the end table. He poured himself some coffee. “I want you to sign in after we are done here.”

  “Fuck them. They’re not going to throw me in the slammer, and you know it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re worried about their image, that’s why.”

  Corva put cream in his coffee. “I wouldn’t count on that.” He added, “And if you wind up at the Fort Dix stockade, I damn sure don’t want to drive down there to see you. And that place is grim, buddy. Also, it’s in New Jersey, and you wouldn’t be caught dead in New Jersey.” He smiled.

  Tyson didn’t acknowledge the humor.

  Corva sat in the armchair and opened his briefcase. “Did you kiss Marcy and David this morning?”

  “No.” He lit a cigarette. “No one was in a kissing mood. David was sulky. Marcy was trying to contain her exaltation at going back to the office. She almost floated out of here. Also, I slept on the couch. It sucks, Vince.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “What am I supposed to do when she goes on a business trip? It will only be David and I here. And I can’t even take the kid anyplace.” He picked up his metal ashtray, filled with cigarette butts, and heaved it at the opposite wall.

  Corva pretended not to notice as he rifled through his papers.

  Tyson sat down on the far end of the couch. He said, “I told them to stay in Sag Harbor, then go home to Garden City. But, no, they wanted to share my martyrdom and mortification. Now they’re as screwed up as I am.”

  Corva picked up a piece of paper and said absently, “Sorry about last night.”

  “Oh . . . tell you the truth, I was so drunk, I don’t remember much.”

  Corva nodded. “My wife was pissed off because she wanted the car today. I had to promise to stay sober and drive it home.”

  “Don’t let her push you around. You fought a war.”

  “I don’t think anybody gives a shit, Ben.”