Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Pierce let that sink in a few moments, then said, “Mr. Farley, in your own words, please tell what happened as you reached the village of An Ninh Ha. Spare no details, no matter how unimportant they may seem to you.”

  “Okay.” Farley began a long disjointed narrative. He seemed confused and unsure, but Pierce never once interrupted, though he prodded often with “Go on” and “What happened next?” Tyson thought Pierce was quite clever to let an inarticulate witness tell it his own way.

  As Farley began relating his story of the massacre, Tyson glanced around the court and looked into the pews. People were actually bent forward, listening with the sort of rapt attention that no minister, rabbi, or priest was ever able to elicit in this place.

  Farley stumbled through it, groped for words, forgot names, contradicted himself a dozen times, showed no remorse, and even inadvertently made points for the defense. But the overall effect of this, the first testimony, was damaging. More than that, Tyson thought, when Farley finished, there probably wasn’t a person in the chapel who didn’t conclude that the first platoon of Alpha Company massacred an entire hospital full of people.

  An hour and fifteen minutes after he began, Farley said, “By dawn, we all got it straight. Then one of the guys—I think it was Louis Kalane—made everyone put their hands in a circle . . . you know . . . we put our hands in the middle and swore we would all stick up for each other. They were good guys like that. We always stuck up for each other.” Farley wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand.

  Pierce looked at his witness, torn between inquiring about his present mental and physical state and inquiring about more important matters at hand. Finally Pierce said, “And did the accused join hands with you and the others and swear to cover up the facts of the massacre?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s the one who straightened our story out. He had a lot on the ball.”

  “Really?” Pierce allowed himself a smile. Feeling good, he asked, “Do you want a drink of water?”

  Farley’s mind was not yet in the present, and his brows knit in concentration at the question.

  Pierce said, “Do you want to take a rest?”

  Farley nodded.

  Pierce said to Sproule, “Your honor, we don’t need a formal recess. Perhaps five minutes right in place.”

  Sproule replied, “Take what you need.”

  Pierce motioned to Captain Longo, who brought Farley a glass of water.

  Corva leaned toward Tyson. “Do you have an explanation for the incident at the burial mound?”

  Tyson thought Corva’s tone was a bit sharp. He replied, “Yes. Vietnam.”

  “That won’t do. Did you order those peasants to be shot?”

  “Yes.”

  Corva unconsciously drew away from him.

  Tyson said, “Look, Vince, I’ll tell you what happened, then you can decide if you’re defending a monster or not. Okay?”

  Corva nodded. “Tell me before I cross-examine him.” He added, “I’m . . . I’m sure there’s an explanation. You see what Pierce is doing?”

  “Yes. Suggesting that I was prone to ordering massacres that day.” Tyson thought a moment, then said, “Farley is believable, isn’t he?”

  Corva replied, “Inarticulate witnesses frighten me. But on the cross, they always fall apart. I’ll take Mr. Farley apart piece by piece.”

  Tyson looked at Farley. “I’m not enjoying that man’s discomfort.”

  “Don’t worry about him. He might put you in jail.” Corva said, “If I had to assign a motive to him, I’d say that Brandt has some sort of hold on the wretch. Maybe drugs. But I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

  Tyson replied, “I remembered something after you asked me about motive. I never knew too much about the interpersonal relationships of my platoon—an officer doesn’t. But I do recall now that Farley and Cane were best buddies. Funny thing was that after the incident, I never put two and two together. But now it’s making sense. Yet Farley never said a word to me afterward. Probably brooded about it, then forgot it. Then perhaps Brandt put the bug in his ear again. Farley looks and sounds like a guy who hasn’t had a close friend since the day the shrapnel severed his spine. He may romanticize the past, though God knows there’s not a thing to romanticize.”

  “There is if you were able to walk on your own two legs in the past.” Corva thought awhile then said, “We’ll keep this motive in mind. Meanwhile, I want enough information from you during the lunch recess to completely demolish him. I want him so demolished that Pierce will not call him back on a redirect exam to try to, as they say, rehabilitate the witness. Capice?”

  “Right.”

  Pierce said to Colonel Sproule, “I think we’re ready, your honor.” Pierce turned to Farley. “Mr. Farley, you stated that you were in the operating room of this hospital when Lieutenant Tyson got into an argument with a French-speaking Caucasian whom you took to be a doctor. The argument concerned the doctor’s apparent refusal to treat one of your wounded, Arthur Peterson. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you personally observed Lieutenant Tyson strike this doctor in the face?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you stated that you then struck the doctor with your rifle.”

  Farley hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you strike the doctor with your rifle?”

  “I . . . thought maybe he was going to swing at Lieutenant Tyson. The lieutenant didn’t put him out, only pissed him off. So I hit the guy with my rifle.”

  “Where did you hit him?”

  “In the stomach.”

  “With your M-16 rifle? You were carrying an M-16?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s real light. It has a plastic stock. I only gave the guy a tap really. Doubled him up a little.”

  “Did you knock him down?”

  “No, sir. He was on his feet and chattering again a few minutes later.”

  “You thought Lieutenant Tyson might be assaulted by this man.”

  “Yes, sir. The guy was really hot. So I cooled him down a little.” Farley seemed to be remembering a time when he could do such a thing.

  Pierce asked, “Did you think it was wrong to hit this man with your rifle?”

  “You should never have to hit anybody without a reason. But I figured there was a good reason, because the lieutenant belted him first.”

  Pierce nodded, then said to Farley slowly and distinctly, “After this incident, you say that Lieutenant Tyson ordered Hernando Beltran to pull a patient off one of the operating tables—there were six or so in this large operating theater—and put Arthur Peterson on it.”

  “Yes, sir. The lieutenant was looking out for his man, but this led to a big argument with the other doctors there. Then this one doctor who spoke English goes after one of our guys, and the guy just reacted and pulled the trigger, and this doctor goes down.”

  “Did Lieutenant Tyson say or do anything at that point?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He didn’t say anything to the man who shot the English-speaking doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, you say someone shot the French-speaking doctor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you don’t remember who shot these doctors, except that you think it was the same man?”

  Farley licked his lips. “Well . . . I hate to say a guy shot someone if he didn’t, but I think it was Simcox.”

  “Harold Simcox.”

  Corva stood. “If it please the court, I would like the record to show that Harold Simcox is deceased and can obviously not defend himself against this allegation.”

  Colonel Sproule said, “Let the record reflect this. Continue, Colonel Pierce.”

  “Why do you think the man who shot the first doctor then shot the second?”

  “Don’t know. The first one sort of had it coming. The second one was the French guy who wouldn’t help Peterson.”

  “The doctor whom Lieutenant Tyson
struck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did Lieutenant Tyson do or say upon the shooting of the second doctor?”

  “Nothing.”

  Pierce asked, “Did he approve? Did he say ‘Stop that’? Did he make any statement?”

  “No, sir. He didn’t seem to care. You see, Brandt had yelled out that Peterson was dead. And I don’t think Lieutenant Tyson cared about the doctors anymore. I think he was very angry.”

  “You stated that Lieutenant Tyson at some point gave an order—a direct order—to locate the wounded and sick enemy soldiers in the hospital and shoot them. He said, ‘Waste them.’”

  Farley’s lips curled up in a smile that looked almost wistful. “Yes, sir. That’s what we used to say. Waste them.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Kill them.”

  “Lieutenant Tyson said to waste enemy soldiers who were in the hospital for wounds and sickness.”

  “Yes, sir. So a bunch of guys went out and did it.”

  “Did you see this?”

  “No, sir. I was still in the operating room. Well, I saw two of them get wasted. Somebody drew a forty-five and found two NVA on the tables there—one was really on the floor where Beltran put him—and this guy shot the two NVA in the head.”

  “Did Lieutenant Tyson observe this?”

  “Sure. He was right there.”

  “Did he say anything? Do anything?”

  “No, sir. He just stood there most of the time.”

  “You stated earlier that there was no resistance, armed or otherwise, inside the hospital.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What, then, in your opinion, led to the shooting of other patients who were not enemy sick or wounded? And to the shooting of other staff members after the initial two doctors were shot? In other words, Mr. Farley, how did the general massacre that you described begin?”

  Farley replied, “Everybody just got carried away. They found seven or eight NVA in the beds and shot them. Then some people—nurses and doctors—started to run, and the guys started shooting at them. Then one thing led to another. I don’t know. I never moved from the operating room. All I saw was what happened there.”

  “Did you yourself fire at anyone in the hospital?”

  Farley licked his lips. Then he said, “A couple shots . . . but only the people who were trying to get away.”

  “After the men began shooting other patients and staff, after they’d gone beyond Lieutenant Tyson’s orders to shoot wounded and sick enemy soldiers, did Lieutenant Tyson do anything to stop them at this point?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Were you near him most of this time?”

  “Yes, sir. We mostly stayed in the operating room. I did leave there once for a few minutes. After all the shooting stopped, and when I came back, he was gone. I didn’t see him again until outside. The guys had surrounded the building now. I told you some of the guys had thrown white phosphorus grenades and the place was burning. So we all went outside. Some people inside tried to get out, but the guys shot them. Lieutenant Tyson waited until the roof caved in, then ordered us to move out. Then we got to a bunker near Hue, and we put up for the night. Lieutenant Tyson called Captain Browder a few times and told Browder we’d gotten into a fight. Well, there was the sniper who killed Peterson and wounded Moody, so that was a fight. Lieutenant Tyson came up with a body count of ten or twelve, I think.”

  “And Cane had been killed by the sniper, too,” Pierce reminded him.

  “Right. I think that’s what caused the whole thing. This sniper firing at us from the hospital. Everybody was hot. So when we got in there, we went a little crazy. I mean, here’s these NVA soldiers and all, laying in beds, and these doctors—white guys—saying they can’t help us, sorry about that. So, sure, we got hot. And I want to say I don’t really blame the lieutenant for saying ‘Waste the gooks.’ But I think a lot of guys didn’t understand the order.”

  “The order to shoot North Vietnamese Army personnel who were patients in the hospital.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Lieutenant Tyson do anything to clarify his order?”

  “No, sir. But I don’t think he wanted all them other people killed. But once it started, he sort of got scared and just let it unroll. It was sort of payback time anyway.”

  “Payback time?”

  “Yes, sir. What we used to call payback. Like getting even. Everything had to have a payback. Like once—before Lieutenant Tyson took over the platoon—we lost some guys in a mine field outside of Quang Tri. So we rounded up the gooks from the closest village and made them walk through the mine field ahead of us. That’s payback. But that’s another story.”

  Pierce turned away and raised his eyebrows, affecting a look to show everyone that Farley might be his witness, but he wasn’t his good friend. Pierce cleared his throat and said, “So this was payback for the sniper?”

  “Yeah, the sniper. And for the mortar fire the night before. And for Phu Lai. And for everything. And because we were going to Hue. And because the people in that hospital treated us like shit. Excuse me.”

  “And that’s why Lieutenant Tyson ordered the NVA soldiers killed and didn’t stop anyone who went beyond his orders,” said Pierce, trying to bring the subject around again.

  “Yes, sir. That’s why.”

  “And that’s why Lieutenant Tyson fabricated a cover-up story.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Payback.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you. Your honor, I have no further questions, but I reserve the right to recall the witness.”

  Colonel Sproule looked at Corva. “Does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?”

  Corva stood. “Yes, your honor, but as it is approaching the lunch hour, may I recommend we recess at this time?”

  Sproule replied, “I would not want to keep you from your lunch, Mr. Corva. May I take a minute to instruct the witness?”

  A few people laughed, including Pierce, Weinroth, and Longo. The board, caught unawares by the sudden humor, smiled.

  Corva smiled good-naturedly, but replied somewhat tersely, “Your honor, I’m quite prepared to forgo my lunch in the interests of justice. If the witness, who appears somewhat befuddled, is able to continue, I will begin my cross-examination this very moment.”

  Colonel Sproule regarded Corva closely for a few seconds, then said, “We will recess for lunch, Mr. Corva.” Sproule looked down at Farley and said, “Mr. Farley, thank you for testifying. You are excused temporarily. As long as this trial continues, do not discuss your testimony or knowledge of this case with anyone except the counsel who are now present or the accused. You will not allow any witness in this case to talk to you about the testimony he or she has given or intends to give. If anyone other than counsel or the accused attempts to talk to you about your testimony in this case, inform Colonel Pierce, Major Weinroth, or Captain Longo. Do you understand the instructions, Mr. Farley?”

  Clearly Farley didn’t but he was already reaching for the power switch on his wheelchair. “Yes, sir.”

  Sproule said, “The witness is excused, subject to recall.”

  Farley’s chair made an electrical whirring sound as it moved forward. Pierce had to step aside as Farley swung around and made his way past the board table toward the side exit.

  Sproule waited until he was through the door, then said, “The court will recess until fourteen hundred hours.”

  Tyson and Corva stood, and Corva collected his papers.

  Tyson said, “This is depressing.”

  “No one said it would be uplifting. Where do you want lunch?”

  “Paris.”

  * * *

  The MP car dropped them off at the bachelor officers’ quarters located in the north section of the post. Tyson recognized the modern three-story redbrick structure. “Does this place swing?”

  “Actually, it does. I worked late here one night, and all I heard were stereos and gig
gling women.”

  They entered a plain vestibule and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Corva opened a door marked “3F” and showed Tyson into a good-sized living room/dining room area, furnished in passable Swedish Modern. The reddish carpeting looked like basement rec room quality, and there was nothing on the walls but notes, Corva’s notes, taped all around the dining area. Tyson said, “I’ll take it.”

  Corva showed him to a round blond-wood table on which were heaped books, yellow pads, and reams of typed material. On the floor were stacks of newspapers, more books, and cartons of files. Tyson said, “I thought you worked out of your hat.”

  “They gave me this as an accommodation. This is where we will conduct our sessions from now on. I told the post commander we could not prepare a proper defense if we had to work in your quarters with your wife and son there. So, you are authorized to come directly here anytime I call you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And if things get a little tense at home, call me at my office or home and I’ll come here, and we’ll meet and cool out awhile.”

  “Thanks.”

  Corva went to a small refrigerator and came back with two beers and two wrapped sandwiches. Corva sat on the far side of the table. Tyson popped the top on his beer and unwrapped his sandwich.

  Corva bit into his sandwich and said as he chewed, “Payback.”

  Tyson nodded. “Did you call it that?”

  “I guess. I don’t think we institutionalized it, but I remember the philosophy.”

  Tyson sipped on his beer. “I guess it was payback. What did the Nazis call it? Reprisals.”

  “Right. Reprisals are outlawed under the same Rules of Land Warfare that Pierce was going on about. I’m glad war has rules. Can you imagine how dangerous it would be without them?”

  Tyson lit a cigarette and said, “The one thing Farley seemed to grasp in his befuddled mind was the fact that the people in that hospital didn’t like us. And in fact did not treat us as well as they undoubtedly treated the enemy who’d been there before us. I don’t know if they were enemy sympathizers or if they just feared the enemy more than us. But they didn’t fear us. Which I guess was good. Our reputation was not that bad. But this show of contempt on their part . . . they didn’t understand we were itching to pay back for what we got in the past few weeks.” He looked at Corva. “Sounds like self-justification, doesn’t it?”