Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Tyson and Corva conversed on various irrelevant topics. No subject seemed appropriate, and each short foray into idle chatter inevitably led to something they didn’t care to pursue. After an hour and a half, Corva opened the door and asked the MP to bring them newspapers and magazines. He said to Tyson, “I’ll ask you one more time—you’re authorized to go back to your quarters—do you want to go?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go to the club for lunch?”

  “No. I’m not particularly hungry. You can have something brought in.”

  “Are you feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “No. I’m feeling sorry for you. And for my family.”

  “Can I send an MP to bring your wife here?”

  “No.”

  “Your son?”

  “No. And not my mother or my sisters or my minister or anyone.” Tyson’s voice rose. “Why can’t you understand that I cannot face anyone now? Why can’t you understand that if I see anyone . . . I don’t want anyone to see me in my present condition. . . . Can’t a man suffer alone, in dignity, anymore?” He pointed to Corva. “Would you want your family around you?”

  Corva replied in a soothing tone, “I might, Ben. I might want their support—”

  “Oh, fuck support. That’s an idiotic word.”

  Corva drew a deep, patient breath. “I just wanted to make sure you understand that this may be the last time . . . for some time . . . that you can speak to them without . . . guards present. . . .”

  Tyson paced across the small office. At length he said in a calmer tone, “I don’t mean to take this out on you. You just happen to be here. So leave.”

  “No, sir. My personal policy is to stay with the accused.”

  Tyson stopped pacing and turned to Corva. “Well? Take a guess. As long as you’re here, entertain me. Take a guess.”

  Corva said evenly, “Within the narrow confines of the charges and from a legal point of view, the government proved its case.”

  Tyson said, “So what is taking them so long? They’re officers. Why can’t they make up their minds?”

  “Because the defense proved other things. Things that went beyond what they’d expected to hear.” He looked at Tyson. “I’m not upset with you for holding some of this back. I asked you to. I wanted it revealed spontaneously, in its own time. And the board listened, and their impassive faces betrayed their emotions. They are human; therefore, they are now questioning themselves.”

  Tyson didn’t respond.

  Corva said, “Right now, one or two of them are making arguments to try to influence a second or third member to say, ‘The hell with the law.’ That can be the only reason for any delay.”

  “Will it happen? Will three of them say, ‘The hell with the law’?”

  Corva glanced at Tyson, then looked off at the rabbi’s bulletin board. He said, “If they say the hell with the law, then they are saying the hell with the Army. They are part of the system, the embodiment of the Code. They are sworn officers. They have more of a vested interest in this system than any civilian juror has in the civilian judicial system. What would you do in their place? How do you vote?”

  Tyson thought a moment, then replied, “I vote guilty.”

  “Me too.”

  “So what is taking so long?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I told you . . . they are having some problems getting to the vote. Colonel Moore is not calling for the vote because one or two of them is sticking his or her neck out and making a pitch for you. Maybe Moore is making the pitch himself. Maybe Davis is on your side, too. Maybe Sindel is the one pushing for a quick guilty vote. Maybe Laski would have been the third person we needed on your side. I don’t know. Nobody knows . . . juries never fail to surprise me.”

  “Even military juries?”

  “Even them sometimes.”

  “You’d be damned surprised if you won this case.”

  Corva began to smile, but the sound of footsteps in the corridor brought him to his feet. There was a knock on the door, and an MP opened it, carrying a stack of newspapers and magazines. He said, “Got next month’s Playboy, too. Get you anything else, Mr. Corva?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The MP left. Tyson and Corva read desultorily. At half past noon, there were again footsteps outside the door. They stopped. There was a knock, and the door opened. Sergeant Larson said, “Can I take your lunch order? Or are you going out?”

  Corva replied, “Have sandwiches and coffee sent, Sergeant. Surprise us. But no white bread and no mayo.”

  They waited a half hour, and Tyson commented, “It usually takes fifteen minutes to get sandwiches from the mess hall. Maybe they’ve reached a verdict.”

  “We’d still get the lunch before we were called. Try to relax.”

  “I’m relaxed. I’m bored.”

  Again there were footsteps, a knock, and the door opened. Sergeant Larson entered with a cardboard box which he set down on the desk. Tyson saw it was crammed with sandwiches, salads, and desserts. Larson said, “My wife. She’s been insisting,” he added with some embarrassment. “Hope it’s okay.”

  Corva said, “Tell her we appreciate it.”

  Tyson took a wrapped sandwich, though he didn’t want one. “That was thoughtful of her, Sergeant.”

  Larson smiled and left.

  Corva found a chicken cutlet sandwich on rye bread and bit into it. He said, “As I told you once, and as you see and hear every day, you are not guilty in the public mind.”

  “I never thought much of American public opinion and judgment before. I’m a snob and an elitist. I don’t deserve to take comfort in what they think now.”

  Corva found a can of cola and popped it open. “You have a good grasp of who you are and the world you live in. Unfortunately, who you are and the world you live in don’t get along.”

  Tyson discovered two beers in the cardboard box and drank both of them without offering one to Corva.

  Corva ate with no apparent loss of appetite.

  Tyson went to the men’s room under escort. Corva went on his own. The afternoon played itself out in boredom and anxiety. The sunlight was beginning to fail, and a wind came up off the water, scattering the red and gold leaves over the lawns and sidewalks, and rustling them against the side of the building. Tyson went to the window and noticed that the crowd had thinned and those who had not gone back in the chapel were huddled against the chill wind. Tyson said, more to himself than Corva, “Last autumn I raked the leaves and threw around the football with my son. I split logs and built fires in my fireplace. We went to a farm out east and bought pumpkins and gourds and apple cider. We came home, and I made hot rum toddies. I like the smell of autumn.”

  Corva replied in an equally distant voice. “Me too. I missed it in Cu Chi. I had my brother send me a shoebox full of leaves.” He smiled to himself. “I gave them to people who said they missed the fall.”

  Tyson said, “Sounds like you were fishing for a psychiatric discharge.”

  Corva picked up the Daily News. The headlines read simply: VERDICT TODAY?

  Tyson looked at it. “Good question.” He looked at the wall clock. It was four-sixteen.

  At four-twenty, Corva stood and went to the window. “No one seems to be leaving. The press vans are still there.”

  At four twenty-five, Tyson stood. “I didn’t want to have to sleep on this. Have me put up in the BOQ. I’m not going home tonight.”

  Corva replied, “All right. I won’t argue with you.” He added, “It may be nerve-racking to have to wait, but it is not a bad sign. Something happened in that deliberation room.”

  “But what?”

  At four-thirty, Corva snapped his briefcase shut and took his trench coat from the coat tree.

  Neither Tyson nor Corva heard the footsteps this time, but they heard the gentle knock on the door, as gentle, Tyson thought, as the footsteps must have been, and he knew they hadn’t come to excuse him for the day.

  The door
opened, and Sergeant Larson stood a moment without speaking; a moment too long for Corva, who snapped, “Well? Are we excused?”

  “No, sir. The board has reached a verdict.”

  Corva nodded stiffly. “Thank you.” He rehung his coat and said to Tyson in a strained voice, “Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Tyson walked toward the door being held open by Sergeant Larson. Larson said to Tyson, “Sir, you should take your cover.”

  “What . . . ?” Tyson stood motionless for a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. I won’t be coming back here either way, will I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank the rabbi for us, if you should see him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Corva led the way into the corridor. Again, Larson caught up and walked ahead. He seemed to sense that his charges were in no hurry, and his pace was not fast. They entered the courtroom, and Tyson heard a hush fall over the crowd in the pews. He looked and saw that the chapel was completely full, like Easter Sunday, with people in the aisles and in the vestibule.

  He strode purposefully past the table where the board was already assembled, past the prosecution table without looking at Pierce, Weinroth, or Longo, and took his place beside Corva at the defense table. Corva had remained standing, so Tyson did the same. He noticed, too, that the prosecution was now standing, though this was not required.

  Tyson brought himself to look at the right front pew. Marcy was dressed conservatively in a tweed business suit. She crossed her legs, smiling at him encouragingly. David, seated next to her, looked sad, he thought, though perhaps scared was a better word. He wondered what was going on inside the mind of a sixteen-year-old. Tyson’s three sisters, all pretty, lively women, were maintaining a show of optimism. His mother, who rarely showed any emotion other than haughtiness, impatience, or annoyance, now looked bewildered and old. Tyson contrived a look of unconcern and faced the board. He tried to read their expressions, but there was less there to read than there had ever been. The only flicker of emotion came from Major Virginia Sindel, who inadvertently made eye contact with him, then dropped her eyes.

  Tyson realized Corva was speaking to him. Corva whispered, “There is a quirk in the wording of the Manual for Courts-Martial. Verdicts of not guilty are announced with the words, ‘It is my duty to advise you . . .’ Guilty verdicts with the words ‘inform you.’ I wanted you to know that so you could prepare yourself before you hear the actual verdict.”

  Tyson kept his head and eyes straight ahead and said, “Thank you.”

  Not more than a moment later, Colonel Sproule turned on his microphone and announced, “The court will come to order.” Sproule looked out at the pews, then regarded the press section a moment, then looked at the prosecution and finally the board. He said, “All parties to the trial who were present when the court closed are now present.”

  Colonel Sproule addressed Colonel Moore, asking, “Has the court reached the findings in this case?”

  Moore stood and replied, “It has.”

  Sproule then asked, “Are the findings reflected on the finding worksheets you were given?”

  “They are,” replied Moore.

  Sproule looked at the prosecution table. “Will the trial counsel, without examining it, bring me the findings?”

  Major Judith Weinroth stood and went directly to Colonel Moore, who handed her the findings. She made a show of not looking at the long sheets of paper and walked the five paces to the pulpit, handing the two pages up to Colonel Sproule. She waited in front of the pulpit facing it.

  Colonel Sproule adjusted the pulpit light and examined the sheets of paper closely, turning them both over several times. Tyson, Corva, and everyone in the chapel, including the court reporter, had their eyes on Sproule’s face to see any trace of emotion. But Colonel Sproule’s face revealed nothing but concentration on the forms before him, and Tyson thought he had the look of a man grading a school essay on a dull subject.

  Colonel Sproule looked up abruptly and said to Moore, “I find no defects of form.” He handed the two pages down to Major Weinroth and said, “Will you return this to the president of the court?”

  She took the papers, but they somehow got loose from her grasp, and they fell to the red-carpeted floor. She knelt hastily to retrieve them and lingered perhaps a half second too long in gathering them before she rose. Her face was flushed as she strode across the floor and handed the papers back to Colonel Moore, who gave her a sympathetic look. Major Weinroth turned and walked back to the prosecution table, carrying herself the way someone does who knows there is a room full of people looking at them. As she approached the table, her face still toward the spectators, she made eye contact with Pierce, and her head bobbed slightly, but no one could say for sure if it was in apology for the dropped forms or in triumph.

  Colonel Sproule turned and looked at Tyson. He said, “Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson, please report to the president of the court.”

  Tyson replied in a strong voice, “Yes, sir.”

  Corva reached out and, in full view of the court and the spectators, squeezed Tyson’s hand.

  Tyson came around the table and walked across the red carpet, centering himself directly in front of Colonel Moore. Tyson saluted but maintained the protocol that this was one of the few occasions when no verbal report was made.

  Colonel Moore and Benjamin Tyson faced one another. The remainder of the board stayed seated. Corva had remained standing, though it wasn’t required that he do so. The prosecution was standing also, and they blocked the view of some of the spectators sitting on the left side of the nave. The media stood, perhaps to get a better view, and the people behind them began standing, perhaps because the press was blocking them. Then others began standing, even those whose view was not obstructed, and within a few seconds the entire chapel full of people was on its feet, standing and waiting.

  Colonel Sproule began to say something into his microphone, then hesitated and turned to Colonel Moore. “Proceed with the verdict.”

  Out of the corners of his eyes, Tyson saw that the board was staring straight ahead, resisting their natural desire to look at him. Moore, without referring to the findings sheet and looking Tyson directly in the eye, spoke to him as though they were the only two people in the room. “Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson, it is my duty as president of this court to inform you—”

  There were audible reactions from a few of the people in the pews who understood what the wording signified.

  “—that the court, in closed session and upon secret ballot, two-thirds of the members present at the time of the vote was taken concerning in each finding, finds you, of the charges of murder, guilty.”

  Tyson stood perfectly still, showing Colonel Moore and the board no more emotion than they’d shown him all week.

  Someone in the pews shouted something, and a woman sobbed, though he didn’t think it was Marcy or his mother, neither of whom was prone to sobbing.

  Colonel Moore continued, “Of Specification One, guilty, and of Specification Two, guilty; excepting that in both specifications the words ‘shooting them,’ and the words ‘ordering them to be shot,’ will be deleted, leaving the words ‘causing them to be shot.’” Colonel Moore looked at Tyson and gave a brief nod to indicate he was finished.

  Tyson saluted, turned, and walked to the defense table, not meeting Corva’s or anyone’s eyes, not once looking at his wife and son.

  Colonel Sproule surveyed the chapel and the altar area where no one was sitting but the five members of the board. He had the quizzical appearance of a man who had never seen such a thing. He announced into the pulpit microphone, “This court will reconvene Monday at ten hundred hours for the purpose of arriving at an appropriate sentence. This court is adjourned.”

  But no one moved toward the doors. Instead, everyone stood silently as Sergeant Larson, now armed and wearing a helmet, approached Tyson with another armed MP. The MPs stood self-consciously before the defense table. No one said anything
until finally Larson asked politely, “Sir, will you come with me?”

  Tyson shook hands with Corva, took his hat from the table, and came around to join the MPs, still not trusting himself to look at his family. The MPs moved to either side, flanking him, and walked across the altar floor through the side door and down the long white corridor. Tyson noticed that the corridor was deserted and quiet except for the sound of their footsteps.

  They came to a door that exited to the back of the chapel grounds, and an MP standing there opened it.

  Tyson put on his hat and walked out into the cool twilight. He noticed first the western sky to his front, a deep blue, then toward the horizon a nice orange and yellow beyond the lights of the bridge.

  Burly MPs formed a wedge around him and escorted him toward a dark-colored staff car. The chapel and corridor had been deathly still, but now a raucous noise assailed him: the shouts of dozens of people, then dozens more as people converged on the rear of the chapel. He saw the television camera. Then there were flashbulbs lighting up the pleasant, comforting dusk. Microphones were pushed toward him, but the MPs pushed back hard. Above the general bedlam he heard a man shouting, “Let him go! Let him go!” A woman had somehow slipped past the phalanx of MPs and reached out to him sobbing, “God bless you, God bless you.” As she reached him, an MP caught her arm and pulled her away.

  Tyson found himself at the car, then in it. Sergeant Larson slid in the rear beside him, then the other door opened and another MP slid in to Tyson’s left, jamming him in between them. Both doors slammed shut, and Sergeant Larson said, “Please put your hands on the back of the seat in front of you.”

  Tyson did as he was told, and Sergeant Larson snapped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. Tyson was surprised at how heavy they were.

  The car began moving slowly over the back lawn, through the milling crowd, the headlights flashing from low beam to high, and the horn honking in a rhythmic cadence. The driver swore.

  The MP to Tyson’s left said, “I don’t have to worry about your all-night runs anymore. Do I?”

  Tyson turned his head and found himself looking straight into the beady eyes of Captain Gallagher. Tyson began to say something unpleasant, then realized he was no longer free to say to Captain Gallagher the things that needed saying.