“Good.” He looked her over quickly. Her hair was honey-colored, her eyes pale blue, and she looked well scrubbed. He pictured cornfields and church socials. Somewhere beneath the unflattering uniform dwelt a good body. He stepped aside. “Please come in.”
She entered, removing her garrison cap. They exchanged some words about the cloudy weather, her flight, and his home.
Tyson took her cap and laid it on the foyer sideboard. He said, “Can I take your jacket?”
She hesitated, then said, “Yes, please.” She set down her briefcase and handbag, then unbuttoned the four brass buttons of the tailored tunic and slipped it off. Tyson saw that her light green blouse was also well tailored and fit more snugly than the Army might have liked. He put her jacket in the foyer closet and turned back to her. They looked at each other for a few seconds before he said, “This way.”
He led her through the living room into the rear den. Tyson indicated a suede armchair and she sat, remarking, “Nice room.”
“Thank you.” He’d removed the packing boxes and any other evidence to suggest he was removing himself from his primary residence. Tyson went to the wall unit that held a small bar, on which sat an electric coffeepot. He poured two cups and said, “Would you like some cream liqueur or cognac with this? Or don’t officers drink on duty in the new Army?”
“They do. But I’ll wait.”
Tyson poured some Irish cream into his cup. “Hair of the dog.” He assumed she’d noticed his bloodshot eyes, but having made the self-observation, he thought he should explain it. “Drinking with some friends. After you called. Actually, it was sort of a fund-raiser. My defense fund,” he lied. “They have this annual July Fourth bash up at the club—my country club—and everyone was in a patriotic mood, so they passed the hat.” Tyson realized he was not making a good job of it, but added anyway, “I’ve gotten a good deal of support in the community. I also understand that a national defense fund is forming . . . if I need one.”
Karen Harper took a small printed card from her briefcase and said, “Let me get the formalities out of the way. Your rights and all that. I should do this again in person. Okay?”
“Cream?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sugar?”
“Yes . . . I’d like to read you your rights now.” She glanced at the card.
“I’m listening.” He put cream and sugar into her cup.
“All right . . . you have the right to remain silent—”
“Excuse me. One lump or two?”
“Just one, please. You have the right to question any witnesses. You have the right to be represented by Army counsel.” She continued reading from the card as Tyson placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her.
Tyson considered sitting at his desk, then decided against it. He took the Eames recliner opposite her, across the coffee table, and put his cup down. He watched her as she read the short list of rights. He’d read that list to suspects at least fifty times, and each time he could feel the awkwardness, the tension, that hung in the air between him and the soldier standing before him.
Karen Harper looked up from the card. “Do you understand your rights under the Uniform Code of Military Justice?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you wish to be represented by Army counsel?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you wish to have your own attorney present at this time?”
“He’s playing golf.”
She looked at him and waited.
Tyson said, “As I indicated on the telephone, I do not.”
She nodded perfunctorily, then continued, “I’m to advise you of the offenses charged against you. As yet, there are none. But obviously what we are contemplating is murder.”
Tyson did not respond.
She went on. “As I said, there are no witnesses as yet, but you will have the right to cross-examine them if there is a formal investigation. You have the right, at this time, to suggest witnesses who may provide you with statements of defense, extenuation, or mitigation. Do you have any such witnesses?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You have the right to make a statement. Do you wish to do so?”
“No, ma’am.”
There was a long silence, then Tyson said, “I wish to answer questions. Shoot.”
She glanced at her notes. “All right. . . . Have you read the book Hue: Death of a City?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can drop that. Are you the Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson mentioned in the book?”
“It would appear so.”
“Were you in command of the platoon described in chapter six of said book?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Were there any higher-ranking officers present?”
“No. I was operating independently of my company and battalion.”
“Did you have radio contact with your chain of command?”
“Sporadically. The radio batteries were weak. Resupply was a problem at that time.”
She nodded, then asked several more questions. Tyson knew she was just getting him into the habit of answering questions, avoiding anything too close to the central issue of mass murder. She’s good, he thought. But he himself had done this before, and it was coming back to him.
Tyson decided to interrupt her stream of questions. He stood and poured more coffee for both of them. “Let’s take a break.”
She smiled, as though this was a good idea, but Tyson knew otherwise. He said, “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I do?”
“Not at all.”
Tyson leaned back on the edge of his desk as he drew on his cigarette. He looked at Major Karen Harper. She must be, he thought, a bit anxious despite her calm exterior. She had a 180-pound fish on the line and he could break it anytime he wished.
She began to speak conversationally, as if this was not part of the interview, though Tyson knew it was. She said, “I found something interesting in your personnel file—that note you wrote on the Army questionnaire. Do you remember that?”
He let a few seconds pass, then replied, “Oh . . . that. . . . I must have been in a mood that day.”
“I suppose. It was a rather strong note for an officer to have placed in his permanent file.”
“I wasn’t an officer.”
“But you were. You are. You have always been, since the day you took the oath of office after college.”
“Would it have made a difference if I had checked the damned box requesting that I be dropped from the rolls?”
“I don’t know. That’s not my department. I was only interested in what prompted you to write that.”
“Do you have any recollection of the war? Of the fall of Saigon? I mean, you look very young.”
“I was about fifteen during the 1968 Tet Offensive—”
“Fifteen? Christ, I wish I had been fifteen. By the way, Tet was a time, not a place. Do you know that?”
“Of course I do. Anyway, I was twenty-two when Saigon fell in 1975. I recall thinking at the time that the war had gone on since I could remember. I was relieved it was over.”
“My wife was too. She proposed a toast to the National Liberation Front.”
She said, “I think one of the reasons they picked me to conduct this investigation is my lack of involvement in the events in question.”
“Perhaps.” She exhibited, he thought, an ingenuousness beneath which was a certain cunning. Or maybe, he conceded, she really was simple and naive. He found himself studying her more closely. Neither the cut nor the color of the Army uniform did anything for her, but her face, her hair, her voice, and her movements more than compensated for that.
Her mouth, he noticed, was expressive and capable, he guessed, of sensuousness in other situations. He said, “What are some of the other reasons they picked you? I mean, why you?”
She shrugged.
“Probably your experience in murder inves
tigations.”
“I’ve never investigated a murder before.”
“I’ve never been suspected of a murder before. Small world.”
She picked up the bottle of cream liqueur from the coffee table. “Do you mind?” She poured some in her coffee. “Anyway, in regard to the note and the questionnaire, I was wondering if you were planning to challenge your recall to active duty.”
“Look, Major, once the government decides to start grinding you up, there’s not much you can do unless you have unlimited resources.”
She leaned toward him, across the coffee table. “You shouldn’t feel as though you’re being railroaded. If you think the recall was illegal, I suggest you find the resources, financial and otherwise, to fight it. That’s your first line of defense, as the infantry would put it.”
Tyson didn’t reply.
They sat in silence for some time, then Tyson stood and walked to the bookcase, opened a drawer, and retrieved a cedar box. He spilled the contents out on the coffee table.
They both looked at the array of medals and ribbons, including the Purple Heart, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Air Assault Medal, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. Tyson picked up the brass cross by its yellow-and-orange ribbon and dangled it. “This is a Vietnamese decoration. It was given to me at an awards ceremony in the ruins of the Citadel at Hue, on a blistering hot afternoon after the city was retaken. I’ll never forget the little Viet colonel who gave out the medals. He was badly burned, smelled of fish, synthetic Japanese Scotch, sweat, and putrid flesh. When he embraced and kissed me, I thought I was going to vomit.” Tyson stared at the medal. “But he was a hell of a soldier. I’m sure he didn’t survive the war. Neither did his government. So here I hold a useless medal from a defunct government.” He let it fall on the table. “Does it count for anything?”
She nodded. “Of course. A court-martial—if there is one—will take that sort of thing into consideration. Do you have the paperwork for that?”
“I seem to have misplaced it. But I remember that the commendation cites me for bravery . . . for actions that took place on 15 February 1968, in and around the village of An Ninh Ha. The English is bad, and the language is general, but it may be that the Army will find it difficult to prosecute me for murders that allegedly took place at a battle for which I was decorated. What do you think?”
“Try to find the written orders.”
“There was no copy in my file?”
“No, and I don’t think the present government in Saigon—or Ho Chi Minh City—will be helpful.”
“I was also supposed to receive a Silver Star for the same action. The Viets usually read the lists of proposed American awards and matched their version of the medal with the American one. That’s how I got the Viet Cross. But I never got the Silver Star.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I saw the recommendation made by my company commander, Browder, now dead. But it was probably misplaced. That was fairly common at the time.”
“Perhaps it was turned down.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so.”
“Captain Browder, I assume, wrote up the recommendation based on verbal reports from your men. Browder, you indicated, was not at the hospital.”
“That’s correct. Standard practice.”
“Which of your men made the recommendation?”
“Kelly, my radio operator, put me in for the star. Someone else would have had to corroborate Kelly’s report of my valor. I don’t remember who that was though. Not many of my platoon survived anyway. Did you locate any of them?”
“Yes.”
“How many? Who?”
“I’ll send you or your attorney a list of names and addresses . . . if necessary. You may not have to go to the time and trouble. And perhaps neither will I. We may just drop it.” She pulled her pad toward her. “I’ll make a note to check on the Silver Star.”
“You’re being very helpful, Major.”
She said, “Again, let me make it clear that I’m not working for the prosecution. I’m here to gather facts.”
“Yes. I remember how it’s supposed to work.”
She stared at the ribbons and medals lying on the coffee table. Tyson studied her face. She looked impressed, even a bit unhappy that it had come to this. It’s an act, of course, he thought. He’s acting, she’s acting. Souvenirs de guerre, like mementos of the departed, called for a minute of respectful silence. Of course, he thought, both she and the Army would be highly skeptical of any medal proposed or awarded to him on 15 February 1968. But to suggest this aloud would be akin to sacrilege.
She said, “I read the citations for the two Purple Hearts. I can see—I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable—I can see the wound on your right ear.”
Tyson let the silence drag out, milking it for what it was worth, then replied, “Yes, a village called Phu Lai, on the first day of the Tet Offensive. I lost nearly half my platoon that day. That bullet had my name on it, but . . . an angel was sitting on my shoulder . . . and pushed my head an inch to the left.”
She nodded.
He went on, “Then, as you probably read, I was wounded by shrapnel in the right knee. That was on February 29th—1968 was a leap year. The battle of Hue was declared officially over on February 26th, but somebody forgot to tell Chuck.”
Again she nodded.
Tyson decided to break the gloomy pall. He grinned suddenly. “Do you want to see my knee wound?”
She smiled quickly in return. “Not right now.” She added, “Great line, though.”
“It used to work like a charm.” Tyson held his smile, but his mind returned to that extra day in February. The hot shrapnel had sliced in from the left side, and he’d fallen to the ground. When he looked down, not knowing what to expect, he saw his fatigues covered with blood. He’d ripped open the light cotton material, and there was a large piece of meat—fat, flesh, ligaments—flapped over, exposing his patella. He recalled staring at the bare bone incredulously. He’d never seen such a thing. And if there had been any lingering doubts concerning his mortality, they were dispelled then as he gaped at the stuff he was made of.
Tyson sat back down in his chair. “Do you want to continue?”
Karen Harper leaned forward. She asked a few more warm-up questions, then, without any change in tone or expression, said, “Can you describe for me, in your own words, the events of that day, 15 February 1968?”
Tyson regarded her closely. “If I gave you a general account of what happened, I wouldn’t want to be held to any of the details.”
She put aside her pencil and paper. “I’m barely making notes, as you can see, and in any case this is not sworn testimony.”
“And do I have your word as an officer that you have no recording devices with you?”
She sat back and crossed her legs. “Yes, you do.”
Tyson took a few moments to collect his thoughts, then began. “We were dug into a defensive perimeter around a small clump of trees about five kilometers west of Hue. We had taken mortar and small-arms fire during the night and suffered two wounded. I had the wounded medevaced out at first light. It was rainy and chilly. It gets cold in February in the northern provinces. Anyway, we pulled out of the perimeter and began advancing on Hue, as per radio orders.”
There was a rushing sound on the radio speaker, then a crackling, followed by Captain Browder’s voice. “Mustang One-Six, this is Mustang Six. How do you hear me? Over.”
Tyson took the handphone from Daniel Kelly, his radiotelephone operator, and squeezed the handle lever. “Six, this is One-Six. Weak but clear. How me?”
“Same. Orders from Big Six. Proceed in a Sierra-Echo direction toward Hotel Uniform Echo.”
Tyson replied into the mouthpiece. “Solid copy. Anything specific?”
“Negative. Use your own judgment. Don’t make the city today. We’ll rendezvous tonight and advance on the west wall together.”
“Roger. . . . Maybe we
should link up now. I’m down to one-niner folks, and there’re signs that Chuck is all over the damned place. In strength. Saw hoofprints last night before sundown. Estimate five hundred or more. Heading toward the city.”
“Roger that, One-Six. Orders is orders. Everybody’s spread thin, kiddo. Hey, are we having fun yet?”
Tyson glanced at Kelly, who had his hand around the radio aerial and was stroking it, which was Kelly’s way of suggesting that the brass was jerking everyone off again. Tyson drew a deep breath and spoke into the radiophone. “Let me know how my two wounded make out.”
“Roger.” Browder hesitated, then said, “Keep to the open paddies. Avoid the bush and avoid the hamlets.”
Tyson didn’t think that was consistent with search and destroy, or harassment and interdiction. It sounded more like avoid and evade. He wondered if the Army Security Agency or any brass was monitoring. Tyson cautioned, “Big brother, big ears.”
“Fuck them,” snapped Browder, who was obviously on edge himself. “Anything further?”
“I need C’s. And I don’t have a map beyond An Ninh Ha.”
“Ask at the next Chevron station. I’ll get C’s dropped in. I’ll see about the map. Further?”
Tyson thought he should report that everyone had trench foot, fatigues were torn, boots and laces were falling apart, and the halogen-treated water they were drinking was making them all sick. But Browder knew that. Tyson said, “Negative further.”
“Roger. Keep up the splendid work. Out.”
Tyson handed the phone back to Kelly. “Let’s move it. Order of march: one, B, three, A, then two.”
Kelly’s voice boomed out over the perimeter. “Saddle up! Movin’! Movin’! First squad on point.”
Tyson walked out of the entrenched positions to a wide dike and moved down it, surveying the terrain around him. Kelly came up beside him, joined by Specialist Four Steven Brandt, the platoon medic, who set his medical bag down in the mud.
Tyson watched the men move at intervals out of the copse of willow trees and onto the dike toward him. First rifle squad consisted of five men out of the original ten, all Pfc’s. Normally led by a staff sergeant, the squad was now led by Bob Moody, a nineteen-year-old black kid who had been chosen by Tyson because he’d been in country a month longer than the other four. He was also the only one who wanted the job.
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