Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Perhaps four times.”

  “In what context?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see her officially? By chance? By design? Socially? How did you see her?”

  “All of the above. What difference does it make?”

  “I’m trying to preestablish her bona fides. Now that I see that you knew her, she may not be an unprejudiced witness as I was first led to believe. So I’d like to determine the extent of your involvement.”

  Tyson didn’t respond.

  She asked, “After the Christmas party, when and how did you see her?”

  “I saw her twice more around Christmas. There was a truce, a cease-fire. I apparently made such a hit at the Christmas party that MAC-V requested that I do temporary civic action work in Hue.”

  “Could Sister Teresa have had anything to do with MAC-V’s request?”

  “Ah, the plot thickens, does it not?”

  “Well?”

  Tyson shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “So you saw her twice more during the period of the Christmas cease-fire. How about after that?”

  “Yes. In mid-January. I was asked to come to Hue to discuss job opportunities with MAC-V.”

  “They offered you a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “Yes. Frankly, I’d seen enough combat.”

  “So how was it that you wound up still leading an infantry platoon?”

  “Timing. I was to report to the MAC-V compound on or about January 30 to begin my new duties of winning hearts and minds. A staff officer said something about my arriving for the Vietnamese New Year party. He used the word Tet, but I didn’t know what that meant. Anyway, when January 30 rolled around, Alpha Company was in the field, as usual. I decided not to take the morning resupply helicopter back to base camp, but to take the evening helicopter instead. I guess I was feeling a little guilty about leaving my platoon and company. Browder was razzing me about becoming a rear echelon flunky. So that morning I went out on what was to be my last patrol.”

  She nodded. “And the morning of January 30 found you in the market square at Phu Lai?”

  “Yes. As I was lying there waiting to die, I thought it might have been better if I’d taken that morning resupply chopper. But as fate would have it, I lived, and by January 31, the MAC-V compound at Hue was surrounded by thousands of communist troops. They never broke through, but a lot of Americans died defending the compound, and a lot more were caught outside the compound walls, at Tet parties, and were found later with their hands tied behind their backs and bullets through their heads.” He lit a cigarette. “So . . . it’s all written somewhere in God’s daybook. Isn’t it? ‘January 30—A.M.—Tyson misses appointment with helicopter. Meets VC at Phu Lai instead. Bullet nicks ear. P.M.—Dinner with Alpha Company. C rations in the cemetery. Begin Tet offensive.’” He looked at the smoke rising from his cigarette. “But I wasn’t fated to die at Phu Lai or at the MAC-V compound or Miséricorde Hospital or the Strawberry Patch. Instead, it was my fate to sit here with you tonight.”

  She lowered her head in thought, and Tyson could see she was processing something. She finally looked up and continued her question in a neutral tone. “So during the time you were in Hue in mid-January interviewing for a staff job, you had the opportunity to see Sister Teresa again. How many times?”

  “I don’t recall exactly. Once or twice. I was there only about two days.”

  “And you didn’t see her at any time after that, until 15 February at Miséricorde Hospital?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That must have been a surprise.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “You didn’t know she worked there?”

  “I didn’t know the place existed, Major.”

  “Of course. But she never mentioned that she worked at another hospital?”

  “No. I only knew she worked at the Catholic dispensary near the Joan of Arc School and Church.”

  “Where did you meet her on those occasions after that Christmas party? What is there to do in Hue? I mean where does an American officer take a nun?”

  “Are you being sarcastic or just nosy?”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “Perhaps I should write my memoirs.”

  “The locale is exotic, the unsuspecting city is on the eve of a great cataclysm, you are a young soldier about to return to the front. You meet a strikingly beautiful woman, a nun—”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds like melodrama. A woman’s story.”

  “Don’t be sexist. Where did you take her?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “All right. How do you suppose she wound up at Miséricorde Hospital, outside the city walls?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “Fate?”

  “Yes, fate.”

  Major Harper nodded. “And that was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever wonder what became of her?”

  “Often.”

  “Picard’s book, then, brought you some good news.”

  “Yes, that was the good news.”

  “Would you like to see her again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason I don’t attend class reunions.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Reminisce.”

  “The young have aspirations that never come to pass, the old have reminiscences of what never happened.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did.”

  “Originally?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you speak to her then? At the hospital?”

  “Just a few words.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t remember. You can imagine what sort of words—hurried words, words of comfort. Then . . . someone took her away. The building was burning.”

  “That was the last time you saw her?”

  “I said it was.”

  “But where did she go? Certainly she would have stayed close by until the shooting was over. She would have put herself under your protection, or your platoon’s protection. They were offering protection, weren’t they?”

  Tyson spoke softly. “They were not . . .”

  She waited, then said, “They were not?”

  “I mean, they were not in a . . . position to. . . .”

  Her eyes met his and held contact. Finally she said, “Did you look for her when the shooting stopped?”

  “Well, yes, of course. But we had to move on. To pursue the enemy. I thought she’d died. . . .”

  “Pursuing the enemy was more important than offering protection to the survivors of that hospital?”

  “Unfortunately it was. They have a name for it. War.”

  “But there were Europeans there, Vietnamese Catholics, wounded—”

  “We didn’t distinguish between types of refugees.”

  “Didn’t you? How often did you come across Europeans? Catholic nuns? Excuse me, but that would have been a great feather in your cap to have rescued these people and gotten them to an American base camp. Where did they go, these survivors of the battle?”

  Tyson saw she was tired and noted that her tone had become argumentative. He had the impression she was becoming frustrated and obsessed.

  She snapped, “Where did they go, Lieutenant?”

  “They fled.”

  “Why did they flee from you?”

  “They did not flee from us. They just fled.”

  “The wounded fled?”

  “The wounded . . . were carried away by the survivors.”

  Karen Harper’s voice rose. “There were no survivors, Lieutenant! They all died there. That’s what Sister Teresa told Picard. Your platoon murdered everyone. That’s what she said. That’s why
the Catholic Relief Agency lists all those doctors and nurses as missing. They died at Miséricorde Hospital.”

  Tyson stood and nearly shouted. “They were killed by the goddamned communists, before, during, and after the battle. They panicked and fled and were killed by enemy troops in and around this village.”

  “No! They died in the hospital.” Karen Harper stood also. “The question is did Sister Teresa, in her hysteria, witness an ill-advised and perhaps blundered assault that led to the deaths of innocent people and the burning of the hospital? Or did she witness a cold-blooded massacre, followed by the deliberate burning of the hospital to cover the evidence?” She looked him in the eyes. “If you just made a stupid blunder, for God’s sake say so, and we can forget about murder. Forget your ego and your pride, and tell me if you made a dreadful mistake that led to the deaths of those people. There is a statute of limitations on that sort of thing—on manslaughter—and it has expired. Tell me.”

  “If I tell you that, will you return a report saying I admitted to manslaughter but not to murder and that this is your finding as well?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Will that be the end of it? For me? For my men?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I’ll do everything I can to see that it is the end of it.”

  “Will you? Why?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sick of it.”

  “You’re sick of it? Everyone is sick of it. But how about truth and justice?”

  “The hell with that.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, the way a child would do, then composed herself. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” She looked at him and cleared her throat. “Of course we’ll pursue this with the intent of either clearing your name completely or forwarding charges to the proper court-martial convening authority, if necessary.”

  He saw the moment had passed and had some regrets about it. “I think you’d better go.”

  “Yes.” She gathered her things and turned toward the door. Tyson watched her as she crossed the long room. She opened the door, turned, looked at him a moment, then left.

  Ben Tyson surveyed the cluttered cocktail table—the ashtray, the glasses, the papers. His eyes wandered to the bar area where his champagne glass lay shattered on the floor. He looked around the room, like a detective wondering what had happened here.

  Tyson stepped to the window and stared out into the city lights. He looked down at the sidewalk six stories below and saw her walking up Pennsylvania Avenue. He watched her closely, noticing even from this distance that her gait was not jaunty or purposeful. Rather she walked like he felt: deflated and unsure. He was glad he wasn’t alone anymore.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Benjamin Tyson turned off the lights of his hotel room, made himself a fresh drink, and sat in the armchair, his feet on the cocktail table. He felt drained and weary. He stared out the window at the summer sky and watched a succession of aircraft make the approach to National Airport.

  The imperial city, a city of monuments. Hue. Washington. They were becoming confused in his mind. He closed his eyes.

  Lieutenant Benjamin Tyson consulted the city map spread out on the passenger seat of his open jeep, held down by a .45-caliber Colt automatic.

  Hue was divided into three parts: the old city within the Citadel walls, built on the north bank of the Perfume River; the Gia Hoi district, a new suburb outside the city walls; and the South Side, the European Quarter on the left bank of the river.

  He turned cautiously into an unmarked street in the South Side and scanned the block. When he’d borrowed the jeep from MAC-V—Military Advisory Command–Vietnam—a motor pool NCO in the compound had instructed him on urban driving. “Don’t drive down no deserted streets,” drawled the big bony sergeant from South Carolina.

  “Right.”

  “Pick streets with lots of kids. Even Charlie don’t shoot up a street with kids.”

  “Can I bring my own kids?”

  “Don’t pick up no hitchhikers, includin’ pussy, and watch for them motorbikes. Charles likes to flip you a little something from them bikes.”

  “Maybe I need a tank.”

  “Naw, Hue’s pretty safe really. A whole lot safer than the streets of New York, Lieutenant.”

  Well, perhaps. But Tyson thought he’d rather be on Third Avenue at the moment.

  “Bring my jeep back in one piece. Okay?”

  Tyson had pointed out that if the jeep were in several pieces, the chances were good that he would be, too.

  Tyson now scrutinized the white stucco houses and courtyards. Looked okay. He headed up the long straight road.

  As he’d left the MAC-V compound, he’d spotted the old French Cercle Sportif, with its verandas overlooking the Perfume River, its tennis courts and gleaming white concrete driveway, and he was reminded of an incident that took place on his first trip to Hue, a month earlier in November. He had gone alone to a French café on Tihn Tam Street and practiced his French on an elderly halfbreed bartender. A middle-aged Frenchman of slight build had moved down the bar and introduced himself as Monsieur Bournard, the proprietor of the establishment. Monsieur Bournard had unexpectedly invited Lieutenant Tyson to Le Cercle Sportif, “pour jouer au tennis.”

  After a set of lawn tennis, they had sat on the veranda, furnished with Art Nouveau pieces, and drank cold beer. Monsieur Bournard had remarked, “Hue has changed little since I was a boy. In the Buddhist myth, Hue is the lotus flower growing from the mud. It is serenity and beauty amidst a sea of carnage. Hue is eternal because she is sacred to communist, Buddhist, and Christian alike. Hue will survive the war, Lieutenant. You may not.”

  “And you?” Tyson had inquired.

  The Frenchman shrugged. “The communist cadres enjoy my little café.”

  “You entertain communists in your café?”

  “Certainement. They have been good customers long before you arrived. You are shocked? Annoyed?” he’d asked in a tone that suggested he’d made this little confession before in similar circumstances. “One must be très pratique. They will be good customers long after you and your countrymen are gone. Don’t be naive.”

  Tyson had replied, “I grew up in a place where naivete is a virtue. However, Monsieur Bournard, I am not shocked, nor annoyed. But I may report you to the National Police.”

  “As you wish. But most of them use my little place to do business with the communists. The National Police are also très pratique, you see.” Monsieur Bournard had leaned across the marble table. “This was a nice manageable little war until you arrived.” The Frenchman made it sound personal. As Tyson considered pointing out that he hadn’t come here by choice, the Frenchman made a sudden sound of exasperation and muttered, “Les Américains,” as though this said it all.

  Tyson had risen from his chair. “Thank you for the tennis and the beer.”

  The Frenchman looked up, but did not stand. “Pardon. You are my guest. But I saw too many of my countrymen die here. In the end the Asians will have their way.”

  “With you too.”

  “Non. Me, I am like a little cork bobbing on a raging yellow sea. You and your Army are . . . well, like the Titanic.” Monsieur Bournard turned his attention back to his beer.

  As Tyson walked away he heard the Frenchman call out, “Take care of yourself, my friend. I can’t think of a worse cause to die for.”

  Tyson had then gone into the changing room, showered, and returned his borrowed white tennis clothes. He received in exchange his combat fatigues, freshly laundered, and his boots, polished. The Vietnamese attendant had presented him with his holstered .45 automatic in the way a porter in an English club might give a gentleman his walking stick. To say that Le Cercle Sportif was an anachronism was to understate the extent of the establishment’s improbable existence. Yet it existed the way his own club back home existed: as a bastion of cultivated lunacy surrounded by a justifiably hostile and suspicious world.

  Riding now in another borrowed jeep fr
om the MAC-V compound, Tyson recalled that incident of a month earlier and reflected on what Monsieur Bournard had said. He concluded that it was Monsieur Bournard who was naive in the extreme. Neither Monsieur Bournard nor his café nor his club would survive this war. The communists represented something new under the sun, and those like Monsieur Bournard and his sporting friends who thought they could accommodate those grim puritans had obviously not learned anything from life, history, or the daily news.

  But in one respect, the Frenchman had been correct: The Asians would have their way. Tyson saw no possible victory in this war, and like the other half million Americans in the country, he was beginning to concentrate on the only victory that made sense: victory over death.

  Tyson drove slowly through the busy tree-lined streets of the South Side, crowded with three-wheeled Lambrettas, Peugeots, cyclo-cabs, and motorbikes of every make and color. Military traffic was light. The late afternoon air was suffused with pungent and exotic smells. A line of pretty high school girls crossed the street, dressed in their flowing silk ao dai. They stole glances at him, giggled, and chattered. Their teacher, a stern-looking old nun, reprimanded them. The procession passed, and Tyson drove on.

  It was Christmas week, and so long as he saw no signs of Christmas in this tropical city, he was neither nostalgic nor homesick. But here in the mostly European and Vietnamese Catholic quarter, he saw little reminders: a Christmas tree in a window, a boy carrying a wrapped present, and from the shuttered loggia of a villa, he heard a piano playing “O Holy Night.”

  Tyson drove through the square in front of the Phu Cam Cathedral. On the north side of the square was a sandbagged machine-gun emplacement. A few ARVN soldiers were strolling, holding hands as was the custom of Vietnamese men. But otherwise, there was no sign that Hue was at war. Quang Tri to the north and Phu Bai to the south were desecrated by barbed wire, gun emplacements, and green vinyl sandbags. Hue remained unspoiled, a hauntingly attractive illusion, as Monsieur Bournard had suggested, its energy and charm heightened by the realities of the terror beyond its useless walls.

  Tyson turned down a narrow lane and stopped in front of a fenced courtyard. He jumped down from the jeep, slung his rifle, then reached in the rear and lifted out a heavy box wrapped in PX Christmas paper.