Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Tyson replied, “Social rank, too, has its problems.”

  “Right.” Levin settled back in his chair. “I’ve been following this in the news. And I’m trying to put myself on the court-martial board. I’m sitting there listening to testimony and looking at you. Maybe I’m envious of your good looks, your advantages in life. Also maybe I’m a little awed. I’m thinking to myself as I sit on that board—that jury—that you are supposed to represent the culmination of our civilization, the final product of the great American experiment. And I look at you in the defendant’s chair, and it’s hard for me to comprehend how you could have been a party to what they are saying happened there. And that would frighten me, Lieutenant Tyson, because if you were capable of that, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”

  Tyson said, “To be honest with you, Colonel, after Vietnam I never again thought there was any hope for any of us.”

  Levin looked sad.

  Tyson finished his drink and lit another cigarette. At length he said softly, “And regarding your estimation of me as a product of our country you are partly right. My concept of right and wrong and of duty in that year of 1968 was influenced less by what I learned in the Army than by what I saw happening in America. I found it difficult to do my duty to a country that wasn’t doing its duty to me. The essence of loyalty, Colonel, is reciprocity. A citizen or a soldier owes allegiance to the state in exchange for protection, for the state’s allegiance to and duty toward the individual. That is an implicit social contract. I may not have put it so well in 1968, but in my guts I felt my country had abandoned me and my men and in fact the entire Army in Southeast Asia.”

  Levin nodded in understanding. “Heavy stuff before a beef dinner. Here’s our food. Bon appétit.”

  The two men ate in silence, then Colonel Levin began speaking in a pleasant tone as though the previous conversation had been entirely amiable. “Do you want to sign your oath now?”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “Right here.” Levin tapped his side pocket. “Want to sign it?”

  “No, I just wondered if you had it.”

  “Be careful, Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, Colonel.”

  Levin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I called the JAG school in Virginia for a legal opinion. They said the one you signed in 1967 is still good. Be advised that you’re still bound by that oath of office.”

  “I understand.”

  Levin chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, swallowed it, and said, “Do you want some advice?”

  Tyson thought he had gotten enough advice over the past weeks to last him twenty years. He replied, “I don’t think it would be appropriate for you—”

  “Let me worry about that. You’ve been assigned to me, so I can give you advice as your commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Levin sipped on his water, then said, “In case you don’t know it, the Army is very nervous about this. They’re afraid of you.”

  Tyson nodded. “So there’s some advantage after all to being a respected member of society?”

  “Right. And I’ll tell you what scares the Army—they’re like organized religion in this respect—the Army is scared of scandal.”

  “Scandal.”

  “Right. Listen to what I’m saying, Tyson. It might save your neck.” Levin looked around the dining hall, then leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “As far as the Army is concerned, any officer who fucks up is ipso facto a renegade, atypical of the officer corps, no matter how fine a background he comes from. The officer corps is like the priesthood. It is a calling, and when you answer the calling, you leave your world behind and enter a new one. It’s not like being vice-president in charge of whatever you were in charge of at whatever that company was you worked for. When you are an officer in the United States Army your conduct reflects on the Army and the officer corps. Like a priest and his church. So it is not only you who are being judged but all of us: you, me, Captain Hodges, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Follow?”

  “Yes, sir. But Captain Hodges was about ten years old at the time of the incident, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff have turned over a few times.”

  “But there is a continuity in the military, an institutional memory. If they can claim honors from the past, then they must accept the guilt as well. Your old unit, the Seventh Cavalry, is still trying to live down the Little Big Horn. Conversely, when you finally get your uniform on you’ll wear a presidential unit citation given to the Seventh Cav long before you were even born. Point is, you have to somehow convince the Army that you are a typical product of the fucked-up state of the whole military system—not now, perhaps, but certainly at that time. And that you, who used to be a sensitive boy, a boy who got upset when his little pet canary croaked, became really psychotic during all that infantry training. You were a victim of a system that issued little plastic cards called ‘The Rules of Engagement’ telling you whom you were allowed to kill in less than a hundred words, then turned you loose with an undertrained, undisciplined, and demoralized platoon of seventeen-year-old armed savages from the Ozarks and the slums and made you liable for their actions. Ha, ha, what a laugh! Right? You had as much control over them as I have over the weather. Right?”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  Levin continued, “If you can threaten to bring the whole temple down around their heads, if you can hint that not only did American boys kill indiscriminately, but got killed in great numbers because of bad training, bad leadership, bad tactics—are you following me, Tyson? This isn’t easy for me to say. But I know what it was like then. I was there, Tyson. Not in the infantry, but close enough to the front to see and hear all I wanted to see and hear.” Levin looked at Tyson closely and said, “Tell them that if they stand you in front of a court-martial, you will testify for a week, indicting the Army, and that you’ll give lots of interviews to the media. Tell them you’ll take them with you.”

  Tyson pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. He thought about Chet Brown telling him not to do exactly what Colonel Levin was suggesting he do. Apparently everyone thought he had great secrets to reveal. But Tyson did not recall thinking at the time that the Army was the cause of Miséricorde Hospital. He did not at that time blame them for his actions or the actions of his men. He had not protested the bad training, the immaturity of the troops, the vague guidelines of conduct, or his own unpreparedness as a combat infantry leader. If he had one scrap of evidence that he’d had such thoughts then—a letter home or a memo to his superiors—then, yes, he might reverse the blame for Miséricorde Hospital and indict the Army. But he’d accepted the blame then, and it was not justifiable to rewrite history in order to escape the blame now. He said to Colonel Levin, “I think I have to take this walk alone, Colonel.”

  Levin sighed. “Yeah. You and Jesus Christ, Tyson. Wise up.” Levin hunched over the club chit with a pencil and tallied it. “How many drinks did you have?”

  “Four.”

  “You drink too much. But at these prices you might as well.” He looked at Tyson. “Listen, I’m not saying you should indict the Army. I’d never say that. But you should mention the fact that if they indict you, you’ll return the favor. They’ll back off.”

  “I’m not much of a bluffer. But thank you for the advice.”

  “We talked baseball.” Levin stood. “One parting piece of advice, Lieutenant. Get the best goddamned certified military lawyer money can buy. Don’t take one of those assigned yo-yos from the JAG office. They cost nothing, and that’s exactly what you get.”

  Tyson stood also. “I’ve heard of certified military lawyers, but I’m not certain of what they are.”

  “Civilian lawyers certified by the military to serve as defense counsel at general courts-martial. There are only a few of them. Check the bar association.”

  “Could you recommend one?”

  “No way.” Levin picked up the chit and flipped it to Tyson. “You sign for it, Lieutenant. Your club nu
mber is T-38. I wrote it in. Thanks for dinner.” He left.

  Tyson picked up the chit and saw, written in pencil in the signature space, the name Vincent Corva, Esq. N.Y.C. He erased the name and signed his own.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Benjamin Tyson stood in front of the tunnel-like opening of a large artillery casemate and faced a group of about twenty senior citizens crowded around waiting expectantly for his next piece of useless information. There was no one else in the museum except this group, and he suspected that very few people came on their own.

  The museum itself was interesting, as Levin had said. The caponier was a nearly perfectly preserved specimen of mid-nineteenth-century military architecture. The redbrick pillars rising into the arched ceilings were an appropriate setting for the martial displays. The displays themselves—cannon, muskets, sabers, uniforms, and such—were not unique or particularly good examples of their type, but set in the old fort, in situ, so to speak, they took on a more immediate significance. Still, Tyson thought, as someone once said, museums were the graveyards of the arts—in this case the martial arts, which were themselves inextricably tied to graveyards.

  Tyson laid his hand on a four-foot-high section of black wrought-iron fence that ran the six-foot width of the casemate opening. He smiled at the group. “This fence has a personal significance for me.”

  He saw several sets of perfect white dentures smile back. For the life of him he could not understand why people that age would want to hear any of this. Yet they were attentive and polite. Conversely, the Boy Scout group of the day before, who were supposed to show the curiosity of youth, not to mention some hormonal interest in the subject of war, were bored and restless. Tyson thought perhaps he didn’t have the hang of it yet. He said, “This fence dates back to about the 1840s. You can see here among the finely scrolled ironwork, the federal shield and American eagle, which was a common motif in those days.”

  Tyson badly wanted a cigarette and/or a breath of fresh air. The massive walls of the caponier held out some of the afternoon heat, but by the same token, the air was stagnant and redolent with cloying floral perfume and dusting powder. Also, the modern track lighting was hot. He supposed it was difficult to vent or air-condition such a structure. No, they didn’t build them like that anymore.

  A man said, “What personal significance does that fence have for you, Lieutenant?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I did say that, didn’t I? Well, this fence section is not from Fort Hamilton. It was salvaged from the old Federal Building on Whitehall Street before it was torn down. Now, to most men in the New York metropolitan area the words Whitehall Street are synonymous with induction into the armed forces.” He smiled and saw a few of the old men nod and smile back.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I remember this old fence from when I reported in for active duty, and I was surprised to see it here.” He smiled again. In truth he didn’t remember the fence at all. He’d had other things on his mind that morning than the architecture of that gloomy old processing facility that had sent a million men to the battlefields. He looked to his right to see the next station of the cross and caught a glimpse of himself in a glass display case. He was honest enough to admit he rather liked the way he looked in uniform. Most men did. He straightened his tie.

  A woman’s voice asked, “Did you see combat in Vietnam?”

  He turned toward the voice. She was standing at the back of the group, somewhat taller than the generation born at the beginning of the century. Tyson wondered how long she’d been there. Most of the white heads were turned toward her.

  Karen Harper added, “What are all those medals for?”

  He cleared his throat and replied, “Mostly good conduct. I got one every time I was good. I have seven medals.

  A few people laughed.

  Tyson said to his tour group, “Why don’t you look around on your own awhile? I’ll be right back.” He moved through the group, took Karen Harper’s arm, and led her toward the front door. Outside, on the lane between the museum and the Officers’ Club, she disengaged her arm from his hand. She said, “Lieutenants do not take the arm of female majors like that.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “No. The last time I had a drink with you it got in the papers.”

  He smiled. “That caused me some trouble . . . at home.”

  “Did it?” She stood silently a moment, then said, “Me too. I mean . . . I have that friend I told you about. The infantry colonel, in Washington. But I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  Tyson felt just a twinge of jealousy. He’d somehow assumed she had a boyfriend, but he didn’t particularly want it confirmed. He forced a smile. “I’ll write him a letter explaining. You write one for me.”

  “Sure. Listen to me, Lieutenant, I think you’re becoming a little too familiar.”

  “Sorry. I missed you.”

  “Stop that. Secondly, you’re a lousy tour guide.”

  “I know.”

  “Third, I have some important things to tell you.”

  Tyson drew a deep but discreet breath. He said in a light tone, “So you’ve finally reached a conclusion in your investigation?”

  “I’ve reached many conclusions.” She turned toward the Officers’ Club. “Follow me.”

  Tyson followed her into the club, through the foyer area to a steep and narrow stone staircase that wound up to the second floor of the club. As they walked Tyson said, “Observe that this level is built of brick, not granite, indicating it was built afterward. The big guns originally sat here when this was an open parapet and—”

  “I know all of that. I’ve had this tour. What is going to become of your tour group?”

  “They’ll get back on the bus and talk about us all the way back to the home.”

  She suppressed a smile. “You’re being mean. I thought they were cute.”

  “It’s mean to call them cute too. I don’t want to get that old.”

  “You may not.” They came to a long, roofed terrace whose seaward side was walled-in glass. Bright sunlight flooded through the glass, casting prismatic colors over the floor. Tyson said, “I found two reception rooms up here, either one of which would be perfect for a court-martial. Want to see them?”

  “The Washington room and the Jackson room. I know them.”

  “Good. What do you think? The Washington has a really neat cathedral ceiling, but the Stonewall Jackson room is rather more in time, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re in a flippant mood this afternoon.”

  Tyson looked through the glass. Below he could see the new dining wing to his right, the Shore Parkway beyond that, then the Narrows, spanned by the Verrazano Bridge. A mile away was the Staten Island shoreline. Tyson could make out the gray artillery fort called Battery Weed, which was the sister fort to the one he was standing in. “Nice view.” He lit a cigarette and asked, “Do I look as good in uniform as you imagined?”

  “I assure you I never gave any thought to how you would look in uniform. But, yes, you look fine. You didn’t get much hair taken off.”

  “I did. It grows back very quickly. By the way, did you ever find my umbrella?”

  “No. I told you I left it on the plane. Do you want me to pay you for it?”

  “It was a gift. Why don’t you just buy me a similar one? Black.”

  “All right. Black.” Karen Harper said, “I’ve been instructed to submit the report of my findings within five days.”

  “Good. Then we’ll all know where we stand.”

  “Yes, the waiting is the tough part. I didn’t mean to drag this out, but my resources have been limited by the provisions of Article 31 of the UCMJ, which, as you know, stipulates only a preliminary inquiry. Anyway, I’m to recommend one of two things: that the matter be dropped or that there is probable cause to believe that there was a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and that charges be drawn up and forwarded to an Article 32 investigating body for consideration.�
�� She continued, “My recommendation would not be binding, as you know.”

  “But still it carries some force, and you’re wondering what the Army wants you to recommend.”

  She replied strongly, “I don’t care what they want—”

  Tyson went on, “You’re trying to figure out if they want you to be the heavy. If Harper says go with it, then the machinery is set in motion to take the investigation to a grand jury, and it will be you who prodded them into it. But if Harper says ‘No go,’ then they shrug and reluctantly drop the case even though your recommendation is not binding. Then the media flak is diverted toward you. I don’t envy you.”

  Karen Harper let out a short breath. “Can I speak to you in confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  She hesitated, then began, “Well, I always thought this thing was partly staged, partly a put-up job. I mean, why would the Army place so much responsibility on one individual? Why me?”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  “This investigation should have been handled from the beginning by a trained staff—CID, FBI, Justice Department, and so forth. It should have lasted only long enough to determine if the facts warranted a grand jury investigation.”

  “True. But they’ve done nothing illegal so far.”

  “Well . . . perhaps not illegal. Just . . . unusual.” She looked directly at him. “Let me ask you something. Has anyone . . . anyone from the government approached you . . . with an offer?” Karen Harper waited. “Well? Has anyone other than me been speaking to you?”

  “No.”

  “You see, Lieutenant, I don’t like being played for a fool any more than you like being a scapegoat.”