“I don’t read the papers anymore. I’m reading Agatha Christie.”
“Well, this is a story dealing with the international implications of this case.” Corva scanned the page. “There is some talk of Vietnam taking the United States to the world court in The Hague. The moves toward normalization of relations between us and them have suffered a setback. That’s another reason some people in Washington don’t like you. Of course there are others who like you just fine for screwing it up.”
“That’s no concern of mine. Fuck Hanoi and Washington.”
“Right. Also, it seems that the governments whose nationals were alleged to have been among the victims—France, Belgium, Germany, Holland, and Australia—have taken a formal interest in the case. They are our allies, as you may know.”
Tyson shrugged. “Last month there was talk of the U.N. Commission on Genocide investigating. Genocide? Christ, that hospital was a virtual U.N. itself. We didn’t discriminate. Why is everyone trying to crucify us?”
“They don’t like us, Ben. Anyway, the Vietnamese ambassador to the U.N., according to this article, has stated that the People’s Republic would be favorably disposed toward allowing an international fact-finding team, including an American, to visit the site of the alleged incident—Miséricorde Hospital and environs. The Vietnamese ambassador also suggested there may be witnesses available. Also, Hanoi has sent out a photograph of the former hospital which the Times has reproduced.” He handed the full-page story to Tyson.
Tyson looked at the photograph. It showed a two-story white stucco building without a roof. Its walls were remarkably whiter than when he’d last seen fire licking out of the windows. But it couldn’t have been repainted because it was obviously just a shell. Perhaps the monsoon had washed it, and the sun had bleached it like a bone. There were vines climbing up the sides, and he could see through the windows to the sky beyond.
The hospital blazed in the dirty winter rain. The men of the first platoon of Alpha Company stood close, within ten meters, warming their sodden fatigues by the fire. Tyson noticed the steam rising from their uniforms and saw the red flames reflected in their wet, shiny faces.
In the distance, artillery shells exploded, and a war plane streaked overhead, only its jet flame visible through the overcast. Tyson became aware of the crackling sound coming from the hospital as its teak timbers ignited and began splitting. There were noxious odors drifting out of the fiery windows—medical supplies, bedding, flesh.
Without orders the men had formed a cordon around the walls of the rectangular building. They had shown good initiative, Tyson thought, an instinctive deployment without verbal orders, an understanding that the horror inside that hospital had to be kept inside.
A figure appeared at the front doors, a young woman in a white dressing gown carrying an infant. The baby was heavily wrapped in what looked like a GI-issue olive-drab towel. The woman gently pitched the infant into a tangle of ground vines to the side of the entrance just as a burst of gunfire slammed her back through the doors.
Tyson looked at where the shooting had come from and saw Richard Farley loading another magazine into his M-16.
Another figure appeared from a set of French doors at a second-story balcony on the east side of the building. Tyson saw it was a naked boy about twelve years old with an amputated leg. The boy hesitated, looked quickly back through the French doors, then closed his eyes and vaulted over the balcony railing. He dropped into a kitchen garden, landing on his knee and amputated stump. As he struggled to right himself, Tyson saw he had a white handkerchief that he was waving. Tyson heard the dull pop of Lee Walker’s grenade launcher and saw the boy’s chest explode in a mass of flying blood.
Suddenly a man with his head swathed in bandages burst out the front doors of the hospital and raced across the courtyard at full speed, barefoot and wearing only pajama bottoms. He passed within twenty meters of Tyson, and Tyson realized he’d actually made it through the cordon.
Hernando Beltran swung his machine gun around and began firing furiously as the man approached a thick hedgerow at the end of the plaza. The man was obviously a soldier because he moved like a broken-field runner, avoiding the bursts of gunfire. Beltran was swearing in Spanish. The man reached the hedgerow and jumped, but his body suddenly contorted as a burst of bullets hit him, and he landed, tangled in the hedges. The probing red fingers of the tracer rounds found him and tore into him, mowing the hedges down until the man lay lifeless in a tangled clump of twigs and leaves.
Tyson turned away, back toward the hospital. He noticed a movement on the pitched roof. About six people had come up through the louvered dormer that acted as an air vent to the attic and were clinging to the red terra-cotta tile. One of them, a man wearing the white pants and shirt of the hospital staff, moved cautiously toward the branches of the huge overhanging banyan tree. He chinned himself on a branch and began making his way toward the tree trunk, disappearing into the dense foliage. A Vietnamese nurse followed him. Tyson watched with mixed feelings, wanting them to escape, but knowing if they did, they would eventually make contact with the Vietnamese or American authorities.
Tyson’s mind raced ahead. The platoon would be called back to base camp. As soon as they got off the helicopters, they would be surrounded by MPs, disarmed, and marched en masse to the stockade. He’d seen that happen once at Camp Evans, though he never learned what it was about. But the image of that once-proud fighting unit, hands on their heads, being ordered around by a platoon of spit-polished, sneering MPs, had affected him deeply.
Tyson kept staring at the spreading banyan tree. He saw that it was possible to escape that way. And that was comforting because that was the way Teresa had gone earlier, before his men had left the burning hospital and surrounded it.
Paul Sadowski said, “What do you see, Lieutenant?”
Tyson turned away from the tree and didn’t answer.
Sadowski’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit! Oh, Christ!” He called out to Beltran. “Put some fire in that tree.”
Beltran picked up the M-60 machine gun and, firing from the hip, began spraying the banyan tree with long bursts of rounds, while Brontman fed the ammunition belts from a metal box. The second machine gun, manned by Michael DeTonq and Peter Santos, began raking the sloping roof. The red tile cracked and splattered into flying fragments. Tyson saw what they were shooting at on the roof: Partly hidden by branches of the tree were two female patients in hospital gowns, an old man, and a little girl with bright red legs, burned legs, the color of the tile. DeTonq’s machine gun got the range quickly, and the four bodies, one after the other, tumbled down the roof, hit the rain gutter, bounced, and dropped along the wall to the ground. The machine gun followed them even in death and spewed burst after burst into the bushes where they’d fallen. Infantrymen, Tyson reflected, had seen too many kills suddenly get up and run away or shoot at them as they approached. As the expression went, “They’re not dead until they’re dead.”
Beltran’s machine gun, which was still firing into the tree, was now joined by DeTonq’s and by a few M-16s and shotguns. The banyan tree was losing branches, dropping leaves, and shedding bark rapidly. The nurse fell out of the tree first and dropped to the ground by the far side of the hospital where Tyson could not see her. Harold Simcox ran toward the base of the tree, and Tyson saw him raise his rifle and empty an entire magazine at the ground.
Tyson looked back at the top of the tree. He could make out the white clothing of the man trying to hide in the foliage. The man seemed to be hit, and Tyson thought he saw red stains on the white clothing, but the man hung tenaciously to the trunk. Lee Walker fired a grenade, which burst on a branch over the man’s head. Tyson heard a long mournful cry as the man released his grip and fell, bouncing through the branches. Again Simcox, still under the tree, finished the job.
There was no sound for some time except for the rain and crackling fire, and no one else appeared at any of the hospital doors or windows. Tyson saw several
men glancing at him and figured it was his turn next. They had taken his rifle and .45 automatic pistol in the hospital, and he felt oddly naked without the weapons he’d carried and slept with for nearly a year.
Kelly was beside him now, his PRC-25 radio on his back, the radiophone in his hand. He was speaking to someone. Kelly gave the phone to Tyson. “Captain Browder.”
Tyson took the radiophone. He was aware that several men had moved closer to him. He squeezed the transmit button and spoke. “Mustang One-Six here. Over.”
Browder’s voice came across weak. “Roger. One-Six. Need a sit rep and hawkeye,” he said, using the radio code word for grid coordinates.
“Roger. Situation . . . sniper fire. Village of An Ninh Ha—Hawkeye of Yankee Delta, seven-two, five; two-one, six. How copy?”
Browder read the coordinates back and asked, “Need help? Artillery or gunships?”
“Negative. Light, ineffective fire. Vicinity of stucco buildings. We’ll take a look-see.”
“Roger. I haven’t monitored any radio traffic from you in a while. I thought you’d all gone to sleep or died.”
Tyson licked his lips and replied, “Nothing to report.”
“Sniper fire is something to report. You still drawing fire?”
“Roger. We’re going to move closer.”
“Okay, be careful. Keep me informed. Hey, are you all right?”
Tyson was momentarily thrown off-guard by the question. He replied, “We’re all okay. Tired.”
The radio was quiet a few seconds, then Browder said, “Roger that. Take care of the snipers and proceed toward Hue.”
“Roger.”
“Out.”
Tyson gave the radiophone back to Kelly. He looked at the men around him but showed no fear. He looked back at the hospital and saw it was fully ablaze now, and every window had bright orange flames curling out of it.
The remainder of the platoon had assembled in the open plaza in front of the hospital, knowing there was no one left alive inside. Nobody spoke, and the only sound was the rain in the palm fronds, the rain on the plaza, the rain in the puddles, and the rain on their helmets, heavier now, washing away the sound of the burning hospital and the movement of boots and rifles.
A sudden loud report caused everyone to turn, and a few men dropped into firing positions, aiming toward the hospital. The heated roof tiles were exploding, scattering hot shards of clay over the plaza. The men moved back. They waited. Finally the roof sagged and caved in, dropping onto the second floor which in turn collapsed onto the ground floor, leaving the hollow concrete shell of the building standing like a giant glowing oven. As if that were the signal they had been waiting for, the men began picking up their field gear and ammunition.
They divided up into their decimated squads, ready to move out. A few men looked at Tyson, waiting out of habit for an order, a signal, though Lieutenant Tyson was clearly not in charge any longer. Kelly pulled a .45 pistol from his web belt—Tyson’s .45—and handed it to Tyson. Tyson slipped it into his holster, noting that no one came forward with his rifle. Kelly said quietly, “Get them moving.”
Tyson didn’t respond.
Kelly said more urgently, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Tyson looked around the plaza, beyond his assembled platoon, and scanned the picturesque houses and neat gardens bordering the open area. He wondered where she had gone, if she was watching them from some hiding place. He realized now that she would tell what happened, and he realized also that there might be other witnesses in this apparently dead and abandoned village.
Kelly seemed to understand at least part of what he was thinking. Kelly said, “Don’t worry about the villagers. They can’t say for sure what happened. The people in there”—he nodded toward the hospital—“they won’t say a thing. Let’s put some distance between us and this place. Before a command chopper comes by and asks what’s going on.” Kelly looked at Tyson awhile, then raised his arm and called out. “Saddle up! Movin’ out!” He brought his arm down and pointed east toward a wide village lane that opened onto the plaza. Kelly gave Tyson a nudge, and the platoon began moving. Kelly said to him loudly, “Hell of a firefight. Right?”
Tyson looked down the line of men and saw Bob Moody being carried by Brontman and Simcox on a stretcher that they must have gotten from the hospital. Moody was smoking a cigarette and talking animatedly, the way the lightly wounded always did when they realized what could have happened to them and didn’t.
Farther down the line, Holzman and Walker were carrying a bamboo pole on their shoulders. Slung from the pole was a green-gray rubber poncho, and in the poncho was the fetal-curled body of Arthur Peterson, who had died sometime during the time his platoon had been killing the doctors and nurses who might have saved him.
Behind him, Richard Farley was trudging under a heavy weight: Strapped to his A-frame, in place of his pack, like a deer, was the body of Larry Cane. Cane’s head bobbed above Farley’s left shoulder, his face covered with a big olive-drab handkerchief as was the procedure. But the tied handkerchief had slipped, and Tyson saw Cane’s face, one eyelid still open. Someone had wiped the blood that had gushed from his nose and mouth, but there was still a smear of it on his chin, and his parted lips revealed red teeth.
Tyson stared at the white face as Farley drew nearer. Then Tyson looked at Farley’s face in bizarre juxtaposition to the dead face behind him. Tyson’s and Farley’s eyes met and held. Farley’s lips formed words, but Tyson heard nothing. Tyson reached out and retied the handkerchief firmly around Cane’s face, feeling the cool clammy skin.
Tyson turned and began walking with his platoon. At least, he thought, they had two KIAs to back up a story of a battle. He hoped no one back at graves registration could tell that Cane had been shot at point-blank range with an Army .45-caliber pistol.
Kelly said, “Where we heading?”
Tyson looked at him. “Hell.”
Kelly nodded. “Well, get out your map, Lieutenant, and show us the way.”
“Ben? Are you listening to me?”
Tyson’s eyes focused on the photograph of the hospital. The banyan tree was still there, bigger now, its branches dropping into the roofless hulk. He handed the newspaper page back to Corva. “Don’t recognize the place.”
“Nevertheless, the Hanoi government states this is Hôpital Miséricorde. Or was.”
“Commies lie. Everyone knows that.”
Corva continued, “I wonder if a team of experts could tell by the bullet pocks on the concrete what sort of shooting took place there. I mean, I assume the shot groups or shot patterns of a massacre might look different from those of a firefight.”
Tyson didn’t respond.
“Also the Hanoi government is excavating the groundfloor rubble, though I imagine the bodies must have been removed sometime after the Tet Offensive ended.”
Tyson lit a cigarette.
Corva said, “Whatever was left there would have been used as ash fertilizer by the villagers. The vultures, beetles, and worms got the rest. Still, the concrete shell may reveal something, and this is the first possible physical evidence we’ve had to deal with.”
“Should I be concerned?”
Corva thought a moment. “The Times story doesn’t indicate that anyone in our government has accepted this invitation.”
Tyson observed, “This invitation comes from the same people who massacred two thousand men, women, and children of Hue on the other side of the city. Where the hell do they get their nerve? I’d like to take an international commission to the Strawberry Patch and show them where I found the mass graves.”
Corva said ironically, “That’s not the way it works, Ben. American atrocities are more atrocious than communist atrocities. You know that.” Corva added, “Anyway, this mess is making our government unhappy.” He sighed deeply. “Damn it. I always knew this thing would make us look bad. Why do we always do this to ourselves?”
“Because,” replied Tyson, “we do
it better than anyone else could do it to us.”
Corva shook his head absently. “Anyway, in answer to your question, it is my guess that the White House will tell the North Viets to take their kind invitation and shove it up their asses. Diplomatically.”
“But the other countries will send people to Hue.”
Corva rubbed his lower lip. “Yes, and they may discover something. But I’ve already informed the Justice Department that if they think they are going to introduce at an American court-martial any evidence gathered in a communist country by foreigners, they’d better be prepared for a ten-year legal battle, not to mention public outrage. I think they understood. We’ll see.”
Tyson commented, “You place a lot of faith in American public opinion.”
“You should too. There is not much we can do about negative world opinion. But did you see that poll that indicated that an incredible seventy-eight percent of the American public thinks you are being made a scapegoat?”
“I missed that one.”
“I have a clipping service that sends me anything with your name in it.”
“Good.”
“You’ve become a focal point, Ben, for a lot of pent-up feelings here and abroad.”
Tyson shrugged. “Not my fault. I’d as soon drop the whole thing.”
Corva added, “Like the Dreyfus court-martial, this is perceived as a case that transcends Benjamin Tyson and the first platoon of Alpha Company.”
“Is that so?”
Corva pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Enough of international diplomacy and the state of the Union. Let’s move on to more important business. I had a pleasant chat with Major Harper last week. In my office.”
Tyson said casually, “Did you?”
“Nice piece of goods, Ben.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, I did. Anyway, she’s too tall for me.”
“Actually you are too short for her. What did she want?”
“Oh, just wanted to brief me on a few items. The most significant of which is that the FBI has located Hernando Beltran, Lee Walker, and Louis Kalane.”
Word of Honor Page 47