Corva whispered to him, “I don’t think that asking for a public apology will endear you to the Army or to General Van Arken. I think they would rather court-martial you, which is what you seem to want.”
Tyson replied, “This court-martial is eighteen years overdue.”
Colonel Gilmer turned toward the prosecution table. “Do you wish to cross-examine Lieutenant Tyson on anything he said?”
Colonel Pierce replied, “No, I do not, but I can’t let that statement pass without comment.” He looked at Tyson. “Contrary to what you said, the dropping of charges is all that the Army has to do to restore your honor and reputation in the eyes of the Army. If you have problems in civilian life that is no concern of the Army.”
Tyson stood again, but Corva pulled him into his seat.
Colonel Gilmer looked at Corva. “Does the defense have anything further to offer?”
“No, sir, it does not.”
Colonel Gilmer glanced at his watch, cleared his throat, and said, “The purpose of this investigation was to determine if there was any substance to the charge and specifications initiated against the accused and to determine if that charge and those specifications were in proper form. The recommendation of this investigation is advisory only and is in no way binding upon the authorities who ordered it.”
Gilmer referred to a sheet of paper. “In arriving at my conclusions, I will consider not only the nature of the offense and the evidence in this case, but likewise the military service record of the accused and the established policy that trial by general court-martial should be resorted to only when the charges can be disposed of in no other manner consistent with military discipline.”
Colonel Farnley Gilmer looked around the quiet room. “My report and recommendation will be forwarded to the authorities who ordered this investigation. A copy will be forwarded to the accused. These proceedings are closed.”
CHAPTER
41
Benjamin Tyson began the last leg of his run, across the large open athletic field that lay behind the post headquarters.
The field was shrouded in a late September evening ground fog that obscured all but the lights of the surrounding buildings. Tyson moved at a slow pace through the clinging fog, realizing he’d lost his way in the disorienting white haziness.
He saw the tall white flagpole rising like a ship’s mast above the vapor and altered his course, passing to the left of the pole. He crossed a concrete sidewalk and found himself on Lee Avenue. He slowed his pace and turned toward post headquarters.
An MP Jeep drew up beside him, and the man in the passenger seat called out, “You still at it, Lieutenant?”
Tyson recognized the voice. He turned his head toward the Jeep, which was keeping pace with him. “This wouldn’t do you any harm either, Captain.”
Captain Gallagher grunted. He called out, “As long as you’re heading that way, why don’t you sign in at HQ? It’s nearly twenty-one hundred.”
Tyson didn’t answer. He changed his speed a few times, making the driver brake and accelerate to keep abreast.
Captain Gallagher added, “Then it’s back to your room, sonny. No kidding. You’ve been making us look bad, and we’re cracking down on your all-night runs.”
Again Tyson didn’t answer.
Gallagher inquired in a sarcastic tone, “Doesn’t your wife miss you?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Watch it, Lieutenant. I’ll haul your ass in.” He added in a conciliatory tone, “I’m trying to be helpful.”
Tyson said to the MP captain, “There must be a felony in progress somewhere, Captain. Why don’t you go find it like a good flatfoot?”
Captain Gallagher said something to the driver, and the Jeep sped away.
Tyson slowed to a walk and turned up the path of the headquarters building. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and shouldered the glass door open.
The duty sergeant behind the ticket window was Sergeant Lester of recent Article 32 fame.
The young buck sergeant looked up from his desk in the small duty room. “Hey, Lieutenant, how you doing?”
“Not bad, for a pack-a-day man.”
Lester laughed and stood. “You here to sign in?”
“No, Sergeant, I’m looking for my dog.”
“No dogs allowed on base.”
“That’s what I told him. Where’s the book?”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . yes, sir. Colonel Levin has it. He’s upstairs, and wants you to report to him.”
“Is that like him wanting to see me?”
“Same shit. Only you got to do the hand jive.” Lester whipped off a snappy salute and laughed.
Tyson took the steps three at a time, shadowboxed down the corridor to the amusement of two female clerks, and entered the adjutant’s outer office. He walked to Colonel Levin’s door and knocked sharply.
“Come in,” called Levin.
Tyson opened the door, stepped to his desk, and saluted. “Sir, Lieutenant Tyson reports.”
Levin returned the salute. “Sit down. You look bushed.”
“Yes, sir.” Tyson sat in a chair facing the desk. The room was in almost complete darkness, lit only by a gooseneck desk lamp that illuminated the papers in front of Levin but left his face in shadow.
Levin spoke from the shadows. “You’ve missed a good number of sign-ins.”
“Yes, sir.”
Levin observed, “You were running again.”
“Yes, sir. Practicing for my escape.”
Levin laughed. He stood and went to a file cabinet, returning with a bottle of premixed Manhattans and two water tumblers. He poured two drinks and handed one to Tyson.
Tyson put his drink on the edge of the colonel’s desk. He regarded Levin’s hands in the pool of light. The fingers of his left hand were nicotine-stained. Tyson waited, then broke the silence himself. “Working late?”
“Yes, tomorrow is a holiday. Yom Kippur. The day of atonement. I want to finish up by noon tomorrow.”
“Right. My son has the day off from school.”
“How are things going at home?”
“As well as can be expected. Child care and child amusement are a bit of a problem.”
“I know. I have three sons. But they’re grown now.”
“Career Army?” Tyson smiled.
“No, no. They saw too much of it. It’s very tough on family life. I had three hardship tours. One was for a year and a half in Korea. It takes a special woman to be an Army wife. It takes a lot of trust, too, when people are separated for that length of time.”
Tyson wondered if there was supposed to be a message there for him. He drank some of the warm Manhattan.
Levin observed, “Autumn is here. I used to like the season, but as I get older, it’s the spring and summer that I look forward to. ‘Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey toward oblivion . . . have you built your ship of death, oh have you?’”
Tyson finished his drink. “Is that a direct question?”
“No, that was D. H. Lawrence.” Levin picked a half cigar from the ashtray and lit it, his match briefly illuminating his face. Billows of smoke disappeared into the dark. Levin said, “What angers me is that the Army doesn’t really want a trial. They feel obligated in some way to the press, the White House, the Congress who approves their budgets, the Army and Defense secretaries, and even their own legal branch.”
Tyson unwrapped a piece of foil in which he kept a cigarette and a pack of matches. He lit the cigarette without permission. “There’s something obscene about carrying a cigarette in your jogging suit.”
Levin seemed not to hear, intent on his own thoughts. “If this case had come to light eighteen years ago, while you were still on active duty, the Army would have a dozen options open to them and to you. But ironically the passage of time has worked against you.” He added, “The options are limited to indicting or not indicting for murder.”
Tyson stubbed out his unsmoked cigarette in Levin
’s ashtray. “I gave them the option of a public apology.”
Levin smiled weakly. “The Army does not accept apologies from its officers and men, so I don’t think you can expect to receive one.”
“Quaint custom.”
Levin said, “I have some business to conduct with you.” He lifted a manila envelope from the right-hand drawer and laid it on the desk, then drew a sheaf of legal-size paper from the envelope and said, “The courier from Fort Dix arrived awhile ago. This”—he handed Tyson a printed form with typed papers attached—“is your copy of the Investigating Officer’s Report. If you go to the bottom of page three, item seventeen, you will see that Colonel Gilmer recommended trial by general court-martial.”
Tyson put the papers on Levin’s desk without looking at them.
Levin continued, “General Peters, on the advice of his Staff Judge Advocate, agreed with the recommendation. Here”—he handed Tyson a single sheet of typed paper—“is your copy of the orders convening a general court-martial.”
Tyson held the paper near the lamp and read the short document:
From: Major General George Peters, Post Commander, Fort Dix, New Jersey.
A general court-martial is hereby convened. It may proceed at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn, New York, on 15 October, to try such persons as may be properly brought before it. The Court will be constituted as follows:
Military Judge: Colonel Walter Sproule.
Members of the board: Colonel Amos Moore, Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Laski, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene McGregor, Major Donald Bauer, Major Virginia Sindel, Captain Herbert Morelli, Lieutenant James Davis.
Trial counsel: Colonel Graham Pierce, Major Judith Weinroth, Captain Salvatore Longo.
Defense counsel: Vincent Corva.
[Signed] George Peters, Major General, United States Army.
Tyson placed the sheet of paper atop the others. He looked at Levin awhile, then inquired, “Who do you think is the person who may be properly brought before this court-martial?”
Levin replied, “You may ask for a postponement. Speak to your lawyer.”
Tyson shook his head. “October 15th sounds fine.”
Colonel Levin handed Tyson a printed legal form. “The charge sheet.”
“I have several of these. Do I need another?”
Levin explained, “As you can see, at each stage of the process, more boxes are checked, more lines filled in. This is signed by Colonel Pierce now, and he will formally serve you with a copy of this tomorrow at a time and place to be arranged. You may have your lawyer present, but it’s not necessary.”
Tyson placed the charge sheet on Levin’s desk. “So that’s it? Indicted, charged, and ready to be tried. All tidied up. I know that justice delayed is justice denied, but as Corva said, the JAG Corps ought to wear his old Jungle Lightning patch.”
Levin did not respond.
Tyson stood and rubbed his neck. “My God, I was a commuter in May.” He laughed. “I’m glad it’s happening fast. Not much time to brood over it.”
Levin said, “There is one item on that charge sheet that disturbs me.”
“What is that, Colonel?”
“The endorsement.”
“What endorsement?”
“On page two,” said Levin, “where it says ‘subject to the following instructions.’ It is here that the convening authority usually gives special instructions to the court.”
“What sort of special instructions?”
“Usually a limit to the punishment that the court can impose. It is within the power of General Peters or the chain of command right up to the Commander in Chief to state a maximum punishment that can be awarded. For instance, in a capital crime, this space”—he pointed to a line on the charge sheet—“will often state something like . . . the death penalty may not be imposed. . . .”
Tyson picked up the charge sheet. There was nothing written in the place provided for special instructions. He looked at Levin. “Are you telling me I could be shot?”
“Well . . . that’s highly unlikely. An impossibility actually. . . . But I’m disturbed that General Peters didn’t exclude the death penalty as a possible—”
“You’re disturbed ? Colonel, I’m outraged.”
“Well, of course you are. It’s a threat. I’m really surprised . . . usually the government, the Justice Department, or someone will offer the accused some sort of guarantee in a capital crime—in exchange, of course, for something else. But I’m not qualified to talk about that. I do know, however, that no court-martial board is going to impose the death penalty.”
“How do you know that, Colonel? If the chain of command didn’t instruct General Peters to exclude it, this court-martial board which has been constituted”—Tyson tapped the convening orders—“may take that as a sign that the death penalty is precisely what the chain of command wants.”
“That’s an interesting observation,” admitted Levin. After a moment, he added, “But any sort of command influence, even subtle influence, is illegal.”
“That’s reassuring. I’m sure Colonel Gilmer’s recommendation to indict was based solely on the facts.” Tyson gathered the paperwork and stuffed it into the envelope. “If there’s nothing further, I’ll leave you to your work.”
Levin cleared his throat. “There is one thing further. You are, as of now, confined to your quarters. Confined means confined. You may not leave unless there is a medical emergency. If you feel you have a need to leave your quarters for any other reason, you must put a request in writing directed to General Peters at Fort Dix.”
“He’s the guy who wants to shoot me. And I don’t even know him.”
Levin poured Tyson another drink. “It’s not personal. There is nothing personal in any of this.”
“That’s the horror of it, Colonel.”
Levin swallowed half his drink. “Yes. I’m sorry about the confinement. I put in a good word for you, but when the honchos came here from Dix and looked at all the blanks in the sign-in book, the shit hit the fan.” Levin finished his drink. “Could have been worse. Could have been jail.”
Tyson took some of his Manhattan. He said quietly, “May I walk in my backyard?”
Levin looked down at his desk a long time. “I’m sure no one will mind that.” He added, “The confinement to quarters won’t be too long—only until the conclusion of the trial.”
Tyson nodded. “Then I go home. Wherever that may be.”
“Yes, then you go home.” Levin went to the window and contemplated the white clinging mist that carpeted everything below the second floor of the building. He said, “I’ve seen so many wonderful places in my life. I found peace once in a Swiss village. A peace that I never felt before or since.” He sipped his drink, then drew on his cigar. “At the end of the Book of Numbers, chapter thirty-five, there is a mention of creating six cities of refuge, places where a suspected killer may go to live in peace until passions cool and justice may be done. ‘Then the congregation shall judge between the slayer and the revenger of blood.’ Between the murderer and the man who killed for justifiable revenge or in the heat of the moment.”
Tyson didn’t reply.
Levin turned, put his glass on the desk, and put his cigar in the ashtray. “Your passport is in the middle drawer of my desk. I’ll be back in five minutes. You’ll be gone by then so I’ll say good night now. No need to salute.” He extended his hand, and Tyson took it.
Levin turned and left the room. Tyson came around the desk and opened the middle drawer. His blue-and-gold passport lay on top of a cigar box. He looked at it awhile, then closed the drawer.
Tyson left Levin’s office with the envelope of legal documents. He walked out into the vaporous night and headed back to his quarters. A pair of headlights appeared out of the fog behind him and lit the way. The vehicle stayed with him as he walked slowly down to the officer housing units.
He reached his front door, and the vehicle stopped at the curb. Captain Gallagher’s voice called out i
n the damp air. “Good night, Lieutenant Tyson.”
“Go fuck yourself, Captain Gallagher.”
Tyson entered the house and pulled the door shut behind him, realizing he would not open it again until the morning of his court-martial.
PART THREE
I shall tell you a great secret, my friend. Do not wait for the last judgment. It takes place every day.
—Camus
CHAPTER
42
Ben Tyson opened the front door of his housing unit and walked down the path. The MP driver saluted, and opened the rear door. Tyson took off his billed officer’s cap and slid in beside Vincent Corva.
Captain Gallagher, in the front passenger seat, turned his head, smiled, and said, “Where to?”
Tyson didn’t reply, but Corva said, “Take us to church.”
The driver pulled away from the curb. He drove slowly toward the U.S. Army Chapel on the corner of Roosevelt Lane and Grimes Avenue.
Within two minutes they approached the large redbrick chapel, with a long adjoining office wing. The extensive chapel complex had been built during the brief period when Fort Hamilton was the Army Chaplain School. As the staff car approached the chapel from the south, Tyson regarded the wide lawns and maple trees now a rich gold yellow. Beyond the chapel’s single spire rose the gray suspension tower on the Brooklyn side of the Verrazano Bridge. Tyson noticed that there were nearly a hundred people milling around the chapel steps.
The staff car jumped the curb and drove across the lawn, stopping directly in front of a small doorway in the north office wing of the chapel. Captain Gallagher turned to Corva and Tyson. “They want you to use this door.”
Corva replied, “Is that why you drove across the lawn and stopped right in front of it?”
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