Word of Honor Page 2

  But after the book was completed, I think it did me more good than harm, and I hope I can say the same for my readers.

  In January of 1997, I returned to Vietnam for three weeks with two friends who had also served there during the Tet Offensive.

  In early February we arrived in the city of Hue on the eve of the lunar New Year—the Tet Holiday. It had been exactly twenty-nine years since the start of the Tet Offensive that had so changed our lives and changed the course of the war.

  We checked into a three-star hotel, making the appropriate jokes about how the accommodations in Vietnam had gotten better since our last visit.

  Later, we went out into the city and joined the celebration of the New Year. We ate, we drank, we watched the fireworks and the dragon dances, we spoke to the people and patted kids on the head. We told some fellow Americans about the Tet Offensive in 1968. We went to bed very late, very tired, and a little drunk. I had no war dreams that night, and I woke up in a fine mood, except for a little hangover. My traveling companions reported no nightmares either.

  After I came home, I realized that the return trip to Vietnam had been emotional and a little sad to be sure, but it had not been traumatic and had not produced any nightmares while there or afterward. So, in the words of William Manchester, “Goodbye Darkness.”

  In one passage of my novel, Tyson’s attorney, Vincent Corva, says to Tyson, “Let me tell you something—let me reveal to you the one great truth about war, Mr. Tyson, and it is this: Ultimately all war stories are bullshit. From a general’s memoirs to an ex-Pfc’s boasting in a saloon, it is all bullshit. I have never heard a true war story, and I never told one, and neither have you.”

  And so, with that fair warning, I invite you to read this war story that isn’t true and isn’t even a war story.

  Nelson DeMille

  Long Island, New York

  PART ONE

  It is easier to find false witnesses against the civilian than anyone willing to speak the truth against the interest and honor of the soldier.

  —Juvenal

  CHAPTER

  1

  Ben Tyson folded his Wall Street Journal and stared out the window of the speeding commuter train. The dreary borough of Queens rolled by, looking deceptively habitable in the bright May morning sunshine.

  Tyson glanced at the man in the facing seat, John McCormick, a neighbor and social acquaintance. McCormick was reading a hardcover book, and Tyson focused on the title: Hue: Death of a City.

  McCormick flipped back a page and reread something, then glanced over the book and made unexpected eye contact with Tyson. He dropped his eyes quickly back to the book.

  Tyson felt a sudden sense of foreboding. He focused again on the book jacket. The cover showed a red-tinged photograph of the ancient imperial city of Hue, a low-angle aerial perspective. The city spread out on both sides of the red-running Perfume River, the bridges broken and collapsed into the water. Great black and scarlet billows of smoke hung over the blazing city, and the sun, a crimson half ball, rose over the distant South China Sea, silhouetting the dominant features of the town: the Imperial Palace, the high walls and towers of the Citadel, and the soaring spires of the Catholic cathedral. A remarkable picture, Tyson thought. He nodded to himself. Hue. Tyson said, “Good book?”

  McCormick looked up with feigned nonchalance. “Oh, not bad.”

  “Did I get an honorable mention?”

  McCormick hesitated a moment, then without a word, he handed Tyson the opened book.

  Ben Tyson read:

  On the sixteenth day of the battle of Hue, 15 February, an American rifle platoon found itself pinned down by enemy fire in the western suburbs of the city. The platoon was an element of Alpha Company, Fifth Battalion of the Seventh Cavalry Regiment, of the First Air Cavalry Division. As a point of historical interest, the Seventh Cavalry was the ill-fated regiment commanded by General Custer at the Little Big Horn.

  The rifle platoon under fire was led by a twenty-five-year-old Auburn ROTC graduate, Lieutenant Benjamin J. Tyson, a New Yorker.

  Tyson continued to stare at the open book without reading. He glanced at McCormick, who seemed, Tyson thought, embarrassed. Tyson continued reading.

  The following account of what happened that day is drawn from interviews with two members of Tyson’s platoon whom I will identify only as Pfc X and Specialist Four Y. The story, heretofore untold, was originally brought to my attention by a nun of mixed French and Vietnamese ancestry named Sister Teresa. Further details regarding the provenance of this story may be found at the conclusion of this chapter.

  Tyson closed his eyes. Through the blackness an image took shape: a Eurasian girl, dressed in white, with a silver cross hanging between her breasts. Her body was fuller than that of a Vietnamese, and there was a slight wave in her long black hair. She had high cheekbones and almond eyes, but her eyes were soft brown, and there was just the suggestion of freckles on her nose. As he held the image in his mind’s eye, the mouth turned up in a smile that seemed to transform her whole face, making the features more strongly Gallic. The Cupid’s-bow mouth pursed, and she spoke softly, “Tu es un homme intéressant.”

  “Et tu, Térèse, es une femme intéressante.”

  Tyson opened his eyes. He looked back at the page:

  The enemy fire directed at Tyson’s men was coming from the vicinity of a small French hospital named Hôpital Miséricorde. The hospital, operated by a Catholic relief agency, was flying two flags: a Red Cross flag and a Viet Cong flag.

  The firefight had erupted shortly before noon as the American platoon approached. The platoon quickly took cover, and there were no initial casualties. After about five minutes of intense firing, the enemy broke contact and withdrew toward the city.

  Someone in the hospital then draped a white bed sheet from a second-story window, indicating surrender or “all clear.” Seeing the white sheet, Lieutenant Tyson began moving his platoon up to take possession of the hospital and surrounding structures. The enemy, however, had left behind at least one sniper, positioned on the hospital’s roof. As the Americans approached, shots rang out, killing one American, Pfc Larry Cane, and wounding two others, Sgt. Robert Moody and Pfc Arthur Peterson. There was a possible second sniper positioned at one of the windows.

  Tyson paused again, and his mind returned to that day in 1968. It had been one of the worst days of the massive enemy offensive that had begun on the lunar New Year holiday called Tet, ushering in the Year of the Monkey.

  He vividly recalled the sky, so blackened with smoke that he wouldn’t have known it was an overcast day except for the cold rain falling through the ash.

  He heard, in the steady rumbling of the train, the persistent pounding of impacting mortars and the ceaseless staccato chatter of automatic weapons.

  The train whistle blew at a crossing, and Tyson recalled very clearly the blood-freezing shriek of incoming rockets, exploding with an earthshaking thunder so intense that it took a few seconds to realize you were still alive.

  And the dead, Tyson remembered, the dead lay everywhere. Trails and fields surprised you with sprawled, slaughtered corpses; hamlets were littered with the unburied dead. The Graves Registration people wore gas masks and rubber gloves, recovering only the American dead, burning the rest in pyres stoked with diesel oil and ignited with flamethrowers. Bonfires, bone fires, crackling fat, and grinning skulls. He could still smell the burnt human hair.

  Tyson recalled what his company commander, Captain Browder, had said: “The living are in the minority here.” And Browder himself joined the majority not long after.

  Death, he remembered, was so pervasive in that bleak dying city, in that bleak and rainy winter, that the living—civilian and soldier alike—had almost ceased to struggle against it. People would, out of instinct, duck or take cover, but you could see in their eyes that they had no prospects for the future. Hue: Death of a City. Hue: City of Death. No wonder, he thought, we all went mad there.

&nbs
p; Tyson drew himself back to the book. He skipped a page and read at random:

  A French nurse, Marie Broi, attempted to stop the Americans from killing the wounded enemy soldiers, but she was struck with a rifle. An Australian physician named Evan Dougal began swearing abusively at the Americans. Clearly, everyone was overwrought; nearly hysterical might be a better term.

  Suddenly, with no forewarning, an American soldier fired a burst from his automatic rifle, and Dr. Dougal was hurled by the force of the rounds across the room. Spec/4 Y describes it as follows: “He [Dougal] was thrashing around on the tile floor holding his stomach. His white smock was getting redder and his face was getting whiter.”

  The ward that had been in pandemonium a few seconds before was now very still except for the dying sounds made by Dr. Dougal. Pfc X remembers hearing whimpering and crying from the adjoining pediatric and maternity ward.

  What happened next is somewhat unclear, but apparently, having murdered the first Caucasian, several members of Tyson’s platoon decided it would be best to leave no witnesses. The doctors, nurses, and nuns were ordered into a small whitewashed operating room and—

  “Jamaica Station!” cried the conductor. “Change here for trains to New York! Stay on for Brooklyn!”

  Tyson closed the book and stood.

  McCormick remained seated and said hesitantly, “Do you want to borrow—?”

  “No.”

  Tyson crossed the platform to make his connection, wondering why this had happened on such a sunny day.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Tyson looked down from his office window and focused on Park Avenue, twenty-eight stories below. One version of the American dream, he reflected, was an office aerie like this one—a commanding height from which the captains of industry and commerce directed the nine-to-five weekday battle against government, consumers, environmentalists, and one another. Having arrived here, Tyson discovered that he had no particular enthusiasm for the fight. But he had wisely not dwelt too long on this discovery. And besides, the world had changed for him somewhere between Hollis and Jamaica Station.

  Miss Beale, his secretary, spoke. “Do you want to finish this letter?”

  Tyson turned from the window and glanced at the seated woman. “You finish the letter.”

  Miss Beale stood, her steno pad held to her ample chest. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Tyson looked Miss Beale in the eye. Miss Beale, like many secretaries, was alert to signs of weakness in her employer. A little weakness could be exploited. Too much weakness, however, foreshadowed visions of the unemployment line for both of them. Tyson replied, “Of course I’m not all right. Do I look all right?”

  She was momentarily discomposed and muttered, “No . . . you . . . I mean . . .”

  He said, “Cancel my lunch date and my afternoon appointments.”

  “Are you leaving for the day?”

  “Most probably.”

  Miss Beale turned and left.

  Tyson gazed around his office. He wondered what color offices were before the discovery of beige.

  He opened his coat-closet door and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He was just over six feet tall and he thought he carried it well. Tyson brushed his gray pinstripe suit, straightened his tie and vest, and finger-combed his sandy hair. There were few corporate images he did not fit, few armies in the world where he would not be described as every inch an officer and a gentleman.

  Tall people were more successful, so said the studies done on the subject of success in business. Yet the president of his corporation was five feet, two inches. In fact, most of the principal executives in the company and the parent company were under five feet six. And with good reason, he thought: They were all Japanese.

  Tyson closed the closet and walked to his desk. He sat and sipped absently on a cup of cold coffee, then his eyes drifted to a piece of company stationery: Peregrine-Osaka. When Peregrine Electronic Aviation had been acquired by Osaka, Tyson had not been happy, and his spirits had not improved in the two years since the takeover.

  He was no racist, he told himself, and yet looking down on Mr. Kimura when they conversed was awkward, and being addressed as Ty-sun was somehow grating.

  The Japanese were subtle, and their presence was delicate and gentle. Yet in some indefinable way they ruled with an iron hand. Tyson, unasked, had removed his war mementos from his walls: his Army commission, citations, and photographs—objets de guerre that had had some cachet with Defense Department customers, that had been looked on favorably by Peregrine’s former owner and founder, Charlie Stutzman, but which now did not fit the new regime’s psychological decor. Also making its way home in his briefcase was a photograph of his father in his Navy flier’s uniform. His father’s Grumman Hellcat could be seen in the background on the deck of the carrier Lexington, three rising suns painted on the fuselage. Three dead Japs.

  Mr. Kimura had studied the photo intently one day but had no comment. Tyson waited one face-saving week before removing it.

  Tyson stood, picked up his slim attaché case, and exited his office. He passed Miss Beale’s desk, aware of her keen gaze.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Ben Tyson walked east on 42nd Street and turned into a small bookshop near Grand Central Station. On a table marked RECENT ARRIVALS sat a tall stack of them, red, black, and white spines facing him. The top of the stack was crowned with a standing display copy. Tyson took the copy and leafed through it.

  Interspersed with the text were photograph sections, and every few chapters there were classical military map drawings of Hue and environs. The book fell open to the title page, and Tyson saw that it was autographed by Andrew Picard.

  “The author was in here yesterday.”

  Tyson looked up into the eyes of a young woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that said “New York Is Book Country.”

  She continued, “We just got those in last week. He bought a copy for me and signed it. I read part of it last night. I try to at least scan the major books that come in.”

  Tyson nodded.

  She went on, “It’s in the style of the big battle through the eyes of little people.” She appraised Tyson closely. “Were you there? Nam, I mean.”

  Tyson replied, “Quite possibly.”

  She smiled. “Well, I’d recommend it as a good read—if you were there. Not really my taste.”

  Tyson said, “There’s supposed to be a part in here about a massacre of a French hospital.”

  She grimaced. “Right. Really gross.” She thought a moment, then said, “How could we do something like that?”

  Tyson marveled at how the young used the first-person pronoun to include and indict themselves for the depredations of the government and the military. He said, “It was a long time ago. I’ll take the book.”

  * * *

  Tyson went to the corner of 42nd and Second and entered Ryan McFadden’s, a sort of upscale Irish pub. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he moved to the long bar, taking an empty stool. The establishment’s clientele was eclectic: foreigners from the nearby U.N., local media people from the WPIX–Daily News building across the avenue, and a smattering of literati whose presence seemed a mystery to the owners, who did not encourage that sort of trade. It was not the type of place frequented by businessmen, and he did not expect to run into any of his associates. One of the owners, Dan Ryan, greeted him warmly. “Ben, how’s life been treating you?”

  Tyson pondered several answers, then replied, “Not too bad.”

  Ryan ordered him a Dewar’s and soda, with the traditional Irish publican’s “Good luck.”

  Tyson raised his glass. “Slainté.”

  Ryan moved off to greet a group of newcomers. For the first time since he’d opened Picard’s book that morning, Tyson’s thoughts turned exclusively to his wife: Marcy was not the type of wife one saw on the news, standing staunchly beside a prominent husband accused of political corruption, embezzlement, or sexual wr
ongdoing. She was very much her own woman and gave her loyalty selectively, as it should be given. She was not, for instance, a good corporate wife, and in fact had a career of her own as well as a mind of her own. She had been and still was violently antiwar, antimilitary, and anti-anything that didn’t fit neatly into her own left-of-center view of the world. Her reaction to the book would be revealing, Tyson thought.

  Tyson opened his attaché case and took the book. He set it on the bar and scanned the pertinent chapter quickly, unwilling to actually read or comprehend any more of it, like someone who has gotten a Dear John letter or a telegram about a death. His name jumped out at him in various forms: Tyson’s platoon; Lieutenant Tyson; Tyson’s men; Tyson’s medic; Tyson’s radio operator. . . .

  He shut the book, finished his drink, and ordered another. After some time he opened the book to a page he had dog-eared, and read a passage:

  As the platoon approached, they were presented with three conflicting signals: the Viet Cong flag, the Red Cross flag, and the white sheet. The latter may have lulled them into a false sense of security as they crossed the exposed courtyard in front of the building. Suddenly shots rang out, and Larry Cane was killed instantly. Moody and Peterson were hit. The platoon took cover and returned the fire.

  Of the two wounded, Moody’s injury was slight, but Peterson’s wound was critical. The morale of the platoon, not good to begin with, became worse. There was a feeling of helpless rage and impotence among the men, a feeling that they’d been duped and deceived.