Word of Honor (34 page)

He thought of the first time he had seen Teresa, a month earlier on his first trip to Hue. He had gone to the Phu Cam Cathedral with a Catholic officer and attended mass. Two dozen nuns were taking communion together, and among them was

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this singularly beautiful Eurasian, hands pressed together, returning from the communion rail to her pew. The officer he was with noticed her, too, and so did most of the Europeans around him, or so he believed.

After mass he saw her again in the square speaking with a Vietnamese Catholic family. At Tyson's urging he and the American officer he was with approached. Tyson introduced himself and the officer in French.

Even then, he reflected, he couldn't imagine not seeing her again. And today he had. And now they both understood that any subsequent meetings were at their own peril.

Tyson sat in the jeep a while longer, then noticed it was nearly dark.

Hue had a late curfew, midnight to 5 A.M., but MAC-V wanted their charges safely tucked into the compound by dark. Unless you'd made other sleeping arrangements and informed them of the lady's address.

Tyson threw the jeep into gear and traveled the few hundred meters to the MAC-V compound. The sentry waved him through the barbed-wire gate between the high concrete walls.

Tyson opened his eyes and saw by the illuminated clock on the nightstand that it was three-fifteen. The city was darker now, and he could see stars high above the horizon.

Several images vied for attention in his mind: Teresa, Karen Harper, Marcy, the wall, the hospital, and Hue. It was as if the past were overtaking the present and about to become the future.

_0 Benjamin Tyson entered Sag Harbor from Brick Kiln Road.

He

the narrow streets, past

early eighteenth-cen

tury houses of white

clapboard and gray

shingle.

The drive in the

rented TR6 had taken

22 nearly three hours from

-his apartment in Man-

hattan, and it was already twilight here on the eastern end of Long Island. There was no streetlighting, and the tree lined roads lay in darkness.

Tyson realized he was in a part of the town that he did not know. He pulled the Triumph to the curb and got out. The air was damp and briny, with misty auras shimmering around the post lamps near the entrance to the tightly spaced houses.

Tyson reached back into the car and retrieved a book. He zippered his windbreaker and began walking west, to-265

266 * NELSON DEMILLE

ward the setting sun. At length he recognized a street and turned into it, and within a few minutes he came to Main Street. There were a good number of people promenading to the Long Wharf and back, entering and leaving several taverns and restaurants. People sat on the veranda of the old American Hotel, rocking in their bentwood rockers, throwing back drinks on the aft roll and returning the glass to a rest position on the forward roll.

Tyson crossed Main Street and turned into a small lane, following it downhill toward the water. He had remembered where he'd seen the mailbox so long ago and found the house, a very old cedar-shingled saltbox sitting on a small bluff above the body of water called the Lower Cove. A tilted picket fence surrounded the house and the unkept grounds. The mailbox still said Picard/Wells. The lights were on.

Tyson opened the gate and approached by way of a footpath paved with broken shells. With no hesitation-because he had not come this far to have second thoughts-he raised the brass knocker and brought it down hard on the black-painted door. He heard footsteps, and the door opened. "Yes. I I Tyson did not reply.

Andrew Picard peered at his visitor in the dim light of the porch lamp.

Finally Picard's eyebrows rose. "Oh. . . . "

Tyson stared at him, and neither spoke for some time. Picard showed what Tyson thought was a good deal of cool, or perhaps it was the alcohol that Tyson smelled on his breath.

Tyson regarded the tall, lanky man standing a few feet from him. He was wearing blue jeans and a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was very tan, and his longish hair appeared to be bleached by the sun and salt. Tyson knew him to be a preppie and a Yalie, and had heard his voice on radio and TV, so the words tweedy and madras-covered marshmallow entered his mind. But the reality belied this unkind prejudice, and Tyson reminded himself he was looking at an ex-Marine officer who by all accounts had done his duty.

Picard said simply, "Come in."

Tyson fo Ilowed him into the foyerless room. A stereo WORD OF HONOR e 267

was playing Paul McCartney's "Hey Jude." Tyson's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. It was, he saw, a large open space, created by the removal of all the interior walls where hand-hewn posts still stood. The simple painted furnishings all looked as if they had been bought at a Quaker garage sale. Three hooked rugs sat on the rough floorboards, and a fireplace of round river stone dominated the left-hand wall. A small coal fire in the grate warmed and dried the sea air.

At the rear of the open room was a long countertop separating an enclosed porch that held what had once been called a summer kitchen. The rear windows of the kitchen looked out onto the cove, and Tyson saw the lights of Baypoint across the water and picked out the deck lights of his house.

Shadows moved in front of the sliding glass doors, and he felt his heart give a sudden thump.

Picard said, "Are you here to kill me?"

Tyson turned from the window. "The thought never crossed my mind."

"Fine, then how about a drink?"

"I don't need one, but if you do, go ahead."

Picard did not reply. His eyes dropped to the book in Tyson's hand.

"I came for your autograph." He held out the book.

Picard took it and smiled. "The Quest. One of my early ones. Did you like it?"

"Not bad."

"Fiction is fun. Nonfiction sometimes gets people upset." Picard placed the book on the oval dining table and opened it. "This is a library book.

Garden City. And it's overdue." Picard shrugged. "Pen?"

Tyson handed him a pen.

Picard thought a moment, then wrote: For Ben Tyson, Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time passing. Best, Andrew Picard.

He handed the open book to Tyson, and Tyson read it, then closed the book.

"Indeed." He laid the book back on the table.

Picard went to the stereo and turned it off. Both men stood in silence, though it did not seem to Tyson an embarrassing silence, but a time to reflect on a shared expe-268 * NELSON DEMILLE

rience and to go through the mental leaps necessary to get to the here and now. Finally Picard said, "If you wanted a drink, what would it be?"

"Scotch. "

Picard went into the open kitchen and put ice in two glasses. "Neat?"

"Soda."

He rummaged through the refrigerator, then held up a bottle of Perrier.

"Wimp water of the Hamptons. Okay?"

"Fine. "

Picard split a bottle of Perrier between the glasses. "How'd you find me?

I'm not listed."

"Mailbox. "

"Right. Mailbox. Have to paint that out. Getting too much attention these days."

Picard poured from a bottle of Cutty Sark, then came around the counter and handed Tyson his drink. Picard held out his glass. "To those who met their fate at Hue, including us." He touched his glass to Tyson's, and they drank.

Tyson's eyes wandered around the room. Under a side window was a writing desk cluttered with papers and pencils. "What are you doing for an encore?"

Picard shrugged. "Hard act to follow."

"Well, you can do the court-martial of Benjamin Tyson.

Picard for the first time seemed ill at ease. "I don't think so. "

Tyson put his glass on an end table. He glanced at a steep open staircase that ran along the right-hand wall, up to the loft. He said, "Are you alone?"

Picard replied, "Yes, but I'm expecting company any moment. " He added with a smile, "Five duck-hunting friends with shotguns."

Tyson did not acknowledge the quick wit.

Picard swallowed more of his drink, and Tyson suspected he was a bit under the influence. Picard said, "I almost called you a few times."

"Did you'? Actually you called me twice some years ago. I probably should have met with you then."

Picard nodded. "I found it easier to write about you WORD OF HONOR * 269

because I hadn't met you. Had I met you, had we gotten drunk together, I might have chucked the whole chapter into the fire."

"Then you'd still be an unknown author."

"But a happier one. I'm not gloating, you know."

"No, I don't think you are."

Picard sipped on his drink thoughtfully, then observed, "I assume you read the entire book, so you'll know I lost friends there, too. And most of my friends didn't even have the chance to die fighting. They were staff officers with MAC-V, like myself, and they were caught by the communists outside the compound, marched to a ditch, and were shot in the head. Or worse, some were buried alive. " Picard stared down at the floor for a few seconds, then added, "Some men talk to their shrinks. Writers write."

Tyson nodded. "And how are you feeling now, Picard? Are the nightmares gone? How are your ghosts doing?"

Picard rubbed his chin contemplatively. "Well ... I think about it more now. I opened the wrong door . . . . It started when I began researching the book, talking to survivors. That brought it back . . . ...

Tyson commented, "You didn't do the survivors any favors either."

Picard seemed not to hear. He went on, "I didn't really see much action there . . . until Tet. Then I saw things I was ill prepared to see. Things I could barely comprehend. I'd lived in Hue for nearly a year and became enchanted with the place. It was a city of light in a country where night had descended. I fully believed the myth that Hue was special. Then after the battle I walked through the gray ash and the black corpses, and I remember thinking, 'Nothing is sacred,' and I began feeling sorry for the whole fuckedup human race."

Picard ran his fingers through his long hair, then continued, "And sometimes now-you asked about ghosts-I have this dream. You remember the Army medical expression 'the walking wounded'? An innocuous expression only meaning ambulatory cases. But in this dream I see these bandaged . . .

things ... part zombie, part mummy . . . and they're walking through gray ash, their hands held out

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as though they were pleading, and they drop in their tracks, but more keep coming out of the white smoke. He looked at Tyson. "I can tell you this."

Tyson nodded.

Picard stared off into space awhile, then said, "I saw a little boy about six years old wandering down the street naked. He had his genitals blown off ... but he seemed more concerned with the glass shards in his arms ...

and ... I can't forget that face . . . he was alone, with no one to help him, tears running down his cheeks. . . . " Picard looked at Tyson. "But you must have seen worse . . . I mean in the infantry."

Tyson didn't respond for a while, then said, "In the infantry, one is not just a spectator, but often the cause of the suffering, as you pointed out so well."

Picard stared at the floor.

Tyson drew a long breath and said, "You know, sometimes after you've shot first and asked questions afterward, and the old mama-san or little baby-san is not answering, then you feel like the worst monster God has ever created. So the next time you react more cautiously to a perceived threat, and you take a bullet for your trouble. And your buddies vow to shoot first the next time, in memory of you. And the march of death goes on until everyone is in step, shooting first-blowing away anything that moves, cutting a grim swath, death's premature harvest, through the rice fields and fruit orchards. . . . " Tyson's eyes drifted to the coal burning on the fire grate. He watched the blue flames for a minute, then turned back to Picard. "Did you help that little boy?"

Picard replied haltingly, "I . . . he . . . he saw me . . . he raised his arms . . . like he was surrendering . . . but he was showing me that he was badly cut .... There were still pieces of glass in his hands and arms. He said, 'Bac-si. Bac-si.' " Picard closed his eyes for a moment, then said,

"I wanted to scream at him, 'Not your arms, you idiot! Your balls! Your balls!' . . . but he was a little boy. I took a step back as he came closer, then ... I leveled my rifle and shouted, 'Go away! Di-di.' Then I turned and ran." Picard drew a breath. "I couldn't let WORD OF HONOR 9 271

him get near me. I simply could not handle it." His eyes met Tyson's.

Tyson nodded. "It happens."

Picard finished his Scotch. "Yes ... but other men around me did better than I did."

"That day."

Picard walked slowly back to the kitchen and made himself another drink.

"Right." He seemed to come out of his dark mood and added, "Some days were better than others. You had a bad day on February 15. On February 29 you were attending the sick and wounded. Later that day you were one of the wounded. Cest la guerre, as our little friends used to proclaim ten times a day."

Tyson finished his drink and put the glass on the coffee table. It occurred to him that Picard was the first man he'd spoken to about this who had actually been there. Beyond their differences in experiences and perceptions there lay the same residual malaise, the little time bombs waiting to go off.

"Another?"

"No.-

"Have a seat.

"I'll stand."

Picard came around the breakfast bar and sat on a Boston rocker off to the side of the fireplace. At length he replied, "I told your friend Harper I would only offer impartial testimony-regarding my sources. Especially Sister Teresa. You can tell your attorneys that also."

Tyson nodded. He also wondered why Picard had referred to Harper as his friend.

Picard added, "I'm not looking to crucify you."

"That's what I like about artists and writers, Picard. They're always doing this little dance around the shit pile, but they never step in it, never have to eat any of it, and by God they don't even smell it."