Word of Honor (21 page)

"Look, Major, once the government decides to start grinding you up, there's not much you can do unless you have unlimited resources."

She leaned toward him, across the coffee table. "You shouldn't feel as though you're being railroaded. If you think the recall was illegal, I suggest you find the resources, financial and otherwise, to fight it.

That's your first line of defense, as the infantry would put it.

Tyson didn't reply.

They sat in silence for some time, then Tyson stood and walked to the bookcase, opened a drawer, and retrieved a cedar box. He spilled the contents out on the coffee table.

They both looked at the array of medals and ribbons, including the Purple Heart, the Combat Infantryman's Badge, the Air Assault Medal, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. Tyson picked up the brass cross by its yellow-andorange ribbon and dangled it. "This is a Vietnamese decoration.

It was given to me at an awards ceremony in

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the ruins of the Citadel at Hue, on a blistering hot afternoon after the city was retaken. I'll never forget the little Viet colonel who gave out the medals. He was badly burned, smelled of fish, synthetic Japanese Scotch, sweat, and putrid flesh. When he embraced and kissed me, I thought I was going to vomit." Tyson stared at the medal. "But he was a hell of a soldier.

I'm sure he didn't survive the war. Neither did his government. So here I hold a useless medal from a defunct government. " He let it fall on the table. "Does it count for anything?"

She nodded. "Of course. A court-martial-if there is one-will take that sort of thing into consideration. Do you have the paperwork for that?"

"I seem to have misplaced it. But I remember that the commendation cites me for bravery . . . for actions that took place on 15 February 1968, in and around the village of An Ninh Ha. The English is bad, and the language is general, but it may be that the Army will find it difficult to prosecute me for murders that allegedly took place at a battle for which I was decorated. What do you think?"

"Try to find the written orders."

"There was no copy in my file?"

"No, and I don't think the present government in Saigon---or Ho Chi Minh City-will be helpful."

"I was also supposed to receive a Silver Star for the same action. The Viets usually read the lists of proposed American awards and matched their version of the medal with the American one. That's how I got the Viet Cross. But I never got the Silver Star."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I saw the recommendation made by my company commander, Browder, now dead. But it was probably misplaced. That was fairly common at the time."

"Perhaps it was turned down."

"Perhaps, but I don't think so."

"Captain Browder, I assume, wrote up the recommendation based on verbal reports from your men. Browder, you indicated, was not at the hospital."

"That's correct. Standard practice."

"Which of your men made the recommendation?"

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"Kelly, my radio operator, put me in for the star. Someone else would have had to corroborate Kelly's report of my valor. I don't remember who that was though. Not many of my platoon survived anyway. Did you locate any of them?"

"Yes.

"How many? Who?"

"I'll send you or your attorney a list of names and addresses ... if necessary. You may not have to go to the time and trouble. And perhaps neither will 1. We may just drop it." She pulled her pad toward her.

"I'll make a note to check on the Silver Star."

"You're being very helpful, Major."

She said, "Again, let me make it clear that I'm not working for the prosecution. I'm here to gather facts."

"Yes. I remember how it's supposed to work."

She stared at the ribbons and medals lying on the coffee table. Tyson studied her face. She looked impressed, even a bit unhappy that it had come to this. It's an act, of course, he thought. He's acting, she's acting. Souvenirs de guerre, like mementos of the departed, called for a minute of respectful silence. Of course, he thought, both she and the Army would be highly skeptical of any medal proposed or awarded to him on 15 February 1968. But to suggest this aloud would be akin to sacrilege.

She said, "I read the citations for the two Purple Hearts. I can see-I hope this doesn't make you uncomfortableI can see the wound on your right ear."

Tyson let the silence drag out, milking it for what it was worth, then replied, "Yes, a village called Phu Lai, on the first day of the Tet Offensive. I lost nearly half my platoon that day. That bullet had my name on it, but . . . an angel was sitting on my shoulder . . . and pushed my head an inch to the left."

She nodded.

He went on, "Then, as you probably read, I was wounded by shrapnel in the right knee. That was on February 29th1968 was a leap year. The battle of Hue was declared officially over on February 26th, but somebody forgot to tell Chuck. "

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Again she nodded.

Tyson decided to break the gloomy pall. He grinned suddenly. "Do you want to see my knee wound?"

She smiled quickly in return. "Not right now." She added, "Great line, though."

"It used to work like a charm." Tyson held his smile, but his mind returned to that extra day in February. The hot shrapnel had sliced in from the left side, and he'd fallen to the ground. When he looked down, not knowing what to expect, he saw his fatigues covered with blood. He'd ripped open the light cotton material, and there was a large piece of meat-fat, flesh, ligaments-flapped over, exposing his patella. He recalled staring at the bare bone incredulously. He'd never seen such a thing. And if there had been any lingering doubts concerning his mortality, they were dispelled then as he gaped at the stuff he was made of.

Tyson sat back down in his chair. "Do you want to continue?"

Karen Harper leaned forward. She asked a few more warm-up questions, then, without any change in tone or expression, said, "Can you describe for me, in your own words, the events of that day, 15 February 1968?"

Tyson regarded her closely. "If I gave you a general account of what happened, I wouldn't want to be held to any of the details."

She put aside her pencil and paper. "I'm barely making notes, as you can see, and in any case this is not sworn testimony. "

"And do I have your word as an officer that you have no recording devices with you?"

She sat back and crossed her legs. "Yes, you do."

Tyson took a few moments to collect his thoughts, then began. "We were dug into a defensive perimeter around a small clump of trees about five kilometers west of Hue. We had taken mortar and small-arms fire during the night and suffered two wounded. I had the wounded medevaced out at first light. It was rainy and chilly. It gets cold in February in the northern provinces. Anyway, we pulled out of the perimeter and began advancing on Hue, as per radio orders. ' ~

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There was a rushing sound on the radio speaker, then a crackling, followed by Captain Browder's voice. "Mustang One-Six, this is Mustang Six. How do you hear me? Over."

Tyson took the handphone from Daniel Kelly, his radiotelephone operator, and squeezed the handle lever. "Six, this is One-Six. Weak but clear. How me?"

"Same. Orders from Big Six. Proceed in a SierraEcho direction toward Hotel Uniform Echo."

Tyson replied into the mouthpiece. "Solid copy. Anything specific?"

"Negative. Use your own judgment. Don't make the city today. We'll rendezvous tonight and advance on the west wall together."

"Roger.... Maybe we should link up now. I'm down to one-niner folks, and there're signs that Chuck is all over the damned place. In strength. Saw hoofprints last night before sundown. Estimate five hundred or more.

Heading toward the city. "

"Roger that, One-Six. Orders is orders. Everybody's spread thin, kiddo.

Hey, are we having fun yet?"

Tyson glanced at Kelly, who had his hand around the radio aerial and was stroking it, which was Kelly's way of suggesting that the brass was jerking everyone off again. Tyson drew a deep breath and spoke into the radiophone. "Let me know how my two wounded make out."

"Roger." Browder hesitated, then said, "Keep to the open paddies. Avoid the bush and avoid the hamlets. "

Tyson didn't think that was consistent with search and destroy, or harassment and interdiction. It sounded more like avoid and evade. He wondered if the Army Security Agency or any brass was monitoring. Tyson cautioned, "Big brother, big ears. I I

"Fuck them," snapped Browder, who was obviously on edge himself.

"Anything further?"

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"I need C's. And I don't have a map beyond An Ninh Ha."

"Ask at the next Chevron station. I'll get C's dropped in. I'll see about the map. Further?"

Tyson thought he should report that everyone had trench foot, fatigues were torn, boots and laces were falling apart, and the halogen-treated water they were drinking was making them all sick. But Browder knew that. Tyson said, "Negative further."

"Roger. Keep up the splendid work. Out."

Tyson handed the phone back to Kelly. "Let's move it. Order of march: one, B, three, A, then two. "

Kelly's voice boomed out over the perimeter. "Saddle up! Movin'!

Movin'! First squad on point. "

Tyson walked out of the entrenched positions to a wide dike and moved down it, surveying the terrain around him. Kelly came up beside him, joined by Specialist Four Steven Brandt, the platoon medic, who set his medical bag down in the mud.

Tyson watched the men move at intervals out of the copse of willow trees and onto the dike toward him. First rifle squad consisted of five men out of the original ten, all Pfc's. Non-nally led by a staff sergeant, the squad was now led by Bob Moody, a nineteen-year-'old black kid who had been chosen by Tyson because he'd been in country a month longer than the other four. He was also the only one who wanted the job.

Behind first squad was team B, one of the two M-60 machine-gun teams, consisting of a gunner, assistant gunner, and an ammo bearer.

Third fifle squad followed: three men, led by Pfc Larry Cane. Bringing up the rear was machine-gun team A and the squad leader of the two teams, Paul Sadowski, a twenty-year-old who had been a sergeant for five days.

Even as the platoon contracted, Tyson kept his

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machine-gun squad up to strength by assigning riflemen to the two teams.

Conventional wisdom had it that the life expectancy of machine gunners in battle was shorter than that of officers and radio operators. And Tyson believed it. At Phu Lai, every one of the original fourth squad was killed or wounded. Men were understandably reluctant to be assigned to the machine-gun squad but were perversely proud when they were; only the best, the brightest, and the strongest men could be trusted with this grueling and crucial job. The guns had to be manned and fed, and when a gunner was hit, someone else took his place, just as someone always picked up the fallen colors in the old cavalry regiments.

Personnel management, Tyson thought. Just like they taught us in Personnel Management 401 at Auburn, Though it was a little more complex here.

Tyson watched the last man come out of the copse of willows, Pfc Hernando Beltran, a hefty Cuban-American and the sole survivor of second squad.

Beltran claimed he was now the secondsquad leader and refused to be assigned to either of the remaining rifle squads or the machine-gun squad. Tyson could see his point and allowed Beltran to command his phantom squad, always in the rear guard.

Beltran carried a Browning automatic shotgun and slung an M-79 grenade launcher over his shoulder. He wore a Colt revolver, and judging from its ebony handles and chrome finish, Tyson doubted that it was standard Army issue. Probably West Miami standard, however. Also smuggled in from the States was Beltran's machete, made of gleaming surgical steel and with an ivory handle. Beltran said it had belonged to his late father, who had owned a sugar plantation in pre-Castro Cuba. Beltran also claimed that Nuestra Sefiora del Cobre had appeared to him one night in boot camp and instructed him to kill one hundred Com-170 0 NELSON DEMILLE

munists to avenge his family's misfortunes. Tyson was somewhat skeptical of this but saw no good reason to disabuse Pfc Beltran of this useful notion.

Tyson's platoon command group, usually five men, consisted of himself, Brandt, and Kelly. His second radio operator, Johanson, had been killed at Phu Lai, and the platoon sergeant, Fairchild, was in Japan by now, contemplating the flat bed sheets where his legs should have been.

Losing Fairchild, Tyson thought, had been particularly unfortunate.

Fairchild had been the only regular Army man among them. At thirty-eight years of age, he had been a stabilizing influence, a father figure to the teenaged platoon. This war, Tyson thought, had become a children's war. And children, as any schoolteacher would tell you, were capable of astonishing acts of brutality if left un-supervised.

Tyson moved to the edge of the dike and watched the procession of men coming toward him. As each man passed by, Tyson laid a hand on him and said something. "How's the jungle rot today, Walker?" "Stand a little closer to the razor next time, Scorello. " "How short, Peterson?

Eighteen days? Hang in there. I'll get you out of the field in a day or two."

Brandt handed out malaria pills, and Tyson watched as each man dutifully placed his pill in his mouth. A few paces away, about half of them spit their pills out. In a choice between malaria and what had come to look like certain death or injury in combat, malaria seemed to be the preferred choice of half.

Tyson looked into each man's eyes as he passed and saw that too many of them had developed the Thousand-Yard Stare.

But perhaps today or tomorrow would be the day Alpha Company rotated to the rear: rest, recreation, refitting, and replacements. Not to mention a little debauchery, if the Quang Tri brothels WORD OF HONOR 0 171

had survived the enemy "cleansing" program. Tyson turned to his radio operator. "Well, Kelly?"