Tyson drew on his cigarette. He realized in retrospect just how unbelievable this story sounded from the standpoint of military tactics and logic. He saw that if even a JAG officer and a woman with presumably no knowledge of infantry tactics beyond an unlikely fondness for war movies and a friendship with an infantry colonel could punch holes in his story, then it would not stand up under closer scrutiny. Yet it seemed like a good story when it was first fabricated. It was standard Vietnam cover-up. Whenever a few ICs—innocent civilians—were killed by mistake—or in less blameless ways—you came up with a hair-raising story of a firefight. No one questioned you. No one said anything about your lack of casualties. And a good officer always made certain his men carried a few enemy weapons to turn in along with the bodies of old men, women, and children. It was that kind of war.
Tyson reflected: The story sounded good at the time, because we’d told it to each other in a vacuum, without outside criticism, and because we wanted to believe it. . . . Damn her, he thought. Was the hospital marked? Why didn’t you call in artillery? Why so few casualties in the assault?
She broke into his thoughts. “So, anyway, the hospital was burning now. You had killed a number of the enemy. The rest, I assume, fled. How?”
“They jumped from the second-floor windows.”
She nodded, then asked, “Did you see any patients, any hospital staff?”
Without hesitation he replied, “Yes, we saw patients and staff.” Stick to the damned story. Don’t deviate. It’s the only story we have. The only one we all know. It may sound improbable, but it’s not impossible. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. He said, “Most of them were dead. I don’t know if they were killed in the assault or if they were executed by the enemy.”
She said nothing.
Tyson continued his narrative. “It was total confusion at that point. I mean, you wouldn’t believe what chaos it was—wounded VC and NVA soldiers in uniform—you couldn’t tell if they were patients, if they were armed, if they were surrendering, or if they were about to shoot you. There were a few women, but one of them was a VC nurse, and she fired a pistol at us. Someone killed her. It was incredibly confusing. I blame the goddamned VC and NVA for using a hospital full of people. . . . By that time we could see that it was a hospital. . . . Anyway, the place was burning by now, and we threw some of the patients—the ones in the maternity and pediatric ward—out of the window . . . to save them. . . . There were bushes below. . . .” Tyson stopped. He realized he was rambling. He cleared his throat and continued. “Well, I suppose in a way you could call it a massacre . . . but certainly not an intentional one on our part. I could see how that Eurasian nun could misinterpret what she saw. . . . But most of the dead were a result of the assault or of the enemy executions that took place before we assaulted the building. I think they massacred the staff and the patients, including their own wounded, when they saw they were going to be overrun. . . .”
She said, “And Dr. Monteau?”
“I don’t remember being introduced to anyone by name, Major.”
“But one of Picard’s sources—one of your men—related an incident—”
“Which man?”
“I don’t know. I told you I came here first.”
“By law you’d have to tell me who Picard’s sources were, if you knew them. That is the reason you came here first.”
She didn’t comment on Tyson’s observation but said, “And the Australian doctor—”
He said irritably, “Damn it, I told you there was a hospital full of patients and staff. Yes, they were killed. Yes, some of them were probably killed by us. But they were killed as an unfortunate consequence of military operations against an armed enemy who made use of a place of sanctuary to conduct operations against American forces. Write that down. End of statement.”
She nodded and asked him to repeat it as she wrote. Then she said, “Why are there such discrepancies between your story and the stories told to Picard by two of your men?”
“Maybe Picard distorted what they said.”
“Possibly.” She seemed to be lost in thought, then said, “But Picard says in his book that he learned of this incident as a result of a chance meeting in France with this Sister Teresa. She apparently used the word massacre—”
“In what context? A massacre by whom? And how did she use the word? It is spelled the same in French and English, and the meaning in French is close to ours, but in French it has the added connotation of useless killing, the slaughter of battle—not solely wanton or premeditated killing of unarmed people. I did my homework, too—”
“So I see. Those are good questions. I’ll call the Army language school and get an opinion on that.”
“Have you located this Sister Teresa?”
“No. Do you remember her?”
“I believe so. Will you interview Picard?”
“Of course.” She said, “Your version is interesting because it is so subjective, whereas Picard’s account seems so objective.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ve left room for interpretation of events, while he has been unequivocal in saying he has heard the story of a massacre and reported it.”
Tyson said nothing.
She added, “If Picard was embellishing, then I can see very clearly from your version how he could do so. All the ingredients are there: a hospital, a large number of deaths, the flags, the shooting in the wards. Anyway, Picard was a novelist once. Did you know that? He’s used to making up stories. Don’t forget to advise your attorney of that.”
Tyson seemed not to hear her.
She continued. “Then again, it might have been that the two men from your platoon were embellishing or lying when they spoke to Picard. But why would they do that? It certainly brings no credit to them.”
“It certainly does not.”
“But it brings discredit on you. Did you have any enemies in your platoon?”
“I’ll tell you that when you give me the names of those two men.”
She nodded. “Also, Sister Teresa may make the worst kind of witness. She may not have understood what she saw or may not have communicated it very well to Picard.”
“Probably.”
She leaned forward and said, “I would imagine that at some point she made some sort of report to the Catholic authorities in Saigon or France who ran the hospital. Don’t you think that’s a possibility?”
Tyson had always thought that a distinct possibility. He replied, “Maybe.”
She continued, “But I understand that the South Vietnamese government, and to some extent the Catholic Church in Vietnam, had a tendency to bury any stories unfavorable to their allies and champions. They did not want to embarrass the Americans. Saigon tried to kill the My Lai investigation even as the JAG Corps was pursuing it. Foreigners don’t understand why we insist on washing our dirty linen in public. So if this nun’s report, if there was one, in any way reflected unfavorably on American soldiers, then it never would have gotten back to France. That’s my theory.”
“Which, as I see,” said Tyson, “you’ve given some thought.”
“I’ve given the whole incident some thought.”
“Me too.” Tyson stood and walked to the window. With his back to her, he said, “You know, a month or so ago I would have related this incident at a drunken stag party as a good shoot-’em-up war story. I had nothing to be ashamed of. We did a brave thing. A lot of officers would have bypassed that building—like your infantry colonel friend. I mean, it was unfortunate that so many innocent people got killed, but the bad guys were the ones in black pajamas.” He turned toward her. “Now I’m getting very defensive. I’m having second thoughts about what happened. But I shouldn’t have second thoughts. My perceptions at the time were the correct ones.”
She nodded. “I know. You start to second-guess yourself. Every commander since the beginning of time refights his battles in his mind. Also, it’s been a long time.”
“A very long time.”
/>
Karen Harper said, “That’s why we may need more statements. For instance, if Sister Teresa is found and her testimony turns out to be lucid. . . .” She looked at him. “Would you like her to be found?”
Tyson did not reply.
She observed, “It’s odd that there were no other survivors.”
He sat down again. “I told you we saved some people. But don’t expect any long-distance calls from Nam.”
“No. This is difficult. Too many years and too many miles.” She commented, “You say you may remember Sister Teresa. What do you remember about her?”
“I remember she was scared. Maybe hysterical. Someone got her out a window. That’s all I remember at the moment. I’ll think about that.”
“Fine. You know, I was thinking that if the investigation were broadened, we might try to contact Vietnamese refugees through their representative organizations. That might lead us to another survivor.”
“It’s a long shot that you’d find another survivor that way.”
“True. Do you think the present government of Vietnam would cooperate? They have the advantage of access to the scene of the incident, which we do not.”
Tyson began to feel that he had become her assistant, which was, he knew, another method of interrogation. He said, “If they did cooperate I don’t think anyone that they present as a witness would have much credibility in front of a court-martial board of American officers. Do you?”
“I guess not. That was foolish.”
Tyson nodded. Both suggestions were foolish. She was trying to shake him with the old unexpected-witness routine. What she didn’t know—yet—was that there were absolutely no survivors. Except Sister Teresa.
Karen Harper poured coffee into their cups.
Tyson remembered a home-improvement salesman who felt that as long as he was drinking coffee, he wouldn’t be tossed out. He was wrong. He said to Karen Harper, “I think that’s about it.”
She sipped on her coffee. “You’ve been very helpful. As I said, I’m trying to arrive at the truth, for your sake as well as in the interests of justice. You’d like this cleared up too, I suppose, so you can get back to your normal routine.”
“Major, I never again want to go back to my normal routine. But I would like to get this done with and resign my commission. This time I’ll check the correct damned box. Double-check it. How long will this last?”
“Oh . . . a few more weeks. I just need to contact Picard, then get the names of the two men who gave him his story. If necessary, we may contact other men from your platoon whose whereabouts we’ve tentatively determined.”
“Who?”
“I told you—I’ll send you or your lawyer a list as soon as we decide whether or not we even need their statements. I really hope I just find that Picard was, well, bullshitting a bit.”
Tyson smiled in spite of himself.
She said, “Do you feel good about this interview? Do you think it was conducted fairly and properly?”
“Absolutely.” He thought a moment, then added, “You’re a remarkable woman. Why don’t you get a civilian job?”
She smiled. “I’m getting out soon.”
“Are you? You’re not a career officer?”
“No. I’m paying back my tuition.”
“I see. . . . Do you mind if I ask you whether or not you’re married?”
“That’s not relevant . . . but no, I’m not. Why?”
“Just curious.” He saw she wasn’t going to leave until asked to, and he wanted to end it before he said anything he’d regret. He stood. “I have a tennis date in half an hour.”
She stood. “Yes, of course.” She gathered her things and followed Tyson into the foyer. “I’m going to Manhattan. I understand there’s a train.”
“Yes.” He looked at his watch. “The next one leaves in about twenty minutes. You can walk to the station.”
“I’d like to freshen up first.”
“Right. Up the stairs, to the left.”
She climbed the long, sweeping staircase. He watched her and thought, Tuition assistance program. That’s like admitting you’re dirt-poor. He tried to imagine what sort of background she came from. Her accent was definitely Midwestern. She was well spoken and carried herself well. She had made major within her four years of active duty, so she must be on the ball. He wondered what line of convoluted reasoning had led the JAG to send her to his door. What Machiavellian logic was behind this? He shrugged. Military logic, which was to say nonlogic. Yet there had to be some method to the madness. In this case, he admitted, there was definitely some method. . . .
She came down the stairs and walked toward the front door. “I have enough to do to keep me busy for some days, but I’d like us to meet again. Is that all right?”
Tyson thought a moment, then replied, “I’ll have to think about that.”
“Well, if you decide you’d like to, let’s make a tentative date for a week from today. Why don’t you come to Washington?”
Tyson knew he could not be ordered to speak about this case. But he could be ordered to go to Washington, to Fort Benning, Georgia, to Nome, Alaska, or to anywhere they decided he should go. He could exercise his right to remain silent from one end of the continent to the other. But he’d rather play ball in New York or Washington than Nome. He said, “I suppose I could meet you in Washington.”
“Good. I’ll call you with the details of the meeting.” She handed him her card. “Please call me if anything else occurs to you in the meantime, or if you need assistance or just want to talk.”
“That’s what I used to say to suspects. It’s trite, Major.”
“I know. But I get lots of calls.”
He took her jacket from the coat closet and helped her on with it, then he opened the door. Outside a light rain had begun to fall. He took an umbrella from the stand, and they walked together down to the street. She said, “Thank you for being so cooperative. I feel I’m getting closer to understanding this.”
“Then you’re a damned sight smarter than I am.” He considered a moment, then said, “If charges are actually brought against me . . . what is the current Army policy on . . . restriction?”
She replied, “Of course that’s on your mind. . . . I’m fairly sure . . . off the record . . . that as an officer, and taking into account all the sensitive aspects of this case, you would have almost complete freedom. . . . I’m sure you can live off-post, within the confines of your duties, if any. They may impose one restriction—”
“Don’t leave the country.”
“That’s right.”
“Am I restricted to this country as of now?”
“Not as far as I know. You are on administrative leave until you report to Fort Hamilton. Do you have any plans to leave the country?”
“No.” He added, “And you can tell them that.”
“Who?”
“Whoever is wondering, whoever is worried, or whoever is hoping. You’ve heard that sentiment expressed, I assume.”
She nodded. “This thing has brought back so many bad memories of that time—Look, if you’re innocent, I honestly feel that the Army, the nation, and others, including the media, will make full restitution to you. This is a country that knows how to say ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Who’s going to apologize to my wife?”
She looked into his eyes. “No one. That damage is done, and no one can ever make that right again. We’re also a country that is obsessed with . . . with . . .”
“Fucking.” He smiled. “On second thought, you’re too honest to be a civilian lawyer.” He paused, then said, “Well . . . it was good of you to come all the way here. I realize it could have been done differently. I think this informal format was best.”
“I think so.”
He looked around at the gently falling rain, then remarked, “I’d offer you the umbrella, but I remember that military people can’t carry umbrellas.”
“Silly custom . . . or is it a rule? It’s sil
lier to get wet. I’ll take the umbrella, unless you need it for your tennis game.”
They exchanged smiles as he passed her the umbrella. She said, “I’ll return it next week.”
He looked at his watch. “You’d better hurry. Right at the end of this block, five more blocks, and you’ll see the station. I’m not going to salute. The neighbors are watching.”
She put out her hand and he took it. “Good-bye.” She turned and walked away.”
He stood under a tree and watched her moving down the street, carrying his umbrella.
His attention shifted back to the rain. It was a gentle rain, and when it rained in a certain way, he still thought of Vietnam: hot, steamy rain, vaporous ground clouds, and the steady, soft, susurrant sounds of water brushing the leaves. And the moldy smells of the wet earth, which he smelled now, brought back the jungle.
Vietnam, he thought suddenly, is here, in this village. He smelled it on the damp, rotting vegetation, heard it in the falling rain, and saw it in the vaporous air. Tyson walked slowly back toward his house in the rain.
CHAPTER
18
Benjamin Tyson walked unhurriedly across the broad lawns of Constitution Gardens. It was twilight, breezeless and humid, and he could feel the sweat seeping through his white knit shirt and sticking to his poplin trousers.
There were a good number of people about, flying kites, lying on blankets, strolling, listening to radios. To Tyson’s left lay the Doric Parthenon of the Lincoln Memorial, and to his right, the long Reflecting Pool running due east toward the massive obelisk of the Washington Monument. The setting sun cast a mellow aura over the park, the pool, and the surrounding buildings. On the north edge of the park, across Constitution Avenue, stood a phalanx of august and commanding buildings that Tyson thought looked familiar from photographs, though he couldn’t identify them. He did not know Washington well, but even a stranger coming into this city by chance would know that he was in an imperial capital, a place of power, a new Rome.
It was no more than a black slash in the ground, a poignant contrast to the lofty white marble and limestone of this monumental city. It was cut into a gently rising slope of grass, and critics had complained that it was antiheroic and nearly invisible. Yet it was as easy to spot as the two presidential monuments that flanked it, because it was where all the people were.