Word of Honor

  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 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 fucked-up 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 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! Didi.’ Then I turned and ran.” Picard drew a breath. “I couldn’t let 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. C’est 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.”

  Picard leaned forward in his rocker. “I stepped in it up to my ears.”

  “You fell in it by accident. And when the stink was gone two decades later, you decided to describe your brief combat experience to the world.”

  Picard rocked slowly for some time, and the floorboards creaked in the silent house. He said, “I reported what I saw and what I heard from witnesses. . . . But sometimes I think that I never should have written that chapter.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well . . . it wasn’t . . . well documented, and . . . it leaves me open to a libel suit—”

  “That’s not why. Why shouldn’t you have written that chapter?”

  Picard replied without hesitation, “Because I didn’t help the little boy with his genitals blown off and because I didn’t put that in the book. Because one night when the communists were storming the walls of the ARVN compound, I went to pieces in front of the ARVN soldiers, and a Vietnamese colonel punched me. And I didn’t put that in the fucking book either. And I realize now that you can’t put it behind you until you hold it up and show it to everybody.” He looked at Tyson. “I may have done you a favor I couldn’t do for myself.”

  “Thanks, buddy. I’ll return that favor first chance I get.”

  Picard smiled grimly.

  Tyson thought a moment, then said, “You reported your own heroics, however. The day the ARVN broke out of their compound and began their counterattack into the Citadel. You were a hero that day, carrying wounded ARVN to safety through machine-gun fire. Is that true?”

  “Oh, yes. Two little guys at a time. Bullets and rockets splattering all over the fucking street. Who can figure it? They weren’t even Americans.” Picard crossed his legs and swirled his drink. He said, “I suppose if you’re an honest writer, you write about the times you pissed in your pants. I suppose your platoon did things that would make the Army proud. I suppose I should have dwelt on those thin
gs a bit more.”

  “Well, Picard, maybe if you meet my men in some closed hearing, you’ll recall the things you discovered tonight.”

  “I’m sure I will. But I don’t know what good it will do anymore.”

  Tyson watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. He said, “I didn’t come here to coach the witness, Picard. I came here to see if we fought in the same war. I think we did.” Tyson tossed his cigarette into the fire. He continued, “We all have secrets, and sometimes we tell them to each other, because we understand one another. But we usually don’t tell these things to other people. We are embarrassed by some of the things we did and appalled by most of the rest. But among ourselves, we can speak without explanations or apologies.” He moved closer to Picard. “I’m not saying the story of Miséricorde Hospital should not have come out, but I don’t think you were the person it should have come from.”

  Picard stood. “But you were.”

  Tyson nodded. “Yes. And now that you broke the understood rule of keeping your mouth shut, I may very well tell my story.”

  “But according to Dr. Brandt, you all swore to lie. That was not an unspoken rule but a blood oath. What are you going to say to your men about telling the truth?”

  “I will tell them that the truth shall make ye free.”

  “Is the truth . . . I mean is it close to what I wrote . . . ?”

  Tyson smiled. “You will find out in court.”

  “Are you going to sue me?”

  “Quite possibly.” Tyson looked around the room with a proprietary interest. “Nice place. Do you rent or own?”

  Picard laughed. After some reflection he said, “You are not the sort of man to engage in blackmail. I am not the sort of man who will be blackmailed.”

  Tyson looked at him appraisingly, then changed the subject abruptly. “Who is Wells?”

  “Wells. . . . Oh, on the mailbox. Lady who used to live here. I should paint over the name.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Sometimes. They come and go.”

  “Do they? You never married?”

  “Once. I have a twelve-year-old daughter. Lives with her mother and stepfather in California. I miss her. Life . . . I mean, life in the good old USA ain’t what it was when I was a kid. If there was someplace less fucked up I’d go there. Know anyplace?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Do you hang out with the local literati?”

  “Christ, no. They’re bigger assholes than I am.” Picard went back to the kitchen. “One more, Tyson. Then you can go if you want.”

  Tyson noticed Picard had trouble navigating. He said, “Short one.”

  Tyson lit another cigarette and tossed the match in the fireplace. He looked at Picard moving about the kitchen. He did not particularly like the man, but neither could he bring himself to dislike him. Picard was like a fraternity brother, and allowances had to be made. Picard had revealed two acts of pure cowardice. That may have been a way of making amends or a way of making Picard feel better about himself. In either case it had the effect of making Tyson feel like the recipient of an unwanted gift, the keeper of yet another appalling secret. Had they been friends, Picard would have hated him the next morning. Tyson said, “You spent nearly a year in Hue before the Tet attack?”

  “Right.”

  “You knew the place.”

  “Pretty well.” Picard came around the counter with the two drinks.

  Tyson took his glass from Picard. “Did you ever go to a café on Tihn Tam Street? Le Crocodile?”

  Picard sipped his Scotch. “Certainement. That little shit who owned the place had a foot in every camp.”

  “Bournard?”

  “I think that was his name. Why?”

  “I sometimes wonder what became of him.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No. I met him only once. He advised me to go home.”

  “He should have taken his own advice.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I can tell you what I heard, though it might not be true. You know what the VC did to Vietnamese who had any commerce with Americans, like barbers, prostitutes, cleaning women, and all.”

  “I heard.”

  Picard nodded. “Well, Monsieur Bournard and the staff of his café, according to what I heard, showed up at the Central Hospital minus their hands.”

  Neither man spoke for some time, then Tyson said, “My father once said to me, about his war, ‘That was a war I would go to again.’” He looked at Picard. “I don’t think we can say that about our war.”

  Picard replied, “No, we don’t have that. And that, I think, is at the heart of this post-stress syndrome. Not what happened there—because all war is the same shit—but what happened here.”

  Tyson finished his drink and set the glass down. “Could be.”

  Picard cleared his throat. “By the way, a word of advice: Dr. Brandt would like to see you in front of a firing squad. Don’t ask me how I know, because he seemed cool, logical, and objective. But, Christ, Tyson, he indicted you for murder in no uncertain terms.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  Picard seemed on the verge of asking why but apparently thought better of it.

  A silence enveloped the room, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. Tyson glanced at it and said, “I should go.” He zipped his windbreaker.

  Picard hesitated, then said, “Are you going home? I mean, the place you’re renting here.”

  Tyson gave him a quick look. “Perhaps. Why?”

  “I met her.”

  “Who?”

  “Marcy. Your wife. She was here.”

  Tyson nodded. Of course Marcy would have called on Picard.

  “She’s very nice.”

  “Was she?”

  “She was to me. No rancor, no hysterics. A remarkable woman. All she wanted to know was whether or not I told the truth in my book.”

  Tyson didn’t respond.

  “So how do you answer a wife who asks you to reveal a truth about her husband? I told her I was not an eyewitness to the event. I was only a reporter. Typical writer—right, Tyson? Dancing around the shit pile again. Well, she let me off easy. Told me I probably did what I thought was right.”

  “Very gracious. Now you can sleep better—despite your ghosts.”

  Picard didn’t respond directly but said, “Why did she ask me? Why doesn’t she ask you? Well, of course, she’s asked you. But you’re not talking. Not even to the woman who shares your bed.”

  Tyson walked toward the door, then turned back to Picard. “How did she look?”

  “Marcy? Fine. Nice-looking woman.”

  “No, I meant Sister Teresa. How did she look, Picard?”

  Picard glanced at him quickly, then replied, “Fine. Serene—”

  “Physically. Good-looking?”

  Picard considered a moment, then replied, “She went through a very difficult time after the communist victory.”

  Tyson nodded. She would be about forty now and not an American forty. A real world forty. “What happened to her over there?”

  “Bad things. Prison camps, forced labor, that sort of thing.” Picard regarded Tyson for some time, then said, “She never mentioned you by name. Only referred to you as the lieutenant. But lately, after speaking to Karen Harper and thinking about all that Sister Teresa said and now after your questions about her . . . I think I missed something. . . .”

  Tyson opened the door. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  “You forgot your book.”

  “I don’t really want it. Good evening.”

  “Go home, Tyson. She might actually miss you.”

  Tyson closed the door and walked down the path of broken shells.

  The door opened behind him, and a shaft of yellow light fell over the front yard. Picard’s voice called out into the damp night air. “What would you have done? If the situation were reversed, Tyson, what would you have done in my place?”

  Tyson called back, “I would have he
lped the little boy.”

  “No, I mean about putting that chapter in the book.”

  Tyson knew what he meant and did not reply as he opened the gate and passed through it. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up the path at Picard’s silhouette in the lighted doorway. He said finally, “I would have done what you did, Picard. And if you had been in command at Miséricorde Hospital instead of me, nothing would have been any different there either.”

  “I know. I know that. Fuck Nam, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, indeed, Lieutenant.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Ben Tyson left the dark road and made his way through the bulrushes down to the water’s edge. The cove was misty, and the moon was obscured by haze. Yet he could see the lights of the far shore about a fifth of a mile across the gently swelling seawater. Red-blinking channel markers swayed about halfway across the cove, and a sailboat passed silently into the narrows. The tide was out, and the low-tide terrace was strewn with pebbles, shells, and marine life.

  The lights of Baypoint seemed to beckon him, to draw him closer to the edge of the lapping water. He recalled clearly a night before the Tet Offensive, standing on the north bank of the Perfume River, staring at the mesmerizing lights of the European Quarter across the water. He felt soothed now, as he’d felt then at the water’s edge, at peace with himself and enchanted by the colors on the water, beguiled by the rhythmic rippling of the swells. Impulsively he stripped down to his shorts and threw his clothing into a tangle of bayberry. He waded into the water. He began swimming, only in circles at first, the water cooling and cleansing his warm, sweaty skin. Then, without realizing it, he struck out across the cove for Baypoint.

  The tide was running strong, pulling him east toward the outer harbor, and he compensated by angling in a northwesterly direction. The swells were higher than they looked from the shore, and he found he was becoming fatigued.

  Reluctantly he made for a channel marker and held on to its bell cage.

  He could see his house clearly now, less than three hundred yards farther to the north. Tyson drew a deep breath and headed out. About halfway to the shoreline he felt his right knee begin to throb, then suddenly the knee gave out, and his leg hung useless in the water. Tyson swore silently and turned over on his back. He floated east with the tide toward the North Haven Bridge inlet.