*
When Jasper Murray returned to New York he went to see Mrs Salzman. She got him an interview with Herb Gould, for a job as a researcher on the television news show This Day.
He was now a different proposition. Two years ago he had been a supplicant, a student journalist desperate for a job, someone to whom nobody owed anything. Now he was a veteran who had risked his life for the US. He was older and wiser, and he was owed a debt, especially by men who had not fought. He got the job.
It was strange. He had forgotten what cold weather felt like. His clothes bothered him: a suit and a white shirt with a button-down collar and a tie. His regular business oxford shoes were so light in weight that he kept thinking he was barefoot. Walking from his apartment to the office he found himself scanning the sidewalk for concealed mines.
On the other hand, he was busy. The civilian world had few of the long, infuriating periods of inactivity that characterized army life: waiting for orders, waiting for transport, waiting for the enemy. From his first day back, Jasper was making phone calls, checking files, looking up information in libraries, and conducting pre-interviews.
In the office of This Day a mild shock awaited Jasper. Sam Cakebread, his old rival on the student newspaper, was now working for the programme. He was a fully-fledged reporter, not having had to take time out to fight a war. Irksomely, Jasper often had to do preparatory research for stories that Sam would then report on camera.
Jasper worked on fashion, crime, music, literature and business. He researched a story about his sister’s bestseller, Frostbite, and its pseudonymous author, speculating about which of the known Soviet dissidents might have written it, based on writing style and prison camp experiences; concluding it was probably someone nobody had heard of.
Then they decided to do a show about the astonishing Vietcong operation that had been dubbed the Tet Offensive.
Jasper was still angry about Vietnam. His rage burned low in his guts like a damped furnace, but he had forgotten nothing, least of all his vow to expose men who lied to the American people.
When the fighting began to die down, during the second week of February, Herb Gould told Sam Cakebread to plan a summing-up report, assessing how the offensive had changed the course of the war. Sam presented his preliminary conclusions to an editorial meeting attended by the whole team, including researchers.
Sam said the Tet Offensive had been a failure for the North Vietnamese in three ways. ‘First, Communist forces were given the general order: “Move forward to achieve final victory.” We know this from documents found on captured enemy troops. Second, although fighting is still going on in Hue and Khe Sanh, the Vietcong have proved unable to hold a single city. And third, they have lost more than twenty thousand men, all for nothing.’
Herb Gould looked around for comment.
Jasper was very junior in this group, but he was unable to keep quiet. ‘I have one question for Sam,’ he said.
‘Go ahead, Jasper,’ said Herb.
‘What fucking planet are you living on?’
There was a moment of shocked silence at his rudeness. Then Herb said mildly: ‘A lot of people are sceptical about this, Jasper, but explain why – maybe without the profanity?’
‘Sam has just given us President Johnson’s line on Tet. Since when did this programme become a propaganda agency for the White House? Shouldn’t we be challenging the government’s view?’
Herb did not disagree. ‘How would you challenge it?’
‘First, documents found on captured troops cannot be taken at face value. The written orders given to soldiers are not a reliable guide to the enemy’s strategic objectives. I have a translation here: “Display to the utmost your revolutionary heroism by surmounting all hardships and difficulties.” This is not strategy, it’s a pep talk.’
Herb said: ‘So what was their objective?’
‘To demonstrate their power and reach, and thereby to demoralize the South Vietnam regime, our troops, and the American people. And they have succeeded.’
Sam said: ‘They still didn’t take any cities.’
‘They don’t need to hold cities – they’re already there. How do you think they got to the American Embassy in Saigon? They didn’t parachute in, they walked around the corner! They were probably living on the next block. They don’t take cities because they already have them.’
Herb said: ‘What about Sam’s third point – their casualties?’
‘No Pentagon figures on enemy casualties are trustworthy,’ Jasper said.
‘It would be a big step, for our show to tell the American people that the government lies to us about this.’
‘Everyone from Lyndon Johnson to the grunt on patrol in the jungle is lying about this, because they all need high kill figures to justify what they’re doing. But I know the truth because I was there. In Vietnam, any dead person counts as an enemy casualty. Throw a grenade into a bomb shelter, kill everyone inside – two young men, four women, an old man and a baby – that’s eight Vietcong dead, in the official report.’
Herb was dubious. ‘How can we be sure this is true?’
‘Ask any veteran,’ said Jasper.
‘It’s hard to credit.’
Jasper was right and Herb knew it, but Herb was anxious about taking such a strong line. However, Jasper judged he was ready to be talked round. ‘Look,’ said Jasper. ‘It’s now four years since we sent the first ground combat troops to South Vietnam. Throughout that period, the Pentagon has been reporting one victory after another, and This Day has been repeating their statements to the American people. If we’ve had four years of victory, how come the enemy can penetrate to the heart of the capital city and surround the US Embassy? Open your eyes, will you?’
Herb was thoughtful. ‘So, Jasper, if you’re right, and Sam’s wrong, what’s our story?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Jasper. ‘The story is the administration’s credibility after the Tet Offensive. Last November Vice-President Humphrey told us we’re winning. In December, General Palmer said the Vietcong had been defeated. In January, Secretary of Defense McNamara told us the North Vietnamese were losing their will to fight. General Westmoreland himself told reporters the Communists were unable to mount a major offensive. Then one morning the Vietcong attacked almost every major city and town in South Vietnam.’
Sam said: ‘We’ve never questioned the President’s honesty. No television show ever has.’
Jasper said: ‘Now’s the time. Is the President lying? Half America is asking that.’
Everyone looked at Herb. It was his decision. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said: ‘All right. That’s the title of our report. “Is the President lying?” Let’s do it.’
*
Dave Williams got an early flight from New York to San Francisco and ate an American breakfast of pancakes with bacon in first class.
Life was good. Plum Nellie was successful and he would never have to take another exam for the rest of his life. He loved Beep and he was going to marry her as soon as he could find the time.
He was the only member of the group who had not yet bought a house, but he hoped to do so today. It would be more than a house, though. His idea was to buy a place in the country, with some land, and build a recording studio. The whole group could live there while they were making an album, which took several months nowadays. Dave often recalled with a smile how they had recorded their first album in one day.
Dave was excited: he had never bought a house before. He was looking forward eagerly to seeing Beep, but he had decided to take care of business first, so that his time with her would be uninterrupted. He was met at the airport by his business manager, Mortimer Schulman. Dave had hired Morty to take care of his personal finances separately from those of the group. Morty was a middle-aged man in relaxed California clothes, a navy blazer with a blue shirt open at the neck. Because Dave was only twenty he often found that lawyers and accountants condescended to him and tried to give him instructions rather than information. Morty treated him as the boss, which he was, and laid out options, knowing that it was up to Dave himself to make the decisions.
They got into Morty’s Cadillac, drove across the Bay Bridge, and headed north, passing the university town of Berkeley where Beep was a student. As he drove, Morty said: ‘I received a proposition for you. It’s not really my role, but I guess they thought I was the nearest thing to your personal agent.’
‘What proposition?’
‘A television producer called Charlie Lacklow wants to talk to you about doing your own TV show.’
Dave was surprised: he had not seen that one coming. ‘What kind of show?’
‘You know, like The Danny Kaye Show or The Dean Martin Show.’
‘No kidding?’ This was big news. Sometimes it seemed to Dave that success was falling on him like rain: hit songs, platinum albums, sell-out tours, successful movies – and now this.
There were a dozen or more variety shows on American television every week, most of them headlined by a movie star or a comic. The host would introduce a guest and chat for a minute, then the guest would sing his or her latest hit, or do a comedy routine. The group had appeared as guests on many such programmes, but Dave did not see how they could fit into that format as hosts. ‘So it would be The Plum Nellie Show?’
‘No. Dave Williams and Friends. They don’t want the group, just you.’
Dave was dubious. ‘That’s flattering, but . . .’
‘It’s a major opportunity, if you ask me. Pop groups generally have a short life, but this is your chance to become an all-round family entertainer – which is a role you can play until you’re seventy.’
That struck a chord. Dave had thought about what he might do when Plum Nellie were no longer popular. It happened to most pop acts, though there were exceptions – Elvis was still big. Dave was planning to marry Beep and have children, a prospect he found daunting. The time might come when he needed another way to earn a living. He had thought about becoming a record producer and artist manager: he had done well in both roles for Plum Nellie.
But this was too soon. The group was hugely popular and now, at last, making real money. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said to Morty. ‘It might break up the group, and I can’t risk that while we’re doing so well.’
‘Shall I tell Charlie Lacklow you’re not interested?’
‘Yeah. With regrets.’
They crossed another long bridge and entered hilly country with orchards on the lower slopes, the plum and almond trees frothing pink and white blossom. ‘We’re in the valley of the river Napa,’ said Morty. He turned on to a dusty side road that wound upwards. After a mile he drove through an open gate and pulled up outside a big ranch house.
‘This is the first one on my list, and the nearest to San Francisco,’ Morty said. ‘I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing you had in mind.’
They got out of the car. The place was a rambling timber-framed building that went on forever. It looked as if two or three outbuildings had been joined to the main residence at different times. Walking around to the far side, they came upon a spectacular view across the valley. ‘Wow,’ said Dave. ‘Beep is going to love this.’
Cultivated fields fell away from the grounds of the house. ‘What do they grow here?’ said Dave.
‘Grapes.’
‘I don’t want to be a farmer.’
‘You’d be a landlord. Thirty acres are rented out.’
They went inside. The place was barely furnished with ill-assorted tables and chairs. There were no beds. ‘Does anyone live here?’ Dave asked.
‘No. For a few weeks every fall the grape pickers use it as a dormitory.’
‘And if I move in . . .’
‘The farmer will find other accommodation for his seasonal workers.’
Dave looked around. The place was ramshackle and derelict, but beautiful. The woodwork seemed solid. The main house had high ceilings and an elegant staircase. ‘I can’t wait for Beep to see it,’ he said.
The main bedroom had the same spectacular view over the valley. He pictured himself and Beep getting up in the morning and looking out together, making coffee, and having breakfast with two or three barefoot children. It was perfect.