Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 21

I was charged in violation of at least four articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. This included article fifteen, non-judicial punishment. You can be charged with this simply by allowing yourself to be sunburned to the point of requiring hospitalization. I suppose that maintaining order can't be accomplished through compassion. In addition, I was charged with two counts of murder and two counts of assault with a deadly weapon. I was read my rights and ordered to change into an orange jumpsuit. Everything I'd been wearing had been confiscated as evidence. My boots and underwear had been taken as a means of preventing me from committing suicide. I had no plans of ending my life, but I understood it was procedure.

Shortly thereafter, I was interviewed by the officer in charge of the investigation.

"Do you understand the charges against you?" he asked. "Yes," I answered.

I was still exhausted and had no doubt that he would use that to try to obtain a confession. In the civilian world, a confession was nearly worthless, as it could easily be challenged and in many cases thrown out. And even though you were given the same rights in the military, a signed confession could very well be your undoing. "Are you aware of what the consequences could be?" he asked.

Apparently, this was his idea of a scare tactic. Of course, I knew. I could spend the next twenty years of my life in prison if I was lucky and I was willing to accept that considering the number of lives I'd saved. But I was still exhausted, too exhausted to answer a lot of questions. "Look," I said. "I just want to sleep, alright? Can't we do this later, sir?"

"Private," he began.

His voice was stern and impatient. "You're due to be shipped back to the states for trial in two days. Even without your case, I have a mountain of paperwork to do. So, let's just get on with it, okay?" I decided that if I was going to start answering questions, I needed to be awake and alert.

"Alright," I began. "I'm not answering any more questions without an attorney."

The officer scribbled a note in the file that he'd compiled for my case.

"Fine," he replied. "We'll get you a lawyer." He glanced up at the guard and shook his head in frustration."

Alright, get him out of here."

The guard escorted me to a holding cell where we were joined by two more as the door to my new quarters was opened.

After stepping inside, my handcuffs were removed and I was finally allowed to sleep. I awoke later that afternoon to the sight of a meal tray that had been slid under the door. I ate so quickly that I hadn't given myself time to actually see what was on the tray. Sliding the tray back under the door, I spent the next few minutes absorbing my surroundings. My cell couldn't have been more than eight feet by ten feet and by the looks of it, the walls were made of cinder block that had been painted a stark white. I had been sleeping on a cot that folded down from the wall while across from me was a stainless steel sink situated beneath a recessed metal mirror. At the back wall was a stainless steel toilet. There was no window to the outside, just a heavy wooden door with a small barred window and a slot at the bottom, large enough for a meal tray. This was where I spent the next two days.

All my possessions had been inspected, inventoried and packed up in preparation for shipment to my family. God, my parents. Back at Fort Benning, my mother had been nearly inconsolable when she realized where I'd be going, but her only child being in custody for what might turn out to be a capital crime would kill her. Then, there was my father. He always believed that you should stand by your principles, that your word was your bond and should be of more value than any signed document, but I wasn't so sure he'd understand this. He was usually a strong and somewhat stoic person who never seemed confused about the direction his life took at any given moment. I became afraid that his strength may not be enough to get them both through this and realized that, regardless of the outcome, what they were about to experience would most certainly be with them for the rest of their lives. First, they would get a letter from the Department of Defense. It would be a simple computer generated form letter, bearing a DOD form number and probably sent by delivery confirmation. One of my parents would have to sign for it. The letter would inform them that I had been taken into custody pending formal charges and would also instruct them to contact the Judge Advocate General’s office for information on where I'd be held once I arrived back in the states. It would not provide any details of my case.

Two days later, I stepped off a C130 cargo plane and led out in chains by four armed guards. I had spent the last forty-eight hours in silence as investigators continued their attempt to question me. Now, I found myself carefully walking to a waiting cargo truck at the Army's Regional Confinement Facility in Mannheim, Germany. Most military cases were handled on base through a department called 'Social Actions'. They dealt with a lot of minor offenses that usually didn't go to courts-martial but still resulted in confinement as well as some form of counseling. Because of the nature of my case, I would be sent to the states to face trial and in less than a week, I would be escorted aboard a Navy destroyer where I spent five days in the ship's brig. I still refused to see my actions as a crime. I had joined the Army not only to kill terrorists but to also protect the innocent from them. The problem in war was that it could be difficult to tell the good guys from the bad guys and by this time, I was beginning to wonder which one I'd become. Perhaps we possess both; the principled and the monster; the saint and the sinner. Maybe this is what defines us as human. Maybe it's just a matter of achieving a balance between them. Maybe, we're just born killers, living our lives with a subconscious agenda for personal survival. Yeah, I had a lot of time to think lately. Or, maybe it's all just bullshit. I would later discover that thinking can sometimes be a bad idea.

The ship dropped anchor in Norfolk and once again, I was escorted off in chains. The hardest part of this entire process was hearing the rattling sound they made. The links were made of thick welded steel that even Houdini had no chance of escaping from. Their sound dredged up all manner of dark images, and being forced to wear them could easily rob a person of both hope and their humanity, bringing them down to the level of an animal. I spent a great deal of time fighting against that particular transformation. If I lost my strength, I would lose myself and everything I was would be gone. I would not allow the shattering sound of the chains to break me. While in what I believed to be temporary confinement, I was notified that my case would be tried in Norfolk.

While in my first week there, I received a phone call from my parents. I would have rather carved my own cell out of solid stone with my fingernails than take that phone call. I was escorted to a row of booths where, in each, a phone had been installed. They were all supposed to be private lines, somewhere along the way, I had learned what a tapped phone line sounds like. As I put the receiver to my ear, I detected the telltale clicks created by the presence of a third pair of ears. I began shaking as I tried to find the right words. Sometimes a simple 'hello' just isn't the way to begin a conversation, especially when talking to your parents from within a military detention center. "Hello, Clarence?"

It was my father. His response was a mixture of shock, deep concern, and disbelief.

"We got a letter saying that you'd been arrested," he said. "What's going on?"

I hadn't fully realized what was happening to me, but my next words would push me closer to that realization. "Dad," I replied.

My voice became strained as I uttered the words with a trembling voice.

"I've been charged with murder."

The silent response was both surreal and painfully long as he tried to gather his thoughts without becoming emotional. "Clarence," he said. "Have you been answering any questions? Have you signed anything?" I told him that I had done neither. "Good," he replied. "Don't say anything." He didn't ask for an explanation, but instead, told me not to go into any details over the phone. He also told me that they would both be flying down to Norfolk, bringing with them a private defense attorney and that I was to refuse military counsel. My father didn't exactly have a tremendous amount of faith in the government and believed that my case might be jeopardized if I was represented by the same organization that was putting me on trial.