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

Chapter 27

In military law, if a death sentence is handed down, the appeals process is automatic. On the plus side, this means that one has a chance to avoid execution. The downside is that it lengthens the wait for something that's probably inevitable anyway. Randall made sure the military filed the paperwork, but this meant that my sentence would be pushed back until the death warrant was signed. Now, I question entered my mind. If I had a choice, would I prefer death or the torment of incarceration? I had no idea. Our instincts drive us to survive, but they also help us to avoid pain, physical or otherwise. It becomes a difficult choice, given that you're provided with one, to decide between two things that contradict what our instincts demand. If I had to make the decision myself, I'd be between a rock and a hard place. But, I wouldn't have to do that. Considering there was no other alternative, maybe it was better that someone else made the decision for me. Besides, and I know it sounds strange, but I had other matters to deal with. My mother was becoming increasingly ill, yet she insisted that she continue making the trip down to Norfolk. Her maternal instinct wouldn't have it any other way. Randall appeared from around the corner and motioned me to a room where my parents were waiting. The med techs had just finished treating my mother. They wanted to take her to the base hospital for observation, but she adamantly refused. I did, however, notice that she looked better. As it turned out, the med techs gave her a very light sedative, just enough to take the edge off.

After the med techs left, Randall explained that he'd be taking my case to the military's court of appeals. The goal was to have my sentence overturned in favor of imprisonment. If he succeeded, I would at least, have some small measure of a life, even if it was little more than an existence, it would still be enough that I could still contribute something, instead of simply gathering dust behind bars.

"I can't tell you not to worry," Randall said. I quickly raised my head, reacting before I could think. "No shit!" I said loudly.

I had run out of patience. I was tired of everything. I was terrified, lonely and felt as though I was rapidly losing my mind. Worse than that, my mother was beginning to look like she belonged in a nursing home. So, yeah, I was angry. "The fucking Army just sentenced me to death!" I continued. "My parents are going through hell; my mother had to be sedated and you have the fucking balls to tell us 'I can't tell you not to worry'?! Are you fucking kidding me?! You were supposed to keep this from happening in the first place! This is my fucking life, not yours!" My parents looked at me in complete shock and Randall was speechless.

"When all of this is said and done, you'll go back to your office in New York and my parents will have to bury their only child! I'll be dead, so they're the ones who'll have to suffer, not you!"

Randall's response was calm and controlled. "Clarence," he began. "This isn't over yet, okay? I understand that you're angry. Anyone in your situation would be."

"Oh, you think?!" I interrupted. "Don't sit there and tell me that you understand! You don't understand shit! Do you think it's easy to be locked up in that cell? Do you think I enjoy seeing my parents go through this?! Did you know that every time I come to one of these rooms to see my parents, the guard gives me a break and just puts on the handcuffs?! Normally, I have to wear a five-point harness. Do you know what that is?! Do you?! Besides the handcuffs, I have to wear leg irons that loop over a chain that goes around my waist! That's what they do with people like me! So, don't tell me about being angry! You have no fucking idea!"

I have to say, Randall handled my outburst pretty well. My parents, however, looked at me as though I'd suddenly grown another head. Some people might think that I'd been more than a little harsh and I suppose I was, but this had been building for a long time and I really needed to get it out of my system. At least I didn't call him an asshole.

Once the appeal was scheduled, my sentence was postponed. It would not be rescheduled until the appeals process was complete. So, my parents left for Bangor and Randall flew back to New York. I felt bad about how I'd spoken to him and wrote him a letter of apology. Several days later, I spoke to him by phone. He told me not to worry about it and that he'd experienced this kind of situation before. I thanked him for his understanding, but his words didn't seem to make me feel any better.

By this time, another emotion had begun to raise its head, as though the terror of possibly being put to death wasn't enough. I had been going through this entire process in, more or less, a state of shock and hadn't stopped to consider what I had actually done. I had killed two people. They had each been someone's son, someone's brother, someone's friend. Why is it that we never think about the lives we take? It's only when we feel guilt when we think about those we cannot bring back and it was guilt that slowly began to dismantle my sanity. I had found a way to remove myself from the existence of a locked cell, but guilt had dug itself a hole in my brain and only a hardened psychopath can escape from guilt. The rest of us are forced to carry to our graves.

Reading started to become difficult. I had read all the few books I had and my attention span was lacking as I became increasingly agitated. I was beginning to pace the length of my cell, having run out of things to occupy myself with and not knowing how long the appeals process would take left me with an uncertain amount of borrowed time. I decided that even from a detention cell, I could still do something productive and with my chances of going to prison still uncertain, I decided to start writing while I still had time. I started where any piece of writing starts - the beginning. I wrote down everything - college, nine eleven, Afghanistan; everything that brought my life to its current state. It started as a journal, but at some point, it turned into something far more personal. If there was someone else out there was in the midst of a life-altering decision, they might read this and choose more carefully than I did. I thought that if my father was eventually able to get it published, I would have at least, accomplished something.

I shortly found myself on a personal mission as I sat for hours a day writing out my thoughts, feelings, and recollections. I suppose that considering the path I seemed to be headed down, I might achieve some small measure of immortality. If I was in fact, put to death, my journal might give me a continued voice. I could still survive, if only to those who read these words. I know it sounds grandiose, but it quickly became an obsession. I felt an urgent need to leave something of myself behind because the idea of dying as a number became far more frightening than simply dying. I came to the conclusion that there is a greater sin than living a wasted life; to die having done nothing. I'm not one to believe that we are born with some grand purpose, but that we are obligated to create ourselves by forging our own path, simply by virtue of being allowed to exist at all.

Writing allowed me to completely immerse myself in something other than my imminent demise and I was provided with notebooks and pens as well as access to a computer. I would write up to six hours a day or until I could no longer keep my eyes open. But, I also began to feel hurried. I didn't know how long the appeals process would take, so I quickly fell into a race against time, trying to avoid the idea that this was a race I might lose, that my life may well come to an end before finishing what I believed was my dying statement. I became obsessed with setting down every thought, regardless of how trivial it might be. Occasionally, I would surprise myself with something that was not only profound but written with such grace that I thought it must have come from someone else. On a good day, my pen would flow like an artist's brush. On a bad day, the words would come out with the anger and force of a sudden storm. I found it surprising how vengeful one could be with nothing more than pen and paper and it was the pen that had quickly become my weapon of choice.

I learned through Randall that the government was providing the media with only limited information on my case. The world knew nothing of the innocent people who'd been killed by two of our own troops. The only thing they had been made aware of was my crime. It seems that the government is in the habit of presenting its own version of the truth for the benefit of damage control, as well as to maintain a noble face. It wasn't bad enough that my life would end; it would end with a lie. So, if the government wasn't going to tell the entire story, I would. Mental note: never piss off the guy with the pen. However, at some point, I began to think that a half-truth was better than a complete lie and that some truths are best left in the darkness of government archives. I guess that's part of the military mentality. The truth can be a dangerous thing, but dangerous to whom? In order to keep what I was doing from being confiscated, I made arrangements with Randall to personally give him sections of the rough draft as I finished them. Telling the whole story could very well be seen as a security risk.

About two weeks later, I received a letter from home. The address was written in an almost calligraphic style that I recognized immediately. It was from Gloria. The postmark was dated roughly four weeks earlier. As I held it in my hand, I began to reflect. I thought I had dealt with my feelings about her. Not that I had put her behind me, but my situation forced me into establishing a more urgent perspective. I let it sit off to the side for a couple of days. I guess I was afraid of what it might say, or maybe what it might not say. Sometimes, when faced with a fear of the unknown, denial can be of great comfort and a large part of me was quite comfortable with the idea of not reading the letter at all. However, there was a voice in the back of my head that I could not escape and it quickly became a nagging reminder of the necessity to read it. So one night, before light's out, I gave in to the voice that had been constantly nudging at me and with a single reading light casting its dim beam from over my shoulder, I sat in my cell and opened the letter.

Dear Clarence,

I was drifting off late at night about two weeks ago when I woke to the sound of your name. I had left my TV on as the national news was airing. Someone must have made a terrible mistake. Please, Clarence, tell me you didn't do this. You are the kindest, gentlest man I have ever met. Please tell me this was someone else. The man I made love in my father’s guest house could never do something like this.

Your father doesn't seem to want to talk about it, but your mom appears to be the one in need of a sympathetic ear. I have never seen anyone so distraught. She told me you are being held in Norfolk. Can I please come down to see you? I need you to tell me that this is all a mistake. I need to hear it from you.

The media is trying to make you look like a criminal. They don’t care whose lives are ruined, as long as they get their story. Clarence, I don’t want to hear about this from the news. Please tell me what happened. You are a good person and I’m sure that if any of this is true, you must have a good reason. I've lived a very sheltered life and am still confounded by the idea of war. I just don’t understand how killing can lead to peace.

I know that military law can be very harsh and I can only guess that things may not as you hope. I can’t imagine the state you must be in by now, but if we never get to see each other again, I still want to be there for you. If you don’t want me to come down, would you call me instead? I would love to hear your voice again and I will always be there to listen. I don’t know what direction your case is going in, but whatever happens, I will always be in your corner.

Gloria

P.S. You will always be my soldier boy.

On one hand, I appreciated the fact that Gloria cared enough to write to me. On the other hand, I wondered why she didn't express these feelings before. But, it was the postscript of her letter that sent my emotions spiraling out of control. It drifted towards the floor as I raised my hands to my face and sobbing uncontrollably, several thoughts ran through my mind. I realized how deeply in love I was. Certainly, I had been attracted to her from the first moment I saw her. But, it wasn't until I first placed my nervous hands around her waist that I felt the epiphany of a passion that can only result from the joining of two souls. I had looked into her eyes that night and found my guardian angel - the woman I 'should' be spending my life with. Now, a handwritten letter was all I had. It wasn't fair! I couldn't stop crying, as I realized just how much I missed her and how much I wanted her.

Then, I was overtaken by a sudden wave of anger. I was angry that it had taken Gloria so long for her to tell me her feelings. I was angry at myself for having spent so much time locked away from my own emotions. The mistakes that brought me to this cell had become crystal clear. Sometimes, enlightenment can come at the price of regret and as I began to feel the walls of my cell closing in on me, I became fully aware that there was no going back. And regardless of the visits from Randall and my parents, I now realized that I was truly alone and I was probably going to die. I had become aware of my circumstances with frightening clarity. And now, somewhere in my desperate, terrified mind, escape became an option. But, I knew it wasn't a realistic option and I decided that I wasn’t going anywhere.

Like anyone else, I wanted my life back and my emotional turmoil held me as an unwilling witness to the mess I had made of my life. Up to this point, I was convinced that Randall would be able to pull me away from death's door. Now, all I had were doubts. I quickly discovered that sitting down for a good cry can often be therapeutic, but only when you know that you will feel better afterward. I once heard someone say that death is an existence without hope. I guess if I used that statement as a standard, my life had already come to an end. I drifted off that night in a state of exhaustion. Real sleep had become a rare commodity, as my dreams had become far harsher than reality. Even if I could somehow escape my cell, my dreams would keep me under lock and key. They always played the same images to me. The night fire incident from basic training still haunted me and the images of the dead lying in the sand of that small Afghani settlement intruded on my sleep with little warning. I could still smell the aroma of gunfire. I could still feel my hand gripping the cold steel of the pistol that had been used to convict me of an act that I thought I was incapable of. And I could still see the lifeless face of the child whose death I was unable to prevent. But, something inside me decided that I had not seen enough and that I needed one last push into the ocean of insanity.