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

Chapter 32

Most of that day was little more than a blur. Randall said he'd spent a great deal of time developing a new approach for the negotiation of my sentence. My parents were highly skeptical and I honestly refused to believe a word of it unless I saw it for myself. As usual, the prosecution was ready. They presented a thorough, yet brief, review of the events that led to my conviction, noting that nothing substantial had been produced that would cause the jury to reconsider my sentence and in not so many words, they remarked that my punishment should be held up as both an example and a deterrent. Randall stood, unfazed by the prosecutor's argument that I should be used as, more or less, the poster child of the military's wartime moral compass. He argued that the death of one soldier, under any circumstances, has never been held by the military machine as a significant consequence of war. He argued that all efforts should be made to prevent the loss of life during times of war and this was an opportunity to start. His argument was eloquent to a fault and left me wondering why he couldn't do this before. I was truly impressed as I glanced back at my parents, who seemed both moved and hopeful. Maybe this would end well after all. What is the expression, 'third time's the charm'? Unfortunately, the jury seemed deeply entrenched in wartime patriotism and was either unable or unwilling, to see beyond the tunnel vision of indoctrination and all twelve officers voted in favor of upholding my sentence. There was nothing hypothetical about it anymore and the reality of my fate struck me like a falling brick. Part of me was really hoping to see my sentence overturned, but another part of me was glad that it was over.

After the jury's decision had been announced, the judge looked at me with a sympathetic expression. "Private Taylor," he began.

I stood up at attention, feeling my legs wobble a bit under the anxiety of knowing that my death was now a certainty. "I am truly sorry, both for you and your parents. If it were up to me, you'd be going to prison. Unfortunately, I can't be the one to make that decision."

He paused to fumble through some papers that lay in front of him, taking a brief moment to write a few notes. "Private, the warrant to carry out your sentence will go before the President for approval by witnessed signature. Thereafter, your sentence will be scheduled and you will be put to death by lethal injection, as decided by this court."

Why did I have to wait so long? I spent months locked in a cell, waiting for the gears of military law to do what I knew they would probably do all along. I'd spent a very long time believing that I would go to prison, wait out my time, and start over. Now, it was time to do some serious reflecting. I needed to find a way to resolve my life, even if I had to resort to some grand rationalization that I had somehow made a difference. But being young, I lacked life experience and, therefore, any opportunity to achieve something significant. Sure, I went to college, but a degree in Philosophy? What was I going to do with that? And instead of moving on to grad school, I ended up on a personal mission to kill terrorists by joining the military. What the fuck was I thinking? The answer to that question was simple. There are thinkers and there are fighters and soldiering is best left to soldiers. If you put a weapon in the hands of a thinker, it will probably never be fired. If you're going to become a soldier, you must realize that following orders takes precedence over thinking. Thinking can get you killed. On the other hand, acting without thinking can also get you killed. Is there a boundary between the two? If there is, it has to be very thin. So, what do you do? You follow orders; you do what you're told; you aim and fire; you keep your head down. But, I was not a soldier and I had no business even considering military service. What exactly did I think I was going to accomplish?

Over the next few days, I had put enough thought into my oncoming oblivion to realize one simple, but important lesson. The most terrible lie you can ever tell is the lie you tell to yourself. You can learn to read people and catch them in a lie, but catching yourself in a lie is a very different matter. It's far too easy to bring yourself to believe in your own version of the truth. It's just more convenient to believe you are innocent, in spite of any overwhelming facts to the contrary. In my case, my lie was that I had taken up a calling - if you will - to cure the world of its newfound ills. I actually thought I could make a difference, but as it turned out, the only world I had changed was my own. Worst of all, I had dragged my parents down with me. My lie had destroyed their world as well.

Again, I waited - always with the waiting. I tried to keep myself from rotting away by continuing my journal. Writing had become a bastion of sanity for me. As for hope, hope had predeceased me weeks ago. I guess it would be okay if no one read this. I don't think anyone would really care anyway. As I said, any remaining hope I once had was gone and I now wrote not for the sake of writing something meaningful, but so I wouldn't have to deal with where I was going. It had turned into a compulsion, something I had to do.

I'm not really sure how much time had passed, but one morning, the officer in charge of the cell block notified me that I had a court appointment that afternoon. I didn't think that I'd have to do this again. Maybe I thought they'd just kill me and be done with it, but everything had to be formalized. All the T's had to be crossed; all the I's had to be dotted. Randall stood waiting outside the courtroom doors as I arrived in handcuffs, led by an armed guard. My parents were strangely absent.

"Randall," I began. "What's going on? Where are my parents?"

He waited as my handcuffs were removed. "Clarence, you are receiving notification," he answered. There was a noticeable tone of seriousness in his voice. "Notification of what?" I asked. "And where are my parents?"

His slight hesitation only added to the seriousness of his tone.

"Clarence," he began. "The President signed your death warrant two days ago."

A long pause went by as I absorbed this painful fact. I'm not even sure I'd call it painful. I don't think there's really a word that could even come close to describing my reaction. Randall also informed me that there had been no media present and the only other person there was the Attorney General. And he was only there as a witness. "Shouldn't my parents be here for this?" I asked. "Clarence," he replied. "You have to be formally notified by the court. It'll take five minutes. I don't think that your parents should have to fly down from Bangor for a five-minute notification, do you?"

He was right, but, it felt strange to glance back at the two empty chairs where my parents usually sat.

I stood up as the judge entered the courtroom. The prosecution's presence was no longer needed. They had done their jobs and had likely been assigned to another case. The officers of the jury were also absent and had been sent back to do whatever it was they did before receiving their summons. Only two other people were needed, a guard and the court transcriptionist. The room felt cold and sterile as I acknowledged the 'official' notification of the signing of my death warrant. I wondered what the President might have been thinking while signing the piece of paper that was, in effect, a government permission slip to end my life. Did he hesitate? How much thought did give before signing it? I know it doesn't really matter, but if your signature is the only thing needed to terminate someone's life, how much thought would you put into it? The judge's words took only seconds to be spoken. The rest of those few minutes were taken up by courtroom formalities. There were papers to be signed and one last appointment to be made. Before leaving the courtroom I was, again, handcuffed and as I was escorted by two armed guards, Randall accompanied me back to my cell. "You were right," I said. "My parents didn't need to be here for this."

It wasn't the trip down from Bangor I was thinking about. I just didn't think they needed to witness this particular step of my demise. At this point, the date of my execution was irrelevant. Keeping a calendar while behind bars serves absolutely no purpose, other than to make yourself crazy. And having a clock in your cell will only speed the process. At any rate, my death was now a certainty. There were no more appeals and the judge would not allow any delays. The images from that day in Afghanistan continued to run loose in my mind and I was no longer able to justify my actions as the exercising of some grandiose personal mission. If I could distill all of it down to one word, it would be 'stupid'. The Sergeant who walked down into the village with me that day paid for his mistake with his life. Now, I was about to follow that same path. Why didn't we wait for backup? A small patrol could have quickly and easily been put together. But, I guess there's no point in thinking about that now.

I continued to bury myself in my journal and had made remarkable progress. Sometimes, escapism can actually help to accomplish a great deal. But, when Randall and my parents arrived two days before my sentence was to be carried out, writing no longer served as an adequate escape and their arrival forced me onto a collision course with a debt that was soon coming due. There was no hiding from it anymore and I felt my sense of control rapidly slipping away.

My mother was now walking with a cane and one side of her face drooped slightly.

"Jesus Christ," I thought. "My mom had a stroke!" We had been writing back and forth since the very beginning, but in none of my parent's recent correspondence was there anything about this. My father thought it was best not to mention it unless it was absolutely necessary, but I have to say that in spite of her condition, she was doing remarkably well. Although, it did force her into retirement. I credited her force of will as the primary reason for her recovery, but from a mothers' perspective, I was likely her motivation for surviving this assault on her body. We spent a great deal of time just talking, with no mention of Gloria, or why they were actually there. Randall spent most of his time in his hotel room, making phone calls in an attempt to have my sentence commuted. I still can't believe he had the balls to try to call the President. He got as far as the President's secretary only to be told, repeatedly, that the President was not available. In the end, he had done his best and I considered his job to be done.

We spent the entire next day talking about things that seemed unimportant. I think my parents wanted to keep my stress level to a minimum. But being my parents, they were able to read me like an open book and were very aware of how terrified I was. By this time, the private rooms had grown very small and my mother, in spite of the fact that she was now forced to use a cane, insisted on going for a walk.

"Oh, I don't know, mom," I replied. "I don't think they're going to let me do that."

"Why not?" she asked.

She seemed surprised to be told that, as a condemned prisoner, I would not be allowed to go outside for even a simple walk.

"A mother can't go outside for a walk with her son?" I could see that the medication she was taking was working well and I felt better seeing that her willful personality was beginning to display itself again.

"Well, we'll just see about that."

She got up from her chair and started towards the door as my father jumped up in an attempt to stop her. The ensuing commotion attracted the attention of the guard, who entered the room with his hand instinctively placed on his holstered sidearm.

"Is there a problem?" he asked sternly. She lifted the end of cane several inches of the floor and pounded it back down with a heavy, determined thud.

"I want to go for a walk with my son," she demanded. The guard glanced at my father, who'd thrown up his hands in resignation and I was speechless. Seeing there was no threat, the guard dropped his hand. "Ma'am, we don't ordinarily allow that," he replied. "I don't give a rat's ass what you allow!" she said, as she beat the end of her cane against the floor again. Ten minutes later, after my father and I had picked our jaws up off the floor, we found ourselves walking on the front lawn, between the two fences that surrounded the detention center. My mother's right hand firmly gripped her cane while her left-hand held my arm. My father followed behind while a guard trailed us by about ten feet. Together, we walked the length of the lawn several times. Sometimes we talked, other times we said nothing. All she wanted was to spend those last few hours on my arm, even if there wasn't a lot to say.

The evening crept up on us far too quickly and the guard walked me back to my cell, while another escorted my parents to the parking lot. Just before entering the building, I glanced back at my parents. My mother’s eyes pierced through me with a look of bleakness and grief. Her face had taken on an ancient, wizened expression, as though she'd witnessed a lifetime of tragedy. She looked despaired and lost. I wished I'd never seen that look. I would rather have been dismembered with a hammer than see that look on my mother’s face.

I spent half the night writing down my thoughts. It was the last chance I had to put pen to paper and after bringing my journal to a close, I sat back on my cot, letting the emptiness of the night envelop me, like a blanket of cold snow, blackened by guilt and regret. Morpheus, the Greek god of sleep, passed me by that night as I was left to the whispers that echoed from the surrounding darkness. Perhaps the whispers were the voices of my conscience, taking one last jab as my psyche had finally taken flight and disappeared into the veil of the inevitable. The only hope I had left was that my life would be brought to a swift, merciful end.

My parents were waiting for me the next morning for what would be the last time we would be in each other’s presence. There were no words spoken, only tears. We huddled together in one of the private rooms and for the first time in my life, I saw my father break down. I had no idea what to say. I did tell them that I loved them, but those three words would not be comfort enough as they would soon witness my execution. I tried to be strong for them. However, the more I tried to hold the tears at bay, the faster they came to the surface and like my parents, my silent strength had become fractured by an outpouring of emotion. My mother's tears had slowly turned into a loud wailing as she let loose her deepest pain and grief. It was that sound, as well as the expression on her face, that brought me furthest into my guilt. The choice I had made back in the sands of Afghanistan had torn my mother’s soul to shreds.

I don't know how much time had passed. It felt like forever, but at some point, there came a tap at the door. When it opened, I saw Randall in the hallway standing with two guards.

"Clarence," he said. "We have to go back to your cell."

The grave tone in his voice told me that the process had begun. My mother suddenly reached out as I stepped toward the door and clutched my arm as though she might hold me back. Her loud crying left her unable to speak clearly. My father gently took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his chest, where she buried her face and continued crying hysterically. I stepped into the hallway where another guard stood holding a five-point harness. Ordinarily, they trusted me enough to just apply the handcuffs, but this was a very different situation. They removed the handcuffs I was already wearing and replaced them with a wide leather belt, tethering four heavy chains that attached to stainless steel shackles and cuffs. Once the harness was secured, I was led down the hall and back to my cell, where several more people were waiting. Once inside, only the handcuffs were removed. I sat down on my cot as the commanding officer of the detention center entered. According to military law, he was required to offer me a last meal. They could have offered me a porterhouse steak with a glass of vintage red wine from the finest vineyard in France and I would have turned it down. Well, perhaps not the wine. But, truthfully, there was only one thing I wanted - water. I remembered that right after my sentencing trial, I'd experienced an epiphany, of sorts when I was given a glass of water. For something that's supposed to be tasteless, it seems that there is nothing better than a glass of cold, clear water - the stuff of life. So, that's what I asked for - just plain, ordinary tap water. And with at least half a dozen people standing outside my cell, I drank down a tall glass of water. It ran down over my chin and dripped onto my clothes. It was a wonderful experience.

The commanding officer left with the empty glass as I wiped my chin off with the sleeve of my shirt. At this point, there was no need for decorum. The next person was a doctor. He walked in with a sheet of paper and sat on the other end of my cot. It was required that a review of the execution process take place. Essentially, they wanted me to know how I was going to die.

I would be taken into a procedure room where I would lay on a stretcher. An IV would be placed in both my arms with the second being used in the event the first failed. The doctor would be there to perform this task, but would not administer the drugs. I guess doctors aren't allowed to kill people, right? From there, I'd be taken into a nearby room that was referred to as 'the death chamber'. It seems a bit dramatic to use such heavy-handed words to describe a place that is nothing more than a space surrounded by walls, but I suppose that even the delivery of death can't exist without a label. I would be strapped to a surgical table and asked if I had any last words, as though there could be anything of meaning I might have to say. I'm sure that whatever I said would be documented, even if no one but my parents gave a shit.

Three drugs would then be introduced. The first would be a lethal dose of sodium thiopental. The doctor told me that its effect would be almost immediate. It would be flushed through with saline while the next drug was prepared. A high dose of Pancuronium Bromide would then be injected and flushed through with more saline. This was a paralytic and was used as the 'cosmetic' step. I was afraid to ask why he used the word 'cosmetic', but I asked anyway. The answer I got was nothing short of horrifying. It seems that, on occasion, things don't always go according to plan and sometimes, the initial drug can cause violent seizures. The paralytic is given to mask these effects and give witnesses the impression that the execution was being carried out in a humane manner. The last step is the injection of two large syringes of potassium chloride. The dose is large enough to stop the heart. The downside of this drug is that a dose this large turns on every pain receptor in the body. So, if the first drug doesn't work, you will be fully aware of your inability to breath and feel as though your entire body is on fire. No one will know but you.

Hearing this forced me into a moment of clarity long enough to realize that it wasn't necessarily death I should be afraid of. We all die. That's just the way the universe works, but the idea of dying in silent, burning agony was one I found truly terrifying. Now, it was now official: I was scared shitless. Any more information was pointless. The review was required, obviously, because someone sitting behind a desk thought I should know. But, I didn't need to know. More than that, I wished I'd never asked.

The doctor offered me five milligrams of Valium. I thought it was a bit odd to offer someone drugs who was about to die by an intentional overdose and when I asked why the doctor told me it was required that it be offered in order to make my execution less stressful. I actually thought he was kidding, until he held out a small plastic cup containing an orange pill. I was no longer the type of person who believed it was noble to stare down death in the face of insurmountable odds. Like I said, soldiering is best left to soldiers. However, at some point, I'd made up my mind that I wanted to experience that last glimmer of lucidity. I wanted to know if there really was anything on the other side of that last heartbeat. Everyone has their own ideas of what might lie on the 'other side'. Even if you believe there's nothing, nothing is still something, right?

You've probably guessed by now that I did, in fact, refuse the Valium.

"Are you sure?" the doctor asked. "Yeah, I'm sure," I answered.

Was I absolutely sure? No, not really, but I didn't want to die in a drug-induced haze. The first drug was going to be a sedative anyway and considering how quickly it was supposed to kick in, I thought there might be a chance to experience something of the divine. Maybe I would find out if Christianity was right - that there is a God. Not that I was planning to convey the experience to anyone. I just wanted to find out for myself.

The handcuffs were, once again, secured around my wrists. The commanding officer stepped into the doorway and told me to stand. I looked around at all the books, the notebook containing my journal and the letter from Gloria that stuck out from between the pages of 'The Teachings of Buddha'. My mind drew a blank. There were no profound thoughts, no literary quotes or sudden religious awareness. "Private Taylor," he said. "It's time." I stepped out of my cell and sat in a waiting wheelchair and with armed guards in tow, I was taken to an isolated area of the detention center and wheeled into a small procedure room. Everything for the IV's had been set out on a small stainless steel tray. I was told to lie down on a gurney that had placed under a ceiling mounted surgical light where a small amount of local anesthetic was injected under my skin, leaving a bubble of the drug a hair's breadth from the doctor's chosen vein. The insertion of both IV's was painless. The doctor had obviously done this many times. He connected it to a bag of saline and hung it on a pole that folded out from somewhere under the gurney. It was at that time I noticed a blank look on the doctor's face. "I'm sorry you have to be a part of this," I said. His expression went unchanged and there was no response, not even eye contact.

As the doctor began cleaning up the used supplies, the commanding officer walked in accompanied by the chaplain.

"Private Taylor," he began. "There's nothing in your record pertaining to any religious preference. Would you like to speak to the chaplain?"

I've never been a big fan of faith, especially after nine eleven. Yeah, I guess it would be nice if there was something or someone out there that could make evil obsolete. But, if that were the case, I probably wouldn't be where I am.

"Sir," I answered. "I really think my parents would get more out of that than I would."

At this point, I honestly thought that talking to a chaplain would feel more like talking to a brick wall. I think it's great that there are people around to give others that kind of comfort. I just didn't think that there was anyone out there who would listen or care.

I was helped off the gurney by one of two guards that had entered the room. Still, in chains, I was walked a short distance into an adjacent room. It was much smaller than the procedure room and contained only one piece of furniture - a surgical table. It had been bolted to the floor by a large steel cylinder with several heavy leather straps attached to its frame. There was a small window on one side at about shoulder height, probably for whoever was charged with the grim task of injecting the drugs. I would never see that person’s face. On the opposite side of the room was a large window, covered by a black curtain. I was told to lie down. The two guards were present to ensure my cooperation. I had never given them any trouble, so I wasn't about to start now. The straps were buckled over my chest, waist, and legs. My ankles, arms, and wrists were also restrained as the chains were removed. The IV bag and tubing were fed through a small, square hole just beneath the executioner’s window. Everyone left the room, leaving me to wait for the inevitable. All my emotions had suddenly been replaced by an odd feeling of calm dissociation. It was an experience that seemed to remove me from the unwavering certainty of death. The curtain was then pulled open and turning my head, I saw a roomful of onlookers, including Randall and my parents. The chaplain had seated himself next to my mother, with my father sitting at her other side. I was not able to clearly see her face, but I could hear her crying softly. A voice addressed me through a speaker mounted near the ceiling. "Private Clarence Taylor," it began. The voice did not sound familiar. "You have been found guilty of the crime of involuntary manslaughter during a declared time of war and have been sentenced to die by lethal injection. Do you have any last words?"

I had spent what felt like an eternity thinking about what to say. I told my parents how sorry I was that I had caused them so much pain. My voice quivered as I told them how much I loved them. I also asked that the families of the two marines I had killed be told how deeply sorry I was and that I, alone, was responsible for their deaths. I turned my head back and faced the ceiling.

I've heard it said that when someone dies, they see their life pass before them in one momentary flash of retrospect. So, you would think that the entirety of my short life would suddenly burst into my consciousness as my existence was about to come to a close. But, of all the things that could have entered my mind - my parents, Gloria, college, winters in Maine, basic training, the teachings of Buddha -- only one thought occurred to me, and as I lay strapped to the table, watching the whitish fluid of the sedative enter my veins, I wished that I could see the sky one more time.

End