The Last Hour

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  This twilight world? She didn’t need that. No one did.

  It was more than a few minutes before the nurse came back with a doctor. The doctor took her chart off the end of the bed. “Sarah, I’m Doctor Norris. I’m just going to check a few things before we take out the breathing tube. Okay?”

  Sarah just slightly nodded again. Tears were slowly leaking out of both eyes.

  The doctor put on gloves and said, “This is probably going to hurt, a lot, but just for a moment. Sorry.” Then he raised the blanket from her left leg and very gently lifted the dressings to examine the wounds. As soon as he touched her leg, Sarah went completely rigid, and a muffled scream rose from her throat.

  Jesus Christ. I wanted to shove the doctor away from her, but I knew he had to do it. I looked at her leg. It was still insanely swollen. Her calf looked like a football had been stuffed inside of it, the skin an angry red around the open slit that went almost from her ankle to her knee. Huge stitches that looked almost like shoelaces held her leg together, and the whole thing was like something out of a nightmare. Very carefully, the doctor covered the wound again, and re-draped her sheet over the leg.

  Sarah’s eyes were squeezed shut. The doctor said, “You’re doing very well, Sarah. Very well indeed.” As he spoke, he was writing notes on the chart. He looked up at the monitors and said, “I think we’re ready for that tube to come out. It’s going to be uncomfortable, but not like the leg. Okay? Just stay calm, and I want you to slowly breathe out.”

  Very carefully, very slowly, he removed the tube from her throat. She coughed and her body spasmed, then let out a low howl.

  “I know, honey,” the nurse said. “It’s all right.”

  “The fuck it’s all right,” Sarah muttered. “Oh God, that hurts.”

  Absently, I said to Daniel, “Don’t ever use language like hers.”

  The nurse said, “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, they may seem silly, all right? Do you know where you are?”

  Sarah said, “A hospital. I guess in Washington?”

  “Yes, you’re at George Washington University Hospital. What do you remember?”

  “Car accident,” Sarah said.

  “Do you know what year it is?”

  Sarah frowned. Then she answered, “2013.”

  “Very good,” the nurse said.

  The doctor said, “Nina will show you how the morphine pump works. It has a limiter on it, so you can only use a certain amount, but that should help with the pain a little. But you’re coming along well. You were in a very nasty accident. You’re very lucky.”

  Sarah nodded and then said, “How is Ray?”

  Oh, shit.

  The doctor and nurse looked at each other, then said, “He’s just a couple of doors down. And your sisters are fine. In fact, if you’re up to visitors, you can have one at a time, as soon as you are ready.”

  The doctor hadn’t actually told her how I was. That didn’t surprise me. But she hadn’t asked about Carrie and Jessica. How much did she remember?

  In a hesitant voice, Sarah said, “I’d like visitors. After you show me how to work the pump.”

  I don’t see how (Carrie)

  Nothing had changed with Ray overnight. The machines were still keeping him breathing. I sat, my hand on his, for a long time. I was numb. The doctors wanted to meet at 10 a.m. I think that terrified me more than anything else.

  When we got to the intensive care unit and I went to see Ray, the first thing Julia did was walk to the nurses’ station. From Ray’s room, I could see her over there talking with them, and I knew she was telling them that I’d skipped out on the CT scan and that I needed to see a doctor.

  I stood, wrapping my arms across my stomach. Ray would be urging me to go to the doctor. He wasn’t one to avoid whatever was necessary. I needed to do the same. Slowly, I kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “I’ll be back in a little bit.” Then I walked back out.

  A nurse approached my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Thompson? Your daughter is awake, if you’d like to see her. She can have visitors, but only one at a time.”

  My mother and father looked stricken, and he said, softly, “You go ahead, Adelina.” Dad looked lost, as the nurse led my mother down the hall to Sarah’s room.

  Julia came back over to me. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got an appointment downstairs.”

  I was afraid. I looked up at Julia, and for the first time since I was a small child I just wanted to curl up and ask my mother for a hug. But I couldn’t do that. Instead, I took Julia’s outstretched hand. “Okay,” I said, my throat dry.

  Somehow she found her way back down to the emergency department. I certainly wasn’t any help. I walked as if I had blinders on, not paying any attention, my mind still up in the ICU where I knew Ray was.

  When we got downstairs, Julia said something to a man who sat behind a desk in the emergency room. A few minutes later, the same doctor as yesterday appeared. “Carrie? Doctor Chavez, I examined you yesterday.”

  I nodded and mumbled something.

  “Well, let’s go get a look.” He led us to an examining room, and then said, “So you managed to avoid any labs yesterday? And didn’t get the CT scan?”

  I nodded, and Julia said, “She thinks she may be pregnant.”

  “Well, then. How is your head? Any more nausea?”

  I nodded. “This morning. Every morning the last two weeks.”

  “That wouldn’t be the concussion, then. Headaches? Any vision problems?” As he asked the question, he shined a light into one eye, then the other.

  “No. Nothing,” I said.

  “All right. We’re going to take some blood, just wait here.”

  The moment Doctor Chavez was gone, Julia sat down next to me and said, “You’re going to be okay, Carrie.”

  “I don’t see how,” I said.

  She sighed and put an arm around my shoulder. We waited, and a little while later a nurse came and took a vial of blood from me.

  I was numb. And we waited. The emergency room staff moved us out of the exam room, and then Doctor Chavez came back. He was holding a sheet of paper. I crossed my arms in front of me, afraid of the answer.

  “Your pregnancy test came back positive.”

  I leaned forward, just slightly, and tears started pouring down my face again. “Oh, God,” I said. “I need Ray. I need him. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Julia threw her arms around me and whispered, “Listen to me, Carrie. Whatever happens with Ray, you won’t be alone. I promise you that. No matter what.”

  I just sobbed, pathetic, not hearing her words, not feeling anything but the gulf of pain where Ray Sherman should have been.

  Including me (Ray)

  “I’m calling this hearing to order,” Colonel Schwartz said. The reporters, jammed on one side of the room with little concession to needing air or anything else, quieted down.

  The Article 32 hearing was nothing like what a lifetime of watching courtrooms on television would have led me to expect.

  For one thing, it wasn’t held in a courtroom. Two weeks ago, Schwartz commandeered a conference room near the Hospital Commander’s office. Twenty or so plastic backed chairs filled in one side of the room, and that’s where the public and the reporters sat. At the conference table, across from me, was the prosecutor, an Army captain who looked to be about twenty years old, and his two assistants, both of them lieutenants. A court reporter took notes in a corner, and Schwartz sat at the head of the table. I’d spent the last two weeks on the other side of the table, between Dick Elmore, who had to be there, and Carrie, who didn’t, but came anyway.

  Schwartz said, “I understand the defense has one more witness to call?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dick said. “Staff Sergeant William Martin.”

  “Is your witness present?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s waiting outside.”

  Schwartz waved a hand at Elmore, who stood, and walked to the door and
opened it. He murmured something, and a moment later Staff Sergeant Martin followed him into the room.

  I studied Martin. His face was red and sweaty. He didn’t look healthy, his uniform hanging as if it were a couple of sizes too big, or as if he hadn’t been eating well for a long time.

  “Sergeant, please raise your right hand.” Martin did so, and Schwartz said, “Sergeant, do you swear, or affirm, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do,” Martin said.

  “Staff Sergeant Martin, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Schwartz. I’ve been appointed as Investigating Officer in this Article 32 investigation. At this time I’m advising you on your right to remain silent. You may not be compelled to offer testimony that might tend to incriminate yourself. Do you understand this right?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “You also have the right to have counsel present for your testimony. It is my understanding that you are waiving that right. Is this the case?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t want a lawyer.”

  “Then I will allow counsel for the defense to proceed with his questions.”

  Schwartz didn’t like lawyers pacing around and pontificating, and he tended to cut them short if they got too long-winded. So Dick just launched right into his questions.

  “Staff Sergeant Martin, can you please tell me your whereabouts on the morning of March 24th, 2012?”

  Martin grimaced. “Yes. I was assigned to Bravo Company, Second Battalion, Thirteenth Infantry Regiment, Tenth Mountain Division. We were deployed in Badakhshan Province, Afghanistan. That morning we were in the vicinity of the village of Dega Payan.”

  “And was this the first time you’d been near that village?”

  “No. We were there about six weeks earlier, after an avalanche buried part of the village in snow.”

  Carrie squeezed my hand. She knew the story of Dega Payan, and the avalanche.

  “We’ve had a lot of testimony here about what happened after the avalanche, so we’re going to skip past that. But I’m interested in your observations about the state of mind of the rest of the platoon in the weeks afterward.”

  Martin shook his head. “We lost three good soldiers in twenty-four hours. Paris was all fucked up—shit, I can’t say that here, can I? Paris was badly injured. Roberts: dead. Kowalski: dead. I think it’s fair to say we were all a little screwed up about that.”

  “Please give us an example of what you mean by screwed up.”

  “All right. Well, for one thing, Sherman looked like a little orphan. He’d lost his whole fire team. It was about two weeks before we got replacements, and then it was back out in to the field with guys he didn’t know. And Colton, I found him drunk one night. I’d known Colton a long time, and he didn’t drink in the field. It’s too damn dangerous.”

  Dick leaned forward. “So the platoon sergeant was drinking. Did you see him drunk at any other time?”

  “Not that I know of. But he took those deaths hard. I’ve known Colton ten years, and we’d lost soldiers before. But never like that. So many. So quick.”

  “All right. Please go on. Tell us about the morning of the 24th.”

  “Like I said, we were outside Dega Payan. We had orders to patrol the area around the village and flush out some Taliban guerrillas who had been operating in the area through most of the spring. It’s a mountainous area, lots of trees, and many places to hide. We were going out one squad at a time, and that day it was first squad, with Colton and me. And we’re marching along, spread out, and Weber walks over to take a piss, he’s probably thirty yards away from the rest of the squad, and a shot rings out. Sniper caught Weber right between the eyes. He never had a chance.”

  I just looked at the table. I’d heard variants of this story over the days of the investigation.

  “Anyway, Colton went a little nuts. He scrambled the platoon to find the sniper, but no luck. We never caught up with the son of a bitch. But then we got to the outskirts of the village, and this kid ... he was like ... twelve maybe ... comes marching across the street with a bunch of sheep or goats or some shit. We knew him; the kid was one Kowalski had played soccer with, when we were in the village before. We all recognized him. Kowalski used to call the kid ‘Speedy’ because he had this fucked up Tajik name none of us could pronounce.”

  I couldn’t hear any more. I covered my face in my hands.

  Martin said, “Can I get a glass of water?”

  Schwartz said, “Do you need a recess?”

  “No sir, I want to get this over with. My throat’s dry.”

  Schwartz gave a look at one of the Lieutenants on the prosecution team, and the lieutenant slid a pitcher of ice water and a glass over to Martin.

  “Please go ahead, Sergeant, if you can,” Elmore said.

  I stared at the table, trying desperately not to visibly shake, trying desperately to not let that day overcome my present. It was as if you could scratch my skin and the dust and mud of Afghanistan would well and bubble up like thick, clotted blood from an old wound. I averted my eyes from Martin as he went on and on, talking about Colton and Speedy and everything that happened, every damn thing that I couldn’t take back.

  I stared out the window, my eyes fixed on a tree just outside. A pair of squirrels jumped from branch to branch, chasing each other around the trunk, no worries, no pressure, and no regrets. I wanted to be out there. Instead, here I was, dealing with the aftermath of a chain of choices that had destroyed the lives of too many people already.

  My attention went back to the room when I heard my name.

  Elmore said, “What was Sergeant Sherman doing at this point?”

  “I think he was in shock,” Martin said. “When we finally stopped, he started yelling, freaking out. And then we took his weapons away.”

  Jesus. I remembered that. It had started raining, unexpectedly, and we were crouched among the trees. Colton had been raving irrationally, and Martin, who had sustained a not very severe wound, crouched against a tree and said, “Shut the fuck up, Colton. Just shut up.”

  That started another round of recriminations and shouting, and I’d looked up at one point and said, “This makes us all fucking war criminals,” and then Colton screamed at me, and pointed his rifle, and said, “If you fucking say anything, to anyone, I’ll kill you, Sherman!”

  And I just ... sat there. Finally, Colton rehearsed everyone. One by one. Including Martin. Including me. What happened, even though it wasn’t what had happened. We’d never seen a boy that day, and Martin was injured in an accidental discharge. He had a long, red furrow down his forearm, not serious; he wouldn’t even miss a day of duty.

  One by one, we all swore.

  Including me.

  No more questions (Carrie)

  Ray’s eyes were glazed over, staring into the distance as Martin finished testifying. I reached past him and tapped Dick on the shoulder. He looked at me, then at Ray, and nodded his understanding. Slowly, I wrapped my hand around Ray’s. His eyes softened, out of focus, and then he looked at me. And he was here, now, in the present.

  I’d been attending the hearing every day with Ray. In the end, I hadn’t had to worry about the impact on my job, because I didn’t have a job. Doctor Moore’s investigation (whatever that consisted of) had been dragging on for weeks, with no resolution. I don’t know who he was talking to, or whatever evidence he was examining, because I’d heard hardly a word except from Lori Beckley, who called me every couple of days to check in. Lori and I had been out for drinks three times, but that was my only connection with NIH. Otherwise, all of my time had been spent with Ray. Who seemed to be slowly falling apart.

  Colonel Schwartz let Martin go, and then said, “I’ve reached the end of the evidence I intend to examine for this investigation. Does the prosecution have any further evidence to submit? Or any further witnesses to examine?”

  The officer leading the prosecution said, “No, sir.” He had declined to cross-examine Martin. Anything furthe
r Martin said was likely to be that much more damning for the prosecution, though I was deeply worried about Martin’s account of how all of them, including Ray, had promised to say nothing. I didn’t know enough about military law, but it seemed likely to me, based on what Dick had said, that merely participating in that cover-up, even if he’d reported it eventually, would be enough to send Ray to a court-martial.

  Not to mention, Martin’s testimony conflicted with Colton’s and another sergeant’s.

  Schwartz turned to Elmore and said, “Does the accused have any further evidence or witnesses to offer?”

  “No, sir,” Elmore said.

  “Sergeant Sherman, earlier in this investigation, I advised you of your rights to make a statement, or to remain silent. Do you want me to repeat this advice at this time?”

  Ray shifted in his seat, then said, “No, sir.”

  “Do you desire to make a statement in any form?”

  Elmore had advised Ray, over and over again, not to make any statement at the Article 32 hearing. “They can only use it against you. Right now the weight of the evidence, and the fact that you reported it in the first place, is on your side. But if you get up there on the witness stand, everything you say becomes part of the court-martial record, and the prosecutors can use it to tear you apart at the court-martial.”

  So it must’ve been some freak suicidal impulse that ran through Ray’s mind and provoked him to look at Colonel Schwartz and say, “Yes, sir.”

  I froze, and Elmore turned urgently to Ray and said, “What are you doing?”

  “Sir, I…”

  “Don’t you sir me. We’ve been over this a hundred times.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re going to do it anyway?”

  Ray stared at him, then nodded, once.

  Elmore sagged in his seat. And then he said, “Please let the record reflect that Sergeant Sherman is making this statement, whatever it is, against the advice of counsel.”

  “So noted, Major. Sergeant Sherman, if you’ll come around to the witness seat.”