The Last Hour (51 page)

I took a deep breath as he took a seat, and finally looked over at him.

Colton looked different. Older, tired. The left side of his face noticeably sagged, the left eye not as open as the right, and his mouth curved down toward the left in a permanent frown. It was as if his face had been melted almost, the stroke leaving him a caricature of himself.

Captain Cox approached Colton and said, “Please raise your right hand and repeat after me. I swear, or affirm, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Colton raised his right hands and repeated the words, his speech slightly slurred. It was hard to watch this man, who had been my platoon sergeant since I finished training, the man who had saved the lives of several members of our platoon, the man who had been disciplinarian and father and friend to all of us. It was hard to watch him now, one side of his face firm and proud and just like I remembered it, the other side sagged, weakened, failing.

I wanted to stop and take it all back, but I couldn’t.

Cox said, “Please state your name, rank and component for the record.”

Colton said, “Benjamin E. Colton. Sergeant First Class, Regular Army.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Colton. I’m going to be asking you a number of questions this afternoon regarding your most recent tour in Afghanistan and events which took place during that tour. First, please tell me, do you know Sergeant Raymond Calhoun Sherman?”

“I do,” Colton said.

“And is Sergeant Sherman in this room today?”

“He is.”

“Please identify him for the court.”

Colton met my eyes. He seemed to wince a little, the damaged side of his face not moving at all, but the left eye expressive, narrowing a bit as he pointed and said, “He’s right there at that table.”

Cox said, a little bit theatrically, “Please note for the record that Sergeant First Class Colton indicated the accused.” Then he turned, walked away from Colton, pausing in front of the prosecutor’s table, and turned around.

“Sergeant Colton. When did you first meet the accused?”

“Sherman was assigned to my platoon at Fort Drum when he graduated infantry training at Fort Benning.”

“And what kind of a soldier was he?”

The right side of his face curled up in a slight smile. “He was one of the best soldiers I’ve had the pleasure to lead in my career. He’d only been with us about six months when I recommended he be fast-tracked to become a non-commissioned officer. When he was up for promotion to specialist, we got him Corporal instead.”

Cox gave a slight smile to Colton and said, “For benefit of the members of the board who aren’t combat arms, can you explain the significance of this?”

Elmore leaned close to me and muttered under his breath, “Cox must have read about the infantry in a book or something.”

My lawyer was a fucking comedian.

Colton said, “Once we go out in the field, all of us depend on each other. But an infantry NCO has special responsibility. You have to be able to lead your men, to make the tough decisions. You have to be ready to put other men’s lives on the line for the mission, and to send people into dangerous situations for the safety of the team. What I felt I saw in Sherman was the potential to be an outstanding leader, and he was one. He cared about his men and took care of them.”

Cox nodded. The members of the board were all paying close attention, interest clear on their faces. Cox said, “I’d like to take you forward in time to your actual deployment. How did Sherman perform once you got in a real combat situation?”

“At first, exactly as I’d expected. He was promoted to Sergeant midway through our deployment, in early January, I think. The men respected him. Honestly in some ways I blame myself ... I looked at Sherman almost like he was my son. And like a lot of fathers, I had high expectations. In retrospect, I may have put too much responsibility on him too early.”

I closed my eyes. I’d looked at Colton as a father. And had often felt doubts about my own leadership ability, and whether or not I was cut out to be an infantry sergeant. Hearing Colton say those words was like being punched in the gut.

“Sergeant Colton,” Cox said. “When did you begin to have these doubts?”

Colton sighed. “It was right after we lost Roberts and Kowalski, and Paris was injured. I think Sherman blamed himself, even though there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. But you could see it ... he seemed lost. That’s why, when we got replacements, I made sure he got them in his fire team. I wanted him back in the saddle as soon as possible, so the doubts wouldn’t set in and shake his confidence. But you could see it. He was really shaken. Sherman was close to his team.”

In a low, even voice Cox said, “Sergeant Colton, please tell us what happened on March 24
th
.”

Elmore murmured in my ear, “Stay chill through this, Sherman. He’s about to start telling lies. Don’t let it get to you.”

The first few answered were what I expected, and didn’t deviate from what I remembered. Colton testified about Weber’s killing, then the fruitless search for the sniper that followed.
 

“Sergeant Colton ... did your platoon encounter any civilians during this search?”

“Just one,” Colton said, his voice rough. “A boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old.”

“What happened when you encountered the boy?”

Colton looked away from the court-martial board, away from me. And he answered in a monotone, “The men were ... heated. Extremely so. Weber’s killing was so senseless and came out of nowhere. Two or three of the men stopped the boy and began shouting at him.”

“And what did Sergeant Sherman do?”

I stared, looking directly at Colton as he spoke. He avoided my eyes.

“Sherman lost it. He started shouting at the boy. And before I had a chance to do anything, he shot him.”

My heart sank. Of course, I’d heard similar testimony during the Article 32 investigation. But I guess somehow, I’d held out hope. Hope that Colton would recant his testimony, and tell the truth. Hope that the man I’d respected, loved even, would face up to his responsibilities.

“Could it have been an accidental discharge, Sergeant?”

Colton nodded, slowly. “It might have been. It was a crazy, chaotic situation. To be blunt, I feel responsible. I didn’t maintain control of my platoon.”

I closed my eyes, leaning back slightly in my chair. I didn’t want to hear any more. I didn’t even want to think any more.

“P
lease state your name, rank and component.”

“James Hicks. Sergeant. Regular Army.”

I glanced over to the other side of the room. Stephanie Hicks was in the audience, with a sad, near grief-stricken expression on her face. Sergeant Hicks sat straight in the witness chair, his posture erect, his uniform immaculate. His gaze was directed at the trial counsel, and it was clear he was avoiding Ray’s eyes.

As I understood it, Hicks’ testimony was the lynchpin of the prosecution’s case. Colton’s testimony could clearly be seen as self-serving, because the jury knew he’d been accused, by Ray, of the same crime. But Hicks lying on the stand was another thing entirely. The rest of the squad—cowards, every single one of them—had taken the stand and testified, one right after the other, that they weren’t sure who pulled the trigger.
 

I hoped Elmore had a plan in mind, because Ray was sinking fast. He’d tossed and turned all night after Colton’s testimony, and we rode back to Walter Reed in silence this morning.
 

Now he sat, straight in his seat, uniform perfect, no outward sign to the rest of the world of the exhaustion I could see was eating him alive. He was staring at Hicks, and Hicks met his eyes, and I momentarily had the feeling of two boxers, glaring at each other across the ring. I was almost afraid one of them was going to get up and hit the other, and I couldn’t help but wonder what could inspire the kind of rage Hicks must have to be doing this.

“Sergeant Hicks. Do you know Sergeant Raymond Sherman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please identify Sergeant Sherman for the court.”

Hicks pointed directly at Sherman and said, “He’s there. The accused.”

“Can you please tell us when you met the accused?”

“Three, maybe four years ago? He was assigned to my fire team when he first finished basic training.”

“And what was your impression of him?”

Hicks shrugged. “He worked hard. But he thought he was better than everyone else. He came out of basic already an E-3 because he’d been to college. Always had his nose stuck in a book.”

Elmore stood up and said, “Your honor ... is the fact that my client went to college somehow meant to imply that he’s more likely to be a killer? How is this relevant?”

“Agreed, Major Elmore. Captain Cox, please restrict your questions to more relevant areas.”

I studied Ray while the questioning continued. I was scared for him. Even if he was cleared in the trial, how was this going to affect him? Ray didn’t like to talk about the war, or what had happened to the little boy. But I could see, every day, that it was tearing him apart.
 

I missed the next few questions because I was watching Ray. He was calm, but sitting rigidly at attention, the strain in his back visible. Every once in a while I could see it in his hand ... his wedding ring, just slightly vibrating against the table.

And that’s when Captain Cox, the prosecutor, asked the question.

“Can you tell the court what happened after Roberts was killed and Paris injured?”

Hicks looked away from Ray when he said the next sentence. All this time through the testimony, he’d been watching Ray. But for this, he couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Sherman went a little crazy for a while. I couldn’t blame him ... I think we all did. But ... one night I caught him drinking. I was worried, and I went to talk to Sergeant Colton about it. Colton said to leave it alone, that Sherman would get better with time. But then a few weeks later, in March, we were back near Dega Payan. Weber got hit by a sniper. Sherman went nuts. And he shot the kid.”

Ray shook his head and rested his face in his hands.

No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the expression on Speedy’s face when he crossed the trail and Sergeant Colton approached him, suddenly, weapon raised.

He started out with his face open, trusting, a smile on his face. He’d been there when we’d dug the dead villagers out after the avalanche. He’d been there when we tried to make repairs to the village, when Kowalski spent that crazy week goofing off entertaining the kids.

He’d been there when Kowalski died.

So it was that much worse, that much more terrifying, when Colton started screaming, “Are you the one who did it? Did you have the grenade? Did you kill Kowalski?” As Colton shouted the words, his face turned bright red, and spittle flew toward the kid. The sheep began to make mewing, nervous sounds, and milled around.

What the hell?
I thought in a panic. I didn’t know what to do. Hicks approached Colton, and his fire team followed, surrounding the kid.
 

“Colton, chill, he’s just a kid,” Martin said, approaching Colton.

Colton spun on Martin, shouting, “Shut the
fuck
up, Sergeant!”

“Stay here, guys,” I said to my fire team. They were all new, all right out of infantry training, and all three of them looked utterly freaked out, first by Weber’s death, and now this. I approached slowly as Colton turned back to Speedy and shouted, “Answer me, god damn it! Did you fucking do it? Do you know who did?”

Speedy looked like he was going to bolt, but he was surrounded. His eyes were huge, and he was shaking, and Martin muttered again, “Colton, chill the fuck out.”

“I’ll chill the fuck out when I’m ready, Martin. Look at him! You think just cause he’s a kid, he can’t pick up a fucking rifle? Weber died with his fucking dick in his hand!” He raised his rifle toward the kid. My heart suddenly raced, thumping so hard I could feel my pulse in my temples, and I moved forward shouting, “Sergeant, no!”

Martin said, “Get a fucking grip, Colton,” and grabbed the rifle.

The shot went off instantly, and knocked Martin aside. Martin let out a scream, blood blooming instantly down the length his forearm, and I screamed “Colton!” and then the second shot went off. The panicked sheep scattered in all directions.

Speedy went down in a heap, the back of his head torn out.
 

“Holy fucking shit,” Hicks said. His face was white, and he stared down at the body at his feet in shock.
 

I grabbed Colton by the front of his flack vest, shouting, “Colton, what the fuck did you do? He’s a
kid!”
 

Colton was still running on adrenaline and rage, and he slammed his rifle crosswise into my chest, knocking me back. I started to charge forward again, and then found myself facing Hicks’ rifle.

“Don’t fucking move, Sherman,” Hicks said, his voice deadly. “This is all fucked up, and you’re not gonna make it worse.”