In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “Wasn’t it Lieutenant McCarran’s duty, as platoon leader, to execute the missions ordered by his company commander?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why most of us are dead.”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t like Captain D’Abruzzo, did you?”

  “I didn’t know him,” Whalen answered. “All I know is that Lieutenant McCarran was right about the ambush.”

  “Was it your impression that the accused disliked Captain D’Abruzzo?”

  Whalen hesitated. “In public, he treated the captain like you would any commanding officer. That’s all I can say.”

  “You admire the lieutenant, don’t you?”

  Turning, Whalen gazed at Brian. “Yes, sir,” he said firmly. “I do.”

  “And part of what you admire is the way he never lost his self-possession.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did that continue after the ambush?”

  Whalen gave him a measured look. “Yes.”

  “Ever see him lose his temper?”

  “No.”

  “Or forget where he was in moments of stress?”

  “No.”

  “Other than that he became less animated, did you see any difference in Lieutenant McCarran over the year you served with him?”

  Whalen stared at the floor, as though wrestling with a complicated question. “He just seemed changed inside.”

  “In what other ways?” Flynn prodded.

  Whalen looked up at him. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “And I don’t want to find out. That’s why I volunteered for Afghanistan instead of coming home.”

  WHEN HOLLIS ADJOURNED THE court, his expression dark with thought, the members began filing slowly out of a courtroom that remained too quiet. But Brian seemed to awaken. He went to intercept his platoon sergeant before he left the courtroom. Bracing Whalen’s blocky shoulders, for an instant Brian McCarran looked fully present, his eyes intent on Whalen as he murmured a few quiet words. Terry could imagine him as a leader.

  But Meg was studying the members of the court as they left, her eyes brimming with worry and confusion. “What if they think Brian hated him enough to steal his wife, then kill him?”

  “Too late to wonder,” Terry said. “We’re in Iraq now, and so is Brian. We have to see this through to the end.”

  That night, Meg served as sentinel again, protecting Brian from himself.

  seven

  TERRY SPENT THE EVENING PREPARING FATHER MICHAEL Byrne to address the aftermath of Brian’s mission.

  Ben Flournoy had found Byrne well before locating Johnny Whalen. But Whalen’s account provided the context for Byrne, making the chaplain’s story relevant to a PTSD defense. As with Whalen, Flynn objected to Byrne’s testimony in its totality; as with Whalen, Colonel Hollis was allowing it subject to a motion to strike once Terry concluded his defense. But, for now, Terry could complete the story of Brian’s service in Iraq. It was, as Father Byrne pointed out, Joe D’Abruzzo’s story as well.

  MICHAEL BYRNE WAS A slender man in his early forties with a high forehead, a thin, sensitive face, and the thoughtful manner of a man forced to balance his faith with the needs of men fighting and dying in harsh conditions. Watching him take the witness stand, Brian seemed more relaxed. But Terry suspected that listening to his chaplain might be harder than he knew.

  After establishing that Father Byrne had served with Charlie Company in Iraq, Terry asked, “How well did you know Captain D’Abruzzo and Lieutenant McCarran?”

  Byrne folded his hands. “For that year, quite well. Both were Catholics; both were under stress; both were precluded by their leadership role from intimacy with other soldiers. I was a place for them to go.”

  “Did the matters each discussed with you include their own relationship?”

  “After a time, yes.”

  On the bench, Hollis took one of his infrequent notes. “How would you characterize that relationship?” Terry asked.

  “Even at the beginning, I saw them as very different men. Brian was from a family of military aristocrats, a graduate of West Point. The academy had rejected Joe. He saw himself as more of a blue-collar kid, fighting to get ahead.”

  “Did service in Iraq intensify these differences?”

  “Not at first. Joe’s worries in his new command were all-consuming—how would he execute this difficult assignment in Sadr City, how could he get the most out of men who were stretched too thin. He struggled, as Brian did, with believing that we didn’t have the troop strength necessary to pacify the area.” Thoughtful, Byrne smoothed the black crown of his hair. “Their relationship changed after Brian retreated in the face of the Mahdi Army using kids as human shields.”

  Terry saw Major Wertheimer’s eyes narrowing in thought, as though she was filling in pieces of a human puzzle. “How did you become aware of that?” Terry asked.

  “From Captain D’Abruzzo. Knowing that the Mahdi Army used kids as weapons troubled him a great deal. But you didn’t get to choose your enemies, he told me, or forget your oath to achieve victory for your country.” Byrne paused, glancing at Brian with an apologetic air. “I paraphrase, of course. But the gist was that Brian needed to toughen up.”

  “Did Captain D’Abruzzo elaborate on that?”

  Byrne hesitated, as if reluctant to discuss a delicate subject. “Joe’s wife was close to the McCarrans, so he’d known Brian for years. In Joe’s view, Brian had eased into the academy, then the infantry. Now his duties included testing Brian’s mettle as a leader.”

  “Did Brian give you his viewpoint of this incident?”

  Byrne nodded. “When Joe chewed him out for retreating, Brian was deeply disturbed. Running down Iraqi children, he said, would only make the atmosphere in Sadr City more poisonous and deadly. In his mind, the problem wasn’t going to be solved by plowing over kids, but by having enough troops to deal with the Mahdi Army, which exploited them.” Byrne paused, then added judiciously, “I knew that Joe agreed. But Joe believed making such a judgment wasn’t Brian’s job as a junior officer. And Joe also suspected, as I did, that Brian had a difficult time accepting that his obligations as a soldier might require him—however reluctantly—to cause the death of innocent kids. Whatever Brian’s reasons, that difference led Joe to assign his platoon the mission of protecting a police station filled with restive Iraqis.”

  “How did Brian react to that assignment?”

  “He tried to be fatalistic. He felt the mission was futile, but he couldn’t act on that. Then he started losing more soldiers.” Byrne’s light green eyes reflected his sympathy for Brian’s dilemma. “I sensed him beginning to redefine his role. When the mission made no sense, he told me, preserving the lives of your troops is the only moral thing for an officer to do. As their leader, he had to put some distance between himself and his men. But I saw him also starting to distance himself from the people he reported to, including Captain D’Abruzzo. Brian began to occupy a moral no-man’s-land.”

  Brian, Terry noticed, stared at the table with a faint but bitter smile. Turning back to the witness, Terry asked, “Can you give me an example?”

  Byrne sat back as he organized his recollections. “One incident was when General Banks, the brigade commander, visited the battalion to ask Colonel Northrop and his officers if they needed anything. Apparently, Northrop said no. Afterward, Brian said to Captain D’Abruzzo, ‘What about more troops?’ When Captain D’Abruzzo replied that questioning the plan wouldn’t help anyone, Brian said something like ‘Except for the guys who’ll die carrying it out.’ ”

  Flynn sat up, projecting an air of tolerance stretched thin. “Your Honor,” he said, “I’ve tried not to interfere with this witness’s recollections. But they’re marbled with hearsay. This witness should confine himself to facts within his personal knowledge.”

  “He is,” Terry responded. “The confidences that Captain D’Abruzzo and Lieutenant McCarran shared with Father Byrne establish their state of mind, the state of their relationsh
ip, and the impact of events on their psychological well-being.”

  Hollis nodded. “We’ll allow this,” he said briskly. “Proceed, Captain Terry.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Facing Byrne, Terry asked, “Did there come a time, in your view, when Lieutenant McCarran faced a spiritual and moral crisis?”

  Byrne’s expression became somber. “Yes. I can recall the day and hour.”

  “Please describe that for the members.”

  “It was four A.M. Lieutenant McCarran came to my trailer and asked me to hear his confession.” Byrne hesitated. “His platoon was heading into an ambush that morning, he told me. An Iraqi informant had warned them, but Captain D’Abruzzo didn’t believe what he said—or didn’t believe that this was grounds for altering their mission. Brian felt he had no choice but to carry out the captain’s orders.”

  “Did he describe his feelings?”

  Byrne gave Brian a look of compassion and regret. “ ‘I expect to die today,’ he told me. ‘If so, I can accept that. Better that than to remember having led good men into a slaughterhouse for no good reason.’ Then I listened to his confession, and he left.”

  “When was the next time you saw him?”

  Byrne steepled his fingers in an attitude resembling prayer. “Early that evening, after he brought his wounded to the aid station.”

  IT WAS A TERRIBLE day in a terrible war, and not just for Brian’s platoon.

  Byrne had been at the aid station for hours. Cots were set up outdoors. As dusk settled, the medics relied on the dust-caked headlights of Humvees circled around them, illuminating the trauma of soldiers he did not know—exposed intestines, splintered bones, shrapnel wounds to the head—inflicted in numerous firefights throughout the area. Three times Byrne had performed last rites for men now dead. Looking about, he saw Brian McCarran.

  Brian was holding the hand of a dying man, Corporal Francisco Sava. As they recited a prayer, Sava’s lips barely moved: Lord, protect us. Give us angels as you promised and bring peace to this soldier as he goes out. Then Brian nodded to Byrne, and he gave Sava the last rites of the church. Sava died still gazing at Brian.

  Brian kept holding the hand of a dead man as others died around him and choppers evacuated the more fortunate to a hospital. When Byrne’s work was done, Brian approached him, his face pale in contrast to the bloody bandage around his throat. “Come with me,” he said. Weary, the chaplain hesitated, then followed Brian to the trailer where medics took the bodies of the dead.

  The inside was dim and cool. Perhaps twenty dead in body bags lay on gray metal tables. Brian moved among them, reading the tags until he found a name he knew. He paused for a moment, head bowed. Then he unzipped the bag, exposing the calm, lineless face of a black soldier in his platoon.

  Brian gazed down at him. In a quiet voice, he said, “I’m sorry, Kevin. I wish that I had saved you. It made no sense, but you did everything I asked of you.”

  Slowly, Brian zipped up the bag, as though closing the man’s life on earth. He found another bag, then two more, performing the same ritual. Only with the fifth bag did he fail to unzip it. “I’m sorry, Willie,” he said. “You’d have been a great father. I’ll tell him that when he grows up.” Byrne saw the tears on Brian’s face.

  Without looking at the chaplain, Brian asked, “Pray with me for them, Father.”

  They did that. Then, together, they stepped back out into the darkness.

  Hands in his pockets, Brian gazed up at the sliver of a quarter moon. “Back home,” he said, “it’s still daylight. Their families don’t know yet. I hope they enjoy their last few hours of peace.”

  He stood there for a time, staring at the moon, as though wishing he could make time stand still. Then he said, “Once they’re notified, I’ll call them. I’ve learned to speak to people who’ve lost a husband or a son. But I never know what to say to the families of the wounded. How do you tell somebody’s mother, ‘Your son’s wounds may heal, but I’m sending him home with a broken heart’?”

  Byrne put a hand on his shoulder. “What about you, Brian?”

  Brian shook his head in a profound hopelessness. “I killed a kid today, an Iraqi boy not over eight or nine. Even worse, I ran him over when it was too late to save the men we just saw. And maybe the ones who survived.”

  After a moment, Brian said that he would return to what remained of his platoon.

  “DID HE MENTION CAPTAIN D’Abruzzo then?” Terry asked.

  “No. Not then, or ever. It was like Joe ceased to exist.”

  “In your observation, how did this ambush affect Lieutenant McCarran?”

  “He seemed to withdraw.” Pausing, Byrne shook his head. “The best way I can express it is that Brian started living an inch beneath his skin. I tried to talk to him about it. But he had a sickness in his soul. ‘Am I guilty of murder?’ he asked. ‘If so, which murder—of that boy or Willie Shores?’ Once he said, ‘Is this what God intended for the men I lead? I can’t believe that. But all I can do is try to keep a few of them alive.’

  “Brian never stopped caring for his men, and nothing I heard suggests that he let them down in combat. And he made sure his men utilized whatever mental health services we had.” Byrne’s voice lowered. “There was one sergeant, Martinez, whose wife had left him, and who was suffering from the aftershock of Brian’s ill-starred mission. Brian was determined to get Martinez home before he put a gun in his mouth. He succeeded in that. But the upshot, I later learned, was that Martinez hanged himself.”

  The members of the court, Terry sensed, were absorbing that Brian’s story seemed to be coming together, combining the strands described by Meg and Anthony McCarran, Johnny Whalen, and now by the only man to whom Brian had spoken about his own scars. But one more strand was missing. Quietly, Terry asked, “Did you ever discuss the ambush with Joe D’Abruzzo?”

  Byrne looked troubled. “Yes,” he answered. “In contrast to Brian, Joe was quite voluble. He also seemed angry.”

  “At whom?”

  “Perhaps himself, but also at Brian. He was convinced that Brian blamed him for the deaths of his men.”

  “Did Joe admit the reason?”

  “That Brian had warned him about the ambush? No. Instead he said things like ‘Brian never says anything about it. But the way he stares right through me is as plain as speech.’ ” Byrne paused, as though trying to imagine how D’Abruzzo must have felt. “In my mind, Brian McCarran became like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, indicting Joe by his very presence. I began to sense that Brian had scraped the cover off Joe’s insecurities, exposing a subliminal resentment he had always felt for the McCarrans.”

  “Did you come to believe that Captain D’Abruzzo wanted Brian dead?”

  “Objection,” Flynn called out in an angry tone. “Unless the victim said as much, speculation on a matter so incendiary is inherently prejudicial.”

  Hollis faced the witness. “Did Captain D’Abruzzo ever say such a thing?”

  “No, sir,” the chaplain answered carefully. “And I can’t know what was in his heart.”

  “Thank you,” Hollis said. “Ask your next question, Captain Terry.”

  “Do you have a basis for believing, Father Byrne, that Captain D’Abruzzo hated Lieutenant McCarran?”

  Byrne sat back, hands clasped in front of him. “His feelings seemed quite complex. Captain D’Abruzzo articulated a deep moral belief in carrying out the mission as assigned. If his men didn’t risk their lives, he argued, then other soldiers would be forced to come to Iraq and risk theirs, and those who survived might be forced to return a second time, or even a third. As to that, events may prove him right.

  “But Joe meant to get ahead by pleasing his superiors in whatever way they asked. In his mind, Brian was accusing him of moral cowardice of the worst kind—needlessly sacrificing the lives of Brian’s men to advance his own ambitions. Whether it was Brian who accused him, or simply his own conscience, Joe seemed riven by alternating currents of passion and
anger. Like Brian, he seemed more and more shut down.” Byrne’s voice softened. “To me, it’s tragic. I think both men were sincere in their beliefs. As a military matter, Captain D’Abruzzo no doubt had the better of the argument—however difficult, an officer must be prepared to sacrifice his men to carry out whatever mission his commanders have ordered him to execute. But Brian had a sense of himself that was separate from his role.

  “Joe never did. They were always fated to be different, and then we sent them to war together. And now we’re here.”

  It seemed, Terry thought, the best place for him to end.

  ON CROSS-EXAMINATION, FLYNN made the points he had to. Despite his pain, Brian’s outward behavior never changed. He always knew precisely who and where he was. There was no sign that Brian ever lost his prodigious self-control, or failed to grasp the consequences of his actions. He acted like a leader.

  Nor did Joe D’Abruzzo, as far as Byrne could tell, lose his grip on his emotions. His frustration with Brian stemmed from the burdens of command, the necessity that his subordinates carry out the orders D’Abruzzo had been given. To their temperamental differences, Flynn forced Byrne to add another: whereas Joe still looked forward to rising in the military, Brian seemed not to care whether he lived or died. By the end, Meg no longer needed to express the lingering concern Terry read in her eyes: a man careless of his own life might be willing to take another’s.

  THAT NIGHT, BRIAN SEEMED to view his quarters—the confinement of which he usually despised—as a refuge from scrutiny. Tonelessly, he said to Terry and Meg, “The last two days I’ve felt like some human exhibit on reality TV. Maybe we could call it Survivor: Iraq.”

  “Can the self-pity,” Terry responded coolly. “Whalen and Byrne laid it on the line for you. Now it’s your turn. You owe them, you owe Meg, and you damned well owe it to yourself.”

  To his surprise, Brian gave him a crooked smile. “What about you, Paul? You gave up a fancy job on Wall Street.”