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The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline(259)

By:Jane Harvey-Berrick


“I know,” he said, softly. “I just wish it had been with me.”

He smiled sadly, and walked away.

The days and nights began to blur together. If it hadn’t been for David, bringing me food or insisting that I slept, I don’t know how I would have coped.

I called Ches each day, but there wasn’t much I could tell him. I heard the hope in his voice every time I called, and every time I could only repeat the same words, “There’s no change.”

The chaplain visited us daily, and told me not to give up hope. Sometimes he prayed with me; sometimes he brought me a sandwich. Both were equally welcome.

I’d been there four or five days, the colorless hours merging together, when David told me that Sebastian was stable enough to be moved. Some news, at last.

“We’re going to bring him out of the coma, then he’ll be sent to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. From there, on to Bethesda in Maryland or Walter Reed in DC. I’m not sure which.”

“Will I be able to go with him?”

He sighed. “Normally, I’d say that was highly unlikely. But, off the record, Caroline, if you can use your Press connections, then maybe.”

“Thank you,” I said, quietly, touching his hand.

He smiled briefly.

That was all the encouragement I needed. I was on the phone to my editor within 20 minutes and I refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. I promised as many articles as he wanted, exclusive interviews and photographs of life in a military medical center. In the end, he agreed to help. I don’t know how many strings he pulled in Washington, but he promised me he’d get me on the same flight as Sebastian.

When I returned to Sebastian’s room, I couldn’t work out what was different—and then I realized it was too quiet. The ventilator had stopped working. I panicked, looking around wildly for help, but then … I saw that Sebastian’s eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

He spoke, and his voice was so soft and hoarse that I could barely hear him.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up on us,” he said.



We were flown out that evening, and arrived at the medical center in Germany at dawn. The critical cases were taken off first—those with brain injuries and missing limbs. We waited on the chilly tarmac for 15 minutes before the rest of us were loaded onto a fleet of blue buses.

We were met by the Head of the Critical Care Team, and the army chaplain.

“You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you. You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you.”

Over and over again, the tired-looking chaplain repeated the words, as stretcher after stretcher passed him by, the syllables blurring and becoming meaningless.

Sebastian held my hand tightly but didn’t speak.

We were there for just two nights while Sebastian was ‘processed’.

The harried but sympathetic staff gave me a small, cell-like room in the women’s quarters. Day and night the injured arrived: there wasn’t time to learn the names of the soldiers with so many identical injuries who streamed through the hospital, some from Iraq, most from Afghanistan. They were treated and moved on. Treated and moved on. An endless flow of mutilated flesh and tortured minds.

Sebastian had the option to go back to San Diego or to an East Coast facility. We decided it would be easier if we were near home—my home—our home, and we flew out to Walter Reed in Maryland on a Thursday at the start of May.

The journey from Germany was long and painful for Sebastian; he didn’t complain once, even though I could tell he was in agony, his body covered in an unhealthy sheen of sweat. But he didn’t speak to me either, and that scared me.

There were many who were far worse off. One young man I spoke quietly with during those dreary hours was named Lance. He’d lost both legs and one arm. He told me that he was ‘glad’ it had happened to him, because he wouldn’t have wanted it to happen to any of his buddies in his platoon.

He was 22.



Our arrival back on US soil was without fanfare. I traveled with Sebastian the whole time and saw him settled into a unit, before I found myself accommodation nearby in a cheap motel. There were other wives and family members staying there and we became close, sharing our hopes and dreams—or rather, forging new dreams that were far more limited in their scope than formerly.

Liz’s memorial service came and went. I sent a letter to her editor, asking him to read it out for me, and I asked him to recite the poem ‘High Flight’ by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee. I knew it had always been a favorite of Liz’s.