Escape

He woke at four o’clock, rising from his bed automatically from two years and three hundred and forty two days of practice, the guard’s harsh clanging against the door serving to rudely awaken him and thirty eight others in the wooden hut holding their cells.

He got up, pulled the thin cloth blanket off him, no protection against the harsh night winds that blew in from the cracks and holes in the wooden walls, and turned. Around him, other prisoners were rapidly scrambling off their bunks, not wanting to be late for roll call and thus spend two days in solitary.

People who had spent some time in the ‘box’ never spoke to anyone else about it. Bring up the topic and this haunted, empty look came into their eyes as they remembered the crushing loneliness, the knowledge that they were, for the first time, truly alone. Many, subjected to long terms of solitary ended up banging their heads out on the wall, the guards next day having to spend the full day cleaning out the mess in the ‘box’. Solitary was, in a few words, a bad place within a bad place.

He scrambled off his bunk and got into his position in the line. The door was opened, the harsh winter air sweeping in, his very bones seeming to resonate with the cruel chill. He instinctively pulled his clothes closer to himself, fully knowing that it would not help at all.

As they stepped out of the hut, he looked around once again at the bleak landscape that had become his life. Rows upon rows of wooden huts, their brown colour sharply contrasting with the three feet of white snow covering the ground. Encircling the compound, eighteen foot high guard towers at the four corners, connected by a nine foot high wall of barbed wire, kept at an electric potential of ten thousand volts. It would kill right away. Two hundred yards behind this, another, higher barbed wire, also electrocuted. Its four corners also guarded by four guard towers, each one constantly monitored. In between the two wires, the killing ground, illuminated by spotlights at all times of day and night. The ground before the wires, reinforced with concrete to dissuade would-be diggers. No one had ever escaped, and no one would ever will.

As a prisoner here, one had lots of time to think. As a matter of fact, that was all he did after completing his daily work. Lie on his bunk, and think. He came up with a hundred ideas, and rejected them all as ineffective. After two years of thinking, he was beginning to wonder if there was any hope at all. He could never resign himself to this place. He could see it in the others eyes, that blank, vacant look, like cattle resigned to their fate, their acceptance of what destiny had dished out to them apparent in everything they did. He could never be like them, never give up hope. He had to escape.

The guard shoved the last person out roughly and slammed the door close behind them. The thirty-eight of them were then herded into the centre of what approximated for a parade-ground in this place. The collection of prisoners on the ground was vast, many Prisoners of War who had resigned themselves to spending the rest of their lives here, seeing no end to the war in progress.

He glanced around, but was brought sharply back to attention by the grim-faced officer in front of them, who started reading out names from a long list in his hand. As he called out a name, the person stepped forward. If no one stepped forward, the name was called twice again, and then guards were then dispatched to the respective hut to see if the person concerned had overslept. If not, and there was no sign of anyone, there would be hell to pay. At least, that was what they were told. Such an incident had never occurred before. It didn’t happen now.

After roll-call, they were herded into what passed, very crudely, for a mess hall. This was where this prison differentiated itself from others around the country. In others, the prisoners were served the food in their cells, however bad the food may be. Here, the food was equally bad. However, it was up to the detainee to collect the slop from a grim-faced server and then head to one of the rough hewn wooden tables to complete his meal in ten minutes, in silence. Then, back to the cells. At three ‘o clock, the ritual was repeated. The inmates were only given a pitcher of standing water for dinner, at seven. His ribs showed through his skin, almost poking through, his strength so dissipated that walking was now a labour for him, once a crack paratrooper. Torture may have been banned under the Geneva Convention, but did this not amount to the same? Was death by starvation not the same as death by torture, only slower.

His only commodity now was thought, and so, when he returned to his cell, damp and moist from the morning dew seeping in from the walls and floors, filth and excrement caked in a corner, he retreated to the opposite corner, curled up his knees against his chest and thought.

Once, about a year back, the thought had passed fleetingly through his mind. There were many ways to implement it. A rusted fork discarded by the mess guards, a used razor lying dusty upon the parade ground, even a sliver of wood from one of the tables hewn to a razor edge with the help of the rough stone walls, anything was possible. And then? Just lie there, your life seeping out of you, the world growing blurry, the frenzied shouts of guards in the background, finally admitting defeat to a malicious and cruel world. He had imagined every part of it. He could not do it, never accept defeat, to resign himself to a life of slavery, his doom an unmarked grave in an unloving land, far from his home. The destiny of so many of his countrymen, he could not bring himself to accept it.

What played on your mind the most in this place was the silence. The surroundings were bursting with it. No one was allowed to talk to each other from their cells, only in the mess hut. You could hear the chirping of every bird, the cry of every owl, every noise magnified until it echoed out into the vast nothingness that surrounded this place. An evil place. The devil’s mark was upon it.

He had never been superstitious, at least not that he could remember. Since coming here, however, he had changed. In the first few months, as everyone who came here did, he believed that he was invincible, that there would always be a rescue team preparing an attack upon the compound to free them, running through all the possibilities of escape through his mind. What really drained a man, more mentally than physically, was when the realization dawned that he was never going to get out of here. A harsh truth that came to light for most in less than a year. It had taken him two, and even now he had not fully given up. What was it that kept him going, so stubborn to the fate that many had accepted? Maybe it was the fact that he had someone to live for, someone who had promised him that she would wait for him, no matter what, and never look at another man. And when he left the house, his smartly pressed uniform so crisply starched that it crackled as he walked, he glanced just once back at her, a reassuring smile on his face. I’ll be back. He couldn’t let her down now. Not now. She was still waiting. She was still waiting. He repeated those words to himself for comfort, and then sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, having exhausted himself mentally for the present.

The harsh clanging woke him. He had slept for eight hours straight, from morning to mid afternoon. How was he able to do it? Nowadays, he felt tired all the time, as if the burden of the world were upon his shoulders. Sometimes, there was nothing more he wanted to do than give up, and let the current sweep him along, take him to where he was destined to go. He had fought upstream for too long. His arms were tired, his eyes weary, his mind numbed by the continual sleep and lack of activity. He was turning senile, ninety at thirty-two.

He slowly awoke to the fact that something was different. What was happening? The entire camp appeared to be in a state of commotion. He could hear the commandant's voice, frantic, ordering in that shrill tone. He paused for a moment, gathered the strength to stand, and then pushed himself up. He swayed for a minute, steadied himself against the wall, and then trudged towards the cell bars

Before he could reach them, the bars were opened. To his surprise, the Commandant stood before him. This was a surprise. He hadn't seen the man since he first entered the camp, the man's smug sneering smile, his bulbous nose, forever red and swollen from drinking and eating late into the night while he and his comrades starved into the foreseeable future , his florid face, veins everywhere. This man was the object of his hate, of his plans for escape, revenge, and a hundred fantasies that, if out in the open, would see him strung up like a dog. But why was he here today? And more, what was that on his face? Gone was the sneering disdain, the condescension. Instead...? He could not place it. Was, he thought incredulously, the Commandant wearing a servile look?

'As Commandant of this Camp, I am forced to tell you that, as circumstances would have it, we have officially surrendered to your Coalition Force as of events seventeen minutes ago. I have received the communication from my General, and as such, you are now the Commanding Officer of this camp.'

What?

His food-starved, dulled brain didn't comprehend the astounding news for a few seconds, and then it all came crashing together in one great jumble in his mind, images, possibilities, thoughts, ideas, all clashing and creating the utmost noise, so that he swayed again, and had to be supported. He composed himself.

Unbelievable. But it has happened. Escape? All that he had dreamed of, that his fellow prisoners - no, not prisoners, free men - had dreamed of, all come true now, by the greatest stroke of luck. He blessed his Coalition forces. But the fires of revenge had not been dulled by the euphoria of release. No, it had not. A savage grin flashed across his face. He rallied all the men, some with stupid smiles on their faces, some still uncomprehending, their faces upturned to the sun as if looking for divine confirmation.

'Lock them all up. Bring the Commandant out in fifteen minutes.'

He sat by himself in the middle of the Parade Ground, surrounded by men, their faces lit by sudden, unexpected but wholeheartedly embraced hope, a new life for all. He enjoyed the feel of the smooth sun on his face. A sudden thought came to him. Yes, that would be perfect. Dramatic, strong, the camp was being handed over. A strong sign indeed. After so many days of captivity, he was surprised that he was able to think so clearly. it was surprising how news of your future could do so much to change the way you think. One minute, looking only to the next food interval as a measure of time, the next, knowing completely what lay ahead, knowing he would meet her again, knowing he would be home again, that he had survived, that he was a soldier and a survivor. The thoughts lifted him up, as did the anticipation of what was going to happen soon. Oh, yes.

The Commandant was brought out into the sunlight, blinking, unadjusted from the dark to which he was suddenly subjected, his normally perfectly starched dress clothes fared poorly from the dampness of the cell. Yes, he looked less impressive now, much less fearsome. In fact, had he ever been fearsome? The free men made way for the Commandant, and a circle was formed.

The next few minutes were burned out clearly in his mind. He knew exactly what to do.

'Give me your uniform. Do it quickly. You will wear what I am wearing.'

Patiently, he stared into the Commandant's eyes as he performed what he was told. He stripped down to his white, soiled undergarments, passed his uniform on, and accepted in return the striped prisoner's - no, the free man's - garments, dirtied from ages of use and abuse in a tiny, cramped, filthy cell.

He looked down. Yes, the Commandant's revolver formed a part of the uniform, and was attached to the side holster stitched onto the right flank of the dress. He unsheathed it - unsheathed was the word, yes, for this was ceremonial, and the revolver was as a sword - and before anyone could react, before the Commandant could look up, he stepped forward and pressed the revolver to the bridge between the Commandant's eyes. He could see the fear now. Strange, the pleasure was almost erotic. He had thought about this a million times, had fantasized about this while the Commandant sat and controlled the lives of so many people, so ruthlessly, his every decision calculated to deliver sadistic pleasure to himself. Oh yes, how he had waited for this moment, and now it was all his. He could see the fear in his eyes. Yes, he could.

He pulled the trigger. The Commandant turned white. No bullet. A final torture. He pulled the trigger again. The bullet passed cleanly through, the Commandant's forehead exploded in a red haze. He slumped to the ground. He could taste, could feel the blood on his face, blood and something else. He reveled in it.

Finally, escape.