Chapter 51
The veterans were back from their mischief.
Alfie disappeared one morning after serving breakfast—the same-sized bowl of warm mushy cereal but with half a loaf of bread and six pieces of fruit deftly sneaked to Paul in a paper bag.
For the extra bread and fruit Paul was grateful.
He had been pointing to his ribs and trying to explain to the kid that he needed more food.
Alfie understood. In fact, the more they practiced English the more Paul realized his pupil was sandbagging.
He understood much more than he acknowledged.
When he didn’t appear with lunch, Paul noted the change.
When Ninja showed up, Paul knew the party was over.
Without a word, he slid a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit under the cell bars and disappeared.
An hour or so later he was back with Franco.
They cuffed Paul behind his back, put the hood over his head, and shoved him outside into the heat and to his pen where he was told to fall to his knees in the sand.
The hood was removed and Paul looked around and took in his surroundings, which had not changed since the same time yesterday. The two guards disappeared.
As usual, the tightness in his shoulders and lower back gradually increased.
After weeks of kneeling on his knees for hours, with his hands tied behind his back, he was learning to deal with the discomfort.
Keeping him cuffed served no purpose other than to inflict pain.
With free hands he certainly could not mount an escape.
His pen was twelve feet square with chain link and razor wire.
And if he managed to get out, where might he go?
He was in the middle of a desert, completely isolated and hidden so well that his own military couldn’t find him.
So, he had learned to put those thoughts away and dwell on his mental gymnastics, beginning with the names of the eight members of his Boy Scout patrol, in alphabetical order.
Then the names and jersey numbers of his high school football teammates—he was stuck at thirty-eight names, but there were more.
He recalled each of the eleven games his senior year: seven wins, four losses, with scores and opponents.
He recalled nine cheerleaders and kept them in alphabetical order.
He remembered teachers and courses from his junior and senior years—history, algebra, biology, and so on.
He could still get angry over a bad grade in physics.
On to the Naval Academy. He had attended four Army-Navy football games.
He remembered the scores, Navy won three, and also many of the players.
As the sweat ran down his back, he methodically went through his first year of law school—courses, professors, grades, friends, and quite a few jerks he didn’t like.
“Hey,” a voice called out and broke his concentration.
He looked to his left and saw another prisoner, the one he’d seen twice before.
His pen was attached to a nearby hut, about a hundred feet away.
Paul glanced around and did not see a guard.
They had been warned not to talk to the other prisoners, but how much more could they be punished? What more could they do to them?
“Hey,” Paul said, loud enough to be heard but not to draw attention.
“I’m Jason Snyder, from Tampa.”
“Paul Tanner, from D.C.”
Both watched their backs, looking for guards.
Paul said, “Three of us, right?”
“Yeah. Alan Stockman is over there.” He nodded to his left. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. You?”
“Swell.”
Paul asked, “How long you been here?”
“Over a year, not real sure. You know the date?”
“Late November. What about Stockman?”
“Several years. Any idea where we are?”
“No. Just a desert.”
Jason jerked his head and looked behind Paul, as if he saw something.
Ninja bolted into the pen with a hard rubber tube and whacked Paul across the back.
“No talk! No talk!” he screamed as he flailed away.
Paul gasped and groaned in pain, fell to his side, and curled into a fetal position in a futile effort to protect himself.
He heard Jason’s agonized yell as he got the same treatment.
Franco was swinging away and pounding his back and legs.
“No talk! No talk! No talk!” both guards yelled as they beat and kicked the Americans. They were careful not to kill them with blows to the head, but anywhere else was fair game. When they grew winded, and Jason and Paul were still, they backed away and disappeared.
Later, Alfie came to Paul’s pen with a bottle of water. He helped him to his feet and struggled to walk him back to his cell. He removed the cuffs and noticed blood on both wrists.
He left him on the floor, groaning in pain, cursing and mumbling incoherently, and unable to move.
After dark, Nabeed eased into the building and peeked around the corner into the prisoner’s cell.
Paul had removed the monk’s robe that he was forced to wear because there was nothing else, and he was lying naked on the floor, his back to the ceiling.
His back was raw meat; long open sores red with fresh blood and brown with dried blood.
Thick blue bruises ran from his neck to his buttocks.
Nabeed smiled at the sight. It reminded him of so many of the boys and young men he had suffered with in the cramped and filthy prisons.