Chapter 46
The next few days were a blur, one running into the next, each indistinguishable. Each day was the same routine. Up early when the guard bellowed, “Everybody up!” Off to breakfast. Then it was to the fields. I tried to keep track of the day of the week and the number of days, to stick with some semblance of normalcy. But I was so hungry and tired and desperate when the sun went down, that I lost track. Was this day four or five? Or maybe it was less than that. I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow would be the same.
Head counts were taken several times a day. Everything was repeatedly being counted: heads, breakfast bowls, the curved knives, buckets, shovels, everything that we touched. A constant taking of inventory to assure nothing was being used to make weapons.
We were always chained and taunted. I could count on being hit or kicked by a guard at least once a day for no apparent reason. A slap to the head, a rifle butt in the gut, a boot in the butt. All were routine. “Back to work,” was a common verbal reminder of our role here. PFC Jeremy Mason paid particular attention to me. He returned to duty, though his left arm was in a sling. He wasn’t carrying a rifle with just one useable arm. He only had a side arm. That was still lethal enough. He took particular glee at being my sworn tormentor, using that weapon to hit me in the back whenever he had the opportunity.
Many of the guards knew enough of the Afghan language to speak a few words, which were spat out periodically during the day. These utterances were likely grave insults based on the facial expressions of the recipients. There was anger and hate in the eyes of the Afghans when the guards were not looking. The soldiers kept us in our place, making clear the pecking order: guards at the top, all of us at the bottom. Disobedience was not tolerated.
The guards themselves were not living in the lap of luxury. They worked long days watching over us. They ate well, though. The dinner I had with Lieutenant Gates on the first night might not have been typical, but it was leaps and bounds above any fare we received. The guards didn’t have the hollow cheeks and the baggy eyes that we did. Their bellies were full.
The guards also had clean camouflage outfits periodically. New clothing came in their shipments into the valley. The old ones were simply tossed into a growing pile of garbage.
We did not get clean clothes. I wore the same things I wore when I came in here. The Afghans, who clearly had been here much longer than me, were clothed in ragged filthy garments. We didn’t get to bathe except to splash water on ourselves or when we got caught in a brief rain shower while in the fields. When the sun went down, we crawled onto soiled mattresses that reeked of dirt, sweat, degradation, and fear.
My dreams were filled with images of all the people who had been enslaved over the millennia by other humans. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people whose lives were reduced to endless toil and suffering at the bidding of uncaring overlords. I could see my face among them. Yet, it was as if I watched from a distance, watching someone else fall into despair. Then I was no longer at a distance. My whole being was dragged in, and I felt the hopelessness of being enslaved.
I had no further contact with Lieutenant Matthew Gates. Every day he strutted around the grounds, surveying his empire. But he did not approach me again. There was no point. I had not fed his ego enough. So he avoided me completely.
While I spent long hours each day contemplating how to escape, I also had plenty of time to think about how I got in here. I thought a lot about the ambush that had put me here. I felt Jeff fall against me during the struggle. Enid must have attacked him. Jeff must have put up a mighty struggle. I heard several shots fired, yet the fight continued. He was a big strong guy. But in the end, Enid’s greater size and strength must have overwhelmed him. The thought of Jeff lying dead on the side of the road sickened me. Jeff and I were starting to form a bond. Now he was gone.
Allison must be crushed. She lost her only sibling. And since the world was calling me a killer, she must hate me. Even though I didn’t kill him, I caused it. I drew Jeff into this. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I got him killed. I was disgusted with myself for that. I had let myself believe that Montana was feeling like home. It felt a lot less like home now.
It was so easy to slip into despair. I constantly had to remind myself there was nothing I could do about events that were already past, no matter how much blame seemed to fall on me. I could only hope to do something about the future. It was a very uncertain future, but I was the only one who was going to help me shape that future for the better. That drove me to face my failures, analyze the situation, and use that to my advantage. I had to focus on how I could survive, escape, and make things right.