Chapter 47
I was working in the fields for yet another day. My fingertips were rubbed raw, and the palms of my hands were covered in blisters from the incessant labor. But in spite of these, I was beginning to feel stronger physically and more determined than ever to leave this place.
I fashioned several knife weapons from sticks found in the fields. I chose short branches that were half an inch to an inch in diameter. Strong enough to be used as stabbing tools. When sharpened on a stone, they could be driven into flesh. Not wanting them to be confiscated on the daily search of our sleeping hut, I buried them at various spots in the fields, marking the locations with light-colored stones that would be easy to locate. I hoped at some point to be able to use one of them in a run for freedom.
There had not been any new incidents of Afghans attacking a guard. Perhaps the knife incident I had witnessed was an aberration, but at the time it seemed like part of an intentional campaign by the Afghans. Perhaps they were lying low, waiting for the guards to become complacent again. Then they would strike. I hoped there was some plan brewing among them, though I had no way of knowing.
While Gates’ troops were AWOL soldiers, they continued to maintain their military discipline, keeping an iron vigil over all of the workers in the fields. They were focused, but the grind of this project was beginning to show in their faces. They were being worn down. They were probably mentally counting all the millions each of them would get from this enterprise. But were all of them completely dedicated to this cause? Might one of them be susceptible to reason?
While in the fields, I talked to one of the guards. I did not talk with him, just to him since he didn’t respond. But something in his eyes suggested to me that he was a partly sympathetic ear. So I tried to win him over just a bit. The name above the breast pocket on his shirt read Wilson.
I suspected that he had probably been a willing participant with this project when the prisoners were Afghans. After all, they were the enemy, the enemy that had killed his comrades over there. He was trained to kill the enemy, so probably there was no deep moral issue for him in exploiting them. But having an American citizen, a civilian, as a prisoner might be weighing on his mind. That might not be what he signed up for. And perhaps he witnessed or was even ordered to participate in the sacrifice of Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, Pine’s wife, and all the others in the graves. Those could well cause second thoughts to creep in. Even the thought of millions of dollars might not override a tortured conscience. I might be able to use that growing guilt to my advantage. Of course, the only advantage of value to me was escape. Anything less just ensured my death sentence when Gates was done here.
In these monologues with Wilson, I asked him about where he was from, how long he had been in the military, if he liked Montana. I told him about growing up in the Midwest, working in Cincinnati, coming to Montana to hike and write a book. While he did not respond, he let me talk quietly without interruption. At times he took a short breath as if he intended to reply, but he hesitated and remained silent. Yet I felt this connection was beginning to have a positive effect.
I took care to talk to him only when no other guards were near. Talking was not tolerated in the fields. I had seen the consequence of the Afghans communicating, even briefly, when they thought they were not being observed. The swift kicks and hard blows from rifle butts ended each such infraction quickly. So I was very careful.
Working this relationship over two days, whenever Wilson was near, I gradually made comments about this enslavement not being right, about producing drugs to sell to kids, about killing civilians, about the unpleasantness of life on the run even if your pockets are full of cash. Today I made headway with him. It showed in his eyes, the guilt weighing on his mind. It showed because he did not walk away from me. He stayed near and continued listening. He wanted to respond to me. I didn’t know what this would lead to, but I hoped that when I made my escape, he would simply turn his back, rather than shoot me.
I was still talking to him when a boot came crashing into my rib cage. The blow sent me sprawling face down onto the ground. A knee landed in my back, and I felt hot breath and spittle on my ear. “Shut up!” Grimes ordered. “Back to work.” I expected more retaliation for my infraction, but there was none. They needed us to be fit enough to work, so the message was clearly delivered with a single kick. I winced from my new injury and went back to work.
Then Grimes directed his orders elsewhere. “Wilson, stay away from this prisoner. Go watch those rag heads over there.”
“Yes, Sir,” Wilson responded nervously and promptly left. I had lost. That glimmer of hope faded. I went back to work and back to contemplating other escape strategies.