The glare of the sun did not let up. While we were shaded in part by the sparse camouflage netting, the air got hot as the sun migrated overhead in the late morning and into the long afternoon.
The day dragged on, and I brooded constantly about the missed opportunity with the soldier named Wilson. Maybe it never would have amounted to anything, but I had put so much hope into that connection. Finally we were pulled in from the fields, fed, counted, and shoved into the stifling sleeping quarters.
I lay awake a long time. I thought about how close I had come to forming a meaningful bridge with Wilson. I didn’t even know his first name. Just Wilson, the name that was stitched on his uniform. I scolded myself for continuing to brood over it. Nothing I could do. Just find another way. Exhaustion eventually overtook me, and I drifted off into the mist of deep sleep.
Sometime in the night, I heard the sound of the door to the hut being unlocked and opened. The faint scrape of metal on metal as the key turned in the lock caught my ear. The hushed creak of the hinges followed. My eyes were open, but my vision was blurred, the effect of rousing from deep slumber. I sat up. None of the Afghans came awake. They were all still soundly sleeping. Wilson entered the hut, caught my gaze in the beam of a flashlight, and motioned for me to follow.
I stood and pulled my feet as far apart as they would extend so that the metal links of the shackles were pulled tight. That way they would not make any sound as I walked. I kept them taut while walking stiffly like a robot toward the door, left, right, left, right. Wilson grew impatient, urging me to move faster by motioning with his arm. I finally met him at the door. I felt the shackles come free from my ankles. They made a low metallic clank when they landed on the floor. I then went through the entryway silently, able to take full strides for the first time since being put to work in this hell hole.
Wilson had vanished into the night. But I had one of my sharpened stakes in my right hand. Another guard stepped out from behind the next hut. I lunged forward, placing my left hand over his mouth to silence him, and driving the stake deep into his side. I thrust it upward toward his lungs and heart. He stiffened for a moment, and then flopped face down. I landed on top of him, pressing on the stake until he went completely still. I grabbed his handgun, and ran toward the inner gate. It was open. Wilson must have opened it. I still couldn’t see him, but I didn’t wait.
I ran as fast as I could, but my pace was sluggish. The abuse of forced labor had sapped me of strength to escape. But I pushed onward, driving myself forward. I saw that the outer gate was also open. A guard stepped out into a crouched position, bringing his weapon around to shoot at me. I stopped and fired the handgun, hitting the guard with three rounds in the chest. He dropped like a stone. I had never killed anyone before, but had no feelings about what I had just done, no feelings at all.
The open gate was so close now. The misty forest was just beyond. My legs were pumping like pistons. I would soon be free. Fuck you, Lieutenant Gates, I thought.
“Everybody up!” The shout roused me from my dream, as the guard pounded on the door to the hut. This couldn’t be! It had felt so real. I had escaped and was running free. There had to be a mistake. “Everybody up!” More pounding on the door.
I buried my face in my hands and silently wept in despair. My shoulders and arms shook uncontrollably. Several Afghans stared at me as they arose and left the hut. There was no emotion in their stares, just silent acknowledgement of what I was enduring. They had probably already been to this dark low point of hopelessness and had found a way to move on.
I waited until all the Afghans were up and shuffling out of the hut before getting to my feet and exiting behind them. I was the last one out the door, using the extra time to compose myself. I had to cage my emotions before facing the guards and the labor for another day.