Gift of Reckoning

Stone, physically a shell of his former self held no desire to watch them leave. Remaining in his cell, he rested nervously on the edge of a concrete slab cantilevered outward from a chalky and dirty white washed wall. Its rust laden leg stocks served as a constant reminder about the inhumanity practiced here. His shoulders slumped forward with head bowed as if in prayer. But, he was not in prayer. His true faith was lost long ago when he believed his God had forsaken him, though this he acknowledged was a moment of His Father's deliverance. Not conscious of the fact, the manifestation of hope within had begun.

Instead, he contemplated on the significance of what was happening and what was to be. Years of malnutrition and torture may have exacted their toll on his physical being; still he recognized his acuity maintained a retentive diary on all he and the others were subjected. As he had often vowed during these years of duress, this matter was never to be forgotten. Nor, were those Americans who perpetrated and contributed to their sufferings. His strength throughout this ordeal had been his hostility. It enforced a discipline for survival and retribution. Those prisoners reconciled to a course of passivity as the key to more humane treatment, preferred to distance themselves from Stone's ever present enrage and aggressiveness. For the most part he remained a loner and preferred it that way.

In the passing weeks, two more repatriations transpired, and for those remaining, each became more difficult to watch. Finally, the day had come for the last contingent. Stone fretted for the announcement of his name. It was on the list. The swelling of his nose had subsided, and the purple below his eyes had long since vanished.

Subdued jubilance reigned in the courtyard outside his cell window on the evening before this last group's departure. No limits remained on the free and loud verbalizing of subjects previously kept in check. Hope, happiness, and that of despair. For some, the ominous fear of acceptance by their families, if such a life still remained. For all, the fear of change and its effect. Each man in his fashion prepared for the worst, yet in ready acceptance of the best. For most, this was a time to celebrate for the tomorrow they all waited and prayed for was now upon them.

In the darkened shadows of his cell, an eerie reflection was cast on the humidity dampened dirt covered floor and walls from the low wattage clear light bulb that burned continuously. This cell, with its prevalent malodorous of human waste permeating from the porous walls, was magnificent by earlier standards. It's distinct foulness, never to be erased, forever remembered. The moonlight reminded him of the futility of life in this camp. Its beams constantly thwarted by the passing darkened clouds.

He recalled the years spent in solitary confinement, and how the rats with an uncanny instinct knew of his inability to repel their curiosity while lying brutally shackled in pillory stocks, limbs unresponsive to his command for weeks after the bouts of rope torture. His narrow jaw jutted outward with subconscious gritting of his teeth while in deep thought. In a fashion, he was thankful for the skills he honed in solitary; to easily view in the dark and meditate with deep concentration whenever he chose.

Alone, Stone preferred his solitude. How little those celebrating tonight realize they are trading one set of frustrations, futility, anguish, and pain for another, he thought. In particular, he worried for those in the first contingent. Our years of captivity have inflicted change in those dear to us as well. The desk military, cloaked with textbook rehabilitation programs may cause irreparable damage to some under the pretense of good intentions. After the initial stories, which would appear repetitive and were, the interests of the debriefers would no longer remain captured. Our memories and beliefs are those of a time past that carry little meaning or consequence to anyone save us. Here in this hell, with few exceptions, we have become a unique brotherhood. A fraternal family unto ourselves regardless of existing animosities. Bonds that only death may sever. Our dependency on one another will have to sustain us in days to come, as it had in the past.

Reflecting on what awaited them at Clark Field in the Philippines, the anger within Stone intensified while thinking of the well-intentioned treatment awaiting them. Treatment with kid gloves. Guarded conversations, lest the resurrection of memories best forgotten. Our personal affairs and privacy; all open books, scrutinized in the name of rehabilitation. Interspersed subliminally was the specter of medical research. Guinea pigs for batteries of medical doctors, psychiatrists, and psychologists. Medical science's instant data bank. Grants bestowed in the name of human tolerance research. And what may we expect in return for being medical specimens? An oft-repeated cliche to forget and to get on with our lives. Though we have withstood the tests of extreme inhumane degradation, our spirits remain high, our honor unblemished, and our memories long. With no thanks to the medics, others and I will get on with our lives and we won't forget. Someone still has to pay and this includes those Americans who humiliated us when we were at a disadvantage. Their presence caused many of us great pain. Perhaps by the time we get there the system will have improved he wished with a resurrected optimism he long ago forsook.

Throughout his incarceration he reveled in the shelter of his anger, yet happy his wife was no longer alive to suffer over the agony of his imprisonment, knowing she would not have been capable. He was angry with himself for having been shot down. Anger persisted towards his torturers, masters at their craft, and those late shootdowns, most in this last contingent to be released. He never understood how these men capitulated to their enemies' wishes within hours of capture. Not overlooked in his thoughts were those in-camp turncoats, left wing American and European journalists, the Bitch of Hanoi, along with the political leaders who blindly in arrogance led our country into such disgrace. Disdainfully he said the word aloud, politicians. Peddlers of influence, procurers and pimps, living their good life off the miseries of others. Sneering with the thought tomorrow was the threshold for his retribution; his eyelids tightly closed as he mentally conjured what it is he must do though nothing concrete ever manifested. Conceived in pain and strengthened through torture; there was a purpose for his life and the time was upon him.

With melancholy he studied his prison garb. This loosely woven drab gray fabric emblazoned with faded red-orange horizontal and vertical stripes; he mentally made a note to smuggle this garment home. One day it would serve a purpose he felt; though he found no reason for the thought. Prisoners being released tomorrow morning were to be issued drab gray jackets, shirts and trousers to be worn on the day of release. He would wear this underneath.