by Steve Reeder
They stopped the beating and left me alone after an hour. There were welts and bruises across my upper legs, my head and my arms where they had systematically struck with the batons.
It had soon become apparent that were not going at it seriously. If they had been, I would be in bad trouble by now, if not dead already. Perhaps they were just softening me up for the boss. Perhaps they were just sadistic swine that enjoyed beating the crap out of people. If I ever got the chance, I decided I was going to kill the both of them. The cell was very hot.
An hour later they came back. More of the same for an hour, then an hour’s break. I wondered briefly if they were working to union rules. Upper legs, arms and back of my head: whack, giggle, whack, laughter and so it went on every second hour till sundown. The sadists’ union obviously stipulated that they stop at dinnertime, but before leaving, Dirty kicked me in the chest, toppling the chair onto its back. My arms took the full brunt of the fall and for the first time I cried out in pain. Dirty nodded with satisfaction. He didn’t hear what I had heard though: the wooden slats that made up the back of the chair had cracked.
I listened to the three of them troop out of the cell block. Their footsteps faded as they strode across to, where? Obviously there was more to wherever we were than just this building.
At no time had I heard any sounds of town or village life: no distant talking, no dogs barking, no cars and not even an aeroplane overhead. Living in southern England you get used to the constant sounds of jetliners from the three international airports around London. It would be comforting to hear one now. All in all, it was deathly quiet with my three sadistic friends gone. I hoped this wasn’t just a dinner break for them. I ached all over. The lump on my head seemed to have its own lumps now. It would be fair to say that I was scared.
I struggled for a while and finally jerked the chair onto its side. My arms had taken an awful hammering though. Now just my left arm was pinned beneath me, and try as I might, I could not roll the chair any further. It was going to be another uncomfortable night.
An hour or so later I had another problem. I badly needed to have a leak. My bladder was bursting.
I hadn’t heard Fatty return, but just as I was resigning myself to wetting my pants, the door opened. Fatty crept in stealthily. Making sure I was still secured, he closed the door. He said something to me in an Arabic language. A question I think.
“I have no idea what you’re going on about, mate.” I replied through swollen lips.
Fatty muttered to himself, opened the door a crack and checked outside. I guessed the others didn’t know he was here. I felt a moment of optimism: could Fatty be an unwilling ally?
Fatty closed the door again and pulled a gun out of his pocket. Shit. The prick is going to put me out of my misery, I thought. Instead he waved the gun at me and put his finger to his mouth. “Shh,” he said. I nodded. What else could I do?
Walking around behind me, he jerked the chair and me upright. I moaned loudly, mainly to cover the sound of the cracked wood creaking.
“Shh.” He looked frightened.
Now the chair was upright, he stood back and looked at me uncertainly. Finally he turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said. He stopped. “I need a piss.” He looked perplexed.
“Toilet?” I asked. Comprehension dawned and he thought about this for a while. Making a decision, he pointed the gun at me again and said something unintelligible to me. I nodded anyway. Coming around behind me he quickly untied the ropes binding my hands and stepped back. I heard the gun being fully cocked. I raised my hand slowly. I hoped he wasn’t as nervous as I was or one of us was going to get shot by mistake and it wouldn’t be Fatty.
Cautiously, I stood up. It was an effort. Looking over my shoulder I motioned enquiringly towards the door. He nodded while waving the gun threateningly. Once out the door I had a choice of left or right with an old desk across the room against the far wall perhaps ten feet away. Left out of the cell block, or right through a door some seven feet away. The door was closed.
I looked back at Fatty. I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. He pointed right. I opened the door and found it led straight into an ablution block. The toilets were very old, dirty and cracked. I headed quickly for the nearest of them. Relief. Fatty was giggling like a schoolgirl behind me. I joined in and laughed quietly hoping to build some sort of bond with him. Who knows, it could keep me alive.
When I finished, I zipped up and turned to look at Fatty. He motioned me out with the gun. I mimed washing my hands and looked at him questioningly and pointing to the wash basins, but he shook his head resolutely. Ah well, I’ve had dirty hands before. It would have been nice to grab a drink of water though.
Fatty backed away from the door as I came through, keeping his gun trained on me and safely out of reach. He pointed at the cell and made shooing type gestures towards it. I tried various delaying tactics, trying to get him to come closer where I would stand a chance of grabbing the gun. When he began to get angry, I walked meekly back to my chair. Better not to frighten or annoy him too much just yet. I might need him in due course.
When he left five minutes later, I had my hands tied again as they were before but not as tightly. He had again secured my legs to the chair legs but there was room to move and flex. I was beginning to like Fatty.
I slept surprisingly well until around midnight when cramp in my neck from sleeping in such an awkward position finally woke me. All around was deathly quiet. I’d have to take a chance that there was no one keeping watch outside the cell door. I hooked my feet behind the chair legs to give my self leverage, and started systematically pulling forward and pushing back against the back of the chair. If I could break the thing I would be free of it in no time. I’d worry about the cell door later.
There was movement straight away. The wood creaked and groaned loudly but after thirty minutes I was no closer to being free of it. Despite the cold night air I was sweating profusely, losing moisture that I couldn’t spare. If they didn’t bring me more water in the morning I was going to be in serious trouble. I was feeling parched already and could be close to dehydration.
I rested for perhaps twenty minutes then started again. I had a nasty feeling that if I didn’t get out of this cell before the Sultan arrived I’d die here.
Sometime during the early morning I fell asleep again and woke when Fatty kicked my legs. Dirty was standing by the door with the gun pointed in my general direction. No one loosened my bonds this time. Fatty held a tin mug of water to my lips and let me drink. I managed only four desperate mouthfuls before it was taken away. There was no food this morning. Fatty backed out and left Dirty looking at me speculatively. It was obviously going to be another fun day for him.
If I ever decide to write my memoirs, then this day would be described as “same painful shit, different day”. One hour on, one hour off all day. My condition by this time was bad. Sometime during the course of the beatings I had wet myself. Probably the only reason I hadn’t crapped myself was the severe lack of anything in my system. The bastards hadn’t made me cry out, although when they finally called it quits for the day I nearly cried with relief. My legs, arms and shoulders were just one big bruise. Unbelievably, nothing was broken though.
I waited to see if Fatty was going to come back. I desperately needed him to. An hour passed as I tried to flex some movement into my muscles, and had almost given up hope when I heard the faint scrape of a sandal on wooden flooring. I stared at the door through swollen eyes and prayed it would be Fatty and not one of the others. The footsteps stopped and I heard the bolt drawn stealthily: it must be Fatty. Again he peeked inside, pistol first, and then stepped in and closed the door behind him.
“Shhhh.” Fingers to his lips again. I nodded warily and walking around behind me he loosened the nylon rope. He stepped back and I untied the rope around my legs. It took some time, as my fingers were swollen and numb. I stood up slowly. This time the effort was almost crippling. My thigh muscles
ached intolerably. Stretching them carefully, I headed unsteadily for the toilets. My movements were slow and awkward, which was going to be a problem, because as big and fat as he was, Fatty might just be able to move more quickly than I could right now. And now just could be my last chance to overpower him and effect my escape. I flexed my hands where he couldn’t see them. They were stiff. Too stiff perhaps? There was nothing to do but risk it.
I did my best to urinate while eyeing Fatty out of the corner of my eye. He seemed more relaxed and confident tonight; certainly not as keyed up or watchful as he had been yesterday.
I zipped myself up and crossed the cold slate floor to the basins. Fatty said nothing. I washed my hands and then sucked down several mouthfuls of water, feeling the cold revitalising liquid seeping into my cramped stomach muscles. I didn’t look at Fatty, but he made no objections.
OK, I told myself, this is the telling moment. I turned as casually as I could and headed back out of the ablutions block. Fatty stepped back from the doorway as he had done the previous night but the gun was held at his side.
As I exited the bathrooms I launched myself at Fatty. Halfway there he was registering shock and fear. Another step and I was almost close enough but the gun was coming up quickly. I wasn’t going to make it. I swung my right fist at his jaw but the gun was in my face first. He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped loudly on an empty chamber. He hadn’t chambered a round. My right caught him on the point of the chin and his head snapped back. I followed up with a straight left that missed his chin, going under it and catching him full in the throat. He went down and I fell on top of him, my fall cushioned by his enormous stomach. I grabbed for the gun and wrenched it from his grasp, chambered a round and shoved it in his face. Only then did I notice that he was gasping horribly and turning blue. I had crushed his larynx and he was suffocating. I drew back in horror, scrambling to my feet. I certainly hadn’t meant to do that to him. Shit, I very nearly liked the guy.
Desperately I tried to remember the first aid courses from my army days, but nothing came to mind for situations like this. He was staring accusingly at me. He had a hurt and betrayed expression on his face as he died, three minutes later.
I put the safety catch on and slumped against the wall, sliding down till I sat beside his corpse. I really felt bad about killing him. There was nothing I could do for him now and yet I very probably owed him my life. I closed his lifeless eyes and regained my feet. It was time to move on.
The door to the outside world was partially open. Nervous of what I might see, I pulled it open a crack further and peeked out. A full moon was rising and the scene was bright and eerily lit. The cell block faced an open dirt courtyard perhaps fifty yards across. On my right, forty to forty-five yards away was a set of large and solid wooden gates set in a thick wall perhaps twenty feet high. They stood half opened but I could not see out of them from here. Directly across from me there was an old stable, visibly empty, and by the stables and away from the gates there were a series of three offices. The one on the far end had an interior light on.
No one seemed to be about so I opened the door a little more. Now I could see the building on the far left, facing the gates. There was only one door in the long building. A mess hall perhaps? On my immediate left was the barracks alongside the cell block. There was a narrow plank walkway stretching all the way around to the entrance of the stables.
I stepped back to think this out. It was night now but it would not be fully dark until much later when the moon went down. I could make a run for it then but I had no idea where I was or how far it was to a town or village where I could phone for help. Contacting a British consul seemed a good idea.
I took a swift look at the rooftops. There were no telephone lines to be seen. Was there any transport parked here? I had arrived by helicopter but that didn’t preclude the four henchmen from having driven out here from wherever.
I was weak from too little food and water, not to mention the beatings, and would not be going far by foot without something to eat and drink. I was going to have to get into that office to find what I needed. And that meant confronting the remaining Arabs.
Suddenly, there was a questioning shout from outside. I peeked carefully out the door. Meany stood uncertainly in the middle of the courtyard wondering where Fatty was, his skinny face registering a mixture of anger and uncertainty. If he stayed where he was and continued to shout for Fatty it was going to get awkward. He must already be thinking there was something wrong or he would not have stopped where he was.
I was getting really tense now. My nerves were on edge and a tension headache had crept rapidly up my neck and was now pounding away behind my eyes. No matter what he did, it was out of my hands. I was going to have to take him out. If he came in that was fine, I would try to do it quietly. But if he turned around he would be going for back-up.
I nervously checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber: of course there was; I did that just minutes ago. My hands were sweating and there was a very unpleasant queasiness in my gut.
He was looking back at the offices now, unsure of himself. “Please come this way, you shit,” I whispered urgently. It didn’t work. He turned and walked quickly away from me.
Speed was my only tactical advantage now so I opened the door and ran as silently as I could after him, my newly acquired weapon at the ready. My legs threatened to collapse under me at every step. As he reached the plank walkway he must have heard me behind him. Darting a horrified glance over his shoulder he began to scream for his companions. I was within ten yards of him when I fired twice into his back. As he fell I leapt over him and smashed shoulder first into the office door.
Dirty was sitting behind a desk to my right. Jumping to his feet he tried to swing an Uzi around at me, fear and surprise flashed across his face. I fired twice into his chest. The force of the nine-millimetre rounds flung him back against the wall. Bright red smears of blood and lungs were spread across the wall as he slipped to the floor.
My eyes swept frantically around the room. Where the hell was the fourth guy? My entire being was tensed, expecting the impact of bullets at any moment.
I almost, fatally, overlooked him. In the middle of the room sat a huge stuffed easy chair facing away from me. My peripheral vision caught sight of the gun barrel centring on me as he rose from behind the chair. Our shots passed each other, his smashing the door by my head and ricocheting away into the night. Mine were fired through the back of the chair, two shots as we had always been trained to do. I heard the exclamation of pain and the gun jerked away from me, his second shot going through the tin roof above his head. Keeping my gun aimed at the chair I moved round the room, stepping sideways like a crab till I could see him. He was curled up in the chair holding his belly and groaning horribly.
This one was better dressed than his subordinates were but to me he was just an evil looking bastard. Even as I stood there wondering what to do about him, he spat bloodstained spittle at me and made a huge effort to raise his gun. I shot him twice more, through the top of his head.
Urgently, I began to take stock of the office. There was very little there other than the stench of blood and cordite. Certainly no keys to vehicles of any sort. I found no phones or radios and no maps. No food either.
I decided to search the other offices; there had to be something I could use.
Grabbing a spare magazine for the nine-mil off Dirty’s desk, I walked out into the night. Three bullets cracked by my ear so close I felt the slipstream created in their wake. I sprawled backwards, scrambling back into the office. A fifth man. Now why hadn’t I considered that? He was standing just out of sight in the doorway to the mess hall. I saw moonlight glint off the barrel of a rifle: that could be awkward. There was no way I could risk staying here. A rifle would shoot straight through these walls. Even as this unhappy thought occurred to me he fired a short burst which was too accurate for comfort. Oh great. Not just a rifle but an automatic, which sounded
a lot like an American M16 to me.
Another controlled burst ripped through the wall, shredding it like papier mâché and missing me by millimetres. The guy was good.
Do something or die, Roberts.
Retreat sounded sensible. The only trouble was I would have to expose myself to fire for twenty to thirty yards of hard running, provided my legs could actually manage hard anything. I was going to head for the stables first. I peeked around the doorway and aiming the nine-mil at his position, I waited. He was probably changing magazines. I wondered idly how many he had. Pity the moon was full, a dark rainy night would have suited me no end. I could do with another drink of water too.
Long torturous seconds passed with no sign of him. Could he be waiting for me to make the first move? Well screw him. I had only one attempt at this and if I had to outwait him then so be it.
Time dragged and my gun barrel jerked minutely with every thud of my heart.
I was beginning to think he had found a way to outflank me when I saw the M16 barrel poke out of the mess hall doorway. Before he could line up a shot, I fired four shots into the wall where he had to be standing. I hoped the nine-mil rounds would penetrate but I wasn’t waiting to find out. I left the office running hard and made the stable just as a long burst searched for me.
Lying in the dirt and breathing hard, I poked half a head out the door and stared intently back at the mess. I had a much clearer view from here. My shots had chewed a half-foot hole in the wall and I felt cautiously optimistic about having hit him.
He fired again, this time from down lower. Noting the spot, I loosed off three more rounds. They dug out chunks of dried adobe but seemed to make no real impact. Perhaps the bottom part of the wall was thicker than the top?
The gun was empty now and I reached for the spare magazine. It was gone. Frantically I searched my pockets: nothing. I looked back along the ground and spotted it at once. I had dropped it not three yards from the office doorway. He had spotted it too.