by Weston Ochse
“Riverine operations along the Shatt al Arab. We were about thirty clicks into the interior and came under fire. Of the five in the boat, I’m the only survivor. Been captured for four months now. Twice I was traded to other groups. Wish I knew what I went for.”
Nathan managed to turn, which was difficult with his hands bound behind him. The speaker lay on the other side of the tiny room atop a thin mattress. His eyes were blindfolded. His feet and hands were bound like Nathan’s. He had a thick brown beard and the sallow complexion one generally sees in nursing homes or shut-ins. Nathan remembered visiting his grandmother in the Lodge of Lasting Peace, the place his parents had arranged for her to stay. The woman who’d been present at all of his major holidays had been moved into the ‘facility,’ as his father called it, because she’d begun to wander. He’d only visited her there once. When he’d seen her, she was just weeks away from death, her skin white as the underside of a maggot, sunken cheeks, and yellow bruises. Booth was like that now. The only thing different was the smell. Rather than the death smell of the nursing home, Booth had the pungent musk of the homeless.
“Like the beard?” he asked. “I’ve never grown one before. Itched like a bitch the first month, but now I barely feel it. You’ll grow one too if they let you live that long.”
Nathan became aware the other prisoner had probably not had anyone to talk to in a very long while. He also became aware that he was tremendously hungry.
“Do they feed you?”
“Twice a day like clockwork. Right before dawn and right after dawn. I hope you like rice and tuna because that’s all they ever feed me. That and a few veggies every now and then. I once had a piece of broccoli and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, it was just so…” His voice trailed off. He was silent for a while. Then finally, “Sorry, I’m talking too much.”
“It’s okay. I’d probably be doing the same,” Nathan said.
“Think so?”
“It’s been four months since you talked to someone else?”
“There were a few other prisoners, but they were Iraqi and didn’t talk much.”
“What happened to them?” Nathan asked.
“They were here and then they weren’t.” He was silent for a moment, then asked, “Hey, what’s your name?”
Nathan was about to answer, then remembered his lessons on enemy capture from the official Code of Conduct. Part one states I am an American fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. Part two talks about surrender and part three states unequivocally If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy. He wracked his brain for what else it said. There was a limit to what he had to say. What was it? Then he remembered. When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.
He noticed Booth was smiling.
“Code of Conduct, right?” he laughed softly. “I was the same way when I was captured. When questioned, a prisoner of war is required by the Geneva Convention and this code to give name, rank, service number and date of birth. The prisoner should make every effort to avoid giving the captor any additional information. The prisoner may communicate with captors on matters of health and welfare and additionally may write letters home and fill out a Geneva Convention capture card. They made us memorize it aboard ship. A sad lot we were thinking we’d never have to use it.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Nathan admitted.
Booth made the best shrug he could under the circumstances. “You don’t have to say anything. I could be anyone. I might be the first ever terrorist from Rhode Island.”
Nathan’s mouth tried to make a smile, but it hurt too badly. “Army Staff Sergeant Nathan Johnson.” He waited for something to happen, but nothing did. “You can call me Nathan, though.”
“Not Nate? You’re not a Nate?”
He thought about how his brother called him Natty. “No. I’ve never been a Nate.”
“Nathan it is. Sad to meet you under these circumstances, Nathan Johnson. You can call me Bob, by the way.”
“Hi Bob.”
Booth sighed. “Wish I had some beer then I’d drink. Ever play that game? No, probably not. Why would you? I think it’s a Bob thing. See, there used to be a television show called Bob Newhart and every time someone came in and said Hi Bob, the people watching would drink. You’d never think you could get so hammered in thirty minutes, but they must say it fifty times and episode.” He paused from his rapid-fire, one-sided conversation and turned his blind-folded face to Nathan. “Are you awake over there? Am I talking too much?”
Nathan stared at the other man, wondering if beneath his clothes and beneath his beard he might have the same yellow bruises his grandmother had had. Hers were because her skin was paper thin, but Bob’s would be for another reason. His fellow prisoner was clearly happy to have another person to talk to. It was just that Nathan wasn’t in the same place. Where one man’s fear might make him talk, Nathan felt the need to keep everything close and in control, even his own words. He lay there watching the other man, wondering what he’d been through, and what was next for himself. Fear chased away his hunger and became acid as his mind gave vision to all the terrible possibilities.
He wondered where his brother was and why he wasn’t around to protect him.
– 13 –
HIS NAME WAS Masun.
When they’d come to get Nathan, he’d been asleep dreaming of surfing. They’d blindfolded him and dragged him by his feet into the middle of a large room. He felt people around him and heard them shift position occasionally. Eventually, someone crossed their legs and came to him. He felt himself helped to his knees, then his blindfold was removed.
The light was too bright to see anything, but as his eyes became accustomed, he saw that he was on what looked to be a TV sound stage. In front of him stood a professional television camera. Beyond that was an area of shag-carpeting with an Iraqi flag pinned to a wall behind. Beside and closer to him were seven men sitting on low sofas. Each wore long white dishdashas with black abayas. Four of the men had beards, while the others didn’t. They smoked unfiltered cigarettes and stared at him as if he were an insect they’d just found along the side of the road. Finally, the youngest of them, the one who’d removed his blindfold, spoke.
“I am Masun. Who are you?”
He began to speak, then coughed as his dry throat refused to form words. “Nathan Johnson, United States Army,” he finally managed.
“Nathan,” the man said slowly, his accent barely discernable. “Where are you from Nathan? I went to school at the University of Iowa and graduated with an engineering degree. I knew a lot of Nathans there.”
Nathan was unable to answer. Whether it was his inability to imagine this man attending a Midwestern American university, or whether it was the circumstance, his throat was locked up tight.
One of the other men said something. Masun went away and came back with a plastic cup. He held it so Nathan could drink, which he did, losing half of the cool liquid as it spilled down his chin. When Masun was done, he set the glass aside and stood back.
“There. That’s better, isn’t it?”
Nathan glanced at the other men and noticed for the first time they were armed. Some had pistols. Others had rifles. They all wore belts with long curved blades.
“What is it? What is it you want?” he asked.
Masun grinned and spread his hands before him. “Are you a djinn, Nathan Johnson? Is that what you are to grant our wishes? How lucky for us to have you then. How fortunate it i
s that you are with us.”
Nathan moved to speak, but Masun waggled a finger.
“Let me see. First how about if all the infidels are removed from our land. Then maybe make it so the Jew never existed so that Israel can be once again returned to us. Then I’d like for all the children to be in school, all the elderly to be cared for, and no one to go without eating. Can you do that, Nathan?”
Nathan shook his head.
“What?” Masun stood back in mock astonishment. “You can’t or you won’t? You’d deny children and old women, Nathan Johnson?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that.”
One of the other men snapped something that caused Masun to speak harshly. They went back and forth in Arabic for a few moments. When they were done, Masun turned once again to Nathan and regarded him as he would a very young child.
“Of course you wouldn’t want to leave children without school and people without food, but you do that nevertheless, Nathan Johnson. Your country has men and women living on the streets, starving and in need of medical attention. Your country has children who can’t attend school and elderly who remain unwashed and uncared for. Yet you come to places like my home, this country, you destroy everything, make it like your country, then stand back and watch us try and rebuild. No, Nathan Johnson, you are not a djinn. You are a demon. You are everything bad about America and are the reason there are mothers crying for missing babies in every corner of the world.”
He marched over to a wall which held a collection of swords and pulled one free. He held it so that its tip just touched the ground. Nathan found himself staring at the edge, knowing it was as sharp as any blade he’d ever touched.
Suddenly he felt a buzz in his pocket.
The room stilled as everyone stood on their feet.
Masun leaped across the space and placed the tip of the sword in the hollow of Nathan’s neck. He pushed, and as he did, Nathan fell to the ground to keep from being killed.
His pocket buzzed again.
One of the men reached into it and pulled out his cell phone. How they’d missed it, he’d never know.
“What is this?” Masun asked. “You take a phone with you?”
Nathan could only swallow, all too aware how close the blade tip was to ending his life.
Masun was handed the phone. He took it in his free hand and flipped it open. He saw a picture and turned it to Nathan. “Who is this?”
Nathan saw his brother sticking his tongue out and waggling his fingers in his ears. It was his favorite I got you pose and had been using it since Nathan was in a crib, his earliest memory, his older brother standing over him and making faces.
Masun kicked him in the side. “Who is this?”
“My brother.” Nathan coughed.
“What does this mean? Is it code?”
Nathan didn’t want to laugh, but he couldn’t help but let one escape. “No code. He’s dead.”
Masun dropped the phone and stepped on it. The other men were moving about, heading for the exits. “This better not be a ruse,” he said. “If they come to rescue you then you’ll be the first to die. Get it?”
Nathan nodded.
“So who was it calling you, really?”
“My brother.”
“I thought you said he’s dead.”
Nathan swallowed hard before he said, “I did.”
Masun gave him a ghastly look, then pulled his leg back and kicked him in the face. “Then why is he calling you?” He asked as he kicked Nathan again.
Nathan never had the chance to respond.
– 14 –
WHEN HE WOKE, he felt like the side of his head had exploded. It hurt far worse than his leg. He also had to pee. Terribly.
“Glad you’re awake. I was worried for you.”
Nathan rolled over. His hands were still handcuffed behind him, but his legs were untethered.
Bob lay across from him. He no longer wore a blindfold. One eye was bruised closed, the other weeped blood. He’d been gone over good.
Nathan started to ask, but Bob spoke first. “It’s nothing. More Pain TV is all. They like to shout about some crap or another then take turns punching and kicking me while they film it.” He laughed, blood bubbling from his mouth. “Can you imagine if they have sponsors, like real commercials? This segment of Beating the American to a Pulp brought to you by the makers of Bounty Paper Towels. Bounty, The Quicker Picker Upper.”
Nathan spied a bucket in the corner. He tried to pull his arms around his legs, but couldn’t get past his wounded leg. He managed to stand, limp over to it, and tried to shake his way free. He finally gave up. Wimpering, he relieved himself through his pants. The warm liquid ran down his leg and soaked the front of his uniform pants. When he was done, he returned to his place. He sat, but now he was aware of the stench of urine.
An hour later a guard checked on them. He cursed. Soon, three more returned with him. They grabbed him roughly and blindfolded him. They took him up and down several sets of stairs, until he’d completely lost track of where he’d gone. Eventually, their feet began to echo on the floor. He felt them let go. Someone turned on a faucet, spraying cold water on him. He jumped at first, trying to get his head and face away from the spray. But they held him fast. Soon he was relishing the water. He felt it peel the grime away. He felt it wash away the stain of his capture. Beneath the spray of cool water he could be anyone, anywhere, instead of Nathan Johnson, recently captured by Masun and a group of jihadi thugs. He could have even been a young Nathan showering sand from his body after a day of surfing.
But as he was jerked from the water and dragged across the floor, he snapped back to the present. In a matter of moments, he was placed on a table. His boots were unlaced and tossed into a corner. His pants were pulled from him. He soon felt the chill of many eyes upon him.
“Who is there? What are you doing?”
Someone slapped him in answer. He wanted to cry out, but he bit his lip.
Then he heard the sound of clipped walking on tile floor. It approached him. A sure hand touched his wounded leg, tracing the edges of the wound. A woman snapped something in Arabic, several hurried steps and soon he felt a cool gel applied to his leg, then it was bandaged. He was given several shots. The final shot put him to sleep. The last thing he heard was a woman’s voice saying the words, “Sleep now, American boy. Sleep now.”
– 15 –
HIS CLOTHES AND boots were dry. They’d reclothed him. He felt as clean as he could be under the circumstances. Now clean and presentable, he was front and center beneath an array of Klieg lights. His hands were still tied behind him, but they’d let him stand. The unnatural eyes of three lenses in the TV camera were trained on him and he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Instead, he stared at the plush carpet beneath him – dark blue, shag, something that should have been on the floor of a retro-1970s shag palace instead of the killing ground of Pain TV.
A dozen shadows moved on the other side of the lights. Behind him were arrayed the seven men. He’d seen their swords. They held them like men who knew how to use them. Masun stood before him in a blinding white dishdasha that absolutely glowed beneath the lights. He shouted into the camera. He thrust his sword into the air with eagerness and violence. He’d occasionally glance back at Nathan and gesture with his free hand.
It was all theatrics. Nathan wondered who was watching. Would CNN pick it up? Was he starring on Al Jazeera? Would his men see it? What about his mother? What about his brother?
Masun suddenly turned and kicked him in the stomach. Nathan bent over gasping. When he did, Masun kneed him in the face. No sooner had Nathan fallen to the floor, Masun was on him, his sword pressed against a crease in Nathan’s unprotected neck.
He shouted a long litany into the camera as he held the blade in place.
Nathan felt the telltale tickle of bl
ood running down the side of his neck.
Masun said one last thing, then stared vehemently into the camera. Everyone and everything was silent, except for the shuffling of feet behind the camera.
Then a cell phone rang somewhere.
Then another.
And another.
Cell phones rang everywhere.
Masun stood, glaring angrily around him. He stepped back and grabbed one of the cell phones from one of the men. He stared at it a moment, then glared at Nathan as he threw the phone the length of the room. He grabbed another and did the same. Soon, those who had brought cell phones were watching as Masun hurled them so they landed in pieces.
Masun ran behind the cameras and grabbed everyone’s cell phones. He brought them to Nathan and showed him the image on each and every one.
“What is this? What are they doing?” He turned and shouted into the camera in English. “You play games with me? You dare to play fucking American games with me?”
Nathan stared at the image of his brother shooting a straight-armed bird. Nathan knew that picture. He’d taken it himself at Cal’s behest. A girl had just cheated on him and Cal had wanted to send her an indelible image of his disdain. Nathan had liked it so much that he’d used it as his brother’s avatar, popping on the screen whenever he called.
And now it had been sent to the jihadis.
Priceless.
Too late, Nathan realized he was smiling. Masun saw it and became enraged. He dropped everything and began to rain down blow after blow after blow. The carpet did little to absorb the blows and Nathan felt his head bounce off the concrete beneath and it kept bouncing long after he lost consciousness.
– 16 –
BOTH HIS EYES felt swollen shut. He could still see through them, albeit just a slit. Bob had also been beaten, his already bruised face now turned to pulp. Nathan stayed conscious for a while, but soon found himself swooning over the moon.
In fact, he became the moon. He watched as a spindly tin can spider landed roughly on his Sea of Tranquility. His view was as if he was beneath a sheet of glass, staring up onto pod-like boots of the astronauts as they leaped and jumped in a drunken ballet. His mind provided a soundtrack, which turned out to be a punk version of the theme music for Swan Lake.