by Jack Tunney
“Looks like you've had it rough?” O'Toole said, as way of introduction.
The soldier turned and nodded.
“That's a fact, boyo,” the soldier responded, in a thick Welsh accent.
O'Toole held out his manacled hand.
“Brendan O'Toole,” he said.
The soldier nodded and shook the offered hand.
“Staff Sergeant Thomas Jones of the Royal Welch Fusiliers,” the soldier said.
“What happened?” O'Toole asked.
“We were targeted by the rebels. They attacked the barracks in the dark of the morning before the assault even started. We didn’t stand a chance.”
“Before the assault?” O'Toole queried.
“Haven't you heard? At dawn, eight thousand Sez So rebels rolled into Ragalla in tanks, half-tracks, and trucks. Brought the city tae its knees. Along with government and military facilities, the rebels targeted schools, churches, and anything else standing in their way.”
“Do you think they have overthrown the government?”
“There's no way tae know fer sure. But I think so, yes.”
O'Toole bowed his head. He didn’t know why he was surprised, yet he was. Despite official reassurances from the government that the Sez So rebels were under control, the tension and hostility in Sezanda had been palpable from the first day he had arrived in the country. And now it had happened. The simmering tensions had boiled over, and the country was at war with itself. And he, along with everybody else in the truck, was now a prisoner of that war.
SIXTEEN
Road Convoy, Matanga Jungle, Sezanda, 28 February 1954...
Dawn's golden rays cut through the dense foliage rising vertically along the edge of road. The convoy of trucks crawled along slowly and cautiously, rocking and rolling with every dip and pothole, winding its way up into the mountains. The track was more like a goat trail than a road.
O'Toole did not know where they were going and, after traveling all night packed in like cattle, unable to sit or lie down, was dog tired. His face was drawn and haggard. He closed his eyes for a second, only to be jolted back to conciousness as the truck hit another pot hole.
He muttered a profanity.
“Spoken like a Welshman,” Jones responded in jest.
“Is that where you're from?” O'Toole queried. “Wales?”
“Aye, from Cardiff. We are all from Wales.”
“The whole lot of you?”
“We're a Welsh unit. All good sons of coal miners,” he joked.
“And all excellent singers too?” O'Toole asked, playing along with the stereotypical view of the Welsh, being that all Welshmen are coal miners and singers.
“Of course,” Jones answered. “I have a lovely baritone voice.”
“I hope I get to hear it one day,” O'Toole said as the truck began to slow.
The sound of air-brakes informed them that their journey was coming to an end.
“I hope so too,” Jones said, with a furrowed brow.
SEVENTEEN
Hell Camp XXI, Sezanda, 28 February 1954...
Sezanda Socialist Army Camp XXI occupied a clearing that had been hacked out of the jungle. The gates were opened and the trucks passed through, coming to a halt in the center of the compound. The tarpaulin flap at the back of the trucks was raised. The prisoners were released from their manacles and ordered out of the trucks at gunpoint.
O'Toole stepped down, pleased to be able to move and stretch. He raised his arms and rolled his neck muscles, attempting to get his circulation going again. He was immediately prodded in the back by one of the rebels using the muzzle of his gun. The rebel said something in Sezandan, which O'Toole didn't understand. He got the message anyway – Keep moving.
The prisoners were shepherded to the center of the camp, which was encircled by huts. They were ordered to line up in three rows. The British soldiers stood at attention, trying to maintain a sense of discipline. The Americans, and the Sezandan civilians were much more casual. O'Toole stood with Sean Calvin on one side, and Jones on the other. As they stood waiting, O'Toole checked out his new surroundings.
The camp wasn't large, less than the size of a football field. It was rectangular and the perimeter was dual fenced, each fence topped with spirals of barbed razor wire. Raised guard towers with searchlights were in each of the four corners. Sez So guards also patrolled the compound with dogs. Outside the perimeter was the jungle. A thick, dense, impenetrable wall of green.
The buildings were arranged in a 'U' shape. Along one side of the compound were the rebels’ quarters, dining area, and the motor pool, which was heavily guarded at all times. In one corner was the Kommandant’s quarters, and beside it another small hut. Next there was the prisoners’ mess, sickbay, and latrines. On the opposite side, were three huts designated as the prisoners’ barracks.
The most unusual feature of the camp, however, was a boxing ring, which sat high and proud to one side of the central area. Despite being out in the open air, the ring was in good condition, ropes taut and canvas clean.
The Kommandant of Sez So Camp XXI made his way from his quarters to the assembled prisoners. Alongside him marched an escort of three armed rebels.
“That's Krieger,” Jones said under his breath.
“You know him?” O'Toole responded.
“Know of him. He has a fearsome reputation. They say his prison camp is the most secure in Sezanda, and the Sez So rebels under his command are the most disciplined and fierce in the country.”
Kommandant Krieger walked down the line of prisoners, inspecting each of them. His stare was cold and lifeless. He stopped in front of O'Toole and stepped closer. O'Toole stared back.
Krieger was tall, but with a bulging midriff. His build hinted at good genes, but displayed a life spent overindulging in food and wine. His skin was pale with hard lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Even when he smiled, it looked as if he were sneering.
In his right hand, Krieger held a riding crop, which he would sporadically position under his left arm. He wore a khaki uniform with an angled silver swastika medal on his chest. World War II may have been over, but it was clear Krieger believed the Nazis were still a force to be reckoned with and would rise again at any moment. Until that time came, however, he was happy as a commander in the Sezanda Socialist Army.
“How did you get that?” Krieger asked, almost tracing the scar on O’Toole’s left cheek with his riding crop.
“Shaving accident,” O'Toole quipped.
The prisoners around him laughed.
O'Toole noted a flash of anger in Krieger's eyes. He knew his casual response had just made him an enemy. The Kommandant nodded, and moved on to continue his inspection.
Once Krieger finished, four guards carried out a large, ornately carved throne. It was covered in gold leaf, with a blood red seat cushion and backing. It looked more befitting a monarch than a prison Kommandant. The throne was a clear symbol of Krieger's delusion of grandeur and feeling of omnipotence. The prisoners could not believe what they saw, standing with their jaws agape.
“Is this guy for real?” Calvin muttered.
Krieger walked to the throne and sat down, swiftly throwing one leg over the other. He sat dead still for a few minutes, simply staring out at the prisoners. The camp was silent, the atmosphere tense.
Finally Krieger raised his head and began to address the prisoners from his throne.
“Welcome to Camp XXI. I am Kommandant Krieger. You are now prisoners of the Sezanda Socialist Army. If you are obedient, you will be treated well. You will be well fed, have access to clean water and medicine. After all, we are not barbarians.” Krieger's grin was sickly. “However, if you disobey an order, or attempt to escape, you will be punished. Some of you may have noticed a boxing ring has been erected in the marshaling area. Anyone who requires discipline will be sent to the ring.”
Calvin stifled a laugh, feeling that being asked to step into a boxing ring was hardly a severe puni
shment.
Calvin nudged O'Toole and, barely whispering, said, “Give me a shot at theses fellas and I'll show 'em some fighting Irish spirit!”
“I see you think this is a laughing matter,” Krieger said, his face stern and taut. “I will show you.”
He turned to his guards and, using his riding crop as a pointer, singled out Calvin.
“Get that man ready for the ring!” he ordered.
Two Sez So guards approached Calvin and dragged him from the group to the small hut beside the Kommandant's quarters. He was pushed back out three minutes later, dressed in boxing trunks, gloves, and boots. He was escorted to the ring and shunted under the bottom rope.
Calvin made a game of it, joking and laughing. Alone in the ring, he shadow boxed for a moment then raised his hands over his head as if he had won the bout. The prisoners laughed.
All except O'Toole.
He had a bad feeling. If what Jones had said was true, then Krieger didn't seem the type for joking. If the ring had been erected as a punishment tool, then that was exactly what it was. Over the years as a boxer, O'Toole had seen too many men on the receiving end of savage beatings. He didn't believe it was a laughing matter.
His thoughts were confirmed when Krieger's disciplinarian walked out ready to box. The prisoners gasped, their jovial mood immediately dissipating.
The disciplinarian was six foot tall, with ebony skin, a shaved head, and arms like tree trunks. His face was covered in tribal tattoos, and his teeth had been filed to points. He looked every inch a monster.
“This is Crator,” Krieger announced. “He has one job at this camp, and one job only. He maintains discipline. Trust me when I say, you do not want to meet him in the ring. You will see.”
Crator stepped into the ring calmly.
Calvin didn't look confident.
“Keep your guard up,” O'Toole yelled to Calvin.
Krieger produced a whistle on a thin strap around his neck. He blew it to signal the start of the fight. Crator nodded. Calvin looked confused, as there was no bell sounded to begin.
“You may proceed,” Krieger said to clarify things.
It was a little too late. Crator took three long steps across the ring and stood towering over Calvin. Calvin tried to raise his gloves to protect his head, but Crator instantly threw a big right cross, which plowed with the power of a steam shovel into the American’s jaw.
Calvin was knocked across the ring into the ropes. As he turned, Crator was on him. The big man threw a hard left to the American's body and then followed it with another right to the head. Calvin crumpled to the canvas.
Krieger blew his whistle once more. Crator stopped. Three punches only, but the effect was devastating. The left side of Calvin's face was already swollen and blood streamed from his nose.
“That was just a demonstration,” Krieger announced. “But as you can see, you should not take punishment lightly.”
EIGHTEEN
After the demonstration, the prisoners were shown to their barracks. Each of the three buildings was a solid prison block – rather than the flimsy wooden prisoner-of-war huts depicted in the movies.
The buildings were brick, with a concrete floor and a flat tin roof. A central corridor ran the length of each building with the prisoners’ cells along both sides. The cells were small, with only a bunk bed and a small cupboard inside. A tiny shuttered window, which was boarded up each night, faced out onto the marshaling area. Two men shared each cell.
O'Toole was assigned to the third barracks, closest to the rear fence. He shared the cell with Patrick Reilly. O'Brien and Calvin were in the cell next door. However, McGee and Green had been assigned to the first barracks with the British. The other cells in the third barracks were filled with Sezandan civilians and workers from the hotel site.
“This place is a nightmare. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Patrick said. He lay stretched out on the top tier of the bunk. “I thought the Sez Sos were being rounded up by the government?”
“I thought so, too,” O'Toole muttered. He stood at the window, peering out at the now empty marshaling area. His eyes were drawn to the boxing ring.
Boxing reminded him of the bad times. Like alcohol, it was something he had relegated to his past. But somehow, he knew he would end up inside that particular ring. It was as if it had been placed in his path to test him. He felt uneasy.
Patrick, who continued to fathom the events of the last twenty-four hours, interrupted his thoughts.
“I’m sure it won't be long till they find us and free us. Once they realize American citizens are being held here, they'll come and get us,” he said, a false note of optimism in his voice.
“Who are they?” O'Toole queried.
“The Sezandan government. They’ll send their army.”
“What if they aren't in control anymore?”
“What? You think the government has been overthrown by the Sez Sos?”
“I wouldn't be the first time. This is Africa. Governments rise and fall every day.”
“But they'll let us go, right? We aren't a part of this.”
O'Toole didn't answer. He could see Patrick was scared, searching for answers – searching for hope. But O'Toole didn't have any answers – at least not the kind Patrick wanted to hear.
During the war, O'Toole had found himself in dangerous situations on countless occasions. He’d always found the best way forward was to focus on the here and now.
To focus on what he could do. Not what may happen.
The Sezandan government may well have a search party out looking for them, but he wasn't going to count on it.
“What about that boxing ring?” Patrick continued. “I thought Calvin was finished.”
“He was lucky,” O'Toole said turning away from the window.
“That guard was a monster,” Patrick said as he rolled onto his side and faced O'Toole
“He was a big man, for sure.”
“My father said you used to be a boxer.”
“A long time ago,” O'Toole murmured. It had only been four months, but it seemed a lifetime to O'Toole.
“Could you beat him? The guard?”
O'Toole didn't answer. He turned back to the window and stared at the boxing ring. It was a good question.
Could he beat him?
NINETEEN
Matanga Jungle (Three Miles from Hell Camp XXI), Sezanda, 27 March 1954...
O'Toole swung the ax with little enthusiasm, as he worked on splitting a fallen tree. His shirt was torn and tattered, his arms were scratched and bloody. It was day twenty-seven of prison life and he looked a mess. In fact, all the prisoners looked a mess.
Five days a week, they had been marched out into the jungle and given tools to cut back the trees to clear the land. The guards looked on, with Alsatians at their sides, weapons at the ready. Anybody who tried to make a break would be gunned down in an instant. Two men had already died trying to escape the work detail.
The grueling regime of prison life had quickly taken its toll on Patrick Reilly. He stood at O'Toole's side gathering the split logs. His optimistic view of rescue had disappeared after the second week. His glasses had been smashed, his chin was now covered in whiskered tufts, and his shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. He couldn't take it. The young man was not used to hard labor like the other men.
Gathering another arm full of logs, he collapsed to the jungle floor. O'Toole dropped his ax and ran to his side.
“Are you okay?” he asked, lifting him back to his feet before the guards noticed.
“I'll be fine,” Patrick answered breathlessly.
At that moment, a whistle blew and several of the Sez So guards began shouting. However, it appeared to have nothing to do with Patrick. Both Patrick and O'Toole turned to look in the direction of the commotion.
Williams, a Welsh officer, was trying to make a break for it. O'Toole had only met Williams briefly at the camp, and hadn't warmed to him. He’d figured him for one of those
delusional 'stiff-upper-lip' officers – the ones who believed the might and right of the Empire was always on their side. Being white was a birthright, making him superior to his African captors.
Williams was running hard, leaping over branches and pressing through the dense jungle foliage. He had barely made it forty yards when the rebels released the dogs. The Alsatians bounded after him. They ran him down in a matter of seconds, dragging him to the ground. Their jaws tore at his arms and legs as he tried to feebly defend himself.
The rebels rushed to the fallen Welshman and hauled the dogs off. The dogs didn't want to stop their attack. One dog broke free from its handler, its jaws clamping down on Williams' ankle. The officer screamed in pain, his guttural howl ringing out through the canopy of trees. It was chilling. Finally, the dog was pulled clear.
Williams was allowed to live. Some people might have called that lucky. O'Toole wasn't one of them. A stretcher was called, and the soldier was carried back to camp.
O'Toole barely glanced at Williams' bloody form as it passed by. Instead, he returned to his task at hand, turning and picking up his ax. No heroics from him. He was a realist. There was no escape from this God-forsaken place.
At least for now.
By mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened with heavy ominous storm clouds. The guards rounded up the prisoners and collected the tools, methodical in their counting. O'Toole handed in his ax and joined the column of prisoners. In the distance, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. A big storm was coming their way.
Once all tools and prisoners were accounted for, the prisoners were marched back to camp as the rain began to fall. Each of the men was exhausted, struggling to keep in formation as they plodded along the steaming jungle path. Patrick, who was beside O'Toole, stumbled and fell to his knees. O'Toole, reached over and took him under the arm and hauled him back to his feet.