by Jack Tunney
“Are you okay?”
Patrick just nodded, sucking in deep breaths.
O'Toole released him, and watched as he rejoined the column with an ungainly gait.
One of the rebels jammed the butt of his rifle into O'Toole's back, shunting him forward. “Keep moving, you!” the rebel ordered.
TWENTY
Patrick could not sleep. The rain thundered down on the tin roof of the cell above his head. The heavy droplets sounded like gunshots. He tossed and turned on the top tier of the bunk.
Patrick knew he was fast approaching breaking point. He had to get away soon, but knew he was not strong enough to fight his way out. He had to use his head. He had spent his time watching and making mental notes. He watched the guards as they went about their routine. And he watched the other prisoners.
Unlike the other prisoners, he did not see Williams' escape attempt as a suicidal act of desperation. It had provided him with useful information. Patrick had learned from the experience. Escaping during the work detail was not the way to go. There were too many guards and it was impossible to outrun the dogs.
Any escape attempt would have to be made at night from the camp itself. All he had to do was find a way through the fences. He knew he would find a way out sooner or later. He figured himself as too smart to stay trapped for long.
His time would come.
TWENTY-ONE
The following morning, the worst of the storm had abated. It was still raining steadily, however, and the prisoners were excused from their foresting in the jungle. But, while the work detail may have been canceled, Krieger still had an unpleasant duty planned for the prisoners – attending the punishment session for Captain Andrew Williams of the Royal Welch Fusiliers.
When the prisoners were marched from their barracks in the rain to the marshaling area, Williams was already kitted up and standing in the boxing ring. The dogs had been savage in their attack. Williams’s body was covered in bloody bandages, particularly about the legs. As he waited, he used the ropes to hold himself upright.
Seeing the state of Williams, the Welsh soldiers started to sing Men of Harlech in his honor.
Moments later, Krieger stepped from his quarters. Skirting the puddles of rainwater in the compound, he approached the boxing ring. As he walked, two of his guards held umbrellas high above his head to keep off the rain.
Continuing their act of support and defiance, the chorus of Welsh male voices belting out Men of Harlech got louder.
Men of Harlech, stop your dreaming,
Can't you see their spear points gleaming,
See their warrior pennants streaming,
To this battlefield.
“Silence!” Krieger demanded as he came to a halt in front of the men.
The singing did not stop.
Men of Harlech, stand ye ready,
It can not be ever said ye
For battle were not ready,
Welshmen never yield.
“Silence!” Krieger repeated angrily.
Much to Krieger's frustration the singing continued
Krieger turned to his guards. “Make them stop,” he ordered through gritted teeth.
The men lowered the umbrellas and un-shouldered their weapons. Taking aim, they fired a volley of shots at the feet of the British soldiers. The gunfire had the desired effect. As splashes of mud kicked up, the voices faded.
Krieger smiled cruelly.
“The rules at this camp are simple. If you obey orders and do not try to escape, you will be treated well. If you disobey orders or try to escape, you will be punished. Severely! Before us, we have a man who thought he could get away. This man is an officer. But that makes no difference to me. The rules apply to everyone. Let me stress this once again – there is no escape from Camp XXI. Now, he will be punished for his actions. You will all be witnesses.”
Due to the rain, Krieger himself, would not witness the punishment. Upon completion of his address to the prisoners, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the dry comfort of his quarters.
Soaked to the bone, with rain running down his neck, O'Toole watched as Krieger's disciplinarian, Crator entered the ring. This was the eighth discipline session the prisoners had been forced to watch. On average, there had been a fight every three days.
Even in peak condition, Williams was an exceptionally slight man. Crator towered over him, making the result a forgone conclusion. O'Toole did not want to watch. Instead, he lowered his eyes, and watched ringlets form in the puddles of rainwater at his feet.
The fight did not last long. Williams was more than outmatched and, with Krieger inside, there was nobody to call Crator off. The big Sez So warrior was relentless in his destruction of Williams. The guards cheered each brutal punch. It was as if they were watching a soccer match rather than watching a fellow man lose his life.
O'Toole reluctantly looked up. He saw Crator had Williams balanced against the ropes in the corner. The bloodied Welshman could not even raise his arms in defense. The final blow snapped the proud soldier's head back. Williams' body shuddered. Then he fell face first to the canvas. He did not move. His eyes glazed over as his life ebbed away.
It was sickening.
Soon after the brutality, the prisoners were herded back to their barracks. The atmosphere was downbeat and dark. Nobody was willing to break the silence.
TWENTY-TWO
Patrick Reilly was the only man to benefit from witnessing Williams' execution. Instead of watching the one-sided boxing match, he had been examining the fence around the perimeter, searching for a way to break free. The treatment dished out to Williams did not deter Patrick. The way he figured it, if he stayed in the camp much longer, he would die anyway. He'd much rather try his luck.
The storm may have provided him with an opportunity. He had noticed at one point near the inner fence, the runoff from the heavy rain had washed away some of the dirt. The result was a shallow, almost undetectable, channel running right under the fence. There was a gap of about six inches between the ground and the wire. It wouldn't take much for a man to dig it out and slide through unnoticed.
The ridge would give him a small amount of cover from the guard tower lights while he dug under the fence. Then he would be free. If he went at night, it would be morning before anyone noticed he was gone. He was confident the plan would work, but chose not to share the details with anyone else.
TWENTY-THREE
It was after midnight when Patrick rose and slipped on his shoes in the darkness.
“Where do you think you’re going?” O'Toole asked.
The words caught Patrick by surprise. It had looked like O'Toole was asleep on the lower-tier bunk. His eyes were closed, but he was clearly awake.
“I thought you were asleep,” Patrick replied.
“You were wrong,” O'Toole said. He opened his eyes and sat up.
Patrick knew he couldn't bluff his way out of this. O'Toole was too perceptive. Patrick hunched down beside O'Toole and kept his voice low. He didn't want to alert anyone else.
“Look, I have to get out of this place. I am not cut out for this. I am not like you. I'm not a soldier or anything,” Patrick stated.
“Didn't what happened to Williams teach you anything?” O'Toole said earnestly.
“Yes, it did. Nobody is safe in here. If I stay, I am dead. But out there at least I have a chance.”
“What about the jungle?”
“I'll make it.”
“Will you?”
“Or die trying,” Patrick reaffirmed, as much to convince himself as O'Toole. Then he thought about it. He was smart enough to get out, but was he strong enough? He realized he needed someone strong at his side. Someone like O'Toole. “You should come with me. Together we’re sure to make it,” Patrick added, almost pleading.
O'Toole shook his head.
“No. The time's not right.”
Patrick was disappointed, but understood. However, it didn’t deter him.
“Wel
l I’m going. Don't stop me, Brendan. I’ve got to do this.” His mind was clearly made up.
“I can't let you go, Patrick.” O'Toole stood up to enforce the point. “I promised your father I'd look out for you.”
“That was different. This camp... everything's different.”
“Not to me.”
Patrick looked into O'Toole's eyes and knew the older man was not going to budge. Patrick couldn't understand why. In frustration, he smacked the wall with his palms.
“All right. I'll stay. But this place is going to kill me.”
“I won't let that happen,” O'Toole insisted.
TWENTY-FOUR
O'Toole had to sleep sometime.
It was four-thirty in the morning, and O'Toole was snoring softly. Patrick again climbed down from his bunk as quietly as he could. He had already planned a way out of the barracks.
First, he cracked open the window, sliding the flywire screen up and latching it into position. In his hand, he held a wooden hook he had fashioned from a thin forked tree branch he had found several days earlier while on detail in the jungle. He had stripped the bark and knots from the branch until an 'L' shape remained.
He jammed the improvised hook through the narrow gap between the shutters. Dragging the hook up, he snagged and then lifted the brace from its guides. Then he quietly pushed open the shutters. In the process, the brace was knocked to the ground. The sound, in the still of night, as the wooden slat hit the mud, was louder than Patrick had expected.
He pulled the shutters closed again quickly, holding them in place, listening for any reaction from O'Toole. The ex-boxer grunted as he tossed and turned, but remained asleep.
Patrick pushed open the shutters again and clambered out of the window, lowering himself to the ground. Dropping to his haunches, he peered around the compound. The coast appeared to be clear. He closed the shutters, slipping the brace back into place.
Outside on his own now, clinging to the shadows, Patrick made his way toward the boxing ring. Suddenly, a spotlight from one of the guard towers swept over the compound. He didn't panic. He knew it was procedure. Every few minutes, one of the spotlights from the four guard towers would sweep the area. Patrick dashed forward before squatting down to take cover beside the apron of the ring. The light passed over him and then moved along the fence line.
Then it went out.
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief and began to move forward again. At the inner fence, he pressed himself to the ground beside the water eroded channel he had noticed earlier. With his hands, he began scooping away the dirt, clearing a way under the wire. It didn't take much digging to make the channel deep enough. The torrential rain had done most of the work.
When Patrick scooped away enough of the remaining dirt, he slithered head first under the wire, using his arms to pull him forward. In the process, he covered himself head to toe in mud, making himself virtually impossible to spot from the guard towers. He made it past the first fence, but he still had one more to go.
Slithering on his belly, he made his way to the outer fence and began digging once more. He was only halfway when the spotlight from the guard tower to his left again flicked to life. The beam danced around the compound, and then traced its way along the fence line.
Trembling, Patrick held his breath as the light flashed over him. Luckily, he wasn't seen. The light continued on along the fence, and then went out, the guard clearly failing to notice the escaping prisoner under his nose.
Patrick scooped out two more wide armfuls of dirt, pushing the muck to the side. His trench now completed, he lowered himself and began to crawl through. He was halfway under the wire when the spotlight from the tower to his right, burst to life, but it didn't swing around to face him. Instead, the beam cut to a figure walking with a guard dog along the outside perimeter. The guard was heading straight toward him.
Patrick had come too far to turn back now. He just had to hope he would not be seen. He held his breath and lay as still as possible.
The Sez So guard with the Alsatian shielded his eyes from the spotlight shining down on him. With a hand gesture, he signaled for the tower to turn off the light. The light went off. Patrick almost shuddered with relief. In the dark, there was less chance of being noticed.
The guard and the dog kept moving along the fence line. They couldn't have been more than fifteen feet away from Patrick. The young prisoner lowered his head into the mud and kept still.
Keep moving, he urged, a feeling of terror in the pit of his belly.
The guard didn't stop. Easing the dog along at his side, they moved past. Patrick could hear his blood pounding in his ears, his heart beating frantically. He also knew he would soon be in the clear and able to make a break for the jungle.
Then he would be free.
The dog stopped.
The beast pulled back hard on the leash, growling. The guard tried to move it along by dragging it forward, but the Alsatian resisted. The dog jerked back, pulling the leash free from its master's hands. The dog had caught a scent. It turned and raced toward Patrick, its jaws snapping as it barked.
Within seconds it was on top Patrick, who was still positioned halfway under the fence. Patrick screamed as the dog tore at him with its teeth. He couldn't move backward, and the gnashing jaws of the guard dog made it impossible to move forward.
He was trapped.
The spotlight from the towers on either side of Patrick's position snapped to life, honing in on the commotion. The whole area was saturated in beams of bright light. In seconds, five guards surrounded Patrick with their guns trained upon him.
His bid for freedom was at an abrupt end.
TWENTY-FIVE
The prisoners were herded into the marshaling area. There was no doubt about the reason why. Patrick was going to be punished for his escape attempt. O'Toole felt guilty. He should have known Patrick would never give in so easily. The young man was too headstrong.
Now, Patrick would have to face Crator. It may have been better for Patrick if he had been killed while trying to escape. That would have been quick and merciful. Fighting Crator in the ring was prolonged, brutal, torture.
O'Toole watched as two guards carried Krieger's throne out and placed it in position beside the ring. The ceremony was about to commence. One of the guards dusted down the throne in preparation for Krieger's arrival.
Pompous ass, O'Toole thought.
He was getting sick and tired of Krieger's omnipotent posturing.
At ringside, Sez So guards were laughing and betting on the outcome of the fight. Not if Patrick would win, but how long would he last. As the money changed hands, O'Toole shook his head in disgust.
In his own good time, Krieger made his way to the marshaling area, marching with his riding crop swinging loosely by his side. However, rather than taking a seat on his throne, he climbed up into the ring and looked down at the prisoners. He had a message.
“Once again, it would appear you men refuse to listen to the truths I tell you. Let me reassure you once again escape is not possible from Camp XXI. There are only two outcomes for those who attempt to escape. One is death. The other, if you are caught and happen to survive, is punishment in the ring. And there will be no leniency.
“As you are no doubt aware, one of the Americans has tried to test me on this. He was caught. And now he will face the consequences in the ring with Crator.”
Patrick was pushed out of the dressing hut by two guards and shunted towards the ring. His body was covered in cuts and teeth marks from where the dog had savaged him. He walked with a slight limp.
O'Toole already knew Patrick would be no match for Crator. The young American was not cut out for it. In fact, after the injuries sustained in his escape attempt, he should have been in a hospital. He was not fit for any physical activity.
As Crator climbed into the ring, Krieger stepped down and walked to his throne. He glanced around with head high, taking in the prisoners, making sure no was laughing or ridicu
ling him. No one was. Satisfied he was in complete control, Krieger sat down, crossing one leg over the opposite knee.
It was showtime.
TWENTY-SIX
Patrick was pushed under the ropes and into the ring by his two escorts. He scrambled to his feet awkwardly, looking across at Crator. As Crator stared back, a chill ran up Patrick's spine.
“Let the punishment commence,” Krieger announced, and then blew his whistle.
Patrick did not know what to do. So he simply stood in his corner waiting. This suited Crator perfectly. It was much easier to hit somebody who wasn't moving.
The fight was almost in slow-motion. Crator walked up to within arm's length of his opponent. Patrick raised his hands and gloves like he had seen boxers do in the movies. He held both his hands up high in front of his face. Crator smiled, almost laughing.
“Punch me,” the warrior growled.
Patrick was confused.
“Punch me!” Crator repeated.
Patrick struck out, punching his greater opponent in the chest. It had no effect. Crator shrugged it off with a laugh.
“Again,” Crator yelled.
Patrick obliged, this time aiming at Crator's jaw. The punch landed cleanly, but it had no power behind it. Crator just shook his head, and swatted Patrick like he was a fly.
The big roundhouse right thudded into the side of Patrick's face. He was knocked sideways into the ropes, swaying on the balls of his feet. He had never been in so much pain in all his life.
Grinning, Crator stepped up to Patrick, his filed teeth and tattooed face looking like a horror from a Hyronomous Bosch painting. Patrick steadied himself once more and raised his hands. Crator wound up for a big punch, but stopped it short at the last second. Patrick fearing the worst had covered up for a blow that never happened. Crator laughed, his mirth echoed by the prison guards in the crowd.