Posted by Attica on June 18, 2002 at 14:16:48:
It is day five. I know this to be true because on the fifth day I was lead out of my cell and into the sunlight. Upon being brought out I immediately fell to my knees and covered my eyes and screamed for 2 minutes in pain as my eyes adjusted. The two guards that brought me out were kind enough to wait for me to finish screaming.
After the two minutes had past with my eyes still watering, I asked how long I had been in confinement. One of them answered "Five Days. Get up."
I was lead one-hundred and seventy-eight steps across a courtyard and into another building. I counted to keep my mind busy. I had tried to look up to see if there were guard towers, but this act was quickly discouraged by a pistol whip in the back of the head.
We wandered down an empty corridor. These walls were plaster and unpainted, filled with the smudge marks of both passers by. We reached half way down the hall where a single plywood door was half open. One guard pushed it open while the other gave me a prompt push inside.
The room itself was unremarkable. A single pane window was on the opposite side of the room. In the center was an old beat up card table with two chairs on one side, and a single wooden chair on the opposite side. The guards motioned to the single chair. I took my place in it. The two guards then stared at me for a moment, eyeing me up and down. My eyes had cleared enough to see properly. One of them was young with tan skin, his face showing the beginnings of beard stubble. In his hand he carried an AK-47, the muzzle pointed downward. From his cloth belt hung two Soviet anti-personnel grenades.
The other guard was much older and paler. He was slightly heavy set, with a beret on his head. He did not carry an AK-47, but had instead a small Colt .45 sidearm, holstered in a small Velcro pouch which hung from his leather belt. He looked about 40 years old.
The older one looked at me. "You are here for questioning. Your interrogators will be here shortly." He glanced over at the younger one. "This one here, he will guard the door. He is very young, and doesn't understand anything we are saying right now. I would advise you to not provoke him. He may kill you if you make even the slightest noise. I am not sure if he would be able to control himself and not use the grenades on you." He paused for a moment letting this sink in. "It is not wise to startle a child with a weapon."
I nodded vigorously, making it clear to him that I had received the message. He then turned toward the door, the boy following him. I lost sight of the older one as he headed right into the passageway. The boy then slid his feet across the entryway, and then shut the door.
The room itself was hastily made. The walls, like the walls of the hallway, were made with dingy plaster and were unpainted. Scuff marks and indentations were everywhere. I had imagined that not all interrogations in this room were completely genteel and polite. The air was hot and thick with humidity and specks of dust flowed through the room, illuminated brightly in the sunbeams from the far window, dancing like small shiny snowflakes.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened. In walked two men, both dressed in green camouflage. The first man was skinny and carried a notepad and pencil in one hand and a small tape recorder in the other. He wore small glasses with perfectly circular lenses to offset his long, angular face. He looked about 23 and had no sidearm or weapon. As he set the things down on the other side of the card table I watched his hands moving, slow, deliberate, yet graceful. He stood up the small tape recorder on end and then swiveled it around so that its tiny microphone was directed at me.
The second man was old. Very old. The hair on his head was ashen white and long, flowing down to his ears in a very odd bowl cut, framing his round crinkled face. The skin on his face was leathery and pock-marked. A scar ran across his right cheek and neck in a bright pink line compared to the rest of his skin. He grabbed the back of his chair, slowly pulled it out, and then slowly settled himself into it.
Then he looked up at me with old brown eyes and folded his age-withered hands on the table. The eyes were staring at my face. It felt like he was peering into every pore, staring at every hair on my face and head. He did this for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only moments. Then he glanced off and turned to his assistant. "Are you ready?" he asked him. The assistant nodded.
He turned that wrinkled face back to me. He looked like he might be Asian or Indian but it was hard to tell.
"State your name." It was not a question or a request. It was a firm command, like one would give a dog.
"Jacob William Lasseter" I replied.
The old man looked at me, a his lips closed tight for a moment, then relaxed. "State your name, again, as you have been trained."
I took a deep breath. "Jacob William Lasseter, United States Army, serial number 175 dash 21678 dash 245."
The old man smiled slightly. "That's better," he said, leaning heavily on his arms on the table. "Where were you stationed and what is your training?"
"I was stationed at Fort Wainwright near Fairbanks, Alaska. I am attached to Geronimo! 1st Airborne Battalion, 501st infantry. I am trained in the usage of battlefield demolitions and as a platoon medic."
The old man nodded, his white hair falling into his face somewhat. He leaned back and stared off into space, obviously contemplating what I said. The assistant was scribbling random notes as the small tape recorder whirred quietly.
The old man leaned forward again, ready to resume. "What is your current mission?"
I shifted uneasily in my chair as I answered. "I am not currently assigned to any mission. My current status is Absent Without Leave. I have failed to report into my base and commanding officer for 67 consecutive days."
The old man stared at me, and then raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What is your current rank Jacob?"
"My current rank is Company Sergeant."
"So...you had training level expertise, yes? You trained new recruits? Ran training?" he asked.
"Yes. I ran demolitions training and anti-personnel demolitions tactics for both platoons and squads. I also taught classes in basic medical first aid"
The old man leaned back amid the furious scribbling sounds of his assistant. "Demolitions expert? Prove it."
I closed my eyes, trying to think of some way I could prove myself. It was a basic interrogation tactic. Make the person you are grilling prove part of his story so you can be sure that he's telling the truth. For several awful seconds I wracked my mind, trying to tell him something he could believe. It wouldn't be enough that I rattle off facts, it had to have impact it had to be something nearby...
"The guard outside." I finally replied.
Both the old man and the assistant looked up at me confused. "Go on," said the assistant.
"The guard outside has two anti-personnel grenades on his cloth belt. First of all, cloth has to be one of the worst places to hang a grenade. There is a high probability that the cloth will become entangled or tear when the individual attempts to remove a grenade. Secondly, there's a good chance that when they do manage to remove a grenade that the grenade pin will snag on the cloth and be accidentally pulled. Any kind of control over the delivery of the weapon is now compromised. Third, the grenades he is carrying are very old Soviet models. They are at least 20, maybe 25 years old by now. You can tell by the rust colors on the firing pin. When Soviet grenades get old, they become dangerously unpredictable especially if there is corrosion involved. The fuses have been compromised. You might get five seconds, you might get three. Hell, it may just spark and blow up in your hand." I paused for a moment for dramatic effect. I then motioned my head towards the outer door. "Your guard is probably more of a danger to himself at this point than any potential enemy."
The assistant stopped writing set down his pencil and went outside the room. There was a brief discussion between the assistant and the guard outside, in some language I did not recognize. After a few minutes, the assistant returned and picked up his pencil as if nothing had happened.
The old man reached into his pants pocket and brought out a beat up package of cigarettes. The shook the pack several times until the white heads of filters were visible. He delicately took out one and offered it to me.
I shook my head. "No thanks, I don't smoke."
The old man shrugged. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.
"No."
The old man ribbed his assistant with his right elbow whereupon the assistant brought out and held up a lighter. The old man placed the cigarette in his mouth and then leaned out so that the cigarette end was held in the small flame. He puffed a few times, his cheeks collapsing into his bony face as he drew in air; the end of the cigarette glowing brightly as he did this until it was completely lit.
The old man leaned back in his chair.
"You are a long way from home Jacob. A long, long way." The old man exhaled smoke as he spoke; it flared out of nostrils. "Why are you AWOL Jacob? You're a relatively successful man in the US Army. Not everyone becomes a trainer of an entire company. Not everyone travels to our part of the world. It is not paradise." The old man looked out the window outside where nothing could be seen but dust and rocks, as if to reinforce his point.
I took a long breath, trying not to remember, but knowing I would be forced to. "I was given an order that I followed that I later found to be morally reprehensible and completely against the oaths I took as a member of the United States Army".
The old man leaned forward and leaned on his arms again, taking up nearly half the card table. "How long between the order and your decision to go AWOL?"
"Approximately 30 minutes. It was...I was..." I stammered.
The old man held up his hand. "I know that this will be difficult for you. Take as much time as you need. Now tell me. How did this begin?"