Forty Days at Kamas (29 page)

Seeing the prisoners on the way and concluding that resistance would not be worth the risk, the warders and guards in Division 4 fled out the east gate, leaving the jailed prisoners in their cells. I was among the first non–combatants to follow the assault team into the jail compound and witness the release of the prisoners held there. Among them was Colonel Mitchell Majors, of whom Glenn Reineke had spoken to me some days before. Several Marines who had once served with Majors embraced the Colonel and shared the honor of leading him out of captivity.

Before leaving the jail compound, I also took the opportunity to visit the isolator cell where I had spent the longest week of my life and the interrogation room where Jack Whiting had attempted to recruit me as an informant. Upon entering the isolator cell I had a profound sensation of depression and fear and was surprised at how small the cell appeared to be. After seeing it a second time, I doubted that I could keep my sanity if I were ever sent there again. Later I heard that several former denizens of the isolator went on a rampage that night and wrecked what little could be destroyed in that accursed building.

I stayed outdoors until sunrise, wandering from one end of the camp to the other, observing my fellow prisoners and trying to understand the meaning of this unparalleled fourth uprising in ten weeks.

Three times we had turned our backs on freedom and returned voluntarily to captivity. Why had we treated this rare privilege so casually? And having cast it aside, why had we continued to rebel?

What were we to do now that we had recaptured our prize? Place our faith in the empty promises of authority and be cheated yet again? Or surrender and take our punishment bravely?

One thing was clear: whether we accepted it today or after enjoying a week or a month of freedom, the punishment would be equally cruel. So why not wait and enjoy our freedom a while longer?

C
HAPTER
27

"Power gradually extirpates from the mind every humane and gentle virtue."
—Edmund Burke

WEDNESDAY, MAY 22

DAY 4

Dawn broke over a sleepless and feverish camp. Like many, I stayed outdoors until breakfast and then returned to my bunk for a few hours of sleep. When I awoke, I saw a Kamas that scarcely resembled the painstakingly reconditioned camp of the evening before.

The parade grounds were littered with stones, bricks, number patches, and shards of glass from shattered flood lamps. Overturned mess tables lay scattered on both sides of the interior walls, hiding the tangled strands of barbed wire that only hours before had spanned concrete fence posts. Makeshift banners hung from barracks roofs proclaiming newly coined slogans of the Kamas rebellion.

Prisoners no longer marched in formation or even followed marked paths as they moved freely from one division to another. Some independent–minded souls, having discovered storerooms where the civilian clothes of past and present prisoners were kept, selected colorful new outfits. The dusty brown camp with its overtones of coverall orange took on entirely new colors. Some of the grim faces softened into kind smiles.

I watched men who had been last–leggers only days earlier approach the breaches in the interior walls, look around timidly, and cast questioning glances at those nearby. How could it be that nobody shouted at them and they no longer needed to duck blows or dodge kicks? The sudden changes still felt unreal, as if perceived in a daydream. How often we had been tricked by brittle dreams that shattered when the camp siren wailed or the warder's whistle blew. We repeated the word–
freedom
– again and again without being able to grasp what it meant.

The sudden relaxation of tension after years of the most extreme suspense made us go slack with relief. Through the outer perimeter wire I could see early wildflowers in bloom. But I had not the slightest feelings about them. I overheard two middle–aged politicals in conversation along the path to the latrines. One took the other aide and said discreetly, 'Tell me, were you pleased this morning?' The other, with an expression of shame, replied, 'To be honest, no!' Those of us who had spent any appreciable time in the camps had lost the ability to feel pleased and we would have to relearn it slowly.

It is man's good fortune, however, that the body has fewer inhibitions than the mind. What prisoners wanted to do most on the day of their liberation was to eat, sleep, and talk. It is remarkable what prodigious quantities a person can eat when his diet has been kept at or below the subsistence level for months on end. Now that prisoners ran the mess hall with no official supervision, they set no limits on how many times a man could pass through the line. Limits also no longer existed on what one could say without fear of betrayal by stool pigeons. On our first day of freedom, some prisoners, feeling an irresistible urge to speak, talked for hours at a time. And, sleep, of course, was something of which we all were in need.

Except for prisoners who had spent only a brief time in captivity, the sexual urge was generally absent. Even among the thieves, there had been relatively little sexual activity at Kamas. Sex did not arise even in our dreams, except in its higher, sublimated forms. But now women looked at men and men looked at women and they took each other by the hand. Some couples, both married and unmarried, who had corresponded inside the camp through ingenious and surreptitious methods, met at last. Religious girls whose weddings
in absentia
had been solemnized by priests and rabbis on other side of the wall now saw their lawfully wedded husbands for the first time.

For the spiritually inclined, our newly won freedom was particularly significant. For first time in years, no one sought to prevent the faithful from meeting in prayer. The sects most heavily represented in camp felt themselves singularly blessed: Catholics, Orthodox Jews, Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Amish, and the various born–again Pentecostal groups that burgeoned during the Events until the President–for–Life began his campaigns of religious persecution. Meanwhile, Buddhists, New Age mystics, and yoga practitioners caught up on their meditation.

It is a paradox of repressive dictatorships and totalitarian regimes that the one place where honest political debate can truly thrive is the penal camp. Kamas was no different. Evenings in any barracks offered continuous discussion of politics, economics, military strategy, and foreign affairs. The only element lacking was campaigning for elective office.

By late morning we no longer lacked for that, either. Colonel Mitchell Majors and his campaign team appeared in Barracks C–14 shortly before lunch while I sat talking with Pete Murphy. We heard the sound of boots on the doorstep, then a loud knock on the door. Majors entered first, followed by George Perkins, Chuck Quayle, and two younger men whom I recognized from among the Colonel’s liberators the night before.

Majors started down the center row of the barracks and reached out to shake hands with each man there.

"Mitch Majors, U.S. Marines," he announced as he fixed each man with a stern gaze from his bold blue eyes.

Majors was a thick–necked bulldog of a man who exuded determination and self–assurance. When my turn came to shake his hand and look him in the eye, my intuitive sense was of a forceful but one–dimensional personality. By now in his mid–50s, he seemed to be one of those men for whom being in charge is more important than the mission itself and for whom being a big man takes precedence over doing big things.

When he had shaken hands with each of us, he stood in the exact spot where Colonel Tracy of State Security had stood two months earlier to evict us and presented his ideas on how to press our cause.

"For the moment," Majors began in a ringing voice that carried easily to the far corners of the barracks, "last night’s revolt has won us certain limited freedoms along with an opportunity to achieve limited reform. But we risk wasting this opportunity unless we decide very quickly on what the direction of the revolt will be.

"In my view, we can improve our lot only if we negotiate with the legitimate authorities to exchange our return to work for their meeting our demands. What should those demands be? That’s for you to decide.

"But let me make one thing clear: the undercurrent of anti–Unionism running through this camp will be our undoing. If we adopt anti–Unionist slogans we’ll be crushed without mercy. If we raise banners and broadcast speeches that reject the regime's authority over us, the regime will justify itself in shooting us like dogs. Our only chance lies in loyalty to the Union whether we like it or not."

In effect, Majors was adopting the political doctrine of the camp's orthodox Unionists. These loyalists condemned any attempts by prisoners to fight for our basic human rights, whether though strikes, revolts, petitions, or reprisals against government informants. They condoned virtually any form of repression, provided that it came from above, and rejected any use of force from below. The distinction seems to arise from the loyalists' unconditional acceptance of state power and their rejection of any power residing in the people themselves.

After the Colonel’s brief speech, George Perkins announced that elections would be held after lunch for a new prisoners’ commission. The commission would be charged with negotiating a return to work in exchange for reforms and would govern the camp until state authority was restored. Perkins urged us all to vote. Although he didn't say whether elections would be held for a chief commissioner, it was obvious that this was the real reason behind his and the Colonel's visit.

As soon as Majors and Perkins moved on to the next barracks I asked Pete Murphy to come outside for a walk.

"You're a military man, Pete. Do you know anything about Majors?"

"Not much," Murphy replied. "We both fought in Mexico for a while, but that's about all. We didn't cross paths very often at the Pentagon."

"Reineke seems to think Majors could help us. Now that you've seen him in action, what do you think?"

"He's got drive, all right," Murphy replied. "But from what I hear, Majors was known more as a ticket–puncher than a combat leader. He's the kind of guy who does whatever his commanding officer asks, says whatever the brass wants to hear, and never lets his principles get in the way of a promotion."

"So who do you think he'll take his cues from now?" I asked. "Us or the Warden?"

"We may not know for a while. In public, I expect he'll make all the right moves. But if you're asking me if Majors is capable of selling us down the river, I wouldn't rule it out."

"I doubt even he knows," I said. "But I get the sense that he realizes this could be his last roll of the dice. That could be dangerous."

We continued walking and arrived at the mess hall just as it opened for lunch. After downing a triple helping of stew I retired to the barracks to sleep. At about three o'clock I awoke to the sound of a voice on the camp loudspeaker system summoning all prisoners to elections for the new commission.

When I arrived George Perkins was already at the microphone at the center of the dais, flanked by four other elected barracks representatives: Glenn Reineke, Pete Murphy, Chuck Quayle, and Ralph Knopfler. Perkins called for discussion, after which he said he would accept nominations for chief commissioner and for members of the commission at large.

Many prisoners rose to give their views about what the goals of our revolt should be and what demands the commission should make but the first speech of any real significance was the one that Colonel Majors delivered. His remarks repeated the stump speech he gave in the barracks but placed even greater weight on the dangers of pursuing an anti–Unionist line.

Several times Majors was heckled by men expressing outrage against the regime that had trodden their lives into the mud. Each time someone interrupted him, the colonel grew more insistent:

"Anti–Unionism will be the death of us!" he declared.

"State Security is out looking for an excuse to crush us. Anti–Unionist rhetoric gives them exactly what they want!"

"We must not allow anyone to take advantage of this revolt to serve their narrow political agenda!"

After dealing with the hecklers, Majors closed on a line of reasoning that, while reminiscent of the regime's determinist doctrines, was perceived as being so sensible that it helped win over many undecided prisoners.

"When a train takes you in the wrong direction," Majors explained, "the reasonable thing to do is to jump off, isn't it? But everyone knows you have to jump
with
the momentum of the train and not against it or you'll get hurt. The same principle applies to the momentum of history, which right now favors the Unionists. We have to move with the authorities and not against them if we want to achieve meaningful reforms."

After Majors, a number of rank–and–file prisoners took turns speaking before it was Reineke's turn.

Reineke began with an appeal for each prisoner to follow his conscience in charting the future course of the revolt.

"Just as each of us decides individually whether to participate in a strike or a revolt, each of us has to consider the principles he wants to be governed by. Now that we’ve thrown out the Unionist bosses, what sense is there in endorsing their discredited ideology? Why compromise our principled opposition to the Unionist dictatorship at the moment when we are strongest?

"Let's not forget why we rebelled in the first place. It's because we belong to a race of pioneers who must forever be opposed to any authoritarian system. We and the Unionists represent two irreconcilable classes, one representing the common right of humanity and the other the divine right of kings. Can we allow the State, under the guise of democracy, to trample on the rights of its citizens to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

"It's the Unionist bosses–not us–who are on a collision course with history. Since they came into power they have persisted in their course of 'rule or ruin' by which they aim to force us to do as they say or send the country up in flames. For our own sake and that of our families, and for the sake of men and women in other labor camps across America, we must stand fast against the bosses. Though we may gain little by our resistance, we have already given up everything to gain this small measure of freedom. To stop resisting now would be to deny the very essence of who we are."