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Authors: Preston Fleming
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his head. Those of us who saw it gasped but did not dare break ranks, knowing that to do so would invite massive retaliation from the machine gunners above.
As always, Will had done the right thing by his fellow man. Only this time it had cost him his life. And now I was more alone than ever.
As if on cue, the convoy guards raced down the length of the column and took up positions spaced precisely ten yards apart. They barked orders for us to stay seated on the ground and link arms or be shot. Warders arrived moments later, swinging their clubs wildly at any prisoner who sat even slightly out of alignment with the column. I felt a glancing blow strike my shoulder and needed all my self–control not to attack the warder who hit me. Other prisoners looked daggers at their attackers but none dared raise a hand against them.
While the guards and warders were busy enforcing order, Jack Whiting climbed down from the watchtower with a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. His face held a look of animal satisfaction that sent a shudder up my spine.
The march back to camp was highly charged, since we all knew that at any moment a sudden movement might incite the guards to fire upon us. We closed ranks as if we could hide from their bullets behind our fellow marchers. When we came within a mile of camp, we saw armored vans stationed at intervals along the side of the road, their swivel–mounted machine guns trained upon us. Inside the camp, more machine gunners drew beads on us from watchtowers and roofs. Instead of being released to the mess hall for dinner, the warders led us to our barracks in small groups and padlocked the doors behind us.
Since every barracks had at least one inmate in Recycling Site A, the news that Roesemann and the Chinaman had been shot spread rapidly throughout Division 3. The shootings aroused a sense of dread in the veteran prisoners, who had seen camp conditions slowly improve over the past year but who feared a crackdown in response to the recent spate of stoolie killings. Most prisoners wanted desperately to believe that the security organs were gradually becoming more humane since the President–for–Life's death one year before. But now our hopes were evaporating and we imagined worse days ahead.
I found a vacant bunk and lay back, lost in thought, trying to imagine what the future would bring when faced with such dire omens on my first two days at Kamas. But I was soon distracted by a raging debate in the next bunk.
I recognized John D'Amato's voice. He was arguing the same position he had taken that morning.
"Look what your stoolie–hunting has brought us to! You guys hit a stoolie, they shoot Lillian. You guys hit another stoolie; now they shoot Fong and the new guy. You’ll never win!"
"So you think that if we stop killing Whiting's spies, he’ll stop shooting prisoners?" Ralph Knopfler answered. "What kind of numbskulls do you take us for? When has State Security ever shown respect for our lives? When they're not shooting us, they're starving us, freezing us, or burying us in the mines." First let them stop the spying. Then we'll have no need to whack stoolies.
Others, most of whom seemed to side with Knopfler, joined the debaters. They seemed to recognize no middle ground between murdering suspected informants and allowing them to denounce us. My sympathies were generally with Knopfler but I had no stomach for the throat slitting. And the last thing I wanted was for the bosses to tag me as a rebel. So I listened to the discussion a few minutes longer, lost interest, and dozed off.
C HAPTER 7
"In a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act."
—George Orwell
NOVEMBER 2022
I stepped out of the taxi in front of the Union Bank building on Grant Street and immediately felt the bite of the west wind sweeping across the Allegheny. Juliet stepped onto the curb next, followed by Claire and Louisa. The girls, now aged eleven and nine, respectively,
As always, Will had done the right thing by his fellow man. Only this time it had cost him his life. And now I was more alone than ever.
As if on cue, the convoy guards raced down the length of the column and took up positions spaced precisely ten yards apart. They barked orders for us to stay seated on the ground and link arms or be shot. Warders arrived moments later, swinging their clubs wildly at any prisoner who sat even slightly out of alignment with the column. I felt a glancing blow strike my shoulder and needed all my self–control not to attack the warder who hit me. Other prisoners looked daggers at their attackers but none dared raise a hand against them.
While the guards and warders were busy enforcing order, Jack Whiting climbed down from the watchtower with a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. His face held a look of animal satisfaction that sent a shudder up my spine.
The march back to camp was highly charged, since we all knew that at any moment a sudden movement might incite the guards to fire upon us. We closed ranks as if we could hide from their bullets behind our fellow marchers. When we came within a mile of camp, we saw armored vans stationed at intervals along the side of the road, their swivel–mounted machine guns trained upon us. Inside the camp, more machine gunners drew beads on us from watchtowers and roofs. Instead of being released to the mess hall for dinner, the warders led us to our barracks in small groups and padlocked the doors behind us.
Since every barracks had at least one inmate in Recycling Site A, the news that Roesemann and the Chinaman had been shot spread rapidly throughout Division 3. The shootings aroused a sense of dread in the veteran prisoners, who had seen camp conditions slowly improve over the past year but who feared a crackdown in response to the recent spate of stoolie killings. Most prisoners wanted desperately to believe that the security organs were gradually becoming more humane since the President–for–Life's death one year before. But now our hopes were evaporating and we imagined worse days ahead.
I found a vacant bunk and lay back, lost in thought, trying to imagine what the future would bring when faced with such dire omens on my first two days at Kamas. But I was soon distracted by a raging debate in the next bunk.
I recognized John D'Amato's voice. He was arguing the same position he had taken that morning.
"Look what your stoolie–hunting has brought us to! You guys hit a stoolie, they shoot Lillian. You guys hit another stoolie; now they shoot Fong and the new guy. You’ll never win!"
"So you think that if we stop killing Whiting's spies, he’ll stop shooting prisoners?" Ralph Knopfler answered. "What kind of numbskulls do you take us for? When has State Security ever shown respect for our lives? When they're not shooting us, they're starving us, freezing us, or burying us in the mines." First let them stop the spying. Then we'll have no need to whack stoolies.
Others, most of whom seemed to side with Knopfler, joined the debaters. They seemed to recognize no middle ground between murdering suspected informants and allowing them to denounce us. My sympathies were generally with Knopfler but I had no stomach for the throat slitting. And the last thing I wanted was for the bosses to tag me as a rebel. So I listened to the discussion a few minutes longer, lost interest, and dozed off.
C HAPTER 7
"In a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act."
—George Orwell
NOVEMBER 2022
I stepped out of the taxi in front of the Union Bank building on Grant Street and immediately felt the bite of the west wind sweeping across the Allegheny. Juliet stepped onto the curb next, followed by Claire and Louisa. The girls, now aged eleven and nine, respectively,
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