Read Forty Days at Kamas Online
Authors: Preston Fleming
"What you say is unfair and simply untrue," Cronin replied calmly. "An investigation is underway as we speak."
A tall, painfully thin woman in her mid–forties rose from the crowd.
"Look at me," she demanded. "And look at the prisoners around you, women and men both. Is a single one of us overweight? We work outdoors in summer and winter, eleven hours a day plus marching time, six days a week. Our rations aren't anywhere near enough to keep us going. What you see before you is worse than malnutrition–it's execution by hunger. And it ought to shame even a bloody Unionist butcher like you!"
The woman's speech brought forth a rousing cheer. General Boscov looked as if he were about to have a stroke. Doug Chambers signaled he would respond.
"Prisoners' rations are calculated according to scientifically determined tables," Chambers began calmly. "The law requires us to follow these tables, which are used in every federal prison, detention facility, and military stockade in the country. I might point out that these tables were worked out long before the Unionist Party came to Washington. Last year, Warden Rocco requested a recalculation of the base ration for Kamas, based on the higher altitude and colder winters here. I've been told unofficially that you can expect a ration increase in the next month or two. So please bear with us."
A short, dark–eyed woman with a New England accent spoke up without waiting for the moderator's permission.
"How dare you treat our basic human rights as privileges! How dare you take away our rights without even a trial and offer them back to us in bits and pieces for a lifetime of servitude!"
This brought forth another round of cheering.
Suddenly Boscov grabbed the microphone and raised his voice above the din.
"You want to know how you lost your rights?" Boscov challenged. "I'll tell you how! You were convicted of treason! Traitors and public enemies don't have rights!"
An uproar broke out among the prisoners. Colonel Majors reached for the mike but could not make himself heard.
Glenn Reineke jumped to his feet in the front row, where he sat with the other commission members.
"General Boscov!" he called out. "Tell me, how many of your own kind have turned out to be public enemies? The last two chiefs of State Security were arrested under Title 18 just like us! How do we know that you’re any better?"
Kenneth Cronin clenched his teeth but he did not reach for the microphone.
Colonel Majors pounded on the table and called the audience to order.
"Presidential appointments are not the subject of this meeting," Majors proclaimed. "We are here to discuss conditions at Kamas. Who else would like to speak to our conditions here?"
"I would," Libby Bertrand declared from her front–row seat. "What about the investigation you promised us into the beatings your troops handed out in the women's camp? You've had a week now to investigate; what have you found?"
"It's too early to say," Cronin replied. "We'll let you know when we have something definite to report."
A chorus of groans rose from the prisoners. Majors shouted above the noise to restore order.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's be reasonable. Tonight we have been promised a review of our cases, an increase in our rations, and an investigation of official wrongdoing. Our visitors have been patient, but some of you seem to interpret this as a sign of weakness. Why attack these men? They’re here to help us."
"Wake up, Majors, for God's sake!" Ralph Knopfler roared, rising from his seat. We're way past giving State Security the benefit of the doubt. What they deserve isn't support, it's resistance–to the last drop of our blood! And theirs!"
The prisoners cheered and whistled and stomped their feet wildly.
The three visitors faced the unruly prisoners with grim resolve.
George Perkins stood to speak next but the prisoners would not let the noise die down. He waited, then climbed onto the dais and grabbed the microphone from Majors. Soon the roar died down enough for him to be heard.
"Look here, people, tonight the government has offered us a chance to redeem ourselves. They've offered a compromise that would let us go back to work without reprisals and improve our living conditions at the same time. Why do you diehards always have to demand more? If we refuse, they'll bring in tanks and hammer us to dust. Believe me, the Party will get its way no matter what."
Perkins's words had an oddly sobering effect on the crowd. With each sentence, the noise subsided. Judging from the lack of applause, Perkins did not seem to have many supporters but his arguments had made an impression.
Knopfler mounted the dais next and seized a microphone from the table.
"We're not against redeeming ourselves, George," Knopfler replied. "We just refuse to do it your way. For you, redemption can only be granted by a State that monopolizes all power in its own hands. The idea of someone determining his own fate is anathema to you.
"You talk of our duty to build a new Unionist society. I reject that duty! Our duty is to build a free society and we're already succeeding at it! We’re demonstrating how it ought to work right here in Kamas. And by comparison your Unionist society is oppressive and false.
"Whether we defeat Unionism or it defeats us is not what's important. Our task is to do our duty as we understand it and accept the consequences. That will be redemption enough for me."
For a moment after Knopfler stopped speaking, the mess hall remained silent. Then suddenly the air was filled with deafening whistles and cheers and stomping and pounding on tables while the men on the dais cast grave looks at each other. From that moment, there could no longer be any doubt of our determination to pursue the revolt to the end–or likewise of State Security's determination to crush it. There would be no more mess hall meetings or negotiations.
"Criminals and their victims cannot live together."
—Francisco Franco, Spanish dictator
MONDAY, JUNE 3
DAY 16
After the final mess hall meeting with the representatives of State Security, talk of compromise ended on both sides. We drew up defensive plans, erected barricades, and armed ourselves the best we could. Outside the perimeter, the guards, warders, technical specialists, and visiting brass poured their efforts into surveillance.
Day and night, specialists from the Department's Technical Services Directorate kept vigil in the high watchtowers, crowding the machine gunners with their audio and video monitoring equipment.
At the most basic level, guards monitored our fortification–building and troop movements through high–powered binoculars. Visiting experts kept surveillance logs for key locations while the guards helped them identify and track specific prisoners. After dark, the tower guards peered down on us through night–vision goggles.
An audio surveillance team arrived from Washington to take on the mission of tapping internal camp phone lines and eavesdropping on any wireless communications that might be emanating from the camp. To pick up ordinary conversations inside the yards, the audio team installed directional dish amplifiers and employed trained lip–readers from a leading school for the deaf. To monitor conversations inside camp offices, they used special infrared detection equipment that directed beams of invisible light against the offices’ closed windows and read as sound the minute vibrations on the outside surface of the glass. All these methods were known to our own technicians, who warned us at every opportunity not to hold important discussions where we could be overheard.
The most important job of the audio surveillance team was to operate radio–monitoring equipment to pick up any wireless transmissions that prisoners might use to communicate with outside allies. In theory, it should not even have been possible for prisoners at Kamas to receive or transmit radio messages. Camp regulations banned radios, walkie–talkies, mobile phones, and other wireless devices in any area frequented by prisoners. A prisoner caught with any kind of electronic device risked summary execution.
Nonetheless, on the first day after we took over the camp, Jerry McIntyre made an appeal over the loudspeaker system to deliver any electronic components that we prisoners might possess to the Technical Department. As the camp population included dozens of electrical engineers, communications technicians, and computer experts, our fondest dream was that McIntyre’s techs might assemble a transmitter that could broadcast our pleas for help to Europe or South America. Failing that, we hoped that our scientists might at least be able to intercept the government's telecommunications and warn us against attack.
The Technical Department’s very existence gave us comfort. The constant rumors about exotic projects that our scientists had underway–chemical warfare, anti–tank mines, strobe–like sound and light weapons to disorient attacking troops, and even psychic remote viewing to spy on the camp bosses–offered reason for optimism as we carried out more mundane tasks like sentry duty, fortifications building, and trench digging.
One of the most serious challenges that the Technical Department faced early in the revolt was the cutoff of the camp's electricity. Most affected by the power cutoff were the workshops where weapons were made, the commission's offices and the mess halls. Fortunately, McIntyre's staff had already anticipated a power outage and had converted a portable generator from gasoline to propane fuel, of which we had an abundance. They placed the generator in a conspicuous place, as if to boast to the bosses how little time we had needed to recover from the cutoff. What most of us didn't know at the time was that the Technical Department was diverting even more power from the electrified perimeter fences and from other electrical lines that ran close by.
****
On the day after the town meeting, I made my way after lunch to the dispensary to have the dressings changed on my cut hands. Far fewer prisoners filled the waiting room than when I had been wounded two weeks earlier.
I approached the reception window and asked for a nurse.
"Take a seat and I'll call you in a few minutes," the receptionist said.
To my surprise, she was as good as her word. An orderly escorted me into the examining area, which looked far tidier than on my previous visits.
The first person to come by was Georg Schuster. The diminutive chief surgeon was unshaven and wore a soiled lab coat but, when he smiled, the lines in his careworn face seemed less deep than the last time we had met.
Schuster went to work immediately inspecting my cuts, cleaning around the stitches, and applying disinfectant.
"I'd like to let the wound dry for a few minutes before we apply a new dressing. Would you mind if I send a nurse to finish the job?" he asked.
"Not all," I replied, pleased to have escaped with so little pain. "Do I get a choice? How about Gwen, the good–looking one?"
Schuster turned his head to look for her. I spotted Gwen sitting at the room’s far end filling out a stack of forms at a cluttered desk.
"Actually, Gwen isn't a nurse," he confessed. "She's only an orderly."
"I don't care, as long as she knows what she's doing," I replied.
Schuster brightened.
"Then Gwen it will be," he answered. "Unfortunately, I've had to be careful about Gwen's assignments lately because some of the other nurses have refused to work with her. You see, she was assigned here by the Deputy Warden. Now that he’s no longer here to protect her…"
"She wasn’t a stoolie, was she?" I asked.
"No, just a confused young girl who could not refuse a powerful man," Schuster said wearily. "But please, come this way. It will be less awkward if Gwen tends to you in the chronic care ward, away from the other nurses."
Schuster caught Gwen's eye and gestured for her to follow us into the next room. As she rose to join us, I noticed that she looked plainer than when I had last seen her. She no longer wore makeup and her hair was straight and tied behind her neck with a strip of gauze. Even her athletic figure seemed to have grown more fragile. But the plainness was offset by a look of humility in her eyes. I was curious to learn more.
I took a seat on an examining table at the end of a row of ten hospital beds, each one filled with a severely ill patient. The bed next to me was filled by a handsome but gaunt youth of about twenty who appeared to be suffering from extreme malnutrition. Every prisoner knew that the chronic care ward was generally filled with last–leggers and my neighbor appeared to qualify. I was surprised when Gwen greeted him with a hearty pat on the shoulder and his response was to open his eyes and break out in a broad grin.
"Wake up, Jon, we have a visitor."
She examined both my hands and then wrapped the right one with gauze while she spoke.
"Paul, meet Jon Merrill. Jon used to work in the silver mine before they brought him here," she continued. "You think he's skinny now? You should have seen him a month ago. I could practically see through him."
She finished bandaging my right hand and took up the other.
"I like to tell everyone how I brought Jon back to life. He was a goner when he got here but in another week or two he'll be back on his feet. All because he loves me so."
"I'll agree with anything you say as long as you don’t send me back to the mine," Jon replied in a sleepy voice.
Gwen finished taping my left hand.
"You're done," she told me as she turned to leave. "But why don't you stay and chat a while. It'd be good for Jon. He sleeps far too much, anyway."
"Isn't she marvelous?" Jon said dreamily as soon as Gwen was out of earshot. "When I came here, nobody thought I'd last more than a day. Even I thought it was over. But Gwen fed me and massaged me and talked to me for hours and hours. After she had invested so much time in me, it would have been ungrateful of me to die, so I hung in and, before I knew quite what happened, I wasn't a goner anymore."