I have returned.
Though the horrors of the FOB are still fresh in my mind, I can rest easy...for now. The harrowing week I have just endured is something no man should ever have to experience. Luckily, I have survived long enough to broadcast the atrocities that we all underwent.
Monday: We are awoken for our morning beatings at the regular time, and it seems almost routine at this point. When we are about to commence this daily ritual, we are suddenly stopped by one of our captors, ordering us to cease and desist all physical activity. Confused, we are informed that, even though we are all commissioned officers in the United States Army, we are not permitted to exert ourselves physically without the supervision of at least one guard (who we outrank) per 12 prisoners . The lunacy of it all stuns me. After milling around for 20-30 minutes, the lone guard with us comes up with a plan. Since we must perform a mandatory one hour of physical activity per morning, the 48 of us will go for a run with the remaining time. We are instructed to run for one mile at a pace that will allow us to finish exactly at one hour, that pace being 15 minutes per mile. I'm not quite sure why we're allowed to run off on our own, but not to exercise in groups of 12 without the watchful eyes of a lower-ranking guard. I've learned to stop asking questions at this point, though.
Later, we are shipped out to the FOB, and even I am not prepared for the hell which awaits us. As our crowded trucks approach the walls, I can't quite tell if I'm looking at Shawshank Penitentiary or Auschwitz, or some twisted amalgamation of the two devised by the demented minds of Fort Sill's leadership. The austere walls are high enough to dissuade anyone from climbing over into freedom, but even if they weren't, one could spin around 360 degrees and would see nothing on the horizon but a few scattered trees. Hope is quickly eviscerated by this alone. The compound itself is a series of small, one-story buildings arranged in neat rows on a dusty surface. A larger building commands the center of the area, which I believed to be the extermination facility. Most daunting are the 8 guard towers which are placed at key locations along the wall. Our captors claim they are used to keep others out, but we know the truth. When I open the door to my new living quarters, I am taken aback. When proponents of Holocaust remembrance claim "Never Again!", I don't believe they have visited Fort Sill or this so-called FOB. In a room not much bigger than the one I previously shared with 2 others, there are now at least 12 bunk beds, with minimal room for anything else. At this point, I am certain this will be my last residence. That night, as I try to sleep with 23 other prisoners, I do my best to think of happier days, but it's as if BOLC II has sucked all of the happiness out of the world.
Tuesday: We undergo a series of indoctrination sessions, during which our captors allegedly attempt to "teach" us land navigation skills. It's almost as if they're daring us to escape, but I've caught onto their mind games. I know this is trickery when one guard spends 30 minutes harping on the fact that we must
never use a piece of string on our protractors when determining azimuths, a technique we had been taught in our army, and then is followed be a second guard whose first statement is "You all better have put your strings on your protractors." Some of my comrades succumb to the mind games. I stay resilient.
Wednesday: We are awoken at 0145, an ungodly hour. We are told to bring with us our compasses and protractors, and to assemble outside at 0215. For the past four weeks we have experienced nothing but dry, awful, scorching heat in this land. But at 0215 that day, as if to definitively say "I have forsaken you," the Lord sent raincloud after raincloud at us. The driving rain drenched us, and as we stood there in the middle of the FOB, for no apparent reason, we were all jolted awake by a deafening clap of thunder, followed soon after by a bolt of lightning which illuminated the sky. This continued, and as we stood there-under powerlines and next to a metal building which was the tallest thing (except for the powerlines) for miles around--I wondered what I had done to deserve this fate. Soon we were loaded into the cattle trucks and driven to some unremarkable location in the forests on the other side of Fort Sill. In transit, I notice that we pass our old cell blocks, which in my mind begs the question, if we were closer to this destination, the only place we have gone since arriving at the FOB, why didn't we just stay in our old prison? It seems counter-intuitive to move to a further location...but this is BOLC II. Upon arriving at a clearing in the woods, we are told that we will be released into the wild for 6 hours to practice the land navigation skills so expertly "taught" by our captors. Though this sparks the flame of hope of escape for many, I know this is just another one of our captors' many ways of breaking us mentally, since they have been so far unable to break us physically. And so, at 0400 we are released into the waiting blackness. We fumble through the rough terrain, and though warned about the many hazards that lie in front of us--snakes, cliffs, wild boars--we push on, determined to show up our captors. After an hour, I am thoroughly disoriented in the unfamiliar terrain, physically exhausted from climbing up and down steep inclines, and despondent. As I sit on the ground, trying to think of how to turn this situation around, the howling of coyotes around me provokes me to continue on. Finally, I find my way and navigate my way to the finish point and back into my captors' clutches.
Thursday: Nothing of note.
Friday: A great day: we are trucked back from the FOB. I have never been so happy to see my old cell block. In good spirits, my hopes soar for the chance of a weekend furlough for good behavior. Instead, we are assigned to sort out the brass casing of ammunition used in some training by our captors' forces. This consists of separated used blank 5.56 ammunition from fired ones. Thousands and thousands of them. The only difference between used and unused? A small dot within a small circle on the bottom of the brass. As this tedious task goes on for hours and my mind is numbed, I only wish that I would find a live round amongst these to use on myself. Kneeling over the mountains of brass, I am thankful that my education at the nation's
best college and commissioning as an officer in the world's most powerful army has lead me to this career path. Looking at the bottom of pieces of brass for a small dot. Thank you, BOLC II.
Long Live the Free Officer Corps!
One of the many friendly creatures that can be found roaming amongst us at the FOB. I suspect our captors set these demons upon us.
The vast nothingness that extends beyond the high walls of the FOB. I was nearly shot attempting to take this picture.
Our miserable quarters, where we are packed in, dozen after dozen. A breeding ground for all manner of diseases. Despair ran high in this cramped, hellish environment. The mattresses are covered in plastic wrapping to easily wipe away the bodily fluids of previous prisoners.
The famed cattle truck.
The famed cattle truck.