Author: BadgerGater
EMail: BadgerGater@cs.com
Category: Drama, Angst, H/C
Spoilers: A Matter of Time, small one for Prisoners
Season/Sequel: Before the movie & the series
Rating: Warning: Rated R-- for nasty violence; adult language; not for the faint of heart; Please heed the warnings, don't say I didn't tell you this would be rough.
Content Warning: Adult themes; Violence, torture; adult language
Summary: Jack's POV on his imprisonment in Iraq
Status: Completed
Disclaimer: Stargate and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA,Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; Written for entertainment purposes only, no money has changed hands, not even from the left to the right. No copyright infringement intended. Not to be archived without the permission of the author.
Author's Note: Thanks Tanya, Carol, Rowan & Chris-- each of you contributed to this fic, and I appreciate every bit. (Picture Badger saluting smartly)
Feedback please (beg, plead, grovel)
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The worst thing I ever saw in my life was that helicopter leaving, my buddies bugging out and leaving me behind. Okay, I could understand they thought I was dead, after all, the three men lying on top of me certainly were. I had their blood and brains and gore splattered all over me, plus a head wound that must have looked ugly. My own blood had run down over my face. The explosion had stunned me enough that as I lay at the bottom of the rubble, dead bodies around me, chaos among the survivors above me, I couldn’t speak or move. Someone was checking pulses, and I guess they never got to me, don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Frank said he wouldn’t leave anyone behind alive. He promised. Son of a bitch promised. And then he left me there.
I’d survived the impossible once before, could do it again. Just to get back at that... Stop it, O’Neill. No use going there.
The 55th Special Forces pulled back and left me and it didn’t take very long for the Iraqis to find me. I played oppossum. I hoped I’d get lucky and they’d think the same as my own people, figure I was dead like the others, leave me there and I could make my escape. I could hear them, yelling. Sounded like they were celebrating over the bodies of my dead comrades, but of course I couldn’t make out a word they said. They started pulling at the bodies (I couldn’t think of them as Ken and Esker and Haines, not anymore) and then someone yanked on my leg and my body betrayed me. I let out a moan of pain. And the damn Iraqi heard me.
Excited gibberish talk over my head. I played unconscious. More shouting, Someone poking me, then a hard kick in the ribs and I couldn’t stop myself from giving a sharp gasp. More kicking and shouting. I opened my eyes, at least the one that wasn’t stuck shut with caked blood. Everything was blurred and out of focus. All I could see was an angry, excited face almost nose to nose with me, shouting. The only thing I understood was “American.” I shook my head. He spit in my face.
Oh, hell, might as well go down fighting. I lunged to my feet, swinging. That movement took him so by surprise I managed to hit the guy on the jaw before he could react, but he wasn’t the only one there and then, I don’t know, 6 or 8 or a dozen guys jumped on me, whaling on me. I was on my knees, swinging, fighting, grimly determined, and then something crashed into the back of my already sore head and everything went black.
____________
I woke up in the back of some kind of rattling truck, all trussed up. I didn’t open my eyes, tried not to change my breathing as I assessed my situation. My hands were bound behind me, pulled tight enough to be painful. The vehicle I was in was bouncing roughly. I could feel the hot sun on one side of my face. There were voices talking in Arabic from the seat in front of me. I was lying on my buddies’ dead bodies. I chanced opening my eyes but it didn’t matter, something was tied over them. My throat was very dry, and swallowing was painful. I hurt all over from the beating I had taken, my head hurt the worst. I passed out again.
I don’t know how long or how far I rode in that truck. I was blessedly unconscious most of the time, and when I was awake I was too groggy to think clearly, although I desperately tried to come up with an escape plan.
I felt the truck stop. Someone gave me what sounded like an order, kicked me again in the ribs (God, can’t these guys think of something original?), and pulled me off the back of the truck. It must have been three feet to the ground. I hit with a grunt of pain, bruises on bruises, just the start. A shove. Another order, probably telling me to get up. I tried, but when I couldn’t manage to get my feet underneath me, they just dragged me over the rough ground.
Someone grabbed my shoulder, hauled me to my feet, shoved me staggering up some steps, and we were going into a building, big from the way our footsteps echoed. More talk I couldn’t understand. The word American again. I was swaying on my feet, disoriented by the head wound and the blindfold and my thirst and exhaustion, and probably would have fallen over except for the hand roughly grasping my shoulder.
I was moving my head, trying to see around the blindfold, when words in heavily accented but thoroughly understandable English surprised me. My head jerked upward. “So American. Tell me what you are doing in my country?”
I coughed, licked my lips, croaked out the word “Water.” If they wanted me to talk, maybe they would give me some. I could hope.
Hope, yes, Reality, no.
Blindfolded, I had no defense against a blow I couldn’t see coming. Something, a fist I suppose, slammed into my jaw. I hit the floor. Rough hands pulled me back to my feet. The quiet English voice again, “answer the question.”
I made little noises like I couldn’t speak. “Water?”
No luck. Another blow to the jaw, and I tasted blood in my mouth as I hit the floor and was pulled again to my feet. Aw, Hell. “O’Neill, Jonathon, Major, United States Air Force, 66 789 7896 324,” I recited in a cracked voice.
Something slammed me in the back of the leg, forcing me to my knees. A hand grabbed my hair, and yanked my head back. “Answer the question, O’Neill, Jonathon,” he said smugly.
“O’Neill, J-“ They hit me again.
It went on like that for a long time. He asked. I tried to recite name, rank, serial number. Somebody hit me. I hit the floor. They picked me up. Same thing. Over and over again.
“You are very stubborn, American.” He was right in my face. “But you will tell me what I want to know.”
“F--- you.”
I hit the floor again. This time, no one helped me up. English Voice gave orders in Arabic. Somebody dragged me out of the room, pulled me to my feet, pushed me down a hallway, further, deeper into the building. I tried to remember the twists and turns, but my battered brain wouldn’t co-operate. (Didn’t matter-I would come to know this route well). I stumbled down stairs, fell a couple of times, heard the guards’ laughter. Staggered up and went on. Finally, my hands were released and I was pushed down and into some place.
I lay stunned, unable to move for a long time. Pulling my hands in front of me triggered agonizing pain in my shoulders. With numbed fingers turning to painful pins and needles I slipped the blindfold off my head but it made no difference. It was pitch dark. The floor was damp, slimy. I felt my way around the space, small so small. Not long enough to stretch full length. Not tall enough for my 6’2” frame to stand upright (even if I’d been able to). Found a bucket in the corner. Nothing else. No bunk. No blankets. No water. No window.
Oh God.
I was a prisoner, not even a true prisoner of war. No Geneva Convention. No Red Cross. No one knew I was here. They thought I was dead. They would tell Sara I was dead. Don’t think about her, don’t think about our little boy, don’t, can’t, won’t. I curled up against the wall and fell into an exhausted semblence of sleep.
Sometime in the dark of that night, or the next day (I had no way to know), the door opened but before I could crawl over it was closed again. A cup of water sat by the door, foul smelling, but precious. I sipped it slowly, savored it. Passed out again.
_________________
In the dark, I had no way to tell time, no way to know if they brought water once a day or twice or skipped a day. Sometimes there was a moldy, dirty piece of bread with it, a plate of something that was food, sometimes a bowl of I don’t know, watery soup with stuff floating in it. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
Every once in a while the guards would come to the door, knock me to the floor, tie my hands and blindfold me and drag me back to English Voice. More questions. Me stubbornly not answering anything but my name. Blows from nowhere, fists, rubber hoses, chains. I never saw daylight or light, never had enough to eat or drink. Never stopped hurting. I was filthy, still in the ragged clothes stained with my comrades’ blood and gore, plenty of my own added to it now.
“You are stubborn, American dog,” said English Voice.
I did nothing, made no sound, no nod. Less likely to get hit that way.
“So today we will try something new.” I heard him snap his fingers.
Someone pulled the blindfold off my face. The light, dim as it actually was inside that place, was blinding. I squinted. It took me a long time to make out anything and when I did I didn’t like what I saw. A short, lean Iraqi had wheeled a cart into the room, on it was a car battery and what looked like jumper cables. The little man was pulling on insulated gloves.
I didn’t get much time to look. I was dragged across the room, my hands untied from behind my back, shirt pulled off, hands retied in front of me, then jerked over my head, the chains wrapped around a beam. I was hoisted off my feet. Someone stripped off my fatigues and underwear and a bucket of ice cold water was flung over me. "Thanks for the shower," I got slugged in the kidneys for that, setting me swinging from the beam. God, why couldn't I ever learn to keep my mouth shut? I hung there, naked, defenseless, knowing what they were going to do. Licked lips gone suddenly dry.
Gloves pinched the skin of my stomach with the clips. Stung. Then he touched the switch and electricity arced through my body. I screamed. God, it hurt. I'd never felt anything like it, until the next dose. Then Gloves moved the clips to my neck. The jolt of electricity shot points of light through my brain. I couldn’t see, held my eyes screwed shut for a long time, whimpering. Silently thanked God I could see when I opened them. Gloves came at me again. Moved the clips, to my groin. Oh shit. Shocked. Screamed. Jerked so hard I felt my shoulder pop and realized I had dislocated it. Whimpering, gasping for air, unable to breathe, pain beyond measure. On the second jolt I passed out.
I woke up back in my cell and with shaking hands pulled my clothes on over my body, cradling my shoulder. There were raw burn marks on my chest, neck and groin.
I was shaking when they came for me again and led me once more into that room. This time, they strung me up by my ankles. Went through the same drill. Stripped. Soaked. Shocked. Screamed. Burned. Whimpered. Passed out. I woke up back in that cell I was beginning to think of as a haven.
It went on like that for I don’t know how long. Good thing I’m stubborn.
When that didn’t get him any answers, old English Voice tried another tack. Brought me in one day, blindfolded, stripped me down, tied me to that beam. He lit a cigarette, let the smoke float around the room. I could smell it, the strong middle-eastern cigarette; wanted it, could almost taste the bite of smoke in my lungs, before I realized what he was going to do with it. All those years I smoked, I never knew how those things could burn like that. My back. My stomach. My legs. My groin. Soles of my feet. My lip. Yanked my shoulder out of its socket once more, as I thrashed and writhed until I passed out. Again.
What’s that they say, same shit, different day?
I never knew the human body could take so much abuse. I honestly don’t know how I did it, didn’t think about how I did it, didn’t want to know. I floated to escape the pain and despair, dreamed of home and family. Conjured up Sara’s face in front of me, reached out to touch it, wanted to cry when I realized it wasn’t really there.
The next time when they came for me, it was different, less rough. My hands were cuffed in front of me. The guards shuffled me down the hall to a different room, put me into a chair, and left. There was someone else there, in the room with me, silent. I could hear him breathing. I didn’t move.
“It’s okay, Major,” said a distinctly American voice. Gentle hands removed the blindfold. I stared, still silent. A civilian. He touched my shoulder. I flinched away from the contact. “I won’t hurt you. I’m Joe Schultz. From the Red Cross. We finally got them to let us in.”
I stared at him, unable to speak.
“I’ve only got a few moments, Major O’Neill. It’s been very difficult to get permission to see you. We need to go. Now.”
“Go?’
“Go. Before they change their minds.”
Hope: something I had not had for so long. I staggered to my feet and with his help we went out the other door, started down an unfamiliar hallway. I saw daylight for the first time in I had no idea how long, weeks at least. Oh my God. Home. Sara. Charlie-- the images flooded my mind. Schultz helped me out the door. English Voice stood there watching, smoking a cigarette. I shuddered at the sight.
Something didn’t seem right. “Come on, Major, now." I let him help me into his car, and we started down the road. A few hundred yards beyond the prison, he stopped, pulled over. “Where do we go, Major? You know where the nearest base should be, where your people are?”
“Were, weeks ago,” I looked at him blankly. “Don’t know where I am."
“Bakal.”
“South west then.” I sat in the car, shaking. We drove, and finally he pulled over. “This is as far as we can go by car. Where from here?” It was the road to the bridge at Al-asem. I knew where to go. Pulled myself out of the vehicle. “Where are we going?”
“Alpha base.”
“And that’s where?’
His tone was wrong, all wrong. Bastards. Better to die out here in the open than in that hellhole. So I took off across the desert, left Mr. Fake Red Cross behind. Walked, staggered, crawled as far as I could. They let me.
And when I was within sight of the river, within sight of salvation, English Voice was suddenly there. “Oh O’Neill, you are not easily fooled, are you?”
I pulled myself to my feet, tried to put as much defiance as I could into my eyes, took a hopeless looping swing at him. He simply backed away, let me fall face first in the sand.
“Take him away.”
Back in chains, I got kicked around some more, just out of general spite by the guards. They threw me into the back of another truck, tied up, blindfolded and dragged me back into that dirty cell.
It was the worst night in a long time. I'd allowed myself a little bit of hope, only to have it yanked out from underneath me. For a little while I'd thought I was going home-shit, don’t go there, Jack. Don’t. At least I wouldn’t die without having seen the sun and the sky and breathed free air, if only for a few hours.
I huddled in the cell and thought about home. About what it would be like if I was home, the little, ordinary things: Sara standing in the doorway, waiting for me, crooning to Charlie, reading a story to our son: Me, watching a hockey game on TV, eating dinner, going to bed, cuddled up with my wife. A sob escaped my lips. Don’t Jack, don’t think of it. Hide those thoughts. Lock them away, somewhere safe.
They left me in my dark cell, a long time, I think, probably days. No food. No water. Darkness. Scared they had just tossed me in here to forget me and let me die. I began to wish I would.
I was almost glad when they came for me, back to what I knew, the beatings, the shocks. Dislocated my shoulder again, knew everything in there was torn up bad. Days blended into days, into weeks, time became a thing that had no meaning.
I’d been in so much pain for so long I began to feel numb, to feel nothing.
__________________
Another shock session. English Voice was getting agitated, guess I was causing him trouble, maybe getting him into hot water with his superiors. That gave me something to hang on to, but it made him desperate, I suppose.
This time, when they dragged me out, it wasn’t back to my cell, but out into the courtyard. I was tied to a post and told they were going to execute me, as a spy. English Voice offered me a last cigarette. I accepted, and he held it for me as I smoked it, savoring the rasp of the smoke in my throat. I heard the firing squad march in, could see a little of them around the blindfold. Heard the snick of weapons, slides being drawn back, heard an Iraqi begin barking orders.
I hadn’t thought about God or the church or my priest for a long time. Father forgive me… Sara, I love you. Goodbye Charlie, Daddy loves you... Bolts drawn back. Crackle of rifle fire. I flinched, knees sagged. Heard the bullets whine past my head, crash into the wall behind me. Stiffened my knees. Goddam bastards.
Back to that cell, waiting, aching, drifting, through long, long days and longer nights. I was getting weaker. The constant beatings, poor food and unhealthy air were taking their toll. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out. Then, in the darkness I began to hear bombing, to feel the ground shake. The offensive had finally started. Please, God, get me back to my family. Or just drop a bomb on this place and get it over with.
-------------
The guards dragged me one more time back to that room, except this time it wasn’t just English Voice waiting there for me, another man was there. He sat smoking silently while Gloves did his stuff. Tied to the beam, chains pulled just tight enough so if I stretched, I could keep my feet on the floor. Gloves shocked me and I jerked and hollered and whimpered and passed out.
I came to still hanging from that beam, my right shoulder screaming with agony, the stranger looking smugly at me as I struggled back to my feet. He said something in Arabic to English Voice, who repeated, in English, “See how you like this, American.” A three foot piece of pipe, swung with the force of his frustration at me, smacked into my right arm. I clearly heard the bone snap, the force of the blow driving me off my feet. I pulled myself up with my left arm, to get my weight off my broken right arm, and then he swung the pipe with devastating force against the outside of my right knee. It buckled, pain exploding in my knee and then in my arm as I sagged toward the floor, brought up short by the chains. I found myself once again hanging by my wrists, barely conscious, gasping with the pain as I tried to get my feet under me to ease the excruciating pressure on my arm.
And then he was releasing my arms, and for a moment, as I collapsed to the floor, I thought it was over. But then he was kicking me, driving his hard boots into my groin, my ribs, my kidneys, my back, as I curled up trying to protect myself. He went on and on in his fury, striking me wherever he could, over and over again. Was this how it would end? I thought, as darkness claimed me.
___________
"Drink," ordered a voice, and I drank. This was a nice dream, I thought groggily, savoring the water, drinking deeply, kept drinking. Such a very real dream, I could even feel a hand wiping my bloodied face. "More?" Sure, it was my dream after all, I could have anything I wanted, like enough water to drink. The cup was back at my lips, so I drank and sank back into oblivion.
In that moment between sleep and waking, I remembered that dream, the feel of the cool water sliding down my ever thirsty throat, so vividly I could have sworn it was happening again. I swallowed, gulping water greedily, and oh God, opened my eyes to a small face above me, holding a cup. Tried to move, to push myself away, groaned at the agony flaring in battered muscles and bones.
"Stay still, Mr. American."
Geez, he was real, a kid, a 10 or 12 year old kid, giving me water. I was in another cell, different from the one I'd spent so many weeks in. There was light from a window high above in this one, and a boy helping me. I shoved myself away from him, back against the wall.
"Is okay, Mr. American. I help. " he patted himself on the chest, with horror I realized with the stump of his right arm. "I am Atta Mohammed. Helping you."
I glared at him suspiciously. Helping, yeah, right. "Why?" didn't realize I'd said the word out loud.
"They need someone to stay with you, keep you alive."
"Why?"
"Torture you more? Get more information? Trade you back to your own people? No one tells a boy." He smiled proudly. "My English is good, yes?"
I stared at him, shifted uneasily on the hard floor, groaned at the pain of movement.
"Stay still, rest." The boy turned to something behind him. "Here, I brought you food. Is okay." He broke a piece from the bread, took a bite himself. "See, is safe. No tricks."
I ate, and I drank, and then went back to sleep, convinced I was still dreaming, but that was okay. It was a pretty damn good dream, except for the aching pain of my battered body.
The boy was still there when I woke. More food, more water, more sleep. From somewhere, he'd brought long strips of cloth he wrapped around my broken arm and blown out knee. For two weeks, the boy tended me. The guards came for him every day, took him away to work in the kitchen, he explained, but when he came back, he brought me food and water, and right then I didn't much care where it came from.
Gradually, I learned more about him. He never quit talking, he was so proud of his English. He actually was 14, an orphan. Convicted for stealing food, his right hand had been cut off according to the ancient punishment for thieves as dictated by Islamic law.
"Why are you still here?"
"No where else to go, Mr. American. If I leave, I have to steal to live, then they will cut off my other hand. Pretty hard to make a living with no hands," he shrugged. "So, I stay here. I work, have shelter, food... Is not a bad life, Mr. American."
"Call me Jack."
The next day when the boy returned from his work, he brought more than just food and water. There was a big grin on his face. "Have a present, Mr. Jack," and he held up a blanket, a holey, filthy, tattered piece of cloth.
"Where did you get that?"
"Borrowed it," he answered proudly. "It was just sitting there, going to waste, in the cupboard by the kitchen."
"You mean you stole it?" I was suddenly afraid for him. "It's a set up, a set up." God, he didn't understand. "Take it back. You have to take it back. Now."
But it was too late as the guards barged in the door, seizing him, dragging him away, crying, as I battered on the door. Finally, exhausted, I sank to the floor and buried my face in my arms.
In the morning, they took me back to English Voice's office. Atta Mohammad was there, tied to a chair.
"What are you going to do to him?"
English Voice looked at me. "Ah, so you care about this worthless little one, this thief?" "He's just a boy."
"He is a thief, one who does not learn. He admits he stole the blanket, and extra food to feed you. And he knows the penalty."
I saw the huge knife on English Voice's desk. "Punish me."
"Ah, O'Neill, see, you westerners, you do not understand our culture. The criminal must pay for his own crime." A guard was tying the boy's hand across the table, the darkly stained table with huge gouge marks. There was terror in the boys eyes, but he was silent, staring at me.
"You can't do this, he's just a boy. He can't survive like that. I'll take his place. Take my hand." I pleaded with English Voice.
"We cannot do that, O'Neill."
"He did it for me."
"Of course, you could make a trade, something of value, perhaps, that we could use--" my tormenter stated, in that oily voice I so hated.
I stared at English Voice, then back at the boy's white face, and I knew I couldn't live with what they would do to this child for helping me. It was the one thing I had left, my unbroken vow to tell them nothing, no matter what they did to me. I looked again at the boy's terrified face. I could not let this child suffer for me, not if I hoped to have any spark of humanity left. If I could not sacrifice my own life to save him, then I would give up my honor. It was all I had to offer.
"You'll spare him?"
"We will not take his hand. My word."
English Voice started asking questions, and I answered them. I gave him outdated codes and rejected battle plans, invented half-truths and outright lies. Made it all up as I went along. I didn’t know I had such a talent for acting.
I talked for hours, my voice going raspy and dry. English Voice looked more and more pleased, tapping his fingers on the desk as he recorded my words. At last, empty of information, drained and exhausted, I sat quietly, head down, staring at the floor. "You'll let the boy go, now."
"Oh, I shall release him, O'Neill, that is for sure." Something in his voice made me look up, something sinister and gloating, a light in his eyes, and a sudden knot formed in my gut.
"You gave me your word." How could I have been so stupid as to trust him?
"Yes I did, O'Neill. Tomorrow, you can be there to see him released."
_________________
In the morning, after a sleepless night, knowing somehow English Voice was plotting something, the guards came for me, shuffling me out to the courtyard. The terrified boy was kneeling in the sand, arms tied behind him, in front of a guard with a massive sword. All the prisoners were lined up around him. Two guards held my arms, my hands cuffed behind me.
English Voice read a long speech in Arabic, as the prisoners stared from the boy to me. "Ah, for our American guest, I will repeat the key points. Atta Mohammed, convicted thief, is also a traitor to his country, giving comfort to our enemy, stealing to aid our enemy."
"You said.."
"I said I would not remove his hand for stealing, yes, and I will keep my word. And I said I would release him, and there I will also keep my word. Convicted traitors, those who help our enemies in time of war, must be punished. And there is only one sentence for treason against the republic." He turned to the guard behind him, and nodded.
The guard swung the sword, and in one mighty blow, decapitated the boy. Atta's body dropped, blood spurting from his neck, as his head rolled across the sand, nearly to my feet, sightless eyes staring up at me, a look of terror frozen forever on his face.
"No," I screamed, thrashed, fought the guards holding me, fell to my knees beside the boy's body, sobbing. They left me there, with the boy's remains, while the other prisoners filed away. Then they released my arms, made me carry his head and his body to a corner of the courtyard, and with my bare hands dig his grave in the loose sand.
When I was done, they didn't put me back into my solitary cell. Instead, I was taken to the prison's main building, to a single huge room housing dozens of inmates. I shivered when they shoved me through the doorway and heard the lock slide shut behind me.
Faces, filthy, bearded, wary, hungry faces, turned to look at me, assessing me. Oh God, not another test. Four men stalked toward me, the first saying something I didn't understand, but it sounded like an order. I've never liked taking orders I didn't understand. So I punched him, a hard, short left-handed jab to the face that broke his nose with a satisfying crunch. He sat down abruptly, hands clutching his face, blood bubbling from his nose. Quickly, before the others could react, I grabbed the second guy by the arm, yanked him toward me, spun him around, jerking his arm high up behind his back until I felt it snap. He collapsed with a scream.
"You next?" I screamed at the next man, my adrenaline pumping, fueling my rage. "Or you?" They backed up. I advanced, in their faces, determined to press my advantage before they decided to attack en masse . Bullied my way to a spot in a corner, where my back was protected, and sank down against the wall, head on my arms resting on bent knees. I tried to look belligerent while hiding the way my hands were shaking as the adrenaline died away and the exhaustion took over.
I might look like a starved, broken down old man, but most of them didn't look much better. One on one, I could outfight any of them, even in the condition I was in.
They left me alone, after that, even in the night when my screaming nightmares of Atta's smiling face rolling away from his body woke everyone around me.
_______
Sixteen days later someone came for me, not English Voice, but a skinny, nervous looking guy. Pulled me to my feet, took me to a room, gave me soap and water and with motions told me to clean myself up. I was suspicious about what they were doing this time, but not caring as long as I could be clean, if only for a little while. I was appalled by what I saw in the mirror. There wasn’t much I could do about the way I looked, skin stretched over bones, bruises, scars, skin caked with dirt, hair matted and long, beard to match, hopeless and empty eyes. My right arm didn’t work so very well, and my damaged knee meant I limped so badly I had to stop to rest every few steps.
When I'd cleaned myself up as much as I could, the man handed me clean coveralls. He cuffed my hands in front of me and led me to English Voice's familiar office and left me there alone. I sat and waited, a long time, shivering when I looked at the cart with the battery and cables.
Finally, there were voices in the hall, none I recognized. I had to fight to stop myself from shaking. What now? Then an unfamiliar, well-dressed Iraqi officer came in. “Major O’Neill?”
I recited my litany. “O’Neill, Jonathon, Major, United States Air Force, 66 789 7896 324."
He nodded. “Come with me.”
We climbed into the backseat of a car and drove away. I wasn’t blindfolded. I fell asleep in the car. Exhaustion and pain will do that to you, despite everything, despite not knowing what kind of trick this was or what horror they were going to inflict on me next.
We stopped, got out. Across the road, tents, trucks, sandbagged fortifications, a familiar flag, and the most beautiful sight I had ever seen: Americans. So what if they were Marines? I straightened.
“Can you walk over there, Major?”
“Damn right.”
He looked at me. “You may go.”
I gathered up my strength, tried to straighten my battered body. Walked unsteadily, a few steps, stop and rest, a few steps, stop and rest. It was only a couple hundred yards but seemed like miles. I fastened my gaze on the stern face of a Marine Colonel who seemed to be in command. Made it across the road, into a sea of raised rifles and tense faces. They had no idea who I was, I suddenly realized-- God wouldn't that be ironic, shot dead by my own people.
The Marine officer was looking at me with distrust and distaste. I tried to salute, couldn’t raise my right arm high enough to do it right, gave it my best shot. “Sir, Major Jonathon O’Neill, United States Air Force, reporting.”
Disbelief, horror, pity in his eyes, he returned my salute. "Major O'Neill, where in hell did you come from?"
“Exactly Sir. And it's good to see you, too, Sir,” I said, and crumpled to the ground.
_____________
I came to on a cot in the Marine's tent, a medic taking my pulse. I could hear the major on the phone behind me.
"Yes Sir, that's what he said. Major Jonathon O'Neill, Air Force." Pause. "Well, yes Sir, frankly looks like he's been through Hell. My medic says the poor bastard's been starved, beaten, and tortured. Weeks at least." Another pause. "Yes Sir, we've got a chopper on the way right now to evac him to Battalion Aid."
I heard a few more "yes, Sirs" and then the Marine officer's face appeared above me. "Major O'Neill, we'll have you home soon."
"Thank you Sir," I whispered.
I recoiled as he reached to pat my arm, and I saw a look of pity cross his face. It was a look I would come to know very well over the next few months.
More medics arrived with the chopper, checked me over, got a couple of IV's started before the orderlies hoisted the stretcher and carried me out. Outside, lined up between the tent and the chopper, the whole camp full of Marines stood at attention. At the door of the chopper, the Marine Colonel saluted. I pushed myself up onto my elbow, returned his salute as best I could.
"Godspeed, Major."
"Thank you, Sir." To this day, I wish I could remember the man's name.
_________
They flew me out in stages. I don't remember it all, or much of it, until I woke up days later in a Medical Station somewhere in Saudi, tubes, IVs and monitors everywhere. There were a lot of kind words, told to me over and over again: I was safe; I would be all right; My wounds would heal. They sent one of those damn useless psychiatrists to talk to me and I told him as little as I could. He nodded, went away, said I’d have more therapy at home. The doctors told me I’d be in the hospital a few weeks, building up my strength before they could do the surgeries on my shoulder and my knee, re-break and fix my arm, then lots of physical therapy. There was nothing wrong with me that couldn’t be fixed, they assured me. What did they know?
Finally, they let me talk to Sara on the phone. She cried and cried, and I listened and finally told her I was okay and I’d be coming home soon and… after all those days and nights I had thought about how much I loved her and loved my son, the horrible truth was I couldn’t say the words. They wouldn’t come.
I woke up the next day to see a familiar face beside my bed. I suppose those well meaning medical people thought it would be good for me. It wasn’t. I went ballistic, tried to climb out of the bed, monitors and beepers started going off. I guess my blood pressure went through the roof.
Frank Cromwell tried to soothe me. “Jack, easy, easy.”
As the orderlies held me down, I wouldn’t look at my former commander. “Get that bastard out of my sight before I kill him with my bare hands,” I hissed.
“Jack, please let me explain.”
“Get him out of here.” They had to sedate me, finally, to stop my rantings.
They kept me a few more days in Saudi, then shipped me to Germamy, to the Army Hospital at Landstuhl where Sara would meet me. When the doctors told me that she would be there, I told them no one was carrying me off that damn plane and scaring my wife half to death, so they found me a uniform. Tall as I am and nothing but skin and bones, it hung on me. Didn’t matter. I would be on my feet to meet my wife and whatever dignitaries would be there.
There were dozens of people at the airport, even though this whole thing was supposed to be top secret. USAF dignitaries were everywhere, but it was Sara's face I sought in the crowd. I used it as my guide, my lifeline, as I walked unsteadily across the tarmac and awkwardly saluted a General with my damaged arm. All the while I watched Sara’s face, saw the horror flit across it, then saw her smile and then she was there in front of me, throwing her arms around me.
“I love you,” she whispered, over and over again. "Oh Jack."
“Sara,” was all I could say, couldn’t tell her what I felt, just hugged her tight with my one good arm.
I was home, with a long road to recovery still ahead. Little did I know, I would never be the same again. Physical wounds heal. The others just fester.
___________
I spent two months in hospitals, doctors and nurses as my keepers, underwent three surgeries, sweated through long hours of physical therapy on my knee, arm and shoulder, and endured long agonizing talks with Air Force shrinks, detailing what they’d done to me, telling them everything, except, well, what you might imagine. Never told anyone about burying an innocent boy I'd gotten killed, never told them of his sightless, dead eyes, accusing me, in my dreams, waking and sleeping.
They promoted me to Lieutenant Colonel and pinned more medals on my chest. They told me I was brave and strong. I didn't believe any of it.
___________
They finally let me go home, far from healed, but I think they didn’t know what else to do with me. I watched silently, couldn’t find my way back to my life, saw the pain in Sara’s eyes but could do nothing about it. I slept rigidly beside her, afraid to try to make love to her, afraid I couldn’t despite the doctor’s assurances there was nothing wrong with me. I undressed in the dark, didn’t want her to see the scars, though I knew she knew they were there. Ate what she put before me. Watched whatever was on the TV. Changed the channel if she suggested it. Took a walk if she told me to get out of the house for a while. Had no will of my own.
It was like it all wasn’t real. Like it was one of those long, long nights in the dark cell, dreaming I was home. Knowing that if this time it wasn’t real I really would crack and I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t make myself believe. It was like I was watching a movie of someone else living my life.
__________
In the end, it was a small child and a determined woman who did what all the medical resources of the entire United States Air Force couldn't.
Unable to sleep, I had taken to leaving our bed at night and roaming silently through the dark house, to spare Sara my thrashing and nightmares. Passing five year old Charlie's room, I heard a whimper. The sound stopped me dead in my tracks, he was having a nightmare. I stood in the doorway, watching him, listening, unable to go to him, unable to comfort him, visions of Atta's glazed and sightless eyes appearing before me whenever I looked at Charlie's face.
My son, so innocent, so perfect. He didn't care what I had done or what had been done to me. He gave me no pitying looks, no sideways glances, no whispers behind my back. He was my child and he needed me and I was so wrapped up in my own horrors that I couldn't help him.
God, I hated myself.
It was the first genuine emotion I'd felt, since, well, in months.
Hatred, rage and anger washed over me, at what had been done to me, to my family, to Charlie and to Sara.
I wasn't going to let those bastards win, not English Voice or Gloves or that other man who had no name. I went in to my son's room, sat quietly on his bed, battled with myself for long long moments before I could hesitantly reach out to touch his hand. He half-opened his eyes, sleepily, and then he flung himself into my arms, his hands clutching my collar, whispering "Daddy." Slowly I brought my arms up to hold him, tentatively, and then tightly and fiercely, clinging to him as desperately as he clung to me, rocking him and holding him for hours, while I pushed back the nightmares and the darkness from my own mind. I had to let go of the dark, to let the light and the life and my family back in.
That's where Sara found me, taking Charlie from me and tucking him back into his blankets. Then she took my hand and led me back to our bed, where she undressed me and seduced me, ran her healing hands and soft fingers over all the terrible scars on my body. I heard her breath catch when she saw them, but she kept on; loving me, letting me love her; arousing me despite my fears, making passionate love to me; making me moan in pleasure, not pain. And when we were spent, and I lay safely enfolded in her arms, she brushed back the hair from my forehead and murmured, over and over, “it’s all right, baby, it’s all right,” the way she crooned to soothe Charlie.
Without them, I’d have stayed there in the dark forever. With them, I found a way to live again.
I thought, then, that the worst was behind me. I had survived the worst thing life could throw at me. Nothing on earth could destroy us, our love, our family. God, I was so wrong.
FINIS