James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Can’t say I blame him,” I managed. Some days I was real clear about why we were fighting this war. Some days I wondered why we weren’t fighting other wars. We drove in silence for a while.

“Turn here,” Tree said, consulting the map on his lap. We soon came to a sign for the US Military Prison Shepton Mallet. The prison was in the center of town, surrounded by a high grey stone wall. We turned down Goal Street, and I recalled Kaz telling me this place had been a prison since the 1600s. The town had grown up with it, streets and lanes curving around the massive walls like a stream flowing against a rock outcropping. We found the entrance, showed our papers, and were directed to the administrative section. We parked, got out of the jeep, and stared at the gate closing behind us.

It was a sea of stone and barbed wire. The same monotonous grey both underfoot and rising up in every direction. There were interior fences separating the buildings and sentries in the towers that dotted the walls.

“I hope it’s as easy getting out as it was getting in,” Tree said. He hefted the bag with Angry’s Class A uniform, forgetting to complain about his arm. A serious prison drives all trivial thoughts from a man’s mind.

They knew we were coming. We presented the papers authorizing the release of Private Abraham Smith, and waited as the warden reviewed them. Ink flowed, rubber stamps were pounded on paper, and soon we were led into the prison proper by a stern-faced MP sergeant. He didn’t make small talk.

“What’s that?” I asked as we entered a large courtyard. Attached to one of the walls was a two-story brick structure, about as narrow as a row house. Its reddish hue and bright newness were at odds with the weathered grey stone of the prison.

“Execution house,” he said. “That’s where the hangings are done. The old gallows was falling apart, so we built that to replace it.” We didn’t talk much after that. I wondered what it was like spending the war guarding your own men and overseeing executions. Most in here probably deserved it, but it would be a helluva thing to explain to your kids when they asked, “What did you do in the war, Daddy?”

The courtyard was empty. From above, faces looked out of barred windows, watching our progress. There were no shouts or insults, no taunts of the guard, Tree, or me. That meant they ran a tight ship here. Respect, fear, or some combination of the two created an eerie silence as our boots echoed on the grey stone beneath our feet.

We followed the MP into one of the buildings. Up two flights, and down a narrow hallway, lit by bare bulbs every ten feet or so. It was damp and cold. The walls were the same greyish stone, and each door was solid wood with iron fastenings. Eyes watched us from thin slits as we passed by. The sergeant finally stopped, took a ring of keys from his belt, searched for the right one, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped back two paces.

“Prisoner Smith, step out!” he shouted. Angry Smith came into the hallway, blinking his eyes against the harsh light. He took one step from the door and stood at attention. He was a big guy, shoulders straining against his denim shirt. Quiet, too. He nodded at Tree as if he’d expected him.

“This is your lucky day, boy,” the sergeant said. “Captain Boyle is here to take you back to your unit. You’ll make the quartermaster corps proud, now, won’t you?”

Angry ignored him. He stood rigid, his fatigues ripped and stained, the letter “P” painted in white on the thighs and back. He was about my size, but it looked to be all muscle. He had a swollen cheek and a cut over one eye about a day old.

“The Six-One-Seven is a combat unit,” Tree said.

“Am I talkin’ to you, boy?” The MP glared at Tree, then shrugged at me, as if in commiseration.

“Sergeant,” I barked, in my best imitation of Harding. “You’ve unlocked the door. That’s all we need you for. Dismissed.”

“I gotta escort you out, Captain,” he said, spitting out my rank.

“Then do so, without running your mouth.”

“Them my clothes?” Angry said to Tree, ignoring the squabble playing out in front of him as he pointed at the canvas bag.

“Yeah,” Tree said, watching the sergeant. “Everything you need.”

“I’m a free man now, ain’t I, Sergeant?” He directed this to the MP, barely acknowledging his presence with the flicker of an eye.

“That’s what the orders say,” the sergeant said, as if reluctant to see even one of his charges proven innocent.

“Good.” With that, he took off his shirt and dropped it at his feet. Trousers, shorts, shoes, and socks followed, a pile of greasy, green, unlaundered clothing not fit for rags. Naked, Angry stepped over the discarded clothes and took the bag from Tree. Old ragged scars showed on his back as he turned.

“Hold on,” the sergeant said. “You can’t-”

“Yes, he can,” I said. “I say so, and General Eisenhower says so, right here in this letter.” I tapped my jacket pocket. “Personnel at the Shepton Mallet Military Prison are to provide all necessary assistance, that’s what it says. And the nice thing is that I get to decide what’s necessary. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, in the neutral tone of a non-com who can’t wait to be rid of a troublesome officer.

Angry took his time dressing in his Class As. Tree had figured it would be a morale boost for him to leave the prison in his best uniform. After his time behind bars, the pants were a little loose and there was plenty of shirt to tuck in. He knotted his field scarf, donned his Eisenhower jacket, and finally turned to the sergeant, giving him his full attention. He tapped his own shoulder, where the Tank Destroyer patch was displayed. It was a black panther, crushing a tank in its jaws.

“Combat unit,” Angry said. “Not quartermaster.” The MP ignored him, but I could tell by his face he wouldn’t forget Angry, either.

Outside in the courtyard, with the MP nearly double-timing it to get rid of us, a rhythmic clapping began. It was a steady, slow clap that built up in speed and volume as we neared the exit. Some white faces peered down impassively at us, while other windows were empty, the prisoners back where they couldn’t be seen, sending Angry off with the only salute they could offer. It was a thunderous echo by the time we reached the door.

I don’t think I let my breath out until we were in the jeep. I got in and started it up while Tree jumped in the back and told Angry to sit up front. He didn’t want to. He and Tree exchanged glares but I didn’t care about what was going on between them. I just wanted to get the hell out of the gate.

Once we were on the road, I noticed Tree prodding Angry from the back seat, tapping him on the shoulder, and whispering.

“You guys want to share the secret?” I asked.

“No, sir,” said Angry. His voice was deep but coiled, as if tamping down a geyser of words. I was beginning to see where he got the nickname.

“It’s only right, Angry,” Tree said.

“Okay,” Angry said. He seemed to steel himself for a verbal ordeal. “Thank you, Captain Boyle. For getting me out.”

“See,” Tree said with a laugh, “that wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re welcome, Private,” I said. “Tree had something to do with it too, you know. Got himself wounded, if you count bird shot.”

“Not where I come from,” said Angry, and I thought I detected the faintest of smiles. “I’ll thank him later for that. But if you hadn’t come along, no one could’ve helped me. So thank you.”

“No problem. What happened to you in there? Someone beat on you?”

“When the release papers and Tree’s letter came through. Some of the MPs wanted to rile me, see if I’d hit back. Then they’d be able to file charges.”