Peter Cawdron - Feedback

Even back then, through the haze of pain, he’d fought to retain at least a vague notion of distance and direction. His mind was all he had left. Physically, they had taken away his freedom. He had to fight to ensure they didn’t win the mental battle.

His hand still throbbed but the tablets had taken the edge off the pain.

Trying to think objectively about where he was distracted him from the physical torment of his injuries. Focusing his mind brought relief, restoring his confidence.

Lee watched the guards, observing their routines, noting how they switched routes over by a darkened building he assumed was used for administration. They would retrace each other’s steps to the barracks where he was located before marching past. The camp must have extended further to his right, as they marched out of sight for roughly ten minutes. He knew his helper had come from that direction with the painkillers, creeping up silently behind the guards as they marched on, and that seemed to validate that this wasn’t another ruse by the North Koreans. Whoever it was that brought the painkillers, they had to be watching the camp, observing the same routine, and that thought gave Lee hope. He reasoned that it couldn’t just be one person. It might have been a single person who came in and made the drop, but there had to be several people working together. Lee was buoyed by that thought.

There was another window at the back of his cell, but it was boarded up. Perhaps that would show where the sentries went, he thought, and with some difficulty, he crawled to the far end of his basement cage, protecting his right hand by holding his arm across his chest, keeping his wrist to his sternum.

There were cracks in between the boards nailed over the outside of the window.

One of the bars was missing and another had come loose.

Lee could feel the crumbling concrete crunching in the window frame as he wriggled the bar around. He lifted the loose bar a little and got a feel for how shallowly it had been set into the concrete. With a bit of work, he could probably pull it out, and that brought a smile to his face, his first smile in days. Knowing why the soldiers had boarded up the window made him feel as though he was gaining some small advantage over them. They’d been lazy. Laziness was easily exploited.

Lee worked at twisting and tugging at the iron bar until it came free, knowing he could use the bar as a club. Having a weapon lifted his spirits, even if it was a poor match for a gun or a knife. Being armed felt good. Slowly, he was reclaiming the confidence that had been stripped from him.

Lee sat there for a few minutes, feeling the weight of the rusted iron bar in his left hand, thinking about how he’d have to swing it as a southpaw. He got used to the feel of it, of the leverage it would give, imagining how he could wield the bar in a fight. A blow to a raised forearm would break the ulna and possibly the radius as well if he could muster enough force. He pictured a blow to the windpipe of an assailant, incapacitating and silencing his attacker at the same time. Sitting there in the darkness, he paced himself slowly through the motion. The inbound swing would be at the windpipe, while the backlash would be directed at the temples.

“Nice,” he whispered to himself. It wasn’t the thought of violence he relished, rather the ability to defend himself, to wrest back the power stripped from him.

He pushed on the wooden boards, testing the nails that held them fast. There was a little flex, but he’d need some leverage to pry them away from the outer frame. The bar he’d pulled free was too thick to wedge between the boards as a crowbar, but he could use it against the other bars, jamming it between the bars and the planks of wood. Quietly, he forced one of the boards loose. It felt good to be taking the initiative. Lee peered through the crack he’d made between the boards, squeezing the bar through to stress the wood and nails, further widening the gap.

The rear of the camp was some kind of motor pool. Rows of cars and trucks obscured his view, but he caught the distinct edge of a helicopter rotor sagging under its own weight. Moonlight gleamed off the canopy of the helicopter, barely visible between the rows of vehicles. It wasn’t one of the old Soviet Hinds. This helicopter was smaller than the ones he’d seen by the coast. It was closer to the bubble shaped Bell helicopters he’d done his flight training in.

Suddenly, the ambient light in his cage dropped, and Lee felt his heart race. He turned and saw something leaning up against the bars behind him, blocking the moonlight. He scurried over to the window and pulled a pair of boots and a heavy overcoat through the bars and into his cell as boots crunched on the gravel outside, walking away from him.

“Now you’re talking,” he whispered, allowing himself the luxury of excitement.

The coat was army issue and had an insignia on the shoulder, but the moon was behind the clouds so he couldn’t make it out in any detail. He put on the boots but was unable to tie the laces. Just the thought of using his right hand caused pain to surge from the bloody stumps.

Lee pulled at the laces with one hand, working them tight and looping them around before tucking them into the top of the boots. That would have to do, he thought. If he had to run, he’d make it maybe fifty yards before the laces worked loose and then he’d flounder like a goose and probably have to kick them off.

Lee sat waiting with his back against the low wall. He didn’t put the coat on, as much as he wanted to ward off the cold. He realized it was important not to get mud and dirt on the coat. If someone looked at him while he was wearing it, he had to pass for a guard or a soldier, and that wasn’t going to happen if he looked like he’d been crawling around in a pigsty.

With his left hand, he ran his fingers continually through his hair, trying to pat down the loose strands.

Dew had begun forming on the grass beyond the bars.

Lee reached out and rubbed his left hand on the wet grass and then rubbed his fingers over his face, desperately trying to clean up his appearance. He had no mirror, but he felt he needed to look as normal as possible during the escape so he worked fastidiously, somewhat manically rubbing at his face, his neck and hair. A wave of paranoia swept over him at the realization that his bid for freedom could come undone because he looked like a hobo.

“Got to get dolled up for the ball,” he muttered to himself, methodically rubbing his damp fingers on his forehead, trying to clean every inch of his unseen face.

“A mirror would have been nice,” he mumbled.

Lee rubbed softly at his cheeks, licking his hand in the hope of tasting dirt to get an idea of how clean or otherwise he appeared, but he couldn’t make out any difference. He was careful not to rub so hard as to be abrasive, gently cleaning under his eyes, across his chin and around his nose. He could only guess what he looked like. After a few minutes, he decided he must look semi-presentable, but he probably wouldn’t win a beauty pageant. In the low light he hoped he could fool a guard.

Lee ran his fingers through his hair again and again, using what little dew there was to stick down his hair, slicking it back so hopefully it looked natural. Preparation is good, he thought to himself, preparation gives purpose.

He was ready.

No one came.

Minutes seemed like hours.

Lee got worried.

What if something had gone wrong? What if they changed their plans?

As nearly as he could tell, the painkillers had been kicked in his cage almost two hours ago. The jacket and boots had come over an hour later. What was the delay? He just wanted to get moving, to get out of his squalid, cramped prison. He was bouncing between emotional extremes, feeling a high when he pried the bar free, and a low when time dragged. Like a pendulum swinging back and forth, his emotions swung between extremes.