William Weber - Turning the Tide

The thought of Gregory made Brandon scan the field, searching for the boy. He spotted him about a hundred meters away, churning soil with his hands. Brandon was about to turn away when Pug Face shouted at Gregory and, when he didn’t respond, knocked him to the ground and began kicking him.

Barely ten miles away, John recognized the camp’s close proximity provided too good an opportunity to pass up. Trails inside the St. Francis State Wildlife Reserve led from Paragould south toward Jonesboro and would provide the cover they needed to stay out of sight.

Once they arrived, their unit would remain concealed inside the woods. This portion of their mission would be devoted entirely to reconnaissance. The attack on the truck depot, important as it was, had only been a dress rehearsal, a test to see if his men could work together under stressful conditions.

The lightning bolt of inspiration which had hit John the other day had had to do with the camps. With the very real possibility that Brandon and Gregory were alive and being held captive inside, John had a burning interest in helping them escape. But committing Oneida’s meagre resources toward such an obviously self-serving goal was irresponsible, verging on criminal.

It was during his conversation with Moss that the perfect solution had come to him, one he’d kept secret even from Diane. It called for his team of guerrillas to assault the Jonesboro camp, converting the people inside from prisoners into an armed resistance movement. Some of the earliest civilian prisoners were in rough shape, but the hundreds and maybe even thousands of military POWs hadn’t been there for more than a few weeks. On their own, in hundreds of small groups, they could melt into the countryside and establish bases from which to launch their own attacks on other camps. John envisioned a long line of dominos, tumbling one after another as their numbers grew. With their ranks swelling, so too would their ability to tighten the noose on the disastrously overstretched Chinese supply lines. By then, General Dempsey should have the clear advantage he wanted. At least, he’d be hard pressed to find a reason not to attack.

Lying prone beside a maple tree, John peered out through his binoculars. The camp itself was rectangular, surrounded by a twenty-foot-high razor-wire fence―probably not electrified, especially now. Guard towers were spaced apart at hundred-yard intervals. It wasn’t long before he spotted prisoners in rags working the fields, tilling soil and planting seeds.

“Something tells me this food isn’t for them,” John told Moss on his left. “Keep an eye on the guards—where they patrol, whether they’re alone or in pairs, what they’re armed with. How many extra magazines they’re carrying.”

Most prison guards rarely expected to fire their weapons, let alone engage in a sustained firefight. Not when they could use the butt to bash in a disobedient prisoner’s skull. That meant when the time came to assault the place, the guards on the ground would quickly run dry on ammo. The ones in the towers, however, were likely better supplied. But that was where men with Reese’s expertise came in handy.

“I’ve got movement near the front gate,” Reese said, watching through his 10x scope.

The activity was frantic with vehicles coming and going. More likely than not, it had something to do with the mission John’s men had just pulled off.

In the field, it looked like there was a commotion going on. A group of guards approached a small prisoner―a child around Gregory’s height and weight―and began beating him.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Reese asked.

“I am,” John replied, his heart beating in his chest. Not only at the way his fellow countrymen were being treated. The boy who’d stood up to that guard looked an awful lot like Brandon. As if that wasn’t torture enough, John knew there was nothing he could do about it without jeopardizing the greater mission. Any hope of freeing the camps might mean watching his loved ones executed before his very eyes.

Gregory looked up, frightened and in pain, trying to dodge the kicks and punches. Pug Face slammed the toe of his boot into the side of Gregory’s head, making his body go limp.

Brandon shouted and began running toward them. From off to his side, other guards screamed in Korean. The crack of AKs being fired came next, kicking up a patch of dirt at Brandon’s feet. That was when Pug Face unslung his rifle and pointed it at Brandon. His heart pounding with fear and rage, Brandon raised his hands, searching Gregory’s prone form for signs of movement. Two of Ellis’ American deputies showed up and dragged the boy away. Gregory’s eyes fluttered as they whisked him away.

Pug Face shouted something guttural Brandon couldn’t understand. He flicked the end of his rifle into the air, a move Brandon understood to mean, ‘Get back to work.’ The urge to charge the ugly little guard was nearly overpowering, but even in his rage, Brandon knew the move would be fruitless. John had taught him many things in the previous months but dodging bullets wasn’t one of them. Reluctantly, he turned his back and returned to what he’d been doing, aware that at any moment he might be shot in the back for daring to stand up.

As Pug Face settled down and moved on, one thing had become perfectly clear. Regardless of the consequences, Brandon and Gregory needed to leave this place or it was sure to become their final resting place.

Later, after roll call, Brandon made his way back to the barracks. He’d hoped to get word on Gregory and whether he was doing any better. A kick to the head could mean concussion or, with little to no medical care, something far worse. He arrived to find Ellis and his deputies tearing the loose woolen blankets off each bunk and checking underneath the thin foam mattresses which covered them. Prisoners crowded the doorway, frightened.

“What’s going on?” Brandon asked.

An emaciated man next to him whose prison garb looked about as weathered as the man himself raised a bony finger. “They caught wind of another escape plan and now the whole camp’s going nuts. I heard Sheriff Ellis has spies he uses to sniff out the escapees. Looks to me like they hit pay dirt. I just hope the commandant doesn’t start bayoneting the rest of us.”

“He isn’t a sheriff,” Brandon said. “Not anymore. He’s a traitor and the worst kind.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe so, but I’d be willing to bet he’s convinced himself he’s saving lives.”

Brandon sighed, watching them tear the place to shreds. This wasn’t the first plot they’d uncovered. In fact, it seemed every other day a handful of so-called escapees were being rounded up and bayoneted. “Any word on who they caught?”

“Nothing certain, but I did see ’em haul off a mouthy soldier named Nixon…”

“You mean Dixon?”

“Yup, that’s him, and they had a boy with them too. Had to be carried away since his legs were real wobbly.”

Skeletal fingers danced up Brandon’s spine. He didn’t need to be given any more details to know who the skinny man in the tattered uniform was talking about. They were accusing Gregory of being part of the escape plot and now he and Dixon would both be executed.

Brandon tore around to the back of the barracks, searching for the patch of earth underneath the wooden building’s framework where he’d hidden the leaflets. He dug through the dirt with fingers already raw from his work out in the fields. Finally he spotted a patch of white, grabbed the top leaflet and filled the hole back in. His next stop was the camp kitchen where he knocked several times. Finally, Sammy answered, looking concerned.