William Weber - Turning the Tide

When John finally returned to the stables, his men were prepped and ready to leave. The weight of their assault rifles, ammunition, and AT-4 anti-tank rockets as well as food and water was at the upper limit of what they could carry. But by far the heaviest load was the extra weapons they planned on handing out to the prisoners they freed.

As they left Oneida for the second time in so many days―an ungainly procession of soldiers on horses and bikes―John hoped that Diane would pray for them as well.

Brandon’s heart was hammering in his chest as he made his way to the camp commandant’s headquarters. The building lay just up ahead, a squat, single-story structure identical to the dark brown barracks set in endless rows within the enclosure. The only visible difference was the giant decal of the red Communist star inside a white circle on the side of the building, a symbol also emblazoned on the uniforms of every North Korean prison guard.

As terrifying as what Brandon was about to do was, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to Gregory. The responsibility he felt for his younger friend went far beyond their difference in age. Right or wrong, Gregory had opted out of the escape plan, preferring to stay behind and await the rescue he believed was on its way. How could Brandon show his face in Oneida again with the knowledge he’d done nothing to stop Gregory’s execution, even if such a move would result in his own torture and death?

Two guards stood at attention on either side of the entrance to the headquarters. As Brandon drew near, they raised their weapons and shouted perhaps the only English word they knew.

“Halt!”

He did as they said, raising his hands above his head. The fear on his face must have been obvious because the guards hadn’t shot him.

“I need to see the commandant,” he told them.

They squinted and shook their heads.

Brandon didn’t think they understood and repeated his request.

One of the guards pulled his hand off the hand grip and waved Brandon away. Within a few seconds they would begin shooting.

Just then, Ellis emerged from the commandant’s office. “Get outta here, kid, unless you have some kind of death wish.”

“Tell them I need to speak with the commandant.”

He laughed. “I’m a prisoner here just as much as you are. I don’t tell these folks anything.”

“They’re about to execute an innocent boy. He wasn’t part of the escape plan, I was.”

Ellis’s jaw fell open. “Okay, wait right here and don’t move a muscle.” He disappeared inside. After a few agonizing minutes, he returned.

“Looks like you got your wish.”

Brandon was waved forward and quickly frisked for weapons by the two guards. Afterward, they led him into a modest room. On his left was a red antique couch with carved lion’s-paw feet. At the far end sat a simple oak desk and stretched on the wall behind that was a giant map of the United States. A blood-red line had been drawn from left to right through the middle of the country. To the south were Chinese and North Korean flags. To the north of the red line was a Russian flag and spread throughout the entire map were tiny yellow stars. One, often two per state. Were these the locations of enemy bases and strong points?

The two guards nudged him with the butts of their rifles as a door at the far end of the room opened and in walked the commandant.

He was dressed in an olive-green officer’s uniform, his chest bursting with decorations and ribbons. He removed his hat and laid it on the desk, pushing back his dark, thinning hair with one hand. A short man with harsh features, he looked unassuming.

Could this be the same man responsible for siccing his German Shepherds on disobedient prisoners?

“You have thirty second,” the commandant said in broken English.

Brandon could feel the artery in his neck thumping wildly. “Your men have arrested the wrong person. Gregory Mack was pulled off the fields earlier and charged with plotting to escape and I know for a fact that he’s innocent.”

The commandant paused, glaring at Brandon as though an alien life form were standing before him. “Is that all?”

“I know what I’m telling you,” Brandon said, “because I’m the one who’s guilty, not him.”

The commandant raised an eyebrow. “You know what this will mean for you?”

Brandon nodded. “It means you should take me instead.”

“Very brave…” The commandant waited. “Brandon, is it?”

He nodded.

“Very brave or very foolish? Which do you think?”

“Maybe both,” Brandon said, unsure.

“I think you are right. I saw when I came in you were looking at the map behind me.”

“Yes, I was wondering what the stars meant.”

The commandant glanced back over his shoulder. “They represent how lucky you are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am a fair man, Brandon. But only when prisoners obey my commands. When they don’t I become angry. Each of those stars is a political prison camp and in many of them, the work done by the prisoners is much more brutal, as are the punishments.” He pointed to the middle of the map. “This one here was built next to a coal mine in the state you once called Kansas, but is now Huang-Shi province. Nearly a hundred die there every day. I receive many letters from the commandant there asking for fresh laborers. Just as I receive requests from the front for men of eligible age for forced conscription.”

Brandon swallowed hard.

“Yes, even you hard-headed Americans can be taught to see the folly of resisting.” The commandant shouted something in Korean and the two guards stormed into the room, took Brandon by the arms and began dragging him away.

“What about Gregory?” he shouted, but the commandant didn’t answer.

“You push that horse any harder,” Reese told John, “and it’s liable to keel over.”

John glanced down and saw his horse breathing hard and pulled back on the reins. Getting there a tad bit later was better than not getting there at all. Besides, John would make do by going over the battle plan in his head one more time.

Reese pulled up alongside him, bouncing in his saddle. On the left collar of the sniper’s fatigues was a white feather.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” John said, pointing.

Reese glanced down. “It’s my Carlos Hathcock.”

“Your what?”

“One of the greatest snipers our country’s ever produced. Used to wear a white feather in the band of his hat. Was his trademark. Grew up a country boy from Arkansas shooting small game and went on to rack up ninety-three confirmed kills in Vietnam.”

John agreed that was an impressive number.

“You might not know this,” Reese went on, fishing one of his horrible-smelling cigarettes out of a squished pack, “but during that war, kills could only be confirmed by an officer. That is, someone other than the sniper’s spotter. Guess it was designed to stop hotshots from padding their stats. Anyway, Hathcock swore that ninety-three was far too low. Said the real number was somewhere in the neighborhood of three to four hundred enemies killed.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s right. Commies even put a thirty-thousand-dollar bounty on his head. And you can imagine with a contract like that, the Viet Cong and NVA snipers were pouring in from the north intent on getting a hold of that feather.”

“Did they get him?”

“Oh, they tried,” Reese said with a smile. “Closest they got was a mysterious sniper who went by the code name Cobra. He’d already killed a bunch of Marines in an effort to draw Hathcock out. For several days the two enemies stalked one another. Both of them made narrow escapes as one would close in on the other. Then one day, Hathcock found some disturbed brush and spotted a trail through an open field. He set himself up with his back to the sun.”