William Weber - Turning the Tide

“To keep the light out of his eyes,” John said. “Smart man.”

“Not only that, but in those days they still had scopes that reflected shards of sunlight. After scanning for a few minutes, Hathcock spotted a twinkle in the bush, swung his rifle around and fired right at it. When they crossed over they found the Cobra dead. Shot through the lens of his own scope.”

“No way.”

“No joke. A one-in-a-million shot that meant the Cobra had them in his sights. If Hathcock had waited a split second longer, he might have been the one dead.” Reese touched the white feather pin on his collar. “Since I heard that story, I’ve always carried this with me. Call it a good-luck charm.”

John turned back to the trail, praying Reese’s luck would help get them there in time.

A short time later, the prisoner population was assembled inside the courtyard in order to witness the latest batch of executions. After Brandon’s talk with the commandant, he hadn’t been whisked away to join Dixon, Gregory and the others condemned to die. Instead he’d been returned to the barracks, where he’d sat weeping while he stared at Gregory’s empty bunk.

Now, he stood in formation with the other prisoners, numb with pain. On some level, walking to the commandant’s office had felt like the slow march to the electric chair. The whole time the gnawing fear that his actions might end with his own death had never gone away, but in a way only a condemned prisoner could understand, he’d somehow made peace with the idea.

Of course, looking back, the chances that he might have been lined up and bayoneted alongside Gregory were just as good. And if that had happened, then what would he have accomplished? Perhaps this was why the commandant had asked if he was brave or foolish. Even now, Brandon wasn’t sure which was the right answer. If there was anything he’d learned from John, it was that doing something, anything, was often better than doing nothing at all.

The prisoners slated for execution were led out in a long ragged line. They were nearly the entire group Dixon had put together. Even with the black bags over their heads, Brandon could still see Dixon and Gregory bringing up the rear. The sight sucked the moisture right out of his mouth.

The guards halted the condemned and turned them to face the crowd. Soon the bayoneting would start and Brandon was sure the sight of his friends being killed would make him physically sick.

The pug-faced guard, Lee Kun-Hee, moved to the far end, steadying his rifle before plunging the bayonet into the first prisoner. They shrieked in agony before collapsing to the ground. On he went, working his way down the line as the commandant stood nearby watching.

When he arrived at Dixon, Brandon felt the sudden urge to scream out, to say something in protest at the cruel indignity of it all. But Brandon didn’t get a chance to say a word before Dixon shouted, “Long live America.”

The prisoners erupted with cheers just as Pug Face thrust his blade into Dixon’s belly. The soldier let out a moan and fell to his knees. Other guards fired warning shots into the air to regain control.

A second jab from Pug Face ended it and Dixon slumped to the ground. Angry tears welled up behind Brandon’s eyes, but he knew the worst was yet to come.

With Dixon and the others dead, Pug Face stood before Gregory. Once again he pulled back his rifle and Brandon felt the air catch in his throat.

A shout in Korean from the commandant made Pug Face freeze in mid thrust, the blade inches from Gregory’s stomach.

“It has come to my attention this boy was wrongfully accused,” the commandant said, addressing the crowd himself this time. “I hereby release him back into the general population. Let none of you think that I am an unfair and unjust man.”

The prisoners stood speechless. Even Brandon didn’t know what to say. Had his bold and dangerous move to plead for Gregory’s life actually paid off?

Reluctantly, Pug Face removed the hood and cut the ropes that bound Gregory’s hands. For a moment the boy stood confused until the guard pushed him forward, sending him back toward the line of prisoners.

The commandant then issued an order in Korean and immediately, the guards pushed their way through the deep rows of prisoners, pulling out several males in their teens and twenties. The crowd split as Brandon spotted Pug Face heading in his direction, pushing aside prisoners as he came. A second later, the ugly guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked him out to stand with the others.

This was it. This was where he and dozens of others would be executed in Gregory’s place. The price for saving his young friend hadn’t only been his own life. It had cost the lives of everyone else standing alongside him.

But Brandon wasn’t entirely right. This wasn’t an execution. Instead, the commandant lined the men up and paced before them.

“From this moment on,” he told them, “you lucky few are conscripts in the People’s Liberation Army. First you will be sent for training. Afterward you will be shipped to the front. Fraternity, dexterity, sincerity. These are the virtues you will acquire. May you make the Communist Party and the Eastern Alliance proud.”

Brandon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Conscripted into the Chinese army. He knew the Germans had done the same to the Russians, Bulgarians and others after conquering their lands during World War Two, a move that was particularly sinister since men on the battlefield, unwilling as they might be, tended to fight for their own survival, even if that meant firing on their own people.

Moments before they were marched away, the commandant gave them one final warning. “If any of you fail to do your duty to the fullest, hundreds here will be executed in punishment.”

With that stark threat ringing in his ears, Brandon caught sight of Gregory in the line of prisoners. He was crying and both of them knew this would be the last time they would see each other.

Back in Oneida, only a handful of the workers repairing the greenhouse were present when dusk arrived. Diane gripped the hammer and drove a nail into a table joint with three whacks. Once finished, this would be one of several platforms lining the interior of the greenhouse.

Diane paused to scan the darkening sky, wondering where the members of her family were at this very moment. Emma was in the basement struggling against that printing press. Over the last few days she’d found something of a calling, cranking out those propaganda leaflets by the hundreds. So long as she held onto the hope that Brandon and Gregory would return, Diane knew her daughter could keep herself together.

Diane hadn’t been speaking metaphorically about praying for Gregory and Brandon’s safe return when she and John had last spoken. The act of stopping throughout the day to give thanks and beg for their protection had become a ritual in and of itself. Which led her to the final member of her family, John. He was gone again doing his part and she couldn’t fault him for that, although the selfish side of her wondered why the responsibility always seemed to fall on his shoulders. Or maybe a more accurate way of looking at it was why John seemed to always take so much on himself.

In the days since they first arrived in Oneida, it seemed that the Mack family had seen less and less of each other. Much of that had to do with the difficult circumstances they were in as the community struggled not only to survive but to thrive in a new world that wanted nothing more than to destroy them. And Diane wasn’t simply talking about the Chinese. Disease, starvation, exposure were only three of a million ways their surroundings conspired against them.