PRELUDE
It’s so cold.
That was all I could think about as I walked down along the corridor. The cold. And the dampness. I could see the moisture on the stone walls and all I could think was why keep him here? Psychological torture? Inflict what little punishment they could on him before they executed him?
The Sergeant who was my escort – he was as cold as the stones around us. Efficient in his stride, unblinking, unwavering in his gaze. Jesus - I wonder what level of hell one has to descend before you volunteer to be a jail guard in a place like this.
“We go down now”. What a cheerless bastard this guy was. As we passed the torches on the walls – torches! What century were we in? – the Sergeant’s eyes seemed to gleam as we steeped down. I am sure he took on a sort of perverse pleasure, knowing that at the bottom of the dank stairs, at the end of the dismal hall, stood a man behind bars who was worth tens or hundreds of Mr. Happy beside me. The scars on his face – I wonder if he received them in battle? Maybe against his prisoner? Is that why he is so happy? Maybe his family or friends were torched out of some town, and that the man I was going to see was responsible. Maybe that is why Mr. Happy Sergeant had a gleam in his eye.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was a cold-hearted prick. God knows I have met enough of them recently. Not just the jailors. Also the men behind the bars. The war criminals, as the jailors called them. Some were truly evil men. An evil that shook me afterwards, when I could leave their cold cell after recording what they wanted passed onto history, and in the cold recesses of the hallway breathe a sigh of relief that I was away from them. Some of them showed no remorse. Not a drop. Probably hard-wired from birth to be evil. I wonder if the surgeon held them up when they popped out and passed them along to their parents with a “congrats – you have a shiny new little bundle of evil joy”.
Some showed genuine remorse. “Just following orders”, they would say. “I had to do it or else I would be shot and my family killed”. Or some other rubbish. Every man has a choice in life, whether to be good or evil. Whether to cross a line or not cross it. Some wadded across the line, some dashed like they were Jesse freaking Owens. But some only stuck a toe out, knowing that on the other side there was no going back.
But some, like the man I was going to see, weren’t really evil. They were soldiers, doing the job they were born to do – to try and win a war. But what is it that they say? That winners always write the history? Prisoner number 453A231 was that type of man. A leader who just happened to be on the wrong side of history. I had read about his exploits. Brilliant. Daring. Unpredictable. The kind of man whom you just didn’t want to face across the trenches. Maybe that’s why Mr. Happy Sergeant seemed as happy as we walked towards his cell. Happy that they were going to execute a superior soldier. A superior man. I guess it’s that happy that the average person has when the exception screw up or die or stub their toe on a crack or something.
That little pettiness inside all of us that cries out for attention every so often.
At his trial, he didn’t shirk like the others. He stated his case like a soldier. The others made excuses and blamed everyone but themselves. Or tried to weasel out by naming names. 453A231 didn’t. He stood up there and took the blows like a boxer. Like Dempsey. He refused to go down for the count. You could see how pissed the prosecutor was how he was thwarted at every step. How he could sense that he wasn’t going to beat down his latest victim. Oh, there was no doubt that a guilty verdict and a summary execution was in order – you couldn’t have this type of man walking away from all this. Imagine if he was free and ran for office? He was a national hero back home, even among those who hated his party and what they stood for. More ribbons and medals on his chest that a flophouse full of cheap hookers.
Imagine him as a President? As a Chancellor? As a Czar?
Jesus – we’d be back fighting within ten years, and this time they wouldn’t be led by a nutter.
“Do not pass the prisoner anything. If you do, you will be removed”. Yeah, sure, Mr. Happy. What is that smell on him? Vodka? Scotch? Cheap cologne? Why in the hell would you wear cologne to a job like this? Maybe he did it to torment the prisoners, because if I had to smell this humorless bastard every day it would be worse than Dante’s Fourth Level.
“When you are finished, you will walk back along the hall and press the release button. I will then open the gate for you”. Sure thing, chum. Looking forward to seeing you again. “Remember – this man is a convicted war criminal. He will tell lies. It is your job to get the truth”.
Like I need him to tell me my job. For three months I have had to do this every day and every night. The Chronicler, they called it. Go in and seek the answers for posperity. Because if you don’t understand the present you are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past, or some other psycho babble. Hell, my commanding officer didn’t even believe it. He just told me to go in and do what I do best. Ask questions and listen. “Use those detective skills of yours. Find the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”. Funny guy, my commander. Back home he was a grade school teacher. Math or science or something. Here, he was known as Chief Prick Number One. But only behind his back. Well, not really. He as a good enough guy, just that the jobs he have us were shitty. Find the truth. Dig deep into the lies. Some nights, the job was so bad it make me puke afterwards. Like the other night when I interviewed that camp doctor. Revolting little piece of crap. It was all I could do not to smash his beady little face in.
But not tonight.
I know this was going to be different. Instead of executing this guy, they should give him a typewriter and tell him to outline warfare strategies. What a waste of a great resource.
“I go now”. Bye, Mr. Happy.
It was dark down here, and took me a minute for my eyes to adjust. But there he was. Standing as erect as he looked in the photographs when he received all those medals. His face was gaunter than it was, but I guess eating nothing but potato and rat ass soup for this long would do that to a guy. Hair a little grey, but it was still all there. What was it that Gretchen in the office pool called him? A dark version of Cary Grant? Couldn’t see it myself, but I wasn’t Gretchen. And she likes escargots, so what the hell does she know about anything.
“So, you are here, finally. The Chronicler”.
“You know about me?”
“Of course”.
The silence. I never get used to it. It’s this brief moment when they will either tell me to piss off or pour their life out to me.
“Please sit. At least we can be comfortable. I believe they have provided you with a pot of tea or coffee. I have the luxury of drinking what appears to be leftover sewage from the kitchens”.
“I was hoping we could talk for a while, and we could discuss your military actions. Why you did what you did.”
“Didn’t all this come out at the trial?”
“Yes and no. That was for an audience that cared only for your death. What I am after is what you will be remembered by”.
“Ah, but history will record me as a war criminal.”
“Do you see yourself as that? A war criminal? Like the others?”
That pause. One doesn’t know how the interview will go until the cats out of the bag. Either they see themselves as a victim following orders or else they admit that they liked what they did. There was no grey here.
“Does it matter what I think? I can only tell you what I did and how I did it. History will record whether or not I am a war criminal”.
“Very true.”
“Shall we begin?”
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Note: this was originally a response posting, but edited it to be the Preamble, so the initial posting does not include it... including the original posting below...
ORIGINAL POST:
Stroph1 said:
Nice detail. Please watch the language you use a bit and you will be fine.
I will do that - wasnt sure about language on the forum (will edit it so that its "freaking" and not what is typed).
I will also edit the screenies, as I am using the GIP Doomsday pack, which shows swaztikas, so I will edit them out before posting (as I assume that showing them is not allowed).
GrimReaper said:
Very good writing! I'll be following. Good luck
Thanks...