More Resistance Vacation Reading: Comfort Food – A Story

Comfort Food

Eastern North Carolina – 2007

​The large sign in the lawn in front of the old red brick building read:

“U.S. MARINE CORPS, CAMP ELIZABETH BRIG.

NO PHOTOGRAPHS ALLOWED.”

​I stopped the car right in front of it, rolled down the window, slipped the digital camera from my pocket and took a couple of quick pictures.

I hoped they’d also show the razor wire coiled along the edges of the tall fence around one end of the building. A few of the blades flashed in the late winter sunlight, the only bright color in the scene.

​What, I wondered, would happen to all that wire when the battle of Armageddon began? Would it melt? Would one of the brick walls crumble so the prisoners could walk out and join in the struggle? These were questions that Steve Colt, the marine I’d come to visit, could answer for me.

​Taking those illicit pictures was one of only two infractions of the Brig’s many jailhouse rules that I allowed myself, however. The camera stayed in the car, along with all the coins, cell phone, and almost everything else in my pockets, except my driver’s license and car keys.

​Inside, the guard who signed me in took these and hung them on a small hook, in trade for a large plastic Visitors pass to clip on my shirt. Then he waved me through the airport-style metal detector, and I joined the line to pass through the two big metal doors into the cell block.

​Standing in line, I knew I’d gotten away again with my other rules violation – in my pants pocket was a small all-plastic ball point pen, a model the metal detector didn’t notice. With it I could scribble a brief note if necessary, to hang on to some key bit of information from a prisoner, that was otherwise too easily forgotten. No notebooks were permitted, so I usually wrote these notes on my upper forearm, where a shirtsleeve would cover them.

​Otherwise, I was a model brig visitor, never complaining about their endless rules, always dressing as respectably as I ever do, and calling all the guards “Sir.”

​The word sprang to my lips again when Chaplain Eckerd came out of the big barred door and nodded at me. “Afternoon, sir,” I barked.

​I had met Eckerd at Steve Colt’s conscientious objector hearing four months earlier, where Eckerd was supposed to sit as an impartial witness, but had come across more like a prosecutor. The chaplain clearly didn’t think much of Steve Colt and the Church of the Lamb Triumphant that he’d joined.

​Not that I thought much of it either, really. Its doctrines seemed like a mishmash of apocalyptic fundamentalism, with a generous dose of cultist paranoia stirred in. They actually insisted that they weren’t regular religious pacifists, because they were willing to fight for Jesus, the Lamb of God, when he came back to win the battle of Armageddon against Satan and his demonic armies.

​That battle, they were sure, was coming very soon, and they were the True Witnesses to this truth. In the meantime, while they could join an army, they couldn’t fight for any country or human government. So when Steve converted, he asked the Marines for a noncombatant job. And he called us for advice.

​“I’m not afraid of danger or death,” his letter had said.

​“I’m willing to go to Iraq, and clear mines or do whatever other hazardous work my superiors may direct,” he had told the hearing officer, a captain. I was sitting beside him as his representative, something like a lawyer.

​“But you won’t carry a rifle,” said the captain, while Chaplain Eckerd had looked on skeptically.

​“Sir,” Steve had said, “my church teaches that I can’t carry a weapon or kill anyone for any human authority. Only at the direct command of Jesus Christ, when He returns as the Lamb Triumphant, can I take up arms.”

​Eckerd had spoken then. “What about Romans 13?” he asked, pulling out the warrior’s favorite Bible passage, about how the state is God’s designated enforcer, bearing the sword as a terror to evildoers.

​But Steve was ready. “Sir,” he had said, “that passage applies in normal times, when the world is rightly ordered. But in these last days, the world is under the power of Satan, including its human governments. So Romans 13 gives way to Revelation 13, where the beast 666 is revealed as Mystery Babylon. They’re all under the anti-Christ, and doomed to fall at Armageddon.”

​At this the captain had glanced over at Eckerd.. The chaplain had said nothing, but frowned and shook his head.

​Then the captain had looked at me. “Do you all at Quaker House support this kind of thing?” he had asked.

​I was ready too. “Sir,” I had said evenly, “we support conscience. And I believe Lance Corporal Colt is sincere in his conscientious beliefs.”

​The captain was not impressed.

​A week later the Marines rejected Steve’s request. The company commander ordered him to report for weapons training with his rifle. Steve snapped to attention, saluted smartly, then quietly refused.

​And so here he was, spending a year behind those big clanging metal doors.

Jail didn’t seem to bother Steve much. He evidently regarded the brig as one large church meeting, and lost no opportunity to preach his end-times gospel among the two hundred other inmates. After three months inside, he admitted there weren’t any actual converts yet. But many were listening, he insisted to me, and at least one new prisoner seemed to be seriously considering joining up.

​The big door rattled open again, and it was my turn to go through, wait for the second door to buzz and swing back, and then I was inside.

​A long hallway was to my left, down to the open bays where the prisoners slept, unless they were being held in one of the isolation cells. A door almost directly across from me opened into the brig cafeteria. There prisoners in orange or gray jumpsuits huddled with visitors around large metal picnic style tables that were bolted to the floor.

​Steve was already there, his tall lean figure unmistakable even among the anonymous jail outfits. And he wasn’t alone. His pastor Jose was there, along with two large church ladies, dressed in their Sunday best. The pastor was talking. Steve grinned and waved an arm when he saw me. I shook hands all around and sat down.

​After the usual pleasantries, and the standard questions about how he was doing, were the guards treating him okay and such, Steve said Jose had been giving them a lesson, and I listened.

​Jose was slender and intense, with wire spectacles giving his boyish face a scholarly aspect. He spoke intently, urgently, befitting his subject. He was on message as always, explaining how the war in Iraq, which he said was soon to spread, had been foretold in the Bible, and was really the work of Satan loose in the world. Presidents, prime ministers, generals and terrorists only thought they were in charge, he insisted, mentioning verses from the books of Daniel, Ezekiel and Revelation, in rapid-fire sequence.

​I couldn’t keep up with his Bible quotes, but the general outline was familiar by now. When he repeated the punch line that all these “wars and rumors of war” were signs of Armageddon approaching, both Steve and the two ladies nodded vigorously. And I did too, a little. From inside this place, Jose’s dire forecast didn’t seem nearly as implausible as it did outside.

​Jose had moved on to talk of “the abomination of desolation,” when Steve interrupted. Leaning toward me, he spoke in a low tone.

​“There’s been a sign of this right here in the brig,” he said, and tapped the table with a long finger. Glancing down, I saw he was pointing to my left, but with his hand on the table, so the gesture wouldn’t be noticed outside our group. “Yes,” he whispered. “Over there.”

​The others seemed to know who he was referring to and didn’t move. So I moved slowly around, bending to scratch an imaginary itch, and scanned the room.

​Two tables over, a prisoner sat silently while two women wearing scarves grasped his hands. They weren’t speaking, but I could see tears glistening on their cheeks, and then the one nearest me lifted a hand to wipe her eyes.

​“It’s Hassan,” Steve whispered. “He’s in my unit. His bunk is right next to mine.” I scratched again, and saw that Hassan sat stiffly, his face expressionless, hardly seeming to notice the sobbing women.

​Now Jose picked up the story. “He can hardly sleep at night, so he tells Steve things when he’s laying awake. Hassan’s an American Muslim, a Marine. But in Iraq they suspected him of being a spy for al Queda.”

​His voice dropped to a whisper. “He was arrested and taken to Abu Ghraib prison. Tortured in ways that left no marks – no sleep, blindfolded all the time, loud music while they made him stand all night. They even brought in dogs.”

​“The terrorists in Iraq do the same things to their prisoners,” Steve said, “or worse. Both sides act crazy. That’s how we know it’s all satanic. And Hassan told me the guards there enjoyed it.

​He hunched forward. “The worst one was a sergeant they called Shorty. When they heard the other guards say Shorty was coming, he knew it was about to get really bad.”

​“But wait a minute,” I objected. “If they think he’s a spy, why is he sitting there, instead of in the isolation cells, or at Guantanamo, or some secret prison?”

​Jose raised a finger. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Hassan is on his way out. Sure, he confessed to all kinds of things in Abu Ghraib. Who wouldn’t? But his family hired a good lawyer, who raised cain and proved he wasn’t a spy.”

​He shrugged. “So they dropped all the charges. Go figure. Hassan is just here waiting for his final paperwork. He’s one of the lucky ones.”

​“Yeah, lucky,” Steve sounded sarcastic. “But he’s been here three weeks, and his paperwork still hasn’t come through.”

​“Wow,” I said. “They owe him an apology. At least.”

​Steve snickered. “The Marines don’t apologize.‘Suck it up and drive on,’ that’s their motto. Anyway, Hassan doesn’t need an apology. He needs somebody to give him back his life, his sanity. That’s what the torture took from him.”

​He looked at me, his normally open face suddenly grim. “And where does he go to get that?”

​Jose glanced at his watch; visiting time was running out. “What we can do for Hassan right now is to offer prayer,” he said. “Ask God to ease Hassan’s suffering, and to give us the courage to be True Witnesses when the hour comes, which won’t be long.”

​He looked down and closed his eyes. “Let us join hands and pray,” he intoned.

​The others followed suit, with some shuffling of legs under the big table. I reached for Steve’s hand, and gazed down at the table. While Jose murmured I stole another glance at Hassan. He was still there, slumped back in the chair. The women were speaking now, but he didn’t seem to notice.

​As I came through the second big door, eager to retrieve my car keys and escape into the “free world” again, Chaplain Eckerd was there. He pointed at me. “Fager,” he said, “can I see you a minute?”

​I followed him across the waiting room, down a hall to a small office. The chaplain tapped on a file on his desk. “I know you work with a lot of men who are in trouble,” he said, “and I’d like your perspective on a new case I’ve got. Strictly unofficial, of course.”

​I shrugged. “I’m no therapist,” I said. “So my opinion is worth every penny you paid for it.”

​Eckerd was leafing through the file,. Then he stood up, walked around the desk and behind me. As I turned he opened what looked like a closet door and walked in, beckoning me to follow.

​It wasn’t a closet, but rather a small darkened booth, with a large window in the wall, ad two folding chairs. On the other side, a prisoner in a gray jumpsuit sat at a table, listening as a sergeant talked and looked through another file folder. Their voices were just barely audible through an unseen speaker, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

​“His name is Atkins,” the chaplain said quietly. “He was on deployment in Iraq when they picked him up. MPs found enough Oxy-Contin in his duffel bag to keep his whole company stoned for a week. He’s up on intent to sell, and could get some hard time.”

​“What’s his version?” I asked.

​“He says he wasn’t going to sell it. He planned to take it all, to kill himself.”

​“What for?”

​The chaplain gave me a sidelong glance. “He was an interrogator. Abu Ghraib and some other places. Says he has nightmares that won’t stop, especially about the coercive interrogation sessions–“

​I interrupted. “Don’t you mean torture?” Euphemistic military jargon like that offends me. “That’s what ought to be a crime.”

​Eckerd grimaced; I suspected he didn’t entirely disagree. “Maybe it should be a crime,” he said, “but it isn’t. It’s war. It’s just what happens. Plenty of guys in here have done the same things, or worse. But that’s not why they’re here. At least not directly.”

​I wanted to argue, but stopped myself. This wasn’t the time or place. “What do you want my opinion about?” I said.

​Eckerd peered through the glass. “Is Atkins safe to put in the general population? He’s been in isolation for two weeks and he wants out. No history of violence, but we were worried he might harm himself. I’m ready to recommend it, but I wanted an outside perspective. Again, strictly off the record.” He reached for a knob under the window and turned up the sound.

​“– One more question,” the sergeant was saying. “Where did you get the Oxy-Contin?”

​The prisoner sighed. His eyes were deep-set, almost sunken. His skin was pale. “I’ve already answered this a dozen times,” he said. “I made friends with the medic, figured out the combination to the door, then snuck into the supply room when he was at chow.”

​The sergeant slapped the file folder shut and stood up. “Okay, I think we’re done here,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Corporal, take this prisoner back to his cell.”

​A burly Marine stepped up behind him. Beside me, chaplain Eckerd leaned forward and spoke into a microphone I hadn’t noticed in the dark, his finger on a button. “Sergeant,” he barked, “I think he can go to the open bays now. Collect his gear and move him down there.”

​The sergeant stiffened at this disembodied voice. “Yes sir,” he said, not looking at the window. Then he left the room.

​The guard stayed behind. As the prisoner stood up, showing shackled wrists, a phone rang in Eckerd’s office, and he got up. The guard put a hand on Atkins’ shoulder. His grip was firm, it seemed to me, but not unfriendly. “Come on, Shorty,” he said.. “You’ve been promoted.”

​“Wait!” I said, jumping up from my chair. But Eckerd wasn’t there, and the microphone was off again. I hurried into the office and started to speak.

​But Eckerd was on the phone. “That’s right, sir,” he said. Tomorrow morning–“

​”Chaplain,” I said, trying to get his attention. But he only glanced up at me briefly. Covering the phone, he said, ‘Thanks, Fager,” and then was focused again on the phone.

​I sighed and left. “Shorty.” Did it mean anything? What could I do if it did? Lots of guys in here have done worse, the chaplain had said.

​It was a relief to be back in my car, headed for the main gate. And maybe I was a bit eager to be back on a civilian highway, headed home, so my foot was a bit heavy on the gas pedal, pushing the camp Elizabeth speed limit.

​At least, that’s what I figured when a glance in the rear view showed an MP jeep on my tail, blue lights flashing. “Oh no,” I breathed. Not another ticket!”

​But that wasn’t it. When the MP came back from checking my drivers license his tone was apologetic, but definite. “Sir, I have to ask you to come with me.”

​“What?” I said. “Am I under arrest?”

​“No, sir,” he said. “Not yet. But you will be if you don’t come voluntarily.”

​“Give me a minute,” I pleaded, flipping open the cell phone. But Wendy didn’t answer, so I left a frantic message, locked the car door, and followed the MP back to his jeep.

​But we didn’t go to a police station; the jeep headed straight back to the brig. A guard met the MP at the door, and the two of them escorted me down the office hall and around a couple corners, then through a door.

​When the guard flipped the light switch, I gasped. It was the same interrogation room I’d been watching with the chaplain less than an hour before. The large window in the wall was dark. Who was watching me now?

​“What’s this about?” I demanded. The chaplain came in a moment later. His face was grave.

​“The prisoner you saw here, Atkins, was attacked and stabbed in the hallway, not fifteen minutes ago,” he said.

​“What?!” I shouted. “What happened?”

​“The other prisoners in the area were told to stand facing the hallway wall. That’s procedure when a new prisoner comes in. But then one of them, Private Colt–“

​“–Steve?” I asked.

​“Yes,” Eckerd went on. “Private Colt began shouting something about the True Witnesses, then turned and jumped on Atkins. He had a plastic shank, a homemade knife, and stuck him bad.”

​“Is he–“ I started.

​“The ambulance took Atkins, and I don’t know. He was still alive when they left, but in pretty bad shape.”

​“That’s awful,” I said, still taking it in. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

​“You visited Colt today,” Eckerd said.

​I nodded, but it wasn’t a question. Then it dawned on me. “You really don’t think I gave him that knife?”

​Eckerd was grim. “Somebody did. We don’t have that kind of plastic here. And it wouldn’t set off the metal detector. So a visitor brought it in and slipped it to him.” He was staring straight at me. “Maybe you,” he said.

​“Me?! Are you–?”

​The door banged open, and pastor Jose barged in, accompanied by another MP. He looked at once distraught and triumphant. “Is Steve all right?” he asked.

​A guard came in behind him. “Sir,” he said, “we have a fingerprint match for the knife. Got them off the Visitor pass.”

​When Eckerd did not reply, I realized the guard was talking past him, to the darkened window. A deep voice came through the microphone: “Take him,” it said.

​A flash of terror cut through me. I stiffened, expecting a blow.

​But the guard grabbed pastor Jose, and as his hands were being twisted behind him, he began to shout.

​“Yes! I gave it to him. Torture is the sure sign of the beast’s work, and it’s right here. It’s time for the True Witnesses of the Lamb to appear and begin the battle. I’m proud of Steve! I’m proud to be his teacher and fellow soldier! The lamb will be Triumphant!”

Then they were dragging him out of the room.

​An hour later they let me leave the brig, after the chaplain had filled in some missing links: The guard taking Atkins to the open unit had been deployed with him in Iraq, and knew his nickname was Shorty. He called him that while they were coming down the hallway.

​“But how did the pastor know Shorty was here?”

​“The guard’s girlfriend had been attending services at the Lamb Triumphant church,” Eckerd said. “One night after too many beers, the guard got to talking about Iraq, and let Shorty’s story slip.

She told the pastor, who heard it as a divine revelation, and gave Steve his orders from on high. The mixture of Armageddon preaching and Hassan’s sleepless stories was too much for both of them.”

​I had a splitting headache. A quiet visit to a guy doing time for refusing to fight in a war. That’s all I’d bargained for when I’d left home that morning. It seemed a long time ago.

​The chaplain’s phone rang again.

​“One last question,” I said.

​He picked up the phone, said into it, “Hang on a minute,” and gazed back at me, waiting.

​“Those pills that Atkins had, “ I said. “Oxy-Contins. Do you think he was really going to sell them? Or take them?”

​Eckerd rubbed his chin and considered for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Atkins wasn’t selling anything,” he said. “He just wanted to take enough pills to make sure. I’ve seen it before.”

​He considered for another moment. “Like I said,” he added, “it’s not a crime, what he did in Iraq. But maybe it should be.”

​As soon as my car passed through the camp Elizabeth main gate, I started to tremble. The shaking kept up for twenty miles through the scrub pines and small towns. Finally I pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot, turned off the ignition and just leaned back and let the trembling go through me.

​It went on for another ten minutes, til my cell phone tinkled with Wendy’s ring. “Hey, are you all right, dear?” she asked. “It sounded like you were getting arrested.”

​I wasn’t sure she’d believe it. But as I repeated the story, the shakes diminished. By the time I rang off, I was able to get out of the car and walk a more or less straight line into the McDonalds men’s room.

​And then I couldn’t hold back – I ordered a double quarter pounder with cheese, supersize fries and two cherry pies, and wolfed down the whole god-awful mess.

​As comfort food, it was pretty gross. But it beat a bottle of Oxy-Contin.