The Prisoner

Bogash was dead, and Riley as good as, and Sergeant Harran was someplace in the cornfield with a bullet-shattered leg, so Private Tommy Dowd was alone with the decision to either attempt to rejoin his company or surrender. He was relieved when the tall sheaves began sprouting the gray-green uniforms of the enemy, and his only option was to discard the carbine and put his hands into the air. He was 20 years old, and the four-man patrol mission had been his first serious combat exercise. It had ended badly, but at least it had ended.

The enemy troopers didn't talk much when they marched Tommy back to their lines. Their faces under the helmet liners were ordinary faces, homogenized out of all racial differences by dust and fatigue. He had heard the tent-and-barrack rumors about prisoner treatment, ranging from outright torture to insidious indoctrination, but the indifferent faces of his captors calmed his apprehensions. They didn't care; why should he?

The march took three hours, but the sun was setting and the evening turning cool. He was in a truck by nightfall, with a handful of sullen prisoners. By morning, they were at the prison stockade, stripped, deloused, bathed and into their prison uniforms. Tommy's fit. It fit very well, better than his Army clothes. When he was summoned for interrogation, he patted the smooth gray twill on his hips and went half smiling into the presence of the camp's commanding officer. Maybe it was the smile that brought an answering curve to the lips of the silky-bearded colonel behind the desk.

"According to the rules of the Geneva convention," the officer said pleasantly, "you don't have to tell me anything but your name, rank and serial number. We already have those from your dog tags, so in truth, the only purpose of this meeting is to let you know who I am, and tell you that I expect you to obey our camp regulations. Understand?"

Tommy swallowed his answer—it was going to be "Yes, sir"—and merely nodded.

"How old are you, son?" the colonel said, and his smile became engaging. "You don't have to volunteer that information, either."

Tommy told him, and the officer looked saddened.

"You were a child when the war started," he said. "I'm sure your mother hoped (continued on page 142) The Prisoner (continued from page 83) it would be over by this time. Well, it won't be long now. Not very long."

Tommy, for whom the war had been a permanent fact of existence, wondered at the optimism. But he had something else to puzzle out a few minutes later when he was marched through the compound to his assigned quarters. The wood-framed structure was small, neatly built, but surely incapable of housing more than three or four prisoners. A single name had been stenciled on the door, and it read:

Dowd, Thomas Private

The double meaning of the word didn't strike him until a guard opened the door, and Tommy's first glimpse of the room's only bed told him that the quarters were, indeed, private. It was obviously some officer's billet, an officer whose high rank allowed him the indulgence of luxury. There was a thick, gold-colored carpet on the floor; a grouping of overstuffed furniture, the sofa half smothered in pillows; a credenza with open doors that revealed a back-lighted bar with bottles that glowed with amber lights; an elongated cabinet with hidden contents (later, he learned they were high-fidelity components). The bed was oversized, with a thick fur blanket; it was so inviting that Tommy fell face down into its soft nap the moment he was alone. He woke, startled, an hour later, and realized that he was the intended occupant of this plush apartment, that the name on the door had meant what it said. Dowd, Thomas, Private. It made no sense, but it was true. Thinking that, he fell asleep again and dreamed of home: the magazine photos covering the wall cracks of his room; the smell of overcooked food and damp plaster in the flooded basement; the gargle of the plumbing and the grind and screech of the cutting machine he had operated. When he woke again, it was morning, and the alarm was ringing. No, not an alarm; he realized it was a telephone by the bedside. White. He picked it up and mumbled a bewildered "Hello."

"Good morning!" a man's voice said cheerily. "Ready for breakfast, Private? We'll be serving in the mess hall starting at seven."

He went outside. The sun was bright; he blinked as he caught up with the ragged parade of fellow prisoners heading for the source of the food smell. At the chow line, he caught the arm of one, a sleepy-eyed Southerner named Chester he had met briefly in basic, and whispered, "Hey, Chet, you been here long? What kind of joint is this?"

And the Southern boy grinned and shrugged. "Three weeks," he said. "And it's all right. Oh, my, yes."

"But what's it all about?" Tommy said desperately. "What are they fattening us up for? What's the gimmick?"

Chester winked. "Some of us figure it's, you know, brainwashing," and he laughed, with secret, dreamy pleasure. "Yeah, some of us figure that."

There were four kinds of eggs at breakfast. There were sausages—link or patties. French toast for those who wanted it, plenty of bacon, fried—but not overfried—potatoes; and the toast, miraculously, was buttered and hot. There wasn't much talking at the tables, but there were some easy, satisfied chuckles.

"Gimmick, gimmick, gimmick," Tommy muttered to himself, all the way back to his quarters. When he entered the room, he saw an enemy guard making up his bed. Making up his bed. He hadn't been as stunned since Bogash had bought his quick death in the cornfield.

"Hi," the guard said. It was probably the only English he knew. Even when he left, he said, "Hi."

Tommy spent the rest of the morning exploring the room. He took a luxurious shower, with plenty of hot water. He discovered the hi-fi set and a cache of records. They were disappointingly bland pop albums. Aloud, he said, "I'll have to complain about that," and laughed. Then he had the feeling that his complaint might even be taken seriously. He went out for a walk around the compound and discovered flower gardens, a ball field and a recreation hall appointed like a Las Vegas casino.

There was lobster salad at lunch. At dinner, the prisoners made joking comments about the bill of fare. "Shrimp cocktail again? Steak again? Corn on the cob? Chocolate layer cake? Hey, this place is going downhill ..."

He saw Chester grinning at him throughout the meal, and started getting annoyed. After dinner, on their way to a movie at the recreation building, he grabbed the Southerner's elbow, hard enough to show his irritation.

"What's so funny?" he said. "Something funny about me?"

"Heck, no, pal, don't get me wrong."

"Listen, you think we're getting this treatment for nothing? They've got something up their sleeves. A gimmick, a gimmick!"

"Sure," Chester said cordially. "Only I can wait to find out. You better wait, too, pal."

"Wait for what?"

They went into the building together, but Tommy, feeling alienated by Chester's smugness, by all the smug faces of the prisoners, took a seat in the back. He left before the feature was concluded. He went back to his room, put the least offensive of the pop albums on the turntable and lay on his oversized bed, staring at the ceiling.

At ten o'clock, there was a soft rap on his door. He said. "Who is it?" but nobody answered. He opened the door and a woman came into his room, closed the door again and leaned back with her shoulders pressed against it. Posed that way, smiling, a long cascade of silvery-blonde hair moving softly against her cheek, falling to the swelling contour of her bosom, her eyes both challenging and tender, she looked so unreal to Tommy, so much the magazine illustration rather than flesh-and-blood girl, that his mind rejected her presence.

Then she said, "Hello, Tommy, I'm Lisa," and laughed. It was more of a giggle, a sound of girlish amusement at his consternation, and it broke the spell.

"Who?" he said.

"Lisa. I'm going to be your friend here, if you want me."

She linked her arm with his and turned him toward the lighted liquor cabinet.

"Can a friend have a drink?" she said.

They had three drinks, and she poured them all. When Tommy asked bewildered questions, she ducked them adroitly and made him talk about himself, about his life back home, about his plans for the future. The wild thought that he was entertaining some latter-day Mala Hari crossed his mind and left it just as quickly; there was nothing of strategic importance he could reveal; she seemed interested only in Tommy Dowd. To prove it, she took him to bed.

She returned the next night, and the night after that, and the nights that followed. And shortly, he knew he was beginning to wear the same quietly satisfied expression worn by all the inmates of the camp.

• • •

Two months after his arrival, he was asked to appear before the commanding officer. For the first time in weeks, he forced himself to reconsider the meaning of his bizarre experience. Was it time for the switcheroo, the trap door, the gimmick? Was he going to be asked to make public statements about enemy ideology? Recruited for some traitorous errand? Somehow employed as a tool of enemy purpose? He steeled himself for the interview, hoping he would bear himself well, that these delicious, sybaritic days and nights hadn't drained him of courage and will.

He saluted the colonel stiffly, and the man with the silky beard and soft smile said, "Relax, son. I've got some good news for you."

"Yes, sir?" Tommy said.

"You're going home," the colonel told him. "This very afternoon. A truck convoy is taking you and five other prisoners back to a neutral zone. You'll be met by members of your command there."

"Home?" Tommy said.

"It's a prisoner exchange, arranged through the Red Cross. I'm sure you'll be happy to see your comrades again. Best of luck to you, son; I hope your Army sees fit to allow you a stretch of time back home."

"Thank you, sir," Tommy said, his heart sinking.

"You don't look very happy."

"I'm happy, sir."

"Good," said the colonel, and held out his hand. "It's not in the Geneva rules, either, but would you shake?"

Tommy shook the hand briefly, saluted again, less crisply, and went outside, thinking of Lisa. When he went to meet the truck, he found her waiting nearby, with tears in her eyes. He wanted to embrace her, but the truck was being loaded quickly, making loud, ugly noises with its engine. He could barely hear her murmured goodbye.

• • •

When the trucks had gone, a young lieutenant with a briefcase under his arm entered the commanding officer's quarters and beamed like a man bearing good tidings; which, in fact, he was.

"Just received the latest summations, Colonel," he said. "Since the inauguration of the plan, the total increase in enemy surrenders has been well over a thousand percent."

"Yes, and it should keep on increasing, the more 'exchange' prisoners we send back to spread the word. How many this month, Lieutenant?"

"Almost a hundred thousand surrenders," the younger officer said. "At this rate, the war might be over by Christmas."

"Ah," the colonel said contentedly. "Peace. Is there anything else like it?"