GWOT IV - Chaplain's Interviews

GWOT IV - Chaplain's Interviews

It says right here that prisoners of war have the right to spiritual support and guidance.

It is also noted in the various field manuals that spiritual support is useful in controlling detainees, unlawful combatants and other riff-raff.

So I am doing something I never, ever imagined I would be doing.

Evaluating and interviewing priests.

I am morally repulsed by this task. But I have to view each of these outsiders as a potential enemy agent. Also they could do as much harm as good; spy on and sabotage the facility, carry messages in and out, help plan a revolt (which would fail but cost lives), and generally wreak havoc.

I've required that each candidate present a written resume. In a state at war with a far larger state, where electrical power is a luxury and computers few and far between, printers scarce and even office supplies hard to come by, this is a deliberate obstacle.

The Catholic and Episcopalian have laser printed resumes. The Baptist's is typewritten on a manual typewriter. The Methodist and Buddhist ... wait, Buddhist? ... have handwritten theirs. Somehow, neither pagans nor Mormons nor Jews nor Muslims have stepped forward to minister to the spiritual needs of genocidaires.

There were two other candidates. One tried to sneak in a cell phone on his person. He was processed. He demanded to speak to me. I humored him.

"Padre, did you have a phone on your body?"

"Yes, but..."

"Padre, did you read the regulations?"

"Yes...."

"Padre, did you see the sign that said no electronics and no cameras?"

"Yes..."

"YOU VIOLATED THE SECURITY AND SAFETY RULES OF THIS FACILITY. That means you are untrustworthy and you are banned from the premises forever. We have your photo and your prints. If you come back, you will get to stay. But not as a priest. Now get out."

The other hadn't made it here. The Collections people had picked him up. He'd serviced a dead drop belonging to a known American special warfare agent. He might come here in a while, but as an unlawful combatant and high security prisoner. Spying is illegal under the laws of war. Not very illegal, but we would be trading him for our spies, and he wouldn't be doing any praying for anyone but himself.

The Catholic was a Priest, Quantity 1, with a letter of recommendation from the larger Church and a resume that indicated his considerable pastoral experience.

The Episcopalian had been a Bishop. No bishphoric with no congregation. She'd not even tried to hide that she'd been a military chaplain in the US Army.

The Baptist was a known local minister with a pre-War church, and he'd banged out the resume on the church manual typewriter. The Methodist was from out of state. We were still investigating both.

The Buddhist was a very well known, and up until this moment highly regarded, monk in one of the East Bay communities. Her resume had the standard tidbits, except for being handwritten.

I had the five brought into the courtroom. The judge's dais was empty, but the gavel was sitting on its little metal plate. I sat on one side, and they were invited to sit on the other. Only one guard was posted - an angry hook-nosed by the book type wearing white gloves and holding a white baton in her calloused hands.

I immediately saw red. The damned Episcopalian was wearing an American flag pin. I held my fire for the moment.

We warily exchanged names and titles. Mine was of course, the warden of Alviso Prison.

I then laid the ground rules. They would conduct themselves according to military courtesy. They would be privileged to keep private notes. They would never carry messages for anyone, but would help prisoners write letters subject to military (i.e. my) censorship and review. They would never do anything that would compromise security, and in turn would be allowed to leave each night to return to the outside world.

"And if we break your rules?" the lady bishop challenged.

"I throw you out on your ass. If you violate security or commit espionage, I don't throw you out on your ass, but you become a prisoner."

Her face shut suddenly.

"How will I give the grace of the confessional?" the priest asked.

"There are two private rooms that give off the chapel area. You may use one. I have had them swept for listening devices. I will sweep it again, in front of you, no more than once a week. I will give my word as an officer and a gentleman that these two rooms will not be bugged, and if someone does without my authorization, I will punish them and the information unlawfully obtained will be suppressed."

"What gives you the right?" asked the Baptist minister.

I raised an eyebrow.

"The right to make these rules, to tell us how we can and cannot help our flock."

"Military law," I replied briefly.

"Who is your commanding officer?"

I told him. Then I added, as if casually, "... and he doesn't want to hear from me, let alone any of you. If you approach him with an issue that you do not first approach me with, I will simply dismiss you without further wasting of time. You are here on sufferance. The POWs have a right to religious assistance. You don't have any rights separate from that."

The Buddhist had been holding fire. Now she spoke.

"I have heard that there will be more executions."

I nodded.

"That is not right."

"You are welcome to your opinion. Within the bounds of military courtesy and good discipline, you may express that opinion. But I will tell you, and all of you, right now that a major part of your task will be providing moral and spiritual support to men and women condemned to death for war crimes."

"What gives you the right?" the Buddhist asked, in an entirely different tone from the Baptist.

"Military law," I replied again, and expanded. "As there are no courts between states at war, each party must punish the criminals under its control. Failure to do so, or a decision to commit war crimes by policy, taints all the soldiers and officers of that state."

"The right to try and to kill?"

"The trier of fact is the Military Commission, so appointed by the Provisional Governor. The right to kill is inherent in having a military at all."

The Buddhist flinched.

"Do you believe in God?" the Catholic asked suddenly.

"My private views are none of your business," I replied evenly. "But since you ask, if I had my way, all of you would be horsewhipped out of this prison right this instant. You are highly practiced con artists and frauds, selling the promise of a hereafter for personal profit. If you abuse or take advantage of prisoners under my control, I will deal with you most harshly."

The silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"But you are useful fools. You keep people calm and help them come to terms with their impending death. That means more orderly executions and less risks to California Republic personnel, and less risk of innocent - or less guilty - people being killed in failed revolts."

I finished up with some administrative details - their right to appeal to me, their bounds within the prison, the requirement that they obey commands of security personnel during contingency situations - and sent them on their way to receive a tour.

"Stay," I directed the Bishop.

Under the guard's hard eyes, I gave her a choice. The Buddhist lingered to watch.

"We have free speech in the California Republic. We do not have freedom from the consequences of that speech. You are wearing an enemy emblem, in whose name grave crimes have been committed and millions of people murdered. It is not allowed in this place. You may either give it to me, right now, or you may leave this prison at once, never to return. Your call."

She wordlessly gave me the flag pin. I carried it over to the gavel, gave it a sharp -rap- and shattered it, dropping the pieces into her hand.

"Never wear that again here. Go on."

She met my eyes, flinched, and left.

The Buddhist also met my eyes, and did not flinch.

"What do you believe happens to you after you die?" she asked quietly.

"What happens to a flame when the candle gutters out? What happens to a pot when clay shards litter the ground? We break and we are gone, and there is nothing. That makes it even more important that we do justice in the here and now. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust, but there is neither soul nor everafter."

"I do not agree," she said quietly.

"This makes you useful," I riposted. "But why are you here? You must know that there are very few, if any, Homeland soldiers who believe in reincarnation. And if they do, I think they will spend a thousand generations as sea slugs."

"I am here because the war is here."

My face betrayed my puzzlement.

"These are the people who caused the war we are now in. You are punishing them. They will in turn punish us. And the cycle of violence will go on and on and on. I have to break the cycle. If not here, then where? If not now, then when?"

"You see yourself as a peacemaker," I stated.

"Yes."

"There is no peace here. There is foolishness, and evil, and bloodstained hands. My own among them. But sure, hell, give it a try. 'Blessed be the peacemakers, for they will be called the Children of God.'"

"My son was murdered in an extermination camp. I want to find his killer. And forgive him."

"You'd better work fast. Because his killer, and all the other murderers of innocent civilians, are all going to hang by the neck until dead, just as soon as I can manage it."

She walked out.

Then I quietly shook.

She loved abstract justice more than she loved her son? That I could understand. But the pain in her eyes and her voice denied that easy answer.

She was willing to find and love the killer of her son, whom she loves very much and mourns every day. Enough to be here.

That I could not understand. And perhaps never would understand.

If she played her part, that was enough.

A distraction from the steamroller of ruthless justice I planned to drive through this population of rapists, torturers and murderers.

And maybe I could run it over myself at the end. Then there would be peace. At least for me.