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drewkittyGWOT IV - The Care & Feeding Of The Left Wing Death Squad
I enjoyed one luxury at Alviso Prison that I did not have at any other time in my checkered career.
I could literally take my pick of personnel. The armies of the California Republic were a draft of all persons of military age between fourteen and seventy. With limited exceptions, mostly involving a single parent caring for multiple children, everyone was on the front lines of this war - the only way thirty million people (minus a half million or so) could hold off two hundred million people. If you call Americans people.
So there were plenty of people who wanted to try something other than being on the front line. If they were incompetents, I sent them off to the front. If they were bloodthirsty, I sent them off to the front. If they were too kind, I sent them to be conscientious objectors. (All COs were automatically drafted as combat infantry medics.)
After some aggressive sorting, I ended up with a pool of hard core rat bastards, every man and woman jack of us, who understood that we were containing a dangerous infection in the soul of not just California or America, but the entire world.
The Sunnyvale raid confirmed for everyone that we were in fact soldiers on the front line of this war, and that inattention to duty could be suddenly and swiftly corrected by American special warfare commandos.
We cared for the prisoners and detainees first. The fragmentary POW amenities we'd provided slowly seeped away as the innocent POWs were adjudicated and transferred. The remaining detainees were treated as the hideously dangerous violent criminals they were.
"The horse, the saddle, the man."
Our saddle was our uniforms and equipment. I had decided early on that all accessory equipment - belts, gloves, 'nightsticks' aka 'be cool sticks' - needed to be white in color. Our seamstresses were kept busy. We needed to look sharp, our lives depended on it.
Then we had to be in shape. That meant gym, physical fitness, a training regimen that took into account our need to go into battle at any particular moment.
Most prisons have a 'cell extraction team' or 'special operations team' for dealing with rebellious prisoners, potential riots, etc.
We did not. Every single member of my prison guard staff was trained to the SRT level. If you could not hack SRT, you discovered the joys of war in the SIerras.
Our foes were hardened genocidaires, knowing killers of innocents, who had run facilities that looked like ours. Barbed wire, cages, cells. But they had put children in the cells. Raped people. Killed for fun.
Every day my challenge to my people was that we needed to be harder. Harder than Nazis. Harder than the KKK. Harder than nuclear terrorists. In a word, harder than Americans.
So hard that we did not need to break military law.
We provided what amenities we could for our staff. Medical care was OK and got better. Food was never great, but never quite awful. But many of us were willing to work twenty hours a day for a safe place to sleep.
I was liberal with three day passes, but they had to be taken in teams of four. I knew better than to send single guards, or even pairs, down to San Jose.
Execution duties were by rota. We would all do our duty. I took my turn on the winch lever and behind the rifle stock with everyone else. But I reserved to myself the right to announce sentences and the duty to terminate executed prisoners who survived their method of execution.
After the third time anemic .223 rounds (the M-16 or AR-15) failed to kill a combatant who had violated the laws of war, I swapped our rifles out for .308 and that problem was solved.
Four of the five chaplains refused to see my guards. They were here to minister to the condemned, not their condemners.
The Buddhist never gave up trying to talk us, but especially me, out of what she saw as misplaced vengeance.
The other other thing I allowed, consciously, was the one allegedly free recreation. Within the boundaries of the chain of command, guards were free to fraternize with each other.
(The one guard who fraternized with a prisoner was shot, for capital rape. The officer judging the case allowed him to plead that his military crime was not deserving of strangulation. I would have hung him with wire.)
We talked frequently among ourselves. I maintained discipline but we allowed frank and private exchange of views. The wardroom remained a sacrosanct officer's space. but many of the officers were invited frequently to the NCO club - a privilege we appreciated but never took for granted.
One day a newspaper was being passed around, the New York Times. It called us a "Left Wing Death Squad"
I took a picture of the article. I went back to my quarters and in my next few days of free time, wrote a letter.
I did not clear it with the California Republic Press Affairs Office, which eventually earned me a minor written reprimand.
###
Dear Editor,
I read with interest your paper's article about the operations of Alviso Prison, at which the California Republic has executed over two thousand genocidal war criminals and looks forward to executing at least several hundred more.
You are invited to come view the proceedings for yourself, or send a reporter. I promise safe conduct and the right to publish freely.
We are neither left wing nor right wing. We are a death squad, of that let there be no doubt.
The death by atomic fire of San Francisco. The death of our families, our friends, anyone caught up in Homeland's net of atrocities, anyone 'sidewalked' or 'sent Homeward Bound' or 'sanctioned' or whatever euphemism is employed for murder most foul. So many people murdered not out of hatred, but by 'policy,' notably the infamous policy that Homeland murdered transgender people rather than face the decision to classify them by gender.
Perhaps the Times would care to identify the architects of today's America, a nation most divided, with liberty and justice for none.
Well, a very few. This prison is a place where justice is served. By the neck.
Echo 18
Captain, Army of the California Republic
Warden, Alviso Prison
I enjoyed one luxury at Alviso Prison that I did not have at any other time in my checkered career.
I could literally take my pick of personnel. The armies of the California Republic were a draft of all persons of military age between fourteen and seventy. With limited exceptions, mostly involving a single parent caring for multiple children, everyone was on the front lines of this war - the only way thirty million people (minus a half million or so) could hold off two hundred million people. If you call Americans people.
So there were plenty of people who wanted to try something other than being on the front line. If they were incompetents, I sent them off to the front. If they were bloodthirsty, I sent them off to the front. If they were too kind, I sent them to be conscientious objectors. (All COs were automatically drafted as combat infantry medics.)
After some aggressive sorting, I ended up with a pool of hard core rat bastards, every man and woman jack of us, who understood that we were containing a dangerous infection in the soul of not just California or America, but the entire world.
The Sunnyvale raid confirmed for everyone that we were in fact soldiers on the front line of this war, and that inattention to duty could be suddenly and swiftly corrected by American special warfare commandos.
We cared for the prisoners and detainees first. The fragmentary POW amenities we'd provided slowly seeped away as the innocent POWs were adjudicated and transferred. The remaining detainees were treated as the hideously dangerous violent criminals they were.
"The horse, the saddle, the man."
Our saddle was our uniforms and equipment. I had decided early on that all accessory equipment - belts, gloves, 'nightsticks' aka 'be cool sticks' - needed to be white in color. Our seamstresses were kept busy. We needed to look sharp, our lives depended on it.
Then we had to be in shape. That meant gym, physical fitness, a training regimen that took into account our need to go into battle at any particular moment.
Most prisons have a 'cell extraction team' or 'special operations team' for dealing with rebellious prisoners, potential riots, etc.
We did not. Every single member of my prison guard staff was trained to the SRT level. If you could not hack SRT, you discovered the joys of war in the SIerras.
Our foes were hardened genocidaires, knowing killers of innocents, who had run facilities that looked like ours. Barbed wire, cages, cells. But they had put children in the cells. Raped people. Killed for fun.
Every day my challenge to my people was that we needed to be harder. Harder than Nazis. Harder than the KKK. Harder than nuclear terrorists. In a word, harder than Americans.
So hard that we did not need to break military law.
We provided what amenities we could for our staff. Medical care was OK and got better. Food was never great, but never quite awful. But many of us were willing to work twenty hours a day for a safe place to sleep.
I was liberal with three day passes, but they had to be taken in teams of four. I knew better than to send single guards, or even pairs, down to San Jose.
Execution duties were by rota. We would all do our duty. I took my turn on the winch lever and behind the rifle stock with everyone else. But I reserved to myself the right to announce sentences and the duty to terminate executed prisoners who survived their method of execution.
After the third time anemic .223 rounds (the M-16 or AR-15) failed to kill a combatant who had violated the laws of war, I swapped our rifles out for .308 and that problem was solved.
Four of the five chaplains refused to see my guards. They were here to minister to the condemned, not their condemners.
The Buddhist never gave up trying to talk us, but especially me, out of what she saw as misplaced vengeance.
The other other thing I allowed, consciously, was the one allegedly free recreation. Within the boundaries of the chain of command, guards were free to fraternize with each other.
(The one guard who fraternized with a prisoner was shot, for capital rape. The officer judging the case allowed him to plead that his military crime was not deserving of strangulation. I would have hung him with wire.)
We talked frequently among ourselves. I maintained discipline but we allowed frank and private exchange of views. The wardroom remained a sacrosanct officer's space. but many of the officers were invited frequently to the NCO club - a privilege we appreciated but never took for granted.
One day a newspaper was being passed around, the New York Times. It called us a "Left Wing Death Squad"
I took a picture of the article. I went back to my quarters and in my next few days of free time, wrote a letter.
I did not clear it with the California Republic Press Affairs Office, which eventually earned me a minor written reprimand.
###
Dear Editor,
I read with interest your paper's article about the operations of Alviso Prison, at which the California Republic has executed over two thousand genocidal war criminals and looks forward to executing at least several hundred more.
You are invited to come view the proceedings for yourself, or send a reporter. I promise safe conduct and the right to publish freely.
We are neither left wing nor right wing. We are a death squad, of that let there be no doubt.
The death by atomic fire of San Francisco. The death of our families, our friends, anyone caught up in Homeland's net of atrocities, anyone 'sidewalked' or 'sent Homeward Bound' or 'sanctioned' or whatever euphemism is employed for murder most foul. So many people murdered not out of hatred, but by 'policy,' notably the infamous policy that Homeland murdered transgender people rather than face the decision to classify them by gender.
Perhaps the Times would care to identify the architects of today's America, a nation most divided, with liberty and justice for none.
Well, a very few. This prison is a place where justice is served. By the neck.
Echo 18
Captain, Army of the California Republic
Warden, Alviso Prison
