![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
GWOT V - Assignment
GWOT V - Assignment
I've returned to Sacramento after my visit to Monterey. I've learned a little about the California Naval Militia (mostly that they are all batshit crazy) and that I can survive a water crash in a helicopter.
Now I'm in front of a mild-mannered civilian clerk, whose status has been carefully explained so that no one tries to bully him or pull rank on him. He reports directly to the Commanding General, and has more power over us officers than any number of majors or colonels.
He looks up from his reading.
"Captain 18, I don't see any record here of your commissioning."
"I received my commissioning document by E-mail."
"I've got that. But I'm also not finding your military education or experience. Did you serve in another armed forces before California?"
"No."
"Did you participate in ROTC? National Guard or Reserve? Military academy?"
"No."
His voice turns pleading.
"JROTC? Summer cruise? Family who were in the military? Police? Auxiliary cadets?"
He squints and his face lights up.
"Intelligence officer? Agent? Informant? Emergency services?"
"I was licensed as an EMT. I was a security manager."
He un-lights.
"College degree?"
"Sort of. Associate's in Protection Management."
He looks through my file, clearly looking through my last billet.
I take pity on him.
"I must have had a baton in my knapsack."
The reference to Napoleon flies over his head.
"I'm a student of military history."
He harrumphs.
"Well, you're here, and we need you. So you need to do, let's see, the HROC course, San Francisco tour, Sacramento... no, you've already had that, and then ... hmmm. Can you ride a motorcycle?"
"Yes."
"The Border it is then."
He makes some notes on my file and tucks it away.
"Oh, you can go."
I can see why he's a civilian. So it's my sworn duty to protect him instead of, say, strangling him.
###
The HROC course, whatever that is, is taught in a warehouse outside Sacramento. I can't be more specific about the location because I was blindfolded and driven around for exactly one hour before being delivered there.
The twenty of us were in a waiting area with comfortable chairs, ersatz coffee, tea (tea!) and given a chance to talk.
We were evenly divided between pilots (which is an enlisted duty in the California Republic), scout-soldiers (which is also largely enlisted) and officers such as myself.
A colonel stuck his head in, looked at each of us briefly, motioned to me.
"Major [18]?"
"Yes, colonel."
"How did you injure your left hand?"
"Extended stay at the Homeland Rest Spa For Suspected Traitors, Colonel."
"Come with me."
He sat me down in what looked a lot like an interrogation room. But his manner was friendly and brisk.
"A lot of records haven't caught up with us. How long were you in Homeland custody?"
"Seven months."
He blinked.
"Do you have your profile with you?"
"Yes."
I produced it. Basically it's a one page medical record, with a focus on what you can't.
In my case, it's lift more than 25 pounds, use my left arm or hand for detail work, participate in ruck marches or timed PT.
"You really, really shouldn't be here. I mean, whoever sent you here fucked up, bad."
"How so?"
"This is the _HROC_ course."
"What's that?"
He articulated the acronym. "_H_igh _R_isk _O_f _C_apture. The American military called it SERE for Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape."
"I wish I'd had that class," I said bitterly. "Can I sit in?"
Mark the date. The first time I've ever seen a full colonel hesitate.
"It's very, very physical. And unusually likely to trigger PTSD and flashbacks. We had a student badly hurt last week, and an instructor nearly killed in another incident."
He flipped through my file.
"Education waiver. Psychological waiver. Commission waiver. Medical waiver... What was your last duty assignment, Captain?"
"Warden."
He blinked.
"Of what?"
"Alviso Prison."
###
I was not participating in the course. Full hard stop.
The course was borrowing me as an instructor.
While my peers were beaten, chased around, subjected to custody and control ... I sat in the lounge sipping tea and reading the materials for the class.
There was a lot of cool shit in there, and I wished I'd known most of it.
While my peers had to seek out and take advantage of the numerous opportunities for escape that were provided ... I wrote a PowerPoint.
While my peers were chased by soldiers with dogs ... I rehearsed my speech.
Only when they were sat down, and medics had treated their numerous but minor injuries, bottles of water were passed around ... then I got to take the podium at the front.
###
"My name is Captain 18. I was arrested by Homeland. My left hand was broken during my arrest. It was stamped on by a steel toed boot. I was interrogated in three separate sessions - intelligence gathering after arrest, which ended when I killed my first interrogator, which was about two weeks. I sustained numerous injuries and was left in isolation for about six weeks. Then I was interrogated in daily sessions lasting about three months. This ended when I killed my second interrogator. I was held again in isolation. I don't know how long because I was hallucinating much of the time. They were dosing me with psychotropic drugs in the cell water supply. I went into septic shock. I was put in an infirmary-so-called for about ten days, and when I became coherent again, I was interviewed for intelligence value and then once all intel value was extracted, tortured for at least another month. I was rescued on Day One of the Resistance campaign."
Writing it down had really helped me. I'd had privacy, because I'd wept.
Now I could say it all clearly and calmly. It was the students, my peers, who were visibly disturbed.
"The instructors here asked if I had something to focus on, some particular reason to survive. At first I didn't. I believed that the handful of people I cared about had already been killed. With two exceptions, I was correct.
"Then I was very, very angry. I expected to be tortured. I didn't expect ... a lot of the methods that were used.
"I knew that Homeland pulled out fingernails, and that a broken hand made that easier. I knew about their cut rate dental work. I knew about electroshock but I had no idea how incredibly painful it would actually be. I didn't know one of the connectors would be inside my anus. I didn't know what a shallow human being my first interrogator would be... or how complicated and ultimately human my second interrogator would be. I was Stockholming, of course.
"What I was most offended by was the utter pointlessness and futility of it all. If I were them, I'd have shot me in the back of the head and thrown me in a hole. All this horsing around offended me.
"I'd spent decades ignoring my body. Now my body was in a human body shop, forcing my brain and body into contact with each other, no matter how much I tried to escape or disassociate or withdraw ... or go catatonic or insane.
"My first interrogator brought an unloaded handgun into our sessions. He liked to threaten me with it. He made the fatal mistake of thinking I was more incapacitated than I was. When I found out it was unloaded, I beat him to death with it instead.
"My second interrogator simply became lazy, over weeks and months. We became friends. We really did. It was still my duty to kill him, so I killed him.
"Interrogation is bad. Torture is worse. You will reach the point where you will say or do anything to stop the pain. You will. There is no such thing as a person who cannot be broken.
"But realizing that they're not listening, that the point is not information but mere joy in sadism ... I broke. I would have told them anything but they were no longer asking.
"I broke. The question was whether I could put myself back together.
"I did. Then they broke me. Then I put myself back together again. I became good at building up a fake human being from the pieces.
"I'll admit that my childhood helped.
"I finally got to the point that I circled all the way around the block. I liked pain.
"They were experts. They'd seen all my responses before. Body shop.
"That was then they started rolling me into the furnace.
"Obviously they never lit it. They cracked the gas, a little, and one of them had a barbeque stick lighter.
"I didn't want to live. I'd gone way past that. I wanted to die before I burned. I wanted to breath in and out as quick as I can to sear my lungs, as much as I could, and hopefully pass out.
"What I wished most, and I had days and weeks and months to wish for it, is that I'd gone for it.
"Gone to guns, or hand-to-hand against that first arrest. Used a grenade, or a bomb. Stolen a truck. If I had had any idea how much pain was waiting for me in that fucking building, I'd have died any way I could before they got me through the doors.
"The day I was rescued, I was more than ready for death. I cursed out the rescue detail. They had to drag me. Not just because of my injuries.
"'The brave man dies but once. The coward dies a thousand deaths.' I learned so much about myself in there. Worst of all, I learned that I am an arrant coward.
"Watching the video clip of that building collapsing is still cathartic for me."
I stopped. There was more. But I didn't have more.
"Thank you, Captain, no questions."
###
They'd recorded my speech, and would show it to future classes. I was again given opportunity to obtain mental health care, as required by law and regulation, and I again exercised my right in writing to decline it.
They gave me orders for my next training assignment.
San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project.
That would be ... harder.
I've returned to Sacramento after my visit to Monterey. I've learned a little about the California Naval Militia (mostly that they are all batshit crazy) and that I can survive a water crash in a helicopter.
Now I'm in front of a mild-mannered civilian clerk, whose status has been carefully explained so that no one tries to bully him or pull rank on him. He reports directly to the Commanding General, and has more power over us officers than any number of majors or colonels.
He looks up from his reading.
"Captain 18, I don't see any record here of your commissioning."
"I received my commissioning document by E-mail."
"I've got that. But I'm also not finding your military education or experience. Did you serve in another armed forces before California?"
"No."
"Did you participate in ROTC? National Guard or Reserve? Military academy?"
"No."
His voice turns pleading.
"JROTC? Summer cruise? Family who were in the military? Police? Auxiliary cadets?"
He squints and his face lights up.
"Intelligence officer? Agent? Informant? Emergency services?"
"I was licensed as an EMT. I was a security manager."
He un-lights.
"College degree?"
"Sort of. Associate's in Protection Management."
He looks through my file, clearly looking through my last billet.
I take pity on him.
"I must have had a baton in my knapsack."
The reference to Napoleon flies over his head.
"I'm a student of military history."
He harrumphs.
"Well, you're here, and we need you. So you need to do, let's see, the HROC course, San Francisco tour, Sacramento... no, you've already had that, and then ... hmmm. Can you ride a motorcycle?"
"Yes."
"The Border it is then."
He makes some notes on my file and tucks it away.
"Oh, you can go."
I can see why he's a civilian. So it's my sworn duty to protect him instead of, say, strangling him.
###
The HROC course, whatever that is, is taught in a warehouse outside Sacramento. I can't be more specific about the location because I was blindfolded and driven around for exactly one hour before being delivered there.
The twenty of us were in a waiting area with comfortable chairs, ersatz coffee, tea (tea!) and given a chance to talk.
We were evenly divided between pilots (which is an enlisted duty in the California Republic), scout-soldiers (which is also largely enlisted) and officers such as myself.
A colonel stuck his head in, looked at each of us briefly, motioned to me.
"Major [18]?"
"Yes, colonel."
"How did you injure your left hand?"
"Extended stay at the Homeland Rest Spa For Suspected Traitors, Colonel."
"Come with me."
He sat me down in what looked a lot like an interrogation room. But his manner was friendly and brisk.
"A lot of records haven't caught up with us. How long were you in Homeland custody?"
"Seven months."
He blinked.
"Do you have your profile with you?"
"Yes."
I produced it. Basically it's a one page medical record, with a focus on what you can't.
In my case, it's lift more than 25 pounds, use my left arm or hand for detail work, participate in ruck marches or timed PT.
"You really, really shouldn't be here. I mean, whoever sent you here fucked up, bad."
"How so?"
"This is the _HROC_ course."
"What's that?"
He articulated the acronym. "_H_igh _R_isk _O_f _C_apture. The American military called it SERE for Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape."
"I wish I'd had that class," I said bitterly. "Can I sit in?"
Mark the date. The first time I've ever seen a full colonel hesitate.
"It's very, very physical. And unusually likely to trigger PTSD and flashbacks. We had a student badly hurt last week, and an instructor nearly killed in another incident."
He flipped through my file.
"Education waiver. Psychological waiver. Commission waiver. Medical waiver... What was your last duty assignment, Captain?"
"Warden."
He blinked.
"Of what?"
"Alviso Prison."
###
I was not participating in the course. Full hard stop.
The course was borrowing me as an instructor.
While my peers were beaten, chased around, subjected to custody and control ... I sat in the lounge sipping tea and reading the materials for the class.
There was a lot of cool shit in there, and I wished I'd known most of it.
While my peers had to seek out and take advantage of the numerous opportunities for escape that were provided ... I wrote a PowerPoint.
While my peers were chased by soldiers with dogs ... I rehearsed my speech.
Only when they were sat down, and medics had treated their numerous but minor injuries, bottles of water were passed around ... then I got to take the podium at the front.
###
"My name is Captain 18. I was arrested by Homeland. My left hand was broken during my arrest. It was stamped on by a steel toed boot. I was interrogated in three separate sessions - intelligence gathering after arrest, which ended when I killed my first interrogator, which was about two weeks. I sustained numerous injuries and was left in isolation for about six weeks. Then I was interrogated in daily sessions lasting about three months. This ended when I killed my second interrogator. I was held again in isolation. I don't know how long because I was hallucinating much of the time. They were dosing me with psychotropic drugs in the cell water supply. I went into septic shock. I was put in an infirmary-so-called for about ten days, and when I became coherent again, I was interviewed for intelligence value and then once all intel value was extracted, tortured for at least another month. I was rescued on Day One of the Resistance campaign."
Writing it down had really helped me. I'd had privacy, because I'd wept.
Now I could say it all clearly and calmly. It was the students, my peers, who were visibly disturbed.
"The instructors here asked if I had something to focus on, some particular reason to survive. At first I didn't. I believed that the handful of people I cared about had already been killed. With two exceptions, I was correct.
"Then I was very, very angry. I expected to be tortured. I didn't expect ... a lot of the methods that were used.
"I knew that Homeland pulled out fingernails, and that a broken hand made that easier. I knew about their cut rate dental work. I knew about electroshock but I had no idea how incredibly painful it would actually be. I didn't know one of the connectors would be inside my anus. I didn't know what a shallow human being my first interrogator would be... or how complicated and ultimately human my second interrogator would be. I was Stockholming, of course.
"What I was most offended by was the utter pointlessness and futility of it all. If I were them, I'd have shot me in the back of the head and thrown me in a hole. All this horsing around offended me.
"I'd spent decades ignoring my body. Now my body was in a human body shop, forcing my brain and body into contact with each other, no matter how much I tried to escape or disassociate or withdraw ... or go catatonic or insane.
"My first interrogator brought an unloaded handgun into our sessions. He liked to threaten me with it. He made the fatal mistake of thinking I was more incapacitated than I was. When I found out it was unloaded, I beat him to death with it instead.
"My second interrogator simply became lazy, over weeks and months. We became friends. We really did. It was still my duty to kill him, so I killed him.
"Interrogation is bad. Torture is worse. You will reach the point where you will say or do anything to stop the pain. You will. There is no such thing as a person who cannot be broken.
"But realizing that they're not listening, that the point is not information but mere joy in sadism ... I broke. I would have told them anything but they were no longer asking.
"I broke. The question was whether I could put myself back together.
"I did. Then they broke me. Then I put myself back together again. I became good at building up a fake human being from the pieces.
"I'll admit that my childhood helped.
"I finally got to the point that I circled all the way around the block. I liked pain.
"They were experts. They'd seen all my responses before. Body shop.
"That was then they started rolling me into the furnace.
"Obviously they never lit it. They cracked the gas, a little, and one of them had a barbeque stick lighter.
"I didn't want to live. I'd gone way past that. I wanted to die before I burned. I wanted to breath in and out as quick as I can to sear my lungs, as much as I could, and hopefully pass out.
"What I wished most, and I had days and weeks and months to wish for it, is that I'd gone for it.
"Gone to guns, or hand-to-hand against that first arrest. Used a grenade, or a bomb. Stolen a truck. If I had had any idea how much pain was waiting for me in that fucking building, I'd have died any way I could before they got me through the doors.
"The day I was rescued, I was more than ready for death. I cursed out the rescue detail. They had to drag me. Not just because of my injuries.
"'The brave man dies but once. The coward dies a thousand deaths.' I learned so much about myself in there. Worst of all, I learned that I am an arrant coward.
"Watching the video clip of that building collapsing is still cathartic for me."
I stopped. There was more. But I didn't have more.
"Thank you, Captain, no questions."
###
They'd recorded my speech, and would show it to future classes. I was again given opportunity to obtain mental health care, as required by law and regulation, and I again exercised my right in writing to decline it.
They gave me orders for my next training assignment.
San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project.
That would be ... harder.