Message-Id: <199607150251.WAA31044@mail-e2b-service.gnn.com> Date: Sun, 14 Jul 1996 21:44:24 From: "Laurie Slicer" Subject: "... Beat Them Until They Are" "... Beat Them Until They Are" Sam Beckett found himself alone in a box, a large wooden box about six by eight feet and no more than four feet high. The slats that kept him inside let in just a minimum of light and a tiny, padlocked iron grate served as the only entrance. The stifling heat and the smell of humid air seemed familiar. He's seen enough in his years of leaping to know that he was in deep trouble, probably kidnaped and was being held for ransom in some backwoods southern bayou. There was no mirror in which to check out who he was, so he started examining his clothes. He was wearing a Navy pilot's uniform: torn, dirty and stained with sweat and grime. So this wasn't the deep south. This wasn't even the United States. Dog tags would give him a name, but a quick check for a chain came up empty. In the distance he heard men yelling in a language he didn't understand. Despite the heat, a streak of fear chilled to the bone. Then, in his mind, he heard Admiral Al Calavicci, his friend's voice saying, " ... a cage too small to stand up in, too narrow to sit down ... weevil infested rice and all the rain water you could catch in your mouth." Sam had returned to Vietnam, this time as a prisoner of war. ***Oh, God. What am I going to do? *** Though he had leaped into this pilot no more than five minutes earlier, he was already feeling claustrophobic and a slow growing panic was infiltrating his heart. On his hands and knees, Sam crawled to the cage door to look outside. What he saw attracted his attention the way a car crash ties up rush hour traffic. Two VC guards and another man, a POW with his legs were shackled by heavy iron, were barely in Sam's line of sight. He craned his neck to get a better look and the scene made his stomach tighten into a knot so tight he thought he might explode. The trio stopped under an open wooden frame. The soldier's wrists and elbows were tied behind his back at an angle that was painful to witness. Another rope at his wrists tethered him to the overhanging crossbeam. One of them pulled on the tether and yanked the POW's arms over his head, pulling his shoulders unnaturally backwards and bending his body over on itself. He was hoisted a foot or two off the ground. The other guard took a length of something that looked like a thin piece of rubber tire and with incredible glee delivered God knows how many strokes to the man's bare back. The dead space of Sam's cage started to echo with the sound of the whip as it made contact and tore flesh from the man's body. Sam stopped counting the blows after the first 50. He crawled into the far corner of the bamboo cage unable to watch any longer, but he could still hear and at least another 50 lashes found their mark before the POW's first sounds of pain tore through the air. Even muffled, the torment in those screams was plain. Tears fell from Sam's eyes. With a whisper that bordered on a prayer he said to the air, "Al, please, come soon." The whipping continued for what seemed like an hour. The screams slowly became whimpers and finished as single plea for an end - but when the man asked to be set free, the whipping became more forceful. Sam crawled back to the iron grate, somehow compelled to watch. The rope holding the POW midair was untied and he was dropped to the jungle floor, lifted up and dropped - over and over again. Each time, his shoulders twisted in directions that weren't normal. The pain had to be unbearable, but the POW endured the torture without any hope its easing. The man's body was now just a mass of open wounds. The frayed shorts he wore were no longer khaki, but blood-red. The torture had continued now well over an hour, and still Sam could hear the POW trying to deny his agony. In whispers barely audible, Sam pleaded for the tortured man, "Please stop. He's had enough. Don't kill him. Please." His words were unheard, apparently even by a higher power, because the beating continued. In all his leaping, Sam had never witnessed violence this overtly ugly and brutal. The POW's body lay on the ground with one guard pulling on his hair to expose his face to the repeated blows of a bamboo stick. The silence from the victim and the cracking of the bamboo brought a deathly ache to Sam's heart. "Leave him alone, please. He can't do anything to you anymore." The guards began chanting in thickly accented English, "Confess and live. Oppose and die. Confess and live. Oppose and die." Sam finally knew this POW's crime. He would not confess to their accusations and now he was paying for his courage. When the VC were done with the man, he was once more hoisted off the ground. Over the next hour, Sam saw the body twitch, but finally it fell limp and dangled from the rope. There the POW died. Sam sat glassy-eyed, watching it happen; the very real compassion he felt for the soldier was overpowered by the horrible fear that he would be next. The tears he wiped from his eyes were for himself. Sitting against the wall, he muttered, "Where are you, Al?" but Al wasn't coming. Sam waited and waited; no Al came to offer help. A mean anger grew inside him. If anyone knew what this hell was like, Al knew. Why wasn't he coming? Sam pulled his shirt around him as an incredible anxiety assaulted his entire body. More hours passed by without Al. An occasional glance out the tiny door showed the tortured man still was hanging from his twisted arms. Sam's pleas for Al's help dissipated, giving way to outrage, an intense fury, because Al had deserted him in a situation as desperate as this one. ***He knows what this is like. What the hell am I supposed to do? I got to leap out of here.*** Sam's mind started playing games, making plans. He was writing the script for his inevitable confrontation with Al Calavicci. "Where the hell have you been? Do you know how long I ve been waiting? I had to watch that POW die because you were too busy getting laid somewhere." Some far corner of his soul was producing these cruel thoughts and he didn't care. If only he had the ability to strangle the hologram! Sam's hands began to wring thin air and he visualized the Admiral turning blue in front of his eyes. It was an oddly comforting picture and the tighter his hands balled up, the deader the Admiral became and Sam was sustained by the cruel joy he felt. happy. Al's ultimate abandonment was too much for Sam to bear and the rage inside him grew and grew. "You deserve a slow death for leaving me here alone." It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. He was suffering this torment just because Al was too lazy to help. Al was always looking for the easy way out. What had Sam ever seen in that refugee from the fashion police? ***This box is too small. *** He could picture Al now, at some secluded spot in the mountains making love to some woman he'd just met, paid for, and whose name he didn't know - playing games with her with no regard for Sam. It wasn't fair. Sam could see that, but not Al. Al was too busy being selfish. That was always his way. ***God, how hot is it here? I can't breathe.*** When they were building the computer, all Al ever wanted to do was goof off. That's why the retrieval program didn't work. Sam would be home, if Al would have worked harder. It was Al's fault then and it was Al's fault now and it wasn't fair. ***He doesn't really care. My friend, right. He's been lying to me all these years. I can't stand this box. It's too small. I don't want to die in here.*** Where the hell was Al? Sam held his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth. It was hard to catch his breath. Al deserted him to this hell, made him watch a man get tortured to death. Sam just had to sit and wait for his turn to be whipped and beaten. He knew the VC were going to murder him in the most hideous way possible. He had seen their methods of coercion. The idea of confessing appealed to him. The dead soldier was too stupid to know that if he only confessed, he would be safe. ***It was all the POW's fault. He got himself killed. It's not my fault he was too stupid to confess. There's no honor in this war and I'm not going to die for it.*** Sam decided that he would say anything, do anything to keep from being tortured like the dead soldier. So what if Al had gone through this. It wasn't Sam's fault. Why should he have to suffer because Al was too busy screwing. ***Damn him.*** It was all Al's fault! If Al had shown up on time, then maybe Sam could have stopped that man's death. By now, hours had passed and Al still hadn't come to give him information, to tell him his mission, to give him someone to talk to so that he wasn't alone in this tiny wooden box. In the darkness of his cell, Sam had only destructive thoughts to keep him company. The hatred he saw growing so easily in his heart was destroying his will to survive and it had only been hours. It didn't matter that Al had been there and done this for eight years. Eight years. Now it was Sam's turn to chant quietly as he still rocked, and the words were simple: ***eight years, eight years, eight years.*** His chanting pushed him toward a conscious effort to work past the bitterness he harbored for the Admiral. A little ray of common sense told him he was blaming Al for things that were beyond his control. Sam tried hard to forgive his friend, but it wasn't until he flashed back to another leap - a leap into a Navy Seal on April 8, 1970 - that the transcendence finally came. The first time Sam came to Vietnam he leaped in to save his brother's life. On that leap, Sam broke the primary rule of Quantum Leaping - he changed things for his own benefit. The leap wasn't clean though, and a photojournalist had been killed. Yes, Maggie Dawson had died, and Al, who already had been MIA for three years, had sacrificed his freedom for five more to keep Tom alive - eight years of living in a cage like the one Sam was in now. ***Eight years, eight years.*** There was a simple reason why Al hadn't come. The pain here was too much for him. ***Eight years, eight years.*** Sam slowly rocked and chanted himself into an understanding of Al's absence. ***Eight years. *** Then he realized: Sam hadn't leaped into an anonymous Navy pilot. He leaped into Al. He was Al and he was living Al's hell. It was a poetic kind of justice. If Al had given his freedom to save Tom Beckett, it was only fair that Sam should fully understand the enormity of that gift. Shame and guilt permeated his consciousness. He tried to take a few deep breaths but that didn't help; the humidity made the air heavy and the smell of rotting jungle congested his lungs and made his brain pound. Not long ago he had pictured himself killing his best friend, a man who had endured this torture for Sam's brother. Sam begged aloud for forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Al. But please come to me, if you can. Please. I'm scared, really, really scared." More and more time passed. No miracle occurred. Judging by the position of the shadows, Sam figured that at least eight or nine hours now had gone by without Al's appearing with much needed guidance and encouragement. Outside the hovel, Sam heard noises. He saw the VC cut down the dead man and drag his lifeless body toward Sam's cage. He backed himself into a corner, frightened so badly that he shook. The guards unlocked the tiny door, threw it open, and stuffed the dead man inside; the door was again chained shut. The VC guards took up their chant again, "Confess and live, Oppose and die." The dead POW lay in the room. Sam was afraid to get near him. As a medical student, he had seen his share of cadavers, but this man was different. Sam watched and heard this man's life ebb away, powerless to prevent it. The man lay there for almost 15 minutes before Sam found the courage to get closer. Wanting to finally see the face of this sad soldier, he turned the body onto its back pressing the bound arms against the floor, but a sudden noise from he body made him dart back in fear. He approached the man again. He could see the man's shoulders were grotesquely dislocated, his body caked with dried blood, the bones in his shackled legs and feet broken. Sam looked into the man's face. The beating made him barely recognizable as human, his eyes swollen shut. Another small sound came from the man. Sam again retreated. He couldn't do anything, but pray. ***God, tell me what to do.*** As if he was begging not to die alone, the POW made more sounds and Sam finally knew his responsibilities. Al wouldn't let this man die without a friend and neither would he. If he couldn't help medically, he could hold the man's hand and let him know someone cared, even if he was a stranger. Summoning up all the courage he thought he might possibly still have, Sam inched his way to the man's side and began to talk. "I know you're hurting real bad," he said, "but maybe I can help. I'm going to untie the ropes around your arms, okay?" Sam took the small moan as confirmation. The man's hands were black and an ugly purple. Untying the bonds seemed to be as painful as leaving them tied, but Sam knew circulation had to be restored to the limbs or they'd become gangrenous. "I know it hurts, but I know what I'm doing, You have to believe me, okay?" As his elbows were released from the ropes, more and louder noises of pain emerged from the swollen, distorted face. "I know, I know. I'm really sorry, but I'm a doctor." The open wound of a man still said nothing. Sam figured he couldn't, in the condition he was in. "Listen, I'm going to help you, but it's going to hurt. Just hang in there." The words sounded hollow even to him and he only had to say them, not hear or believe them. With pain in his heart, Sam quickly, mercifully snapped the shoulder joints back into alignment. The man screamed. Sam just talked to him. "I can't begin to imagine how much you're hurting, but I had to put your shoulders back in place. The pain should lighten up a little bit now." The man muttered the first intelligible words Sam heard him say. They came out in a fragile and stuttering voice: "I ... I ... I won't ... won't ... sign." "No one is asking you to. I'm an American like you. You're with me, now. The VC are gone. They won't hurt you anymore." Sam figured that was a lie, but at this point, the POW needed all the good news he could hear. The man shivered despite the heat and Sam took off his shirt to cover him. It fairly dwarfed the wasted-away soldier. Sam moved to the side of the box to watch his guest. Where in God's name was Al? ***Al, he needs you. Please come.*** Another half hour passed during which time the man didn't move or make a sound. At first, if Sam stared hard, he could see the thin chest move up and down in staggered, shallow breaths, but Sam was almost asleep by the time the door to the Imaging Chamber opened and a uniformed Admiral Calavicci stepped out. "Sam." Al adjusted his holographic image so that he was seated cross legged in the corner of the cell. "Sorry it took me so long to get here." Sam scrambled toward the hologram. "Al? Is that you? Thank God." Al couldn't look Sam in the eye. "Thank Verbena Beeks. The good doctor finally talked me into coming here. This one is hard for me, Sam, but I shouldn't have left you alone this long." "It's okay, Al. I know what's happening. I'm here for him, right? I mean, I have to be. He's is bad shape, Al. His body is a mess. Most of the bones in his legs are broken. His shoulders were dislocated. And look at his face. My God, even his own mother wouldn't recognize him." "No argument there." "He can't weigh 100 pounds. How did you survive this? This cage is so small." "Sam, this isn't a cage. This is actually one of the bigger rooms. There's space here for two or three men." Al tried but couldn't look at the POW's face. "You mean the cages were smaller?" The answer came in the form of a slight nod. "Al, I leaped into you, into Bingo again." - he pointed to the injured soldier - "but what can I, I mean you, do for him? He needs a lot of medical attention and I don't have anything to work with. I don't even have water to clean him up." A puzzled expression plastered itself on the Admiral's face. It took a few seconds for him to be able to speak again. "How did you figure you're me?" "The uniform is Navy, and it just makes sense." "Look at him, Sam. Get close and look at him." Sam crawled over to the POW. If it wasn't for the curly, black hair the man would be barely recognizable as a human being. Curly, black hair - and Sam suddenly had a name to put on his roommate. He hadn't leaped into Bingo. This dying POW was his future friend. If he could have howled away his anguish, he would have. "No, please, it's not you." "It's Bingo in all his glory." Guilt was throbbing through his entire body. "Al, what's the date?" "You don't need to know that." "Tell me." "November first." "What's the year?" "It doesn't matter." "It does to me." He said a quick prayer to himself: ***Please, let it be before 1970. Don't let this be my fault.*** Reluctantly Al mumbled, "It's 1971." There was nothing to say. Sam buried his face in his hands unable to stop the voice his tears finally found. The last thing Al wanted was for Sam to dwell on Bingo's past. In any case, he didn't want to do much talking about it; it was bad enough to see his own tortured body. "Don't worry about Bingo here. Obviously, he makes it. I wouldn't be here if he didn't." He sighed and started pushing buttons on the handlink. "You're Captain Daniel Cellars, a career Navy pilot, 44 years old. Ziggy says you have to make sure Cellars gets back his will to live. You were captured three weeks ago. In the original history, the captain never made it home and his oldest daughter Emily couldn't deal with his dying like this. In 1978, she tried to commit suicide by driving off a cliff. It didn't work - she survived that, but she ran a bus off the road and 23 people were killed including five kids. Emily lost it then and blew her brains out with a shotgun." This kind of leap was the hardest for Sam. Exactly what could he do that would give this man a reason to survive the war? "Is Verbena talking to him in the waiting room?" "Sure. I talked to him, too." "Did you tell him who you were?" "He knows I'm an Admiral and that I was MIA, but I don't think he could handle time travel theory right now and there was no way he could recognize me." He lowered his head and timidly said, "Even you didn't recognize me." Then gaining some false bravado, he added, "The bottom line is you have to get Cellars through the night here. If he can get through this with some hope, he'll make it." "What about you?" Sam pointed to the injured Al. "That you. Do you remember this?" Al moved a few inches closer to his young self and stared down. "You thought he was dead, didn't you?" Not wanting to admit that he had neglected Bingo for so long, Sam cringed a little in answer to Al's question. "The real Captain Cellars never came near me. I can't figure how I managed to stay alive. Tomorrow morning another man is going to join our little commune here. He's a Marine lieutenant - Bill Langston. He's the one that started caring for me." Sam's shame was complete. "Sam, Captain Cellars honestly thought I was dead, so when he found out I wasn't... I guess that brought him down even more." "So, if I help Cellars care for you, then he'll get out of here okay." "Ziggy isn't sure what makes him turn around, but I know... Bingo sure could have used a hand, something. This was the second time he ... went through ... this, so I was pretty low myself." Sam put his hand gently on Bingo's arm. "Al, is he conscious?" "Sort of, but I thought I was dead." He let a small, grim chuckle escape. "Bingo thought he was in hell, that his punishment was never being able to leave Vietnam." Looking up at nothing, he laughed harder, "It made sense at the time. Pretty stupid, huh?" Something needed saying, but Sam was having trouble getting started. "Al, I never thought ... You never told me what it was like. If you'd told me, I wouldn't have ..." "You didn't do anything. I did." "In the original history, did this happen to you?" "Not this, but other things." "Bingo said he didn't sign. Does that make sense?" Al's discomfort was increasing. "They used to try and force us to sign confessions. They tried to make me sign and I wouldn't. I was a good little sailor boy. I believed in the military code of conduct back then." He looked around the wooden cell. "You know, I can almost smell the stench here ... feel the heat." Outside in the distance VC guards were making noises. Looking out at the source of the sound Al had to shake his head."Damn, don't they ever stop talking? They never stopped throwing that crap ideology at us. Charlie kept repeating these stupid police mottos over and over. My personal favorite was If they are not guilty, beat them until they are.' That was the way it was here, especially for MIAs. The physical torture of POWs pretty much ended in 1969 when Ho Chi Minh died, but since we were MIA, we got special treatment." "When did you get home in the original history?" Al started shaking his head, "I got home." Bingo started to shiver again. Sam put his hand to Bingo's head. "It's not fever, yet. It will be soon, but not now." "What's happening? He's cold." "With the amount of blood you've ... he's lost, I'm not surprised." Sam looked into the Admiral's eyes and saw fear, true fear. There was nothing he could do for the Admiral, but the lieutenant needed warmth. Sam gently lifted Bingo off the wooden floor. He put the tiny man across his lap and held him in an attempt to share the warmth of his own body. Bingo's battered head fell back. The Admiral moved as far away as he could. Sam felt his friend's young body shake with pain, fear, and desperation. "Stay in close, Al. You'll warm up" The frightened pilot haltingly whispered, "I didn't sign, Captain." The holographic Admiral put his hand to his face, hiding his expression. "I know." Sam pulled Bingo a little closer. "You have to think of the future, Al. I have a feeling that maybe you'll pilot space ships someday." Bingo had to laugh, but the effort made him double up in pain. "Take it easy." Sam helped Bingo settle back. "I'm not kidding, Lieutenant. There's a future out there for you." Bingo put all his energy into his words. "My Beth." Sam decided there was no need for the lieutenant to know his wife wouldn't be a part of that future. ***No need at all.*** The Admiral started punching buttons on the handlink. "Sam, I gotta go. You hang in there. According to Ziggy, you're doing fine. Cellars is a POW, so the VC don't do this to you and you get transferred out of here in two days. The odds are up to 80% that Cellars gets home in '73 and Emily doesn't attempt suicide. If there are any changes, I'll be back." The white glow of the Imaging Chamber entrance appeared behind him. Before Al left, a long unspoken conversation took place between him and Sam. It had something to do with the depth of love the two men felt for each other. The haunted eyes of both Als gazed at Sam. Bingo buried his young head in Sam's chest. The Admiral smiled a melancholy smile and spoke quietly, "Gooshie, I want to come home now." THE END NOTE - The methods of extracting information and confessions from American POWs described in this story are based on actual accounts by men who survived the camps in Vietnam. The phrases "Confess and live. Oppose and die," and "If they are not guilty, beat them until they are" were mottos used by the VC in POW and MIA camps. I'm interested in hearing your reactions to this story and look forward to hearing from you. Laurie Slicer