I write these lines from within prison walls. While I am guilty of killing many people, that is not the reason I am here. I am honored for my killings, yet condemned by society for escapism.
In my younger days, I, like many others, valorized the ethos of the warrior. There was nothing more stirring to my young soul than the fantasies of active combat. I engaged in mock warfare with my brothers and prowled through the woods in camouflage.
I allowed the Army to pay for my university education. The military training exercises contrasted with the campus life like salt in a bowl of jello. I enjoyed the hostility of the nihilists and anti-authoritarians as they slumped past me between classes. The 'trick' of discipline, like magic, made the classes remarkably easy as my tests and project marks reflected. Rather than partying or staying up late, I kept my schedule and prepared my gear. The early morning physical training was remarkably effective for my adhd. After rising at half past five and jogging in the predawn light, my focus and morale were kept sharp while those around me brinked on disaster.
An essential aspect of military culture is a clearly defined standard of conduct. A core value is to be the best you can be, therefore I participated in every extended training activity I could. I completed Airborne, Air Assault, Mountain Warfare, and Leadership Developmental and Assessment Courses in the summers before graduation.
After my commissioning, I spent less than seven months in active duty. During this short period, however, I engaged in active combat several times. My memories of the period are more like a dream than reality. I ordered men forward and watched some die. I aimed my rifle, pulled the trigger, and watched men drop. While moving forward and accomplishing orders, I witnessed the death, dismemberment, and disabling of many people.
After an explosion in Mogadishu, I found myself on a pile of bricks looking down at shards of glass mixed in with my intestines hanging out like purple sausages from my belly. Just before I blacked out, I remember trying to be careful not to cut my fingers on the sharp edges of the glass as I picked them out, one by one.
I remember coming-to as a military doctor was checking my vital signs. He seemed pleased that I was awake, but then explained that my left foot had been crushed and they had to amputate it. While they had successfully removed all the glass from my abdominal cavity, the risk of infection was high due to all the punctures. I listened to all of this without much emotion except the desire to be strong and show that I was willing to do whatever was required of me.
Three weeks later, I was able to move to a wheel chair and tour around the hospital grounds for short periods. I had lost a great deal of muscle mass, so even moderate exertions exhausted me. I slept and tried to rest, but my schedule fell apart with frequent medical checkups and changing of bandages every three or four hours. I was exhausted all the time. I did not begin therapy with my prosthetic foot until four months later.
Thirteen months after my commissioning, I received an honorable discharge with disability and was released back into the civilian world. During my time of convalescence, I started to read A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn, but the text irritated me profoundly. I was unable to read more than a few chapters. I needed a better historical perspective that was not so simplistic and cartoonish. The Acquisitive Society, by R. H. Tawney, provided some insight, but also irritated me.
But these are not the reasons I write these lines. I write to record conversations and to escape boredom. As a prisoner, escape is always on my mind. But, like you, escape is not possible except in the form of escapism. As Schopenhauer said, we can do nothing better than to consider ourselves as fellow prisoners in this penal colony called life. I released many lives from these bonds while playing soldier in imperial outposts. I now hope to release you by changing your perspective.
Life in prison is not all bad. While the time I spent in solitary was essentially hell, that was many years ago. Now, as an old man in general confinement, I enjoy many privileges, including access to the library. Here I have read a great deal, and my view of the world has changed. At various times over the years, I had a few good conversations with other inmates. Gradually we sought each other out and began meeting with a prison chaplain for weekly discussions. The lines that follow are my attempt to record some of these conversations. I call them Prison Breaks.
