THE CHAIN OF COMMAND
The other soldiers congratulated Corporal Snyder on a fine job. Some of them patted his back or shook his hand, while others raised their beer-bottles in a mock salute. Being a huge hulk of a man, he barely felt the back-slaps. Several of the guys who shook his hand withdrew with bruised thumbs and crushed fingers. Snyder's strength matched his size and made him the most feared man in the regiment: he could split an enemy's skull with a single punch.
"Step aside, Corporal!" said Major Yorke, the commander of the squad, as he approached from the nearby sand-dunes. In his camouflage uniform and black beret he looked like an ordinary soldier, but his accent marked him as a member of the upper classes. "Is this the rebel prisoner? Is she ready to talk?"
Snyder glanced at the two concrete posts that had once formed the doorway of an enemy bunker. Nothing else remained of the structure, except a few heaps of rubble and some lengths of twisted steel. Among the wreckage lay the mangled corpse of an enemy sniper, now hardly recognizable as human. Around the ruinous scene a bleak wasteland of sand and dust stretched away to every horizon.
"Well?" the Major repeated. "Is she ready?" He walked over to the concrete posts. Between them stood a young woman of eighteen or nineteen. Her arms and legs were stretched taut, so that her body formed an X-shaped cross. Thin wire around her wrists and ankles kept her slender limbs bound to the posts: the skin around the wire bonds was raw and bleeding. She was brown-skinned and pretty, with long black hair and soft dark eyes. As the Major approached she gazed at him wearily, murmuring something inaudible in a language that he did not understand.
Corporal Snyder winked at his comrades and grinned. "Yes, sir," he replied. "She's ready to talk. Trooper Morton will take the role of interpreter."
"Was it necessary to strip her naked?" the Major asked.
"Totally necessary, sir," Snyder answered. With a furtive snigger he zipped up his trousers and fastened the buttons on his tunic. Some of the other soldiers chuckled.
Major Yorke stood in front of the girl to examine her more closely. She was no more than an inch above five feet in height, so he towered over her. He was ten inches taller than her, but her small size was utterly dwarfed by Snyder who, at six and a half feet, was the biggest man in the regiment. The Corporal's clenched fist was almost as big as the girl's head.
"She's bleeding," the Major observed, reaching out to touch the captive's tear-streaked face. "From her left nostril, and from her lower lip. Also, she has bruises all over her body. What the hell happened here?"
"She got injured in the explosion," Snyder explained. "We found her in the rubble and....."
"Don't lie to me, soldier!" the officer snarled. "You and these other men stripped this girl and beat her up. What else did you do to her?"
"Nothing, sir," said Snyder.
Yorke shook his head and stooped to inspect the prisoner's lower body. The black triangle of her pubic hair was matted with semen, some of which still glistened wetly among the dark bristles. Peering closer, the Major noticed that her vaginal lips were red and swollen. On her thighs he saw the unmistakable marks of human teeth. The same marks were also on her shoulders, neck and breasts. Her shiny brown nipples were surrounded by numerous smaller bites.
"Who raped her?" he inquired sharply, turning around to stare at the soldiers. The whole squad stood there, a twelve-man platoon, standing in a huddled semicircle a few paces from the concrete posts.
"Nobody, sir," said Snyder. "None of our squad, anyway. Maybe some of her own relatives fucked her after we bombed the bunker."
Peals of raucous laughter volleyed from the men, but the Major raised his hand to quell the mirth. He did not look very happy. With a deep frown he walked behind the suspended girl to gaze at the rear of her body. Long, thin stripes patterned her skin from neck to knee, often criss-crossing and overlapping. Most of the stripes were a livid shade of pink, but others were crimson, while a few were oozing droplets of blood. Yorke counted at least thirty welts on the prisoner's back, buttocks and thighs.
"Who whipped her?" he asked calmly. When no answer came, he stepped around to the front and confronted the Corporal. "Who did it, Snyder?"
"Nobody, sir," came the predictable response. "We found her like that, hiding in the rubble: naked and bruised and bleeding."
"Your zipper is half-undone," the Major remarked. "Did you molest this woman?"
"No, sir. All I did was tie her between these posts, to prepare her for interrogation."
Yorke shook his head slowly and said: "Allow me to describe what really happened. First, you found the girl hiding in a gully after the missile hit the bunker. You instructed Trooper Morton to contact me via the radio, to tell me that a female rebel had been captured. I gave specific instructions that the prisoner was to be prepared for interrogation, by which I meant food, water and medical care. Instead, you and these other fools decided to have some barbaric entertainment. Shall I continue?"
"If you wish to, sir," said Snyder. "But none of it is true."
"You removed her clothes," the Major resumed. "You brutally raped her. All of you, I suspect, participated in the sexual assault. Then you tied her between these posts and gave her a savage flogging. What did you use as a weapon of punishment?" He paused, staring down at the dusty ground nearby. "Oh, I see!" he added, bending to pick something off the sand. "A two-meter length of electrical cable? Salvaged from the ruins of the bunker, I assume?"
"You're mistaken, sir," Snyder whispered, narrowing his eyes and flexing his enormous hands.
"Did you enjoy whipping a naked girl?" Yorke asked. "Was it more fun than violating her flesh with your cock? Was it more exciting than punching her face with your fists?" Glaring at the assembled soldiers, he pointed an accusing finger and said: "All of you will be arrested for this sordid deed. Raping and torturing civilians is a serious crime, punishable by twenty-five years in a military jail. Lay down your weapons at once!"
None of the men obeyed the command, but they clasped their guns tightly and avoided the officer's angry eyes. Corporal Snyder stepped backward a few paces, placed his rifle on the ground, and raised his arms in a gesture of surrender.
"Good!" the Major said triumphantly. "At least the ringleader is a man who respects the chain of command." He picked up the discarded rifle and added: "Tell me, Corporal. Why did these idiots seem to be congratulating you? I saw some of them shake your hand and slap your back, even as I walked over from the dunes."
Snyder grinned, before spitting into the dust at his commander's feet. "They congratulated me because I made the prisoner weep and whimper."
"What did you do to make her cry, you big bully?"
A single gunshot suddenly shattered the silence. Major Yorke fell to the ground, gasping in the throes of death, clutching a red wound in his throat. In Snyder's hand a small pistol smoked, but the weapon was swiftly returned to its hidden holster.
"What did I do to make the bitch cry?" the Corporal echoed, grinning down at the dying officer. "I fucked her in the ass. Does that answer your question, college boy?"
Another burst of laughter erupted from the squad. Somebody hurled an empty beer-bottle at the Major's corpse. A second thrown bottle struck the prisoner's face as she hung sobbing in her bonds. The soldiers stepped forward to crowd around Snyder, who basked in the glow of their adulation. To deafening cheers and wild applause he unzipped his trousers and shambled menacingly towards the girl. Reaching inside his tunic he drew a gleaming knife from its sheath and licked the narrow blade.
"It's party-time again!" he said.
* * * * * * *
Copyright � 2007 Brendan X