Read Forty Days at Kamas for Free Online

hairless and utterly undignified, waiting in single file to enter the next phase of our initiation. This was when I noticed that many of the men bore the scars of past beatings and interrogations, while others bore war wounds. It was equally sobering to see so many prostheses, especially among the younger men, some of whom had seen combat in Iraq or Afghanistan or Civil War II or had fought in the Russian Far East against the Chinese.
    I turned around in the queue and looked Will Roesemann over from top to bottom. He was thirty–two years old, just short of six feet, small–boned, and moved with the grace of a former college soccer forward. But now he weighed twenty pounds less than he had in college and displayed the sagging shoulders and bony ribcage of an idle and malnourished prisoner.
    If Will appeared unfit for a life at hard labor, I did not look much better. Though I had been reasonably well muscled in my youth, endurance had never been my strong suit; twenty years behind a desk had not done anything to improve it. Now, after dropping some thirty pounds since my arrest, my stamina was nonexistent. And with my forty–sixth birthday approaching, my recuperative powers were well past their peak.
    Will looked at me and stifled a laugh. I looked back at him and at the other pale scarecrows whose powdered skin made us all look like horror–movie zombies. Then I, too, let out a quiet laugh.
    After that I stumbled through the rest of in–processing with more curiosity than dread. In the next room, a stock clerk handed me a set of six number patches with my newly assigned identification number, W–0885, a sewing kit, a well–worn but clean set of poly/cotton–blend underwear, thin white acrylic socks, an orange acrylic watch cap, and faded orange winter coveralls. The insulated coveralls resembled a one–piece snowmobiling outfit and were similar in construction to the coveralls used by U.S. troops in the Russian Far East campaign. I soon came to appreciate how important this garment was to a prisoner's survival. Without it, the cold would have killed most of us within days. Finally, each of us was issued a used pair of felt–lined rubberized leather boots.
    My assignment to the general labor pool held no special significance for me yet, as all of us had been assigned to general labor and I did not yet appreciate the survival value of non–manual labor. Similarly, my identification card, number patches, and ration card held no meaning to me beyond the humiliating realization that from now on, the camp authorities would know me only by the numbers sewn onto my hat and uniform.
    The event I remember most vividly from the final stages of in–processing was receiving my first ration bar. I had become so accustomed to the transport feeding schedule that the delay in my morning meal had left my stomach in knots. Now I chewed each bite of the fortified meal bar slowly and savored its flavor and texture. It was a vanilla bar, but it tasted nothing like vanilla, its recipe having been adulterated beyond recognition from the government's original formula.
    Those of us who finished our in–processing first were made to sit cross–legged outside on the snow–covered parade ground. Not far away the warders huddled around an oil drum warming themselves over the wood fire inside.
    Will Roesemann and I sat beside each other on the parade ground and speculated quietly about what surprises might lay in store for us at Kamas. Will had heard rumors of Asian–style re–education and brainwashing, while I expected hard labor building airfields or military bases.
    Before our discussion had gone very far, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a slim, long–legged prisoner not much older than twenty–five with a flat, open face and a broad grin. His sparkling blue eyes revealed a raw vitality that seemed oddly misplaced in a camp like Kamas.
    "Are you the fellows who helped Major Reineke off the train last night? I