Chapter 1

What if Garrison…

Craig Garrison sat on the steel slab. He was in big trouble and saw no way out. At least his parents would never know. Life had been hard when they were alive. His dad had worked at the mill since he was fourteen. His mother cleaned rich peoples' houses. They both came home exhausted but they always had time for him. On Craig's fourteenth birthday he had announced that he wanted to quit school and go work with his dad. Both parents rejected that idea. They told him they wanted him to finish school. He was to be their pride and joy, the first high school graduate in either family. They wanted a better life for him.

Four months later his mother had fallen at work and broken her leg. She could not work in a cast so she lost her job. Again Craig had offered to get a job after school but rather than put that pressure on him they had moved to a poorer section of town to a smaller apartment. Craig got up earlier to walk the extra distance to school.

On his fifteenth birthday the three of them had splurged and gone to a movie. It had been a good picture and they were laughing and talking but when they got to their street three men had stepped out of the shadows. They refused to believe that all they had was a dollar and three cents and no jewelry. In their anger a gun went off and his father fell. His mother screamed and then she too lay dying on the sidewalk. They ran. Craig was an orphan at age fifteen.

A neighbour took him in but with the crowding and the extra stress of feeding another mouth Craig spent more and more of his time on his own. That was where he met up with other displaced young men, the wrong crowd. What started as pranks quickly turned serious. Craig had not graduated from high school but he had graduated from small time misdemeanors to the big time, attempted murder.

A bell rang and he stood and waited. Another bell and the cell door opened. He stepped out. His life was a series of bells. The bell rings and you line up, another bell and you walk. How he hated it in here. All he wanted was out of this hell hole, back to the outside. For what? There was nothing out there for him. Just more trouble, more heartache. Damn, he hated his life.

The guard walked slowly down the hall his truncheon in his hand. Anyone so much as move without being told would get cracked with it. Those were the rules. Do as you were told and you would survive, if not then what ever happened was your fault. The guard stopped, pointed at the prisoner and then down the hall. It was his turn.

Prisoner 22162 walked down the hall and came to a halt in front of the bars. The guard on the other side looked him up and down, checked the tag on his shirt against the list on his clipboard then signalled to another guard who controlled the gate. With a clang it unlocked and slid open. The prisoner stepped through and waited. The gate slid closed behind him, locking with another clang then he was escorted to a small interview room.

He knew what it would look like before he was even inside. He had talked to his lawyer in one of these rooms, a dismal place if there ever was one. Well, second only to the cell where he had spent the last two years. This call had been a surprise. He was not due for parole for another year so what this was about he did not know. There was no way he could be lucky enough to be free of this place; that was not the way his life had been going. He stepped inside and took his seat at the beat up table. Nothing had changed. The walls were still grungy grey-green, the floor still grey and stained. Even the chair was just as uncomfortable and still bolted to the floor. He waited.

Minutes later the door opened and he watched two men enter the room. The second man was a guard. He pulled the door closed and stood beside it. The other man was in his fifties, slightly overweight and balding. He moved to the table, sat down and opened the file folder that was in his hand. His tired eyes and slouch said he really did not want to be here. He glanced at the pages inside then said, "Assault, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder." He raised his eyes to glare over the top of the page and waited; his eyes hard and uncaring.

Seeing no response Thomas Bilking put down the file. "So, mister tough guy. You beat a man almost to death because he bumped into you and didn't say excuse me." There was no response to his sarcasm.

He leaned forward. "We can do this my way, you talk to me, work with me, or we can do it your way. I tell the judge you're not ready and you go back to your cell for the rest of your sentence. Personally, I don't care. You go back, you're out of my hands and I can help someone who wants to go straight. Your choice." He closed the file and sat straighter, preparing to leave.

The prisoner was prepared to keep his thoughts to himself. That was the way he had always been but the thought of another year in that hell hole back there, the smell, the noise, the lack of privacy. No, he did not want that. He could do it if he had to but if there was a way out…

"It wasn't like that."

Mr. Bilking knew he had his foot in the door. He had been a parole officer for many years. At first he thought he could save the world. He thought the men who were sent to him would welcome his efforts to help them get their lives together and become law abiding citizens. Over the years he had gotten tired, tired of pushing men who did not want to change. The only thing they were sorry about was that they had gotten caught. They were not sorry for the pain they had inflicted on the victims or their families, just themselves. It was disheartening to get them set up with a job and a place to stay only to have them back in court within a week for another crime. Thomas had stopped pushing. He waited until they made the effort before he did anything.

This man before him had a long record of minor offenses, theft, vandalism, public drunkenness, fighting. This fight had been much worse, bad enough for the attempted murder charge. Could he be turned around? Had this stint in prison been enough to make him want to change or was he too hardened? These few words he had said could be a delaying tactic or the start of a new beginning. Garrison would have to give him a lot more before he was convinced.

"He'd been riding me for months, ever since he found out I was working off my debt. It just got to the point I couldn't take it anymore. I told him that that was it. He did it again and I'd…" Craig watched the man on the other side of the table. Always someone judging him. It made him mad. He wanted to tell him to… but that would land him back in that cement coffin. He cooled his temper and watched. The officer of the court was just sitting there watching him. He had read his file, he knew the details so why lie. "I threatened to kill him." There, it was all there. Guilty as charged. Nothing he could do about it.

"Would you have?"

That stopped him. He thought back to the fight, the fight that had landed him here. Did he want to kill him? He had been mad, he could feel the anger rising just thinking about how he had had to listen to that blowhard all those months and not being able to do anything about it. Horace, the Horse, Holchek knew he was on probation. He knew Craig could not fight back so he had pushed him every day, relentlessly. He had no reason to come into the hardware store but he and his pals did, every day.

"Hey, flunky. You missed some paper on the floor." Then he would crumple up a gum wrapper and drop it where he had just swept. Sometimes he or one of his friends would knock over a display or wipe their greasy hands on the front window and stand there watching him clean it again. He had tried to ignore them. He told himself they were not worth it but that had only lasted for so long then he had snapped.

But did he want him dead?

"No," he said with a sigh. "I just wanted him to leave me alone. All I wanted was to do my time, pay off what I owed Mr. Woods for the stuff I took and the window I broke. And I would have. I liked working there. Mr. Woods even gave… He treated me like I actually worked there. He showed me the different tools and what they were for. He offered to show me how to work the till but I told him I'd rather not be anywhere near in case." Craig shrugged. "He said that after my sentence was up that he would hire me if I wanted. That's gone."

"You said he gave you, what did he give you?"

The flash of fear changed to regret before he looked down at his hands. In a quiet voice he said, "He gave me money." Craig looked up expecting the worst but there was no change in his expression. "He told me to get a haircut."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. I went right across the road to Joe's Barbershop." Mr. Wood had been so good to him and as a thank you he had busted up his store. "If I had the money I'd pay to fix what I broke in his store. He didn't deserve that. I'm just glad he wasn't hurt." The fight had been fast and hard. By the time the cops had hauled him off, Horace lay bleeding on the floor, his jaw broken, a few teeth missing and the store was a mess. That was what he regretted. Horace, he didn't care about; it was Mr. Woods that he had hurt.

The only sound was the distant clang of a prison door and the intermittent buzz of a fly around the light bulb. Finally Thomas said, "The DA doesn't want you back on the street." He paused to let that sink in. There was acceptance. The prisoner knew he was not getting out. Thomas had debated this decision ever since he had read this file. Another good kid gone bad. His parents had been murdered when he was fifteen years old, the perpetrators never caught. That had to be tough, seeing both your parents killed in front of you and not being able to do anything about it. That had to leave an impression. Apparently he had gone from a good student to a trouble maker. At age fifteen he had dropped out of school and had taken off ending up in Washington. Could he be helped? It sounded like he was willing…

"How's your German?" Garrison just looked puzzled so he said, "Your file says your parents were French and German. Did you speak either at home?" That threw the young man completely.

"I don't understand."

"There's a special program that's being offered through the Army," said Thomas as he looked for some reaction but there was nothing registering except confusion. "They're looking for men who are fluent in both languages."

"We spoke both French and German, but I thought the Army wouldn't take you if you had a record."

"Like I said, this is a special program. They're willing to overlook your record if you agree to special training; that is if you survive boot camp." He paused, noting the interest. "The training is tough but if you complete it, do six months on the front lines as an Officer and then you move up. What do you think?"

"I don't know. The Army…"

"Yeah, the Army. They'll train you how to fight and when to fight and where."

"I get to fight?"

"Yes, but the training is strict and it's hard. There is one more thing, if you drop out you come right back here and complete your sentence."

"I'll do it." He sat up just a little straighter.

"This is the Army we're talking about. You have to take orders and obey. You have to shut your mouth and do as you're told."

Craig nodded and smiled. "And they'll just overlook my record?"

"From what I understand, if you do well, they'll give you a new one. Can't have on Officer with a criminal record."

"Me? An Officer?" His parents would have been so proud. He was ashamed of what he had done to tarnish the Garrison name. Here was his chance to make it right. "What about my name? Will they change that too?"

"Do you want to?"

Craig shook his head, amazed at his prospects. An hour ago he was at a dead end, going nowhere, never going to be anybody. Now he had a chance. "No. My Dad was proud to carry the Garrison name. This is my chance to try to undo the mess I made of it."

"Well, that's it." Thomas stood and picked up the file. "I'll let you sleep on it. Tomorrow a couple of MPs'll show up. There will be documents to sign and then they'll take you to Fort Bragg where you'll start basic training. Just remember, if you wash out, refuse the training, disobey orders or try to run, the MP's are very good at hunting down AWOL's and when they do you'll be back here with a charge of desertion tacked on to the end of your sentence.

"On the other hand, you play your cards right, you work hard, follow the rules, pass the training and keep your nose clean and all this," he gestured to the grungy walls, the scared table and chairs and the guard, "can be a distant memory."

"I'll do it."

His tone and the look on his face told Thomas that he had made the right decision to offer this opportunity to Mr. Garrison. He also had a feeling that this would be the last time he would see convict 22162.

Two years later the Lieutenant was waiting outside a London hotel. His men had been staying here for the night while he attended a meeting at HQ and now he was waiting for them to check out.

"Well, if it isn't mister Tough Guy," said a familiar gravelly voice.

"That's Lieutenant Tough Guy," he answered with a grin while pointing to his insignia. "How've you been?" He would always remember the man who had saved his life back there in prison.

"Still plugging away. I was in the neighborhood, thought I would stop in and see how you were doing." At Garrison's look of disbelief he grinned.

"On vacation. Can you believe it? The wife said either we're going to see her sister or she was going alone so here I am. Couldn't let her come over here alone in the middle of a war so here I am." He looked the Officer up and down. "You're looking particularly well. Army life's agreeing with you I see."

"Yes, I finally found somewhere I belong. I just wish I could've…"

"Better late than never."

"You got time for a coffee?" asked Craig as he gestured to the restaurant inside.

Thomas checked his watch and said, "Sure but I prefer something stronger."

Craig held the door as he said, "You haven't tried wartime coffee."

The two men sat. "Your men give you any trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." He paused a moment not quite sure how to handle this. "Do you know who put my background in place?" he asked quietly.

"I did, why?"

"It's a good thing you did, even though you kind of over did it. First in my class?"

"You're a bright boy. Grade A student as far as you went. Who says you couldn't've been top of your class? You showed real leadership during basic.

"So someone checked you out?"

"Yeah, one of my men."

"And it held?"

"Yeah. They were impressed."

"Good. Glad it all worked out for you." Thomas smiled. Garrison had been one of his success stories. Two others had taken the deal, one was dead and the other had run, for about a week. It had been a crazy idea but it had worked for this man.

Suddenly a blonde man stopped up to Garrison and said, "'Ey Warden."

Garrison half turned but not far enough to miss the quizzical look on Thomas' face. "What is it Goniff?"

"Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant, but, ah," he started then looked to Garrison's companion expectantly. He waited.

"What is it Goniff?"

The Englishman turned reluctantly back to his boss. "I was wondering when we're leaving."

"Where are the others?" He scanned the few people who lingered in the lobby before he spotted three familiar figures. "Go wait with the others; I'll be with you shortly."

Once he was out of earshot Thomas said, "Warden?" with a disbelieving grin

"Nickname. Their choice not mine"

"Ironic isn't it?"

Both men laughed.