**According to British Propaganda, its been alleged that British POWs were subjected to torture at the hands of the barbaric like Americans. It was alleged that they learned such practices from the "savage" Indians. This is my take on what that might have looked like**

Farmhouse

New York countryside

Winter, 1778

The officer crinkled his nose at the repugnant smell and wondered how much longer he'd have to stand here. His feet and back ached, he was hungry, and he hadn't had anything to drink in over an hour. His shirt stuck to his skin from the sweat and he'd like to bathe. All that and he hadn't even got to the mental exhaustion this type of assignment requires. As an intelligence officer he understood the necessity of what was being done.

He didn't particularly enjoy it, but it was a job that needed to be done. Even if sometimes it made it hard to look at his reflection in the mirror. On his weaker days, he wondered what his devout Protestant parents would think about their son being so integral with killing and suffering. If his little sister would be as proud of him if she knew what he had done to ensure the survival of the Republic?

The hoarse whisper startled the officer from his introspection.

"Please. I-I. Water, please."

Coming closer he observed the subject. He was tall and well built, though you couldn't tell that now, for his ribs showed even through his shirt. His eyes were sunken in and hollow, his lips cracked from dehydration, and his face covered in lacerations. He was dangling in what they were calling "stress positions". Wrapped around both his wrist were heavy metal chains attached to a lever on the floor and hooks in the ceiling. The lever was used to determine the angle and intensity of the hanging. In this manner they could lock the arm and the upper body of the subject in a position that was uncomfortable after only a few minutes. After a few hours...agony.

David, that was the subjects name, has been in this position for over 4 hours. Even though they were enemies, one had to admire his resolve. They had many positions, and the one they had chosen today was sardonically called "Messiah". David was hanging from the ceiling, his arms spread out on both sides as if he were in the opening acts of supplication. His arms were inclined to the point that his wrist were above his head and to the side. This put an unhealthy amount of pressure on the elbow joints and arm muscles. They enhanced the discomfort by having him elevated a few inches above the floor; his toes just barely brushing the surface. All this created not only pain but discomfort.

And that was the point. Everything about this process was to instill a sense of helplessness into the subject. To remind the subject that its past life was over and how it's future turned out was in its captor's hands.

"What was that?" He asked, not moving from his position.

David let out a shuddering cough that left blood spittle on the floor. "Water, please."

"Oh, you're thirsty. Is that it?" This too was part of the process.

The room they were on was designed to trap heat. In the floor beneath this one was a fire that released its heat into a shaft leading into the room they were currently in. Combine that with the naturally humid heat from the continent and you have a mix between a sauna and a desert. He nodded weakly and the officer rolled his shoulders.

"Well, you know the drill. You're nice to me, and I'm nice to you."

He dangled there for a few more moments before whispering something quietly. The officer had to move closer so that he could hear better.

"What do you want to know?" The words seem to cause him physical pain.

"A few weeks ago a strike team went into the forest to eliminate an enemy stronghold. The British weren't supposed to know we were coming. A massacre is what the high command called it. It was a massacre all right. Except the soldiers getting torn to ribbons were Patriots! My countrymen!"

When talking to a subject, in order to confuse and keep it on edge, sudden changes in volume and intensity is recommended. Grabbing David by the sides of his head, he shook him firmly. "How did they know David? Huh?! How did they know we were coming?"

"I don't know! I swear to you, I don't know!"

He started kicking his legs uselessly.

"Don't lie to me David. We observed you entering and exiting the Swan Manor carrying, messages for the enemy. Do you understand? We know you're an agent! Now, how many others are in your cell?"

"I don't know! "

The officer let go of him with force.

"I think you need a reminder of the rules here David." He started shaking so badly the chains rattled.

"You lie to me, I hurt you."

He motioned for the soldiers standing in the corner to come forward.

"C'mon, let's go. David's thirsty."

"I don't know! Please, I don't!"

His cries were now reaching a frantic high.

"I warned you David!"

One soldier came forward and lowered the lever, bringing him down to a standing position. The other went to the gallon drum of water and filled up a bucket. Handing it to the officer, he stood back.

The officer pulled out a rag and a hood. Then, with a smooth motion, he placed his left hand behind David's head, kicked his legs out from underneath him, pushed on his chest with his right hand, and then used his own weight to slam him into the floor on his back. The soldier behind David quickly placed the hood on his head.

"No! Nooo!"

His screams were that of a wild animal in fear.

"This is what happens David! When you lie to me, I hurt you!"

Kneeling on his chest, he wrapped the thick rag tightly to his face. Taking the pitcher from the other soldier, he repositioned himself so that he was directly over David.

This particular method was arguably the most traumatic. They were about to simulate a drowning. Causing the brain to go into the primal state of mind where the animalistic instinct to survive lives, and where soul-crushing fear also resides.

Gripping his chin with his free hand, the officer poured a steady stream of water onto his face.

"When was the last time you saw Major Haddock! How did he know where to look? Where is his information coming from?"

The sounds of gurgling and choking filled the room as David thrashed on the floor helplessly, his legs kicking spastically. He was dying, he knew it, he could feel the water entering his lungs causing him to drown. It felt like he was both on fire and freezing, and the fear he felt wasn't easily transcribed into words.

After 20 seconds the officer stopped pouring and removed both the rag and the hood. The soldier placed both hands firmly on the side of David's head, forcing him to swallow the water before he would be able to breathe. He coughed violently, inhaled deeply, then proceeded to cough violently some more. After a few dry heaves he began vomiting the water back up.

"Get him up. Get him back up!"

They quickly strung him back up into his stress position. He hung there, head dangling, soaked with water, sobs racking his body. The officer lifted his chin and stared at him.

"You're a fighter, I respect that. But you'll break. Everybody, breaks. It's only a matter of time."

He let his head drop, and tossing the pitcher aside, they all left the room.