When Hell was in Session by Admiral Jeremiah Denton & Ed Brandt

Author:Admiral Jeremiah Denton & Ed Brandt [Denton, Admiral Jeremiah]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Midpoint Trade Books
Published: 2009-11-11T05:00:00+00:00

The prisoners of Alcatraz would begin to stir during the dark, quiet, early morning hours. The lids on the buckets would rattle, and the sound of coughing and spitting would echo unpleasantly through the small compound. And, if the wind was right, the street noises of Hanoi—trolleys beginning their rounds, the subdued noise of motors—would drift hollowly into our dazed, half-conscious world.

About six thirty I would hear the sound of keys rattling as the key guard opened the door to Stockdale’s or Mulligan’s cell, removed their irons, and took them to the head one at a time. Since the rattling keys meant that eventually I would be fed, my mouth would begin to water.

There was a wide space under nine of the eleven cell doors, and the prisoners in those cells would come to their doors and stand while a guard reached underneath and unlocked the irons. Some of the prisoners would move around contrarily or kick at the guard, and the guard would twist his irons to teach him a lesson. In the evening, when the irons were being replaced, there was often more trouble. Each prisoner had his own set of irons to which he had become accustomed, and the guards would frequently mix them up. There would be howls of anger until the prisoner got his proper set.

After about a month, the guards began sliding the irons under the doors after the evening meal, then watching through the peephole while the prisoner put them on and locked them. After about a year, a few of us learned to click the locks without actually locking them. Depending on the alertness of the guard who was handling us, we would try our luck and go the night with one leg free. The irons, which were two ankle cuffs and a sliding bar, were uncomfortable and restrictive; having even one leg free was a big relief.

During the morning rounds, I would spend my time peeping under the door to see who was visiting the cement hole across from my cell to empty his bucket, and listening to the message he was scraping out. Listening for messages was a big event each morning, and if I missed any part I would tap to McKnight and get him to fill me in.

The scrapes went something like this: Scraaape, scraaape…pause…scraaape, scraaape, scraaape…pause…scraaape…scraaape…pause…

The prisoners, huddled in their cells, would translate.

“Hi!” the scrapes might read. “Looks like rain today.”

The first man usually commented on the weather, since the others couldn’t see outside. This was of much interest although I’m not sure why, because we would spend at the most ten minutes outside.

Other messages might read: “HBSJ.” Happy birthday, Sam Johnson. Or “HAHR.” Happy anniversary, Howie Rutledge. The anniversary would be in reference to his shootdown date.

Such was our long association in prison that we knew everyone’s important dates, and would scrape like hell with our bamboo strips, one eye on the suspicious guard, to salute the birthdays and shootdown dates of everyone in camp as they came up.

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