Harding was holding out on me, Hatch was tossing me in the clink, and Archie Chapman was on my side. My world was upside down. Two MPs who weren’t clued in to the sting strong-armed me into the barbed-wire enclosure at the edge of camp. Guards opened up the double gates and signed some paperwork, and the MPs gave me one last good shove before they left. “Welcome to Disciplinary Training Center Number Twelve,” said a tech sergeant, flipping through the sheets he’d been handed. “Shut up, do as you’re told, and we’ll make your stay as pleasant as possible. Which ain’t much. You’re stuck with us until the provost marshal sends orders to transport you someplace where they got big rocks what need to be made into little rocks.” The other guards, all privates, dutifully laughed, and I resisted the temptation to ask how many times they’d heard that line. But given that the tech sergeant now outranked me—and had a billy club stuck under his arm—I decided to listen to his advice.
