The Cupboards. Oh, please, not there! Those wooden crates, lined up on end, side-by-side, stacked one on top of the other, nailed together, each with a wooden slat door and a lock. Just big enough to fit one prisoner-of-war, curled into a fetal position, stuffed in face first, back pressed painfully against the unbending door. Small cracks and holes, the only source of air, are also the source of pain when the guards push sharp objects through for torment. Out in the elements, The Cupboards are as hot and suffocating in Summer as a high fever, in Winter they are as cold as the sudden loss of a loved one, and are, when it rains, as wet as the face of a weeping, heartbroken mother. The nerve-jangling sound of the randomly crammed prisoners - wailing, crying, cursing - is the macabre background music to each prisoner's hours of knee-throbbing, hip-aching, back-breaking contemplation; the grim symphony for each prisoner's time spent learning how to deal with the debilitating, urine-passing fear, discovering moment by moment how to survive.
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(While I have never been a prisoner of war, as a raw, new aircrewman with the United States Air Force, I received Prisoner Of War Camp Training. That was decades ago and I remember it as if it were just yesterday. For one mere week I was force-fed an incredible number of details, given a week long, hands-on crash course on survival in the wilds and then tossed into a simulated prisoner of war camp for 24 hours. While there, I was stuffed into a wall of wooden crates for a few hours. My experience is a laughable pittance compared to what the real war Vets lived through, but enough to make my blood run cold and to teach me to see and accept my weaknesses. At a young age, in the days following my meager interment, I made my peace with my gods and have had no fear of death since. I have also had a fierce appreciation for life ever since. It was enough for me to know I never wanted to experience the real thing. It was enough to scare me into remembering, almost word for word, everything the instructors taught me to increase my chances of survival. It was enough to give me just a bland, tiny taste of the horror the actual prisoners of war experienced. It is nothing compared to the experiences of real prisoners of war and, if this little experience can effect me so strongly and so memorably, my mind reels with how much more true imprisonment must change lives and continue to harm throughout their lives. This very short story is the result of that experience festering for over two decades. I beg any Vets who read this to forgive me. This story, after my one paltry day, must seem like hubris to you. My mind boggles at the true horror you have to live with. While I was not there with you - because of my one day, I do understand how such a thing can affect you forever. I admire your tenacity and strength of character in living through it and continuing to live with it.)
Link to the Vietnam Memorial Wall
Link to the Moving Wall, an exact replica of the Vietnam Memorial Wall made to half scale that travels around the country.
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Copyright 1998-2004 Colleen D. Bergeron.
Last revised: October 28, 2004.