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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                587
             see it. Tied he couldn’t get his cock out of his skivvies anyway. He held
             back as long as he could, hearing the muffled sounds of the other men
             isolated in other wooden boxes. Finally he had to let go of his piss which
             wet his shorts, ran down his thigh, and pooled around his knees.
                He found out that his piss was to be the excuse.
                When the guards opened his box, still hooded, he could not rise from
             his cramped position. His boots and socks were wet with his piss. The
             guards, pretending outrage, lifted him bodily and dragged him across the
             compound, shouting at him about how even a dog won’t piss in its own
             box. His legs were pins and needles, useless beneath him. They carried
             him into a room, unhooded him, and with a guard for each foot and hand,
             laid him out on a plywood torture board, tying him in place spreadeagled.
             A hose was brought near his mouth. He was thirsty from the desert heat
             and the twenty-four hour isolation. He drank. They pushed the nozzle
             closer to his face. He drank some more. They pushed the nozzle into his
             mouth. A strong, pair of hands held his jaws closed. The water flooded
             his mouth, forced out his cheeks, ran out his nose, into his ears, down
             his throat. He was drowning, choking, drinking to stay alive. They knew
             what they were doing. Right before unconsciousness, they pulled the hose
             from his mouth. He thought they were finished.
                He was wrong. The waterboard torture lasted over an hour.
                A tube was forced through his left nostril and fed the three-foot
             length to his belly. The water hose was attached to the tube. His belly
             filled to full distention. He admits to begging them to stop. Instead, they
             shoved a water-soaked T-shirt into his mouth, leaving only one nostril free
             for breathing. Then a guard posing as a foreign interrogator, climbed up
             on the waterboard, astraddle his bound waist, and kneaded his bloated
             belly until he was screaming into the T-shirt. He felt he could take no
             more. They knew he could. He knew he had to. They continued. The
             guard, kneading his belly rising and sitting, rising and pushing on his
             belly, then sitting back across his piss-soaked skivvies, worked him over
             with obvious pleasure.


             Such isolation and forced feedings continued for the week. And with good
             reason. In his book P.O.W.: A Definitive History of the American Prisoner-
             of-War Experience, research-writer John Hubbell writes of how the enemy
             always tries to attack the macho American prisoner by belittling his man-
             hood. He exposes how prisoners were forced to crawl through enemy
             latrines on their hands and knees, left for weeks tied in their own waste
             and sexually tortured. To paraphrase Hubbell: The interrogation the next

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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