On guard at 'Gitmo'
46 Oregon soldiers help stand watch over prisoners at the U.S. base in Cuba, where global scrutiny is as inescapable as the heat
Sunday, August 22, 2004
MARK LARABEE
GUANTANAMO BAY NAVAL STATION, Cuba -- A steel ring bolted to the floor is the center of a sterile, white 10-by-10-foot room in a pre-fab building guarded by lines of razor wire and armed soldiers inside Camp Delta.
A man with short black hair and a long beard sits in a metal chair, his ankle handcuffed to the ring. He talks fast with his questioner, who is close, no table between them. An interpreter sits off to the side; an intelligence analyst takes notes at a corner table.
Despite air conditioning -- a reprieve from the dripping humidity of the Caribbean -- the interrogator has taken off his camouflage shirt to reveal his Army-issue brown T-shirt. In his left hand he holds a stack of 8-by-10-inch sheets, each with a small photograph of a man in the upper left-hand corner.
The interrogator asks questions about the men in the photos. Several times the detainee shakes his head as if he's saying "no." Once he points to a photo and then to his right eye. He smiles and starts talking rapidly. The analyst scribbles notes.
At Guantanamo, where the U.S. government has created a specialized but highly controversial prison to extract intelligence from men captured in the war on terror, interrogators and military commanders say it's a game of inches. These interrogations have been taking place for more than two years. The result, officials say, has been a collective wealth of information on the mind-set and tactics of the jihadist movement that spawned al-Qaida, the Taliban and terrorists intent on attacking the West.
And within this highly tuned operation, where security is gasket-tight and the heavy heat pushes patience and tempers to the edge, 46 Oregon Army National Guard soldiers work as prison guards. They are volunteers called to active duty in May. After a month of training in New Jersey, they've been guarding the worst of the detainees inside Camp Delta at Guantanamo Bay.
Their unit, the Salem- and Milton-Freewater-based 1186th Military Police Company, is part of a huge national call-up of Guard and Reserve soldiers that is expected to take many more Oregonians to Iraq later this year.
A reporter and photographer from The Oregonian spent five days with the unit, given access to Camp Delta after agreeing to certain conditions, including not divulging classified information or showing identifying photos of detainees. Throughout their time at Guantanamo Bay, the reporter and photographer were accompanied by military public affairs officers.
At Guantanamo, the Oregon soldiers do their jobs, mindful that the eyes of the world are upon them in this weird, sensitive and unique prison. Sanctuary from what can be a monotonous, lonely tour comes through their comrades. Except for telephone calls or e-mails, they won't be allowed to visit with family for more than a year.
Individually, they are islands. But then, it's a land of islands.
The mission
Guantanamo Bay is a natural harbor on Cuba's southeast shore and the heart of the only U.S. base in a communist country.
The Navy base covers 45 square miles, an island on an island, cut off from the Cubans by 17.4 miles of fence, Fidel Castro's land mines and a weary, 1950s battle over political ideology.
Over a hill from naval operations -- a school, housing, stores and fast-food restaurants -- is Camp Delta, the U.S. Army-run prison that houses 585 detainees from 42 countries. The prison is cut off from the rest of the base by more razor wire and redundant double gates, where armed guards check identification of anyone going in or out.
Within Camp Delta, there are islands as well. The prison consists of five separate units and a field hospital in which military police guard, feed and care for detainees grouped mostly by their level of cooperation.
Day after day, detainees are asked about terrorist training, motivation, tradecraft and future plans. Some are just beginning to talk. Others never will.
Worldwide criticism of the prison started immediately when the first detainees were flown there in January 2002 during the war in Afghanistan, most accused of helping the Taliban regime or al-Qaida. There is an ongoing debate about the rights of detainees, their access to lawyers and courts, and whether the Bush administration can hold them indefinitely.
The administration chose Guantanamo specifically because it was remote and in a foreign country, where prisoners would be outside the reach of constitutional protections. But this summer, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that detainees have the right to challenge their detentions in U.S. courts. Tribunals to review each detainee's status have been going on for weeks; military commissions for four detainees charged with war crimes begin Monday.
The Defense Department knows it's fighting a public relations war over Guantanamo. Given the first photographs from Camp Delta of shackled prisoners and then two years later, the jarring photographs of abuse by U.S. soldiers at Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, officials are most sensitive about the issue and are always the first to bring it up.
A few former Guantanamo detainees --about 150 have been released -- have alleged abuse, although their claims so far are unsubstantiated.
"The jury's out on what they have to say," said Brig. Gen. Martin Lucenti Sr., deputy commander of prison operations. "In time, a more accurate picture will unfold."
Interrogators say harsh techniques are not allowed and wouldn't work anyway because they can't trust what they're getting. "The key is treating them like people, like human beings," said one interrogator.
Once an interrogator played chess with a detainee. Another, a woman, offered a subject tea and Fig Newtons. Both, over time, got results because they established a rapport, the interrogators said.
Information gleaned is filtered by U.S. and allied intelligence services and applied to terror investigations worldwide. "What we're doing here is making a difference," one interrogator said.
It's a dismal existence for the detainees, and many have attempted suicide. Most have spent up to 21/2 years living in sweltering 7-by-8-foot metal cells, which are inside a large, metal building. Each light-green cage has a bunk, a sink and a hole in the floor for a toilet. A stenciled black arrow shows the direction of "Mekkah" 12,793 kilometers away.
Some detainees have gone along with the carefully planned system of interviews and rewards. Speak often and speak the truth, and there are benefits. White clothing, which is cooler and more culturally acceptable, instead of orange. Communal living. Language lessons. More time outdoors. Group meals.
Detainees who don't go along get only 20 minutes a day out of their cell to run or kick a soccer ball in a 20-by-30-foot cage.
Those who cooperate become part of the military's psychological battle to break down the others. They get their new clothing while in their old cell. Wearing white, they are escorted down the passageway between cells for all to see. A few have gone back after misbehaving, officials said, so everyone knows how much better it is in the group camp.
Inside the wire
Oregon troops have just started their 2 p.m. shift walking cellblocks under the hot Cuba sun and are gearing up to forcibly remove a detainee who has refused to come out of his cell.
It's a procedure that frequently occurs in prisons throughout the United States. But when a reporter and photographer from The Oregonian make an unscheduled visit, the operation is quickly postponed.
"There's nothing sinister about it," Lucenti said, when asked why the troops were ordered to stand down. "You can see it all. Write about what you saw. We're hiding nothing. We just don't want those images to leave here."
There are reasons other than public perception. For one, Lucenti said, the Geneva Conventions protect the detainees from being exploited, which includes parading them in front of reporters.
Commanders also are worried about the safety of soldiers and their families. A Defense Department security official said military families have been threatened because of their association with the prison.
An hour before work, Sgt. David Williams of Pendleton is finishing up a meal at the Camp America chow hall, just outside the wire. Units have their offices here, and many soldiers live dormitory-style in long, metal sheds resembling storage units.
It's Williams' 38th birthday, and he shrugs that the only thing special about the day is that he's going to work at Camp Delta. Williams spent 13 years in the Navy before joining the National Guard; on his 21st birthday he walked a midnight watch in San Diego.
It's Williams' first trip to the islands. "It's not as romantic as I thought it would be," he laughed.
A Umatilla tribal police officer in civilian life, Williams said working with detainees is teaching him how to communicate with reluctant people.
As civilians, many of the Oregon soldiers work in corrections or law enforcement, said Capt. Trent Klug, the company commander, and are gaining practical experience to use back home.
But it's hard work. Some detainees say they would kill the guards if given the opportunity. Many refuse to go along peacefully with the daily routines. When they get upset, they spit and throw feces and urine at the guards.
"The guys at the tip of the spear are the guys from Oregon," Lucenti said.
Klug, who served eight years of active duty, two in the Reserve and now 10 in the Guard, said working with the detainees is about having the right attitude.
"We're firm and professional with them," he said. "We know we're not going to see the best side of them."
Oregon party
But the 10-hour days are draining, Klug said. Sometimes, because the base is so small, you feel "trapped."
Klug has taken sailing lessons to break the boredom. Soldiers can get certified in scuba diving. They can rent fishing boats. First-run movies are free and show every night on outside screens, where troops gather with coolers of cold beer in the relative comfort of an evening breeze.
Sgt. Mike Shuman, 35, of Mount Angel and Sgt. James Cook, 35, of Salem, roommates at Camp America, are hooked on fishing. Red snapper is the catch of choice.
But Shuman misses coaching his son's baseball team. Most men with families said missing them is the hardest part of the assignment.
The military is helping soldiers deal with the stresses of life at Guantanamo.
Sgt. Michelle Olson, 32, of Portland is an Army reservist with the 1972nd Combat Stress Control Team. The Seattle-based unit meets with soldiers to let them know that counseling services are available.
Olson said she spends a lot of time helping soldiers make choices about free time so they can cope with the difficulties of the mission. "There's a lot of stuff to do here," she said.
A health unit coordinator at Oregon Health & Science University in civilian life, Olson is nearly done with her bachelor's degree in nursing and hopes to become a nurse practitioner. For now, her education is on hold.
"I miss Oregon, how green it is, but I'm glad to be here," she said. "We see a lot of soldiers, and we're making a difference."
She's not the only one who longs for Oregon. Spc. Chad Bisconer, 24, of Milton-Freewater said he stood outside during a recent summer rain, because it reminded him of home.
On a warm summer night, Bisconer flips the top off a cold Corona beer, lights a cigarette with a silver Zippo, and welcomes neighbors as a midweek party gathers momentum. Parties are frequent at his quarters in Camp America, as he and his roommates, including Spc. Paul Freeman, 22, of Amity, have built a sanctuary they fondly call "The Hootch."
Inside the metal building, the four men, including two Colorado Guard soldiers, have constructed private rooms using clothesline and pink shower curtains. It's a college dorm at best.
Outside, they've outdone themselves and are the envy of some at Camp America. On trips to Jacksonville, Fla., and through the base exchange, they bought a stand-alone patio cover, tiki torches and an inflatable 12-foot swimming pool. They scrounged up a picnic table and trash can. A string of white lights gives it a nice feel. With Camp Delta in sight, the patio is not a typical island paradise, but it is a temporary home to the men.
They give one another off-color "Hootch" names during a harmless ritual that gets the crowd laughing. All regulars eventually get a name.
Freeman sets down his beer and slams a coconut picked from a nearby palm into the sidewalk until the husk comes off. Soon they're passing around the sweet white meat.
"You can make it as good as you can or you can despise every minute of it," Freeman said.
"It's a depressing place and having it this way makes it so much easier," Bisconer said. "We're becoming a family here."
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Yes, giving prisoners fig newtons is savage torchure. Along with treating
them like prisoners in Joe Arapio's Tent Jails in Arizona.
