Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 05:41:39 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Spoils Of War, Part 1

THE SPOILS OF WAR  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


(note:  I Googled a couple of chapters of a story
called "The Second Civil War" that inspired me to
write this.  If anyone has the entire story, please
send it along!)

Part 1

My folks wanted me to go to college, of course, just
like my two elder brothers had.  Although we were not
all that well off, dad had always scrupulously saved
into college funds for all of us, and provided I
worked in the vacations and so on, it would have been
possible - if my grades weren't good enough for MIT,
there would certainly have done well enough so that I
didn't have to go to the local community college.

But I'd always been a real jock at High School, and
having lived all my life in the same small town in
Maine, I wanted a bit of excitement, some adventure,
some chance travel, and to use my body.  Again, I was
good, but not good enough for professional football,
not tall enough for professional basketball, and so
on.

I saw this advert on TV saying about how they needed
guys to serve the good old USA in the forces, so I
decided to apply.  I had a long talk with the
recruiting sergeant in the office in the local town,
and he talked me out of the things I'd at first
thought of - not the air force, as unless you fly,
you're a nobody.  Not the navy, as it was constantly
being cut back and there was no real long term future.
 So it was the army - a real growth service, as we
increasingly policed all the little dog fights all
over the planet.... Or, considering that I looked
really fit and tough, perhaps I should try for the
marines.

The selections tests were really tough, and most of
the guys were a bit older than me having "failed" to
get the jobs they wanted or thought they deserved.
But I battled on, and was accepted.  You can read
elsewhere about how bad boot camp really is: rightly
so, I think, looking back on it - you need something
to be a "gate keeper" to stop the real dead beats from
even applying, and then to weed out those who just
can't hack it.  Look, it's tough;  you're cold, wet,
shouted at, bullied (yes, it does go on), half
starved, and absolutely worn out every day.  But at
the end of it you're really strong - not just your
body that's a lot tougher than it was before you
started, but your whole personality.  You survived
basic training, so you can survive anything after
that.  That's why marines always look so cocky and
proud when you see them in the streets - they know
they're far and away superior to ordinary men, who
just couldn't go through that and come out the other
side.

I spent the next six years so busy fighting and
staying alive that I didn't really notice what was
going on at home, and I surely did travel - those
little "incidents" in South America, Asia, Europe....
But I was in the service, and it looked after me, and
to a certain extent it didn't matter where I was:  I
was kitted out, housed, fed, had great buddies to
socialise with in the off duty hours, there was lots
of sport, the PX to bring me home comforts wherever I
was, my medical bills were all paid and I had the best
care money could buy.  And I was even saving, too, as
there generally wasn't much to spend my cash on, and
all the foreign service allowances and combat payments
really mounted up.

Of course it was hard when you lost good buddies, as
we did from time to time in spite of all the armour
and weapons and everything - we were marines, after
all, and went in first, and went in hard, and stayed
there!  And curiously, in spite of our fantastic
comradeship, guys did leave when their tours of duty
were up and they would not re-sign - usually it was
some woman they'd got pregnant when they were on
leave, who was whining for him to go and "be a proper
dad".  Me - well, I fucked around, of course, as there
is a motley crew of women who always hang around
marines' bases as they want a strong body and a big
dick. And overseas the South Americans or the Asians
or whoever would soon set up what amounted to a
brothel near where we were peacekeeping.  But somehow,
when I was on leave, I never met a girl who I wanted
to settle down with, or, rather, the whole thing kind
of passed me by - I wasn't at home all that much, and
then there wasn't time to break into the social scene
in our small town and really have time to get to know
anyone.  My brothers and their wives tried to
introduce me to people, but maybe I wasn't all that
interested - the service gave me almost everything I
needed in terms of emotional support, and the
occasional woman, and liberal use of my hand every
night, satisfied me sexually.

It's amazing how, even with TV beamed into all our
bases where ever we were, and the US papers and
everything, you can get out of touch.  I guess that
spending so much time in strange foreign countries I
almost lost interest in what was going on at home.  I
was aware of the row breaking out between the south
and the rest of the country, of course, especially
when Alabama Senator Prexmire made such a splash when
he clearly laid out the case for the reintroduction of
slavery:  I can see it now, the tall, heavy-set man in
his immaculate but flamboyant clothes standing there
as the rest of the Senate tried to shout him down.
But he persisted, explaining that his state was tired
of the wave of crime, tired of having to build new
prisons, tired of paying for prisoners to live the
easy life, tired of the seemingly endless and random
shootings, of the drug traffic.  All of this would be
solved under his "two strikes and you're a slave" law,
 as, at a stroke, there would be no need for prisons,
no expense  (indeed, there would be a positive revenue
flow from the sale of convicts), and absolutely no
re-offending as a slave working away chained in a
coffle had no opportunity to break the law again.   I
remember watching that original broadcast on a base
somewhere in Africa, and a lot of guys, me included,
shouted "fucking right!" as we compared how we risked
our lives with the cushy numbers prisoners now had in
the USA.

Well, as even a cursory knowledge of modern history
tells you, that speech was the start of the disaster
that befell our country.  Laughed out of the Senate,
Prexmire campaigned in Alabama for a state law, and
when this was introduced, and was seen to be wildly
successful, all might still have been well had not
those busy bodies in the American Civil Liberties
Union challenged the law, and took the case of one
slave (a former drug dealer at that!) right up to the
Supreme Court.  The Court struck down the Alabama law,
with a lot of the justices pontificating about how it
was a basic infringement of human rights, never mind
the constitution of the United States.  Prexmire, now
Alabama's Governor, responded by pointing out that
slaves didn't have human rights - men had human
rights, and slaves did as their masters ordered!  He
refused to implement the Supreme Court decision, and
constitutional hell broke out.

Many of the states in the old south were in favour of
the Alabama laws, and had been planning to implement
similar ones themselves.  And when the President, many
said unwisely, ordered the infantry into Alabama to
arrest Prexmire and release the slaves, the National
Guard fought them.  The cream of the infantry was of
course serving abroad, and so the raggle of new
recruits and so on were actually defeated just outside
Birmingham by the well trained members of the Alabama
National Guard, into whose training and equipment
Prexmire had poured all the savings from the
non-operation of the prisons and the revenues from
the sale of slaves.  And, of course, they were
fighting on their home ground, for their state's
rights.

There probably could still have been a compromise, a
peaceful solution,  But every time you turned on the
TV there was another spokesman (or, as they said,
spokesperson) from the ACLU ranting on about the
"disgrace" and the "loss of dignity" down there. The
forces of law and order never seemed to get air time,
and with the next presidential elections looming,
"something had to be done".  Personally, I don't think
most right-minded people anywhere in the country
minded what was going on with a load of criminals in
Alabama, but you know how it is when the TV gets an
issue like that - it flogs it to death.  The President
had to warn the other old south states not to follow
Alabama, and when they enacted their laws anyway,
there were more troops sent in.  Finally, things were
so bad that we were called home from the Gulf, and
were told we were going to put an end to this nonsense
in the south, once and for all.

By the time replacements had been found for us and we
were due to fly back home, things had really moved on.
 Alabama and the other states had announced that they
were seceding form the Union; the President had said
that they could not, and there was a battle in the
Supreme Court about the precise meaning of the
Constitution, states' rights, and so on.  And then
Prexmire was acclaimed as the President Of The
Confederation.  We found ourselves fighting not just
the Alabama National Guard, but well trained, highly
motivated,  and well equipped troops from all over:
what the military geniuses in Washington had failed to
spot was that for years most recruits into the armed
forces had come from the southern states.  When sent
to fight on their home territory, against people who
were probably their families, or guys they'd been to
school with, they simply revolted and joined the other
side!  Instead of just a simple "fire fight",
therefore, we were engaged in a full scale war against
battle-hardened men, at least as well equipped as we
were.

Of course, in the long run, modern wars are won by
money and logistics - who has the industrial might and
the money to hold out longest?  The south couldn't
possibly win against the industrial might of the rest
of the country, rather as the north had ultimately won
the first civil war as a result of its superior
industrial base.  But no one had reckoned that
President Prexmire would be so skilled a politician,
and so active on the world stage.  His agreement with
the Arabs to cut the oil supplies to the USA was a
master stroke - such oil as there was in the USA
itself was mostly pumped in the south, and without
access to the imported oil the economy of the north
quickly, and fairly disastrously, ground to a halt.

Short of weapons, with almost no ammunition, and with
all our supporting command and control systems mainly
out of action because of the collapse of the general
infrastructure, our marine corps, who had beaten whole
countries into submission all over the globe, had to
surrender to the Confederate forces at the second
battle of  St Louis.

They took us to a makeshift prisoner of war camp, or
so it was called.  It was just a huge area of flat
land somewhere, with hastily-constructed barbed wire
emplacements all around it and some watch towers where
Confederate guards in their smart grey uniforms sat
and stared down at us.  There was nothing there - just
the flat land with a faint covering of grass.  They
searched us thoroughly, taking away even the tiniest
combat knife, then just turned us loose into the area.
 A couple of hours later a truck arrived and delivered
a whole lot of plastic sheeting and some two by fours,
and that was that.

I guess it's a tribute to the marines training that
some sort of discipline was maintained.  We had no
officers, who had been housed elsewhere, but the
sergeants soon had us working to fashion crude
shelters out of the plastic and timber - and we needed
it, because the rain soon started to pour down.   The
already soggy land quickly turned into a quagmire as
we moved around, and we got ankle-deep in mud -
fortunately our combat boots kept the worst of it out.
 Sanitation was primitive - one corner of the vast
field was reserved for pissing and shitting.  And we
were only fed some sort of emergency field rations -
exactly the right number of bars were delivered every
morning and every evening, and again, it's a tribute
to marine corps discipline that there was no cheating
as they were distributed.  They kept us like this, no
better than animals really, for over a week.  We were
all tired, as it was almost impossible to sleep on the
soggy wet ground even if you could find a small area
of plastic sheeting to lie on, and wet through from
the incessant rain.  If we hadn't all been so young
and fit, I'm sure there would have been serious
illness.
Looking back on it, we must have seemed to be less
than human by the Confederates guarding us - we were
filthy, covered in mud, crouched there in the open
crapping, and to all world looked like a big herd of
some sort of strange farm animal.  I used to see those
huge pig farms as we drove around the country on
vacation years ago, and I guess it was pretty much
like that, except that we were men, and not pigs.

I suppose they'd put us there as a temporary measure
as the whole country was in such chaos, and they had a
lot of men to deal with at once.  But on the other
hand, perhaps it was to sap our will, and wear us down
- yes, that seems the most likely explanation,  as
they could have housed us in high schools, or empty
prisons, or somewhere, couldn't they? Fortunately they
collected us on the eighth day, loading us onto
standard army trucks, with a Confederate soldier
riding as guard on each one.  We arrived at what was
recognisably an army base, and we all began to cheer
up - there would surely be showers, bunks, perhaps
even a PX?  We could phone our folks, assuming the
phone system was working again, and there was hope for
that - the place was brilliantly lit, indicating that
power was back on.  But it was not to be - we were
paraded on the parade ground, always guarded by
Confederates with their guns, drawn up into standard
ranks.  The fucking rain started again, and they kept
us standing there - in our previous "camp" we had at
least been able to huddle under cover of the plastic
sheeting, but here we just got wet.  And when I say
wet, I mean really wet - you know how those storms in
the south can drop inches of rain, well, it was like
that - you could hardly breathe it was raining so
hard, your clothes were completely soaked through, and
we were soon all shivering with the cold.

Slowly, though, one rank at a time, we were marched
off the parage ground and into one of the buildings.
We were placed in a line along one wall of a long
corridor, and gradually, inch by inch, we shuffled
forward along it.  Still, at least we were in the dry
now, and it was relatively warm.  One by one we were
taken through a door, each time it seemed to take a
couple of minutes, and at long, long last it was my
turn.

Inside, it looked like a standard military court room
- not that I'd ever been court martialled, but I'd
seen them on the movies.  There was a dais with a long
table on it, behind which sat three senior
Confederate officers.  To one side there was a desk
with a lieutenant at it, and on the other, a desk with
a PC at which sat a corporal.  Eight guards, armed,
stood smartly at attention, regularly spaced around
the room.

"Name and number!", the corporal snapped as I entered,
and as I had learned throughout my military career, I
retorted "Masters, corporal. Steve Masters. 86607016."

He typed away for a moment, then turned to the
officers and said "Private first class in the 147th
marine corps, sir.  Saw duty all over our country,
most recently fighting in the battle of St Louis."

The three officers looked at each other, and just said
"Guilty, then, of course?"

"Sirs!", the lieutenant rose to his feet.  "On behalf
of the prisoner I formally protest that this court is
not properly constituted and that the prisoner cannot
be tried here.  The prisoner is a prisoner of war, and
is subject to the Geneva Convention which prohibits
enemy states from trying combat soldiers.  If the
Court rejects that argument, then I further
respectfully remind the court that the prisoner was
only obeying orders, which was his duty."

He sat down, almost sitting at attention, and the
chief officer replied calmly and quietly "Thank you,
Lieutenant.  The Court rejects your arguments.  This
is a properly constituted Court of the Confederate
Army.  The prisoner is an American soldier and can be
tried by the court as he is not an enemy combatant in
the terms of Convention - he is a rebel, engaged in a
civil war.  And 'obeying orders' is no defence when
the crime is treason."

Looking at me he simply went on "The Court finds you
guilty of treason for fighting against the lawfully
constituted authority in the state, and sentences you
to death."

I gasped in shock, but the Lieutenant was on his feet
again "Sirs, I request clemency for the prisoner."

"Granted.  Sentence commuted to lifetime slavery, no
freedom permitted.  Next case...."

I realised it had all been a formula -  I had been in
there only a couple of minutes, and as a guard
motioned for me to exit by a door opposite the one I
had come in by, the other door opened and the next guy
came in to the room.

There was another queue of guys on the other side of
the door, and risking the wrath of the guards who
patrolled the corridor, I soon discovered that we'd
all been subject to exactly the same process.  I
realised why when, a few minutes later as we were
still shuffling forward, a group of guys in suits,
with big red crosses on armbands on them, strolled
along.  They were talking to a smooth-looking guy who
was evidently a politician or in PR or something, as I
heard him say "Of course we had a problem initially,
as our systems were simply overwhelmed by the volume
of prisoners.  But we are closing the temporary
transit camps as quickly as we can, and bringing the
prisoners here for trial.  They all get a proper Court
Martial with three military judges and a defence
counsel:  The Confederacy wants to be recognised as a
properly constituted state, and we're doing everything
we can to fully comply with international treaties and
conventions....."

I don't think that being condemned to be a slave had
really sunk in until I got to the head of the line.  I
saw that there were showers there, and gladly stripped
off my filthy uniform and actually revelled in being
able to get the accumulated grime off me under the hot
water.  I had a couple of weeks of growth on my beard,
and there were no provisions for shaving, but at least
I felt properly clean as I got to the end of the long
shower stall.  It was almost like being back in our
proper barracks again - you get used to showering with
your comrades in the marines, and I didn't feel even
the faintest trace of embarrassment about stripping
and showering with the other guys.    But it was quite
different when I came out - there were no towels or
anything, and we were simply moved along, the water
dripping of us.  In a small area heavily guarded with
Confederates, one of them slipped something around my
neck - a leather collar - and buckled it at the front.
 "Hands behind your neck, boy!", he snapped, and when
I hesitated, even for a moment, there was a dreadful
kind of electric stabbing pain that shot through me,
and made me cry out.

"That's a slave prod, boy.  Get used to it.  Slaves
who don't obey orders get prodded.  Or whipped.  Now,
hands behind your head...."

Well, what could I do, surrounded by guards and
totally naked?  Even a trained fighter knows those
odds are impossible and the first rule of combat is to
conserve your strength for when the odds are better.
So I put my arms behind my neck, and felt them being
fastened to the collar by cuffs.

"Right!  Now...."  The soldier reached up and
unfastened my dog tags, simply tossing them into a
container on the floor.

"Hey...!", I protested, and the soldier just looked at
me, almost pityingly.  "You want another prod, boy?
The first rule you need to learn here is that slaves
only speak when they're spoken to.  Understand?"

I hesitated, and there was that dreadful shock again,
making me scream out.  "I  said 'do you understand',
boy!  The second rule is that a slave always answers a
master, and always answers respectfully.  'Sir, yes,
sir' would be the appropriate reply.  Understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"  Well, it was only like speaking to
the sergeant at boot camp, after all.  So I carried on
"Sir, permission to speak, sir?"

He nodded, and I went on "Sir, my dog tags, sir.  A
soldier always needs ID...."

"You're right, of course.  But you're not a soldier
any more, boy, you're a slave.  Didn't you hear the
Court - you were sentenced to life-long slavery.
Slaves do need ID, and your owner, once you've been
sold, will give you proper ID, not something that can
be taken off like these tags... Now, move it, slave,
unless you want to get the prod again...."

I re-joined the line of naked men, all, like me, with
their hands cuffed behind their necks.  I soon
realised that this was almost the ideal way of
controlling us - our hands immobilised like that, and
totally naked, we were extremely vulnerable.  Escape
was impossible, of course, as there was no way of
opening a door or anything.  And as all the guards
carried the slave prod things, and short riding crops
with a leather strap at the end, we could be moved
along, or made to be silent, or whatever, quite easily
- the pain wouldn't permanently harm you, but you
really did try to avoid it if possible.

They'd got this place set up rather like the medical
centre that I'd gone through when I first joined the
service when there was a whole bunch of guys whose
blood and urine had to be taken, who needed chest
X-rays, heart monitoring, and general fitness testing.
 The only real difference, I suppose, was that we were
then in regulation cotton boxers, and our hands
weren't cuffed!  There was another difference, too -
at the first "station" a guy with a magic marker
scrawled the number 639 on my left butt cheek, asked
me my service number again, then keyed the two numbers
into a PC.  I hated being marked in this way - it made
me feel like some sort of animal, as, after all, they
could just have asked me for the number, couldn't
they?

But no:  every time something was done to me, they
casually looked down at my butt to see the number, and
the whole thing seemed to go on for hours.  I was
weighed, my height measured, then blood was taken, a
guy with a stethoscope listened to my chest, a pad was
put on my pecs and some tracing of my heard recorded,
and then I got to stand on a grill in the floor.

"Right, slave - we need your urine to test for drugs
and diseases", the guard at that station told me. "But
it's hard for you to fill one of these little
containers, when you can't use your hands!  So we use
Dylan here...."   So saying, he scrawled 639 on one of
those test tube things, and handed it to a young guy
who, like me, was naked.  He might have been a
soldier, I suppose, but not a fighter like me - Dylan
was thin and wiry, and can only have been sixteen at
the most.

He took the container, knelt in front of me, and
almost whispered "Just piss - I'll catch it.  And I
know it's difficult to stop, and you probably need a
piss anyway, so just carry on... that's what the
grill's for...."

Look, even when you need to piss, and I did, as I'd
been standing in line for hours one way and another,
you just can't do it, can you?  Especially when
there's a young lad holding your dick and pointing it
at a container!

Start pissing, slave!", the guard snapped, and, when
in spite of my efforts, nothing happened, he bought
the riding crop down smartly on my butt.  The sheer
unexpectedness of this released my tension and the
piss shot out of me, surprising poor Dylan who got
covered in it.  And, of course, once you've started,
you can't stop, can you?  The little container was
full to overflowing in seconds, and Dylan scrambled
out of the warm shower I was producing, wiped the
container on  a cloth, and put it into a rack full of
others, evidently waiting for processing.  He stood
there as I finished up, then knelt and massaged the
last drops out of my urethra, slightly skinning me
back so that none lodged under my 'skin.  I hated it -
I'd never had a guy do anything like that to me
before:  I mean, a guy's dick is pretty private, isn't
it?  All your comrades see it all the time in the
corps, but you don't touch each other! But I suppose I
should have been grateful - I mean, us guys with
foreskins have to be careful as it can soon go rank
and smelly if you're not careful.

He scrambled to his feet again, and I saw his body
shining with my piss where I'd covered him.  "Look,
sorry...", I started to say, before the guard snapped
"Slaves remain silent at all times, or get
punished....", then, as he seemed to be a bit more
kindly than the others, went on "Don't worry about
Dylan - it's his job.  You all manage to leak some
over him, but he enjoys it:  we saw his profile on the
gay dating service, and found he liked water sports,
so he's almost in heaven here!"

At the end of this tedious line there was a huge room,
filled with naked guys like me, all cuffed.  Some
crude barriers divided the area into several sections,
and as I got to the front there seemed to be some sort
of selection going on.    Surrounded by guards with
the inevitable prods and whips was a big, florid man
in vaguely flamboyant clothes - a business suit, but
in a very pale brown, with huge checkerboard squares
of darker browns all over it, a silk shirt with a
long, floppy collar, and instead of a tie, a huge
cravat of bright yellow silk, very loosely tied around
his throat.  I didn't know it at the time, but I'm
sure you're all aware that slave dealers tend to adopt
this eye-catching style of dress so that in the crowds
at slave sales they're more readily recognisable, in
case you want to do business with them.

One of the guards looked at my butt, snapped "639",
another keyed something into a hand-held PC, and said
"This one was a marine, on active service, sir."

"Quite so", the dealer mused. "Even if you hadn't said
that, I might have guessed.  Very good body indeed.
Fine musculature.  Not a trace of fat.  And I think
that under that hair, he's probably got a nice face.
Category A, for the time being  I'll examine him more
thoroughly later on."

Without any more being said I was pushed through a
gate into one of the enclosures - not a very crowded
one - where there were already a few guys who, like
me, were evidently battle-hardened real soldiers.  In
the next enclosure to us were men who were clearly
better than the idle population as a whole, as they
were mostly lean, but who lacked our hard muscles -
probably they'd been in logistics, or catering, or
whatever.  The third enclosure was the same as that,
the only difference being that blacks were sent there,
whereas the second one was for whites and Hispanics,
and the fourth one, on the other side of us, was
empty.

We all stood around as the flow of men went on, and
the "sorting" continued.  If anyone spoke a guard
would push his way through the naked bodies, flailing
with his whip and stabbing randomly with his prod, so
we all soon learned just to remain quiet.  Then,
towards the end, there was a general rumbling noise as
a couple of hundred guys stirred uneasily - coming
into the room were women, naked, like us, hands cuffed
like us, and their breasts therefore thrust out
provocatively.  They were all shepherded in to the
fourth enclosure, next to ours, and a whole range of
emotions ran thorough me.  Look, I know that they have
women in the forces, and they do a good job.  These
must have been doing support roles when they were
captured, and I can understand why they're not allowed
into front-line fighting roles - there's something
about the male-female thing that makes guys
instinctively want to protect women, isn't there?  And
it was working now - we had all been more or less
content to stand there, worrying about our own fate.
But the moment these women appeared, there was this
muttering of anger.

Perhaps worse than that, though, was appearing naked
in front of them, and of seeing them naked.  I mean, a
group of guys together doesn't mind changing,
showering, and doing all kinds of stuff like tat
together, do they?  But with women present., it's
different.   We all felt acutely naked now, and, as
you'd expect, most of us sprang huge boners, which
just made us feel worse.

I'm sure there would have been a riot when the slave
trader finally came into the women's enclosure and
started to "assess" them had the guards not patrolled
around the men's enclosures and maintained order.  We
watched in horror as he fondled their breasts, turned
them around and ran his hands over their hips and
thighs as if to see whether they were fat, or just big
or small hipped, and then turned them around and
brusquely inserted a couple of fingers up their cunts.
 Many of the women were silently weeping at this, but
the guy just didn't seem to care - he divided them
into two groups, and I have to say that my own tastes
were pretty much in agreement with his - all the women
in the first group had nice faces and good bodies:
well, pert breasts, nicely rounded bellies, not too
broad in the hip:  I'd have happily fucked any of
them.  The second group were best characterised as
"earth mothers" - bigger breasted, wider hips....

We were stunned when he called to the guards "This
group - they've been pre-sold to a breeder down in
Nashville.  They've all got good broad child-bearing
hips... There's a transport waiting for them, take
them out.  And this group...", he indicated the ones I
found fuckable, "they're for next week's sale of
domestics and pleasure slaves.  Take them to cell
block G, and make sure you keep your hands - and dicks
- off them:  they're prime stock, and their new owners
won't have wanted them mauled by a load of soldiers!"

The two corrals of blacks and whites were soon dealt
with - the guards took one black and one white, took
off their restraint collars, and cuffed the two men
together, right wrist of one to left of the other,
with metal handcuffs.  Pair by pair they were then
marched out, and I heard the dealer in conversation
with the guards, almost laughing.  "They're all in for
a shock - they're just common fodder, destined to work
in field gangs, and the modern theory is that you pair
a black and a white like that as they both hate it -
these racial things are buried deep!  The white will
try to boss the black, who'll resent it.  The black
will probably work harder and blame the white for
being lazy... And before they realise it, they'll be
competing with each other, which means more work out
of them, and less time for them to think about escape
and such like!  Clever, those psychologists, aren't
they?"

There were only about forty of us left, then.  All
fit-looking, strong, but varying in general body shape
and colour.  There were a couple of really big tall
blacks, a few tall-ish guys like me, and the rest more
or less around the average.  We stood there as the
dealer and guards came into our corral  - what the
fuck was he going to do to us?

End Of Part 1