" et's go. Let's go! Get outta those racks and get dressed," barked the marine corporal as he strode briskly down the center of the barracks. "You people got chow in ten minutes," he snapped, pivoting and starting back the way he came in. "You ain't ready, you ain't eatin'," he roared as he left.

Chuck Stevens' eyes opened to the familiar sight of the bunk above him. Its blue striped mattress, and the steel-mesh, rectangular pattern that held it fast, were almost always his first sight of the morning. He rolled onto his side to see the long, neatly aligned row of bunk beds, and noticed that many of the other guys were kicking off their blankets and coming to life. He tossed the woolen green blanket to the side, swung his feet over and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the night's sleep from his eyes.

Normally, on a morning such as this, Chuck would hurry to the mess hall, have breakfast, and return to the barracks for his work assignment. His usual duties consisted of cutting grass on the historic army post of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He dressed slowly in the dyed-brown, cotton fatigues he'd grown so accustomed to wearing. He smiled to himself as he slipped on the plain black baseball cap. He smiled, because he knew that today was the last day he would have to wear the unusual outfit. After dressing, he made his way down the stairwell that led to the first floor lobby.

Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds sat erect at the duty desk adjacent to the stairwell.

"Hold up there, Stevens," he snapped. "I got paperwork here says you're leavin' us today. That true?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Permanent release at 13:00 hours, Gunny," Chuck proudly stated.

"Yeah, that's what it says here," he quipped. He glanced down at the paper he was holding, then back at Chuck. "Gonna come back and see us again, son?"

"Not too much chance of that," Chuck replied calmly, taking care not to provoke the old gunnery sergeant into a confrontational mood. Chuck knew it was well within his power to extend his visit for an additional thirty-day period, which represented all the good behavior time he had earned.

"Anything else, Gunny?" he asked anxiously.

"No. That's it," growled the gunnery sergeant. "Go get chow and get back here, pronto, so I can out_process your ass off my post." Chuck nodded in acknowledgment and walked through the set of doors that led to the courtyard.

An early morning fog blanketed the courtyard and a fine, cool mist played against Chuck's face as he made his way toward the main complex. The main complex, or "The Castle," as it was called, was appropriately named. It comprised six, multi-level domiciles, each capable of housing some three to four-hundred men. The domiciles were so arranged that their entrances all met in a spacious, circular lobby. Directly in the center of the shiny, marble-floored lobby stood an ominous structure called the "Roundhouse." The roundhouse was a virtual fortress within a fortress. The domiciles which branched off in different directions away from it, were electronically monitored and controlled by personnel securely stationed inside.

Chuck had always found it a depressing experience to walk through the roundhouse lobby, but because the main complex also housed the mess hall, it was a necessity. Today, however, was different and Chuck knew it. Today, nothing could depress him. He had dreamt of this day. He had imagined it in so many ways.

As Chuck entered the roundhouse lobby, the familiar aroma of breakfast being cooked permeated his senses and his stomach began to growl in anticipation of the meal that awaited him. As he walked past domicile number four, he paused to peer through the double set of shiny, black bars that guarded its entrance, or more appropriately, its exit. His eyes panned the six levels of chain-link, fenced catwalks that ringed the main blockhouse. It was on level three of this structure that he had spent his first forty-five days before being upgraded to "B" custody. He recalled the nine by twelve foot cell he had once called home. He thought of Bobby Miniselli, from Brooklyn, who lived on one side of him, and Ray Williams, from Detroit, who lived on the other. Bobby would get out in three years. Ray, on the other hand, had killed an army lieutenant in New Jersey. He would never leave Fort Leavenworth. Chuck remembered how the bleak finality of Ray's situation had inspired him to write a poem - a poem that he never showed to anyone:

Suddenly, his daydream was shattered by the squawk of the loudspeaker mounted atop the roundhouse. "Move away from the gates," it ordered loudly. Chuck would offer no argument today - not this day of all days. He turned and walked into the mess hall, not once looking in the direction of the roundhouse.

Chuck grabbed a tray and joined the slow-moving line. As he waited patiently, he recalled the circumstances that led to his internment. While stationed in California, on active duty, he had compiled a small list of unauthorized absences and one rather lengthy A.W.O.L. period. He soon learned that the United States Marine Corps has a very low tolerance when dealing with such offenses. He recalled, again, the words of the Military Magistrate who presided at his court martial:

"You stand before this court today, convicted of four counts of unauthorized absence from duty and one count of absence from duty without official leave. Because you have refused to be rehabilitated, as well as declined to return to active duty, I have no choice but to reduce your rank from private first-class to private, suspend all pay and allowances, and sentence you to seven months confinement at hard labor."

Chuck knew, that with the exception of naval personnel, anyone in military service receiving a sentence in excess of six months, had to serve their time at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He also knew that if a person so sentenced exhibited good behavior during his stay, five days each month would be awarded and subtracted from his overall sentence. Because Chuck had managed to avoid trouble, he had reduced his sentence by an entire month. A month at the disciplinary barracks was a long time.

Before too long, Chuck found himself standing in front of Sergeant Carter. Carter was a skinny, black man who almost always seemed to be upset about something. A lot of the guys didn't like him because of his outward nastiness, but Chuck knew better. He had caught Carter fighting back a smile on more than one occasion, and although they had never spoken to one another, Chuck liked Carter, and always looked forward to the grumpy sergeant's morning antics.

Among Carter's many duties, one was cooking eggs each morning.

"Good morning, Sergeant Carter," said Chuck, politely. "Six over easy, please."

"Six over easy," he mocked in his usual, unhappy morning tone. "You keep eatin' six over easy everyday, and you ain't never gonna leave this place - least not alive," he smirked, chopping his spatula into a mountainous pile of scrambled eggs.

"Well, then I better die before 13:00 hours, Sarge, because that's when I'm leaving."

The smirk on his face disappeared and his eyes grew wide and bright white against his deep, black skin.

"You leavin' today?" he asked, sliding his spatula into the pile of eggs.

Chuck smiled and nodded affirmatively. Carter wiped his hand on his shirt and extended it.

"Good luck to you, son," he said.

"Same to you, Sarge," Chuck replied, as the two firmly shook hands.

Carter picked up his spatula again and neatly slid it under the mess of eggs Chuck had ordered, and then expertly delivered them to his tray, yokes intact. Chuck felt strangely sad that the first time he ever got to see the human side of Sergeant Carter, was on his last day here. He moved quickly down the line, picking out French toast, bacon and sausage as he went. Lastly, he filled his coffee cup and made his way toward his usual table.

Because all the other guys from "B" custody had already eaten and left for work detail, Chuck found himself dining alone. This was unusual, but then this wasn't a normal day. Instead of going on the grass-cutting detail, Chuck would spend the day at out-processing, finance and pre-release. He ate slowly, savoring the delicious breakfast. One might think that food in amilitary correctional facility would be lacking. On the contrary, Chuck found it to be the best food he'd eaten in all his time in the service.

Chuck finished his coffee, and after depositing his tray on the counter, made his way out the door and back into the roundhouse lobby. He glanced again at domicile four as he walked by its gates, and he recalled, once again, the many hours of reflection spent in his small room on level three.

As he walked back out into the courtyard, he noticed that the fog was beginning to lift. He could now make out the faint outlines of the east and west guard towers eerily piercing the dense fog. He jogged up the stairs leading to "B" custody and pushed open the door.

"It's about time!" snapped the old gunnery sergeant. "Since when does it take a half an hour to eat chow?" he asked, sternly, leaning forward in his chair.

"I didn't think there was much of a rush today, Gunny, you know, with me leavin' and all."

The old gunnery sergeant clasped his hands firmly together. "Let me tell you something you probably weren't aware of, son" he began, his teeth clenched. "If you aren't processed by 13:00 hours today, you won't leave here today," he added authoritatively.

Chuck knew what the gunny said was true. It had happened on more than one occasion in the past, and he would be no exception to the rule. He was determined to leave today. By God, he would leave here today.

The gunny began to shuffle through the pile of paperwork scattered across the top of his desk. "Take this form to finance, this one to supply, and this one, to pre-release," he said laying the forms out, one by one in front of Chuck. "Pre-release," Chuck thought to himself. What a powerful word within the confines of these walls. It was a word seldom spoken here, if not to avoid jealousy, then simply out of respect and common courtesy because many men would stay a long time here. Others would never leave.

Chuck walked back outside again and made his way across the courtyard toward the finance office. The sun had finally burned away the fog, and the guard towers cast their long morning shadows across the grassy courtyard. The air this morning was fresh and smelled sweeter than he could recall. It was the smell of freedom. It was an aroma he'd not enjoyedsince his arrival here six months ago. He walked into the finance office and handed the airman first class his paperwork.

"Have a seat," said the airman, "This is gonna take a few."

Finally, after thirty minutes of waiting, he returned to the counter with Chuck's paperwork.

"Sign here, and here," he said, indicating with his finger.

"Anything else?" asked Chuck, anxiously scratching his signature on the form.

"Yeah, there's this too," said the airman, handing him a cashier's check. Puzzled, Chuck looked at the check. It was clearly made out in his name in the amount of $2,900.00. It had to be a mistake, he thought. Part of his sentence was the forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Some bookkeeper, in some administration office, somewhere, had forgotten to stop his pay. Unbeknownst to him, it had been accruing the entire time he was here.

"Something wrong?" asked the airman.

"No. No, everything's fine," said Chuck, "Just fine."

Chuck's visit to supply was far less eventful. He simply handed the army corporal the form. He signed it and handed it back to Chuck without a word spoken. Chuck was unaffected by the corporal's frigid manner as he hurried out the door to his final stop. In less than three hours, he would be gone from here and on his way home.

Standing at the counter at the pre-release depot, Chuck waited patiently for the clerk to retrieve his civilian clothes from the back storehouse. He soon returned with them and placed them on the counter. They had been washed, neatly folded and bagged on the day he arrived. Chuck picked up the manilla envelope and emptied its contents onto the counter. Out came a sprinkle of loose change, followed by his wallet and watch. The old Timex hadn't lost a minute in the six months they were apart, and when he rifled through his wallet, he found $17.00 that he had tucked away in a small, obscure pouch. He had forgotten about it completely.

Chuck went into the dressing area and slipped out of the old brown fatigues for the last time. It felt great to step back into his old faded blue jeans again, although they were a bit snug. He hadn't noticed until now, but he'd put on a few pounds since his arrival, no doubt due to the excellent food and its virtually limitless quantity. After dressing, he went back out to the front counter to await further instructions. It was only 11:00 a.m., and although he was ready to leave, the time on the release form clearly stated "13:00 hours." Still under military jurisdiction, and being well acquainted with the government's unbounded pride for formality, he calmly accepted the fact that he would not leave before then.

At precisely 13:00 hours, his name was called and he approached the counter once again.

"Give this form to the guard at the main gate," said the clerk, handing him the paper. Chuck glanced it over quickly, noticing the bold, red stamp at the top of the page. It clearly read, "PERMANENT RELEASE, 13:00." At that very instant, he wanted to yell - to just scream and let out six months of pent-up frustration, but fortunately, common sense quickly prevailed and he opted for a more dignified exit. He thanked the clerk, turned, and walked out of the building.

He walked down the stairs and into the courtyard once again. The sun was full and strong now. He enjoyed its warmth on his face as he walked toward the main gate. He took a last glance across the courtyard at the castle again. The ominous structure wasn't nearly as frightening now that he was leaving it behind forever.

"What do you want?" snapped an army staff sergeant as Chuck approached the gate. He knew full well that Chuck was being released. Perhaps it was just his way of being authoritative one last time. He would be the last military representative that Chuck would ever have to answer to.

"I want you to open this gate and let me outta here," Chuck said, handing him the form.

The guard studied it quizzically for a long time, as if he were looking for some inconsistency. Finally, still looking at the form, he pressed a button and the barred gate slid slowly to one side. Chuck stepped through the doorway and into the final holding area. Only one obstacle stood in his path now - the massive steel door that had shaken him so profoundly on the day that he arrived.

"Open the wall!" Chuck heard someone behind him holler. At once, the twenty by thirty foot steel door began to slide open. It squealed for lack of oiling and it vibrated the asphalt beneath Chuck's feet as it rumbled, sliding on its track. A supply truck drove into the compound as Chuck walked through the large opening and out onto the street. He turned and watched the huge door slowly close behind him until it met the wall with a reverberating bang. He remembered that horrible noise on the day he had arrived. But then it had locked him in. Now it closed him out. Chuck gazed at the prison walls and the huge steel door now closed and silent.

His reverie was shattered by the wail of a car horn. He turned to see that his taxi had arrived. It was a free trip to the airport, prearranged by Special Services. It was the last free thing the government would ever give Chuck, and at that moment, the only thing he wanted. He opened the back door and slid onto the slippery, vinyl seat.

"Kansas City International," he said.

"Which gate?" asked the driver.

"The gate nearest to where I can get a cold beer," Chuck smiled.

The driver just nodded, as if he fully understood Chuck's situation. Perhaps he had taken others like Chuck to the airport in the past, or perhaps he had been in a similar predicament himself. Nevertheless, he put the car in gear and drove slowly down the street. Chuck looked out the back window until he could no longer see the guard towers.

He turned and sat back in the seat and lit a cigarette. He thought about domicile four again and his little room on the third level. He thought about "B" custody barracks and the countless games of pool he'd played in its recreation hall. He thought of Sergeant Carter and Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds, both of whom had made his life there a little more bearable. He remembered the large cast of characters he had come to know during his six-month stay, and the many valuable lessons he had learned within those walls.

But that was all behind him now. His only thoughts were on that beer. He could almost taste it _ big, frothy, and served up properly in a well-iced mug.

"Hey, Stevens! Stevens!! What the hell are you doing?" the marine corporal shouted, pushing on Chuck's shoulder. "You should have been at chow fifteen minutes ago. You better get moving, man. Gunny's gonna have your ass!