The banging on his cell door would have woken him if the shouting had not. Talk about cruel and unusual, to have to be awoken every morning by the COs not only banging on his door but also murderingthe language of his home. Reveille; re-valley? Why was it so hard for them to say the word the way it was meant to be said?
His lawyer had been unwilling to explore the possiblity of petitioning for his return to France, but then what had he expected from the public defenfer’s office? Now here he was, stuck in an American gaol; bad food, bad mattress and oh God the food.
The cell door popped and he knew that there was less than a minute before he had to be dressed and stood by the door, that or face a beating from whichever CO was checking cells that morning. He swung his feet out onto the hard, painted floor; cold. Uniform pants and t-shirt, they were quick to throw on. Then socks and pumps. He was stood up mere moments before the CO came in. He had time to realise that the morning was cold.
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