Excerpt: Brad's Story
Brad Graff robbed a Burger King of a Whopper in a small Southern Oregon town. He hadn’t been in and out of jail except a night or two now and then, but he’d been a headache to the community for years. Disturbing the peace. Public nudity. A few small drug convictions for which he got probation, rehab and community service. This time the judge didn’t look so kindly on Brad and sentenced him to two years, which meant a stint in the new basic training.
He was transferred to a new camp in Montana that the recruits themselves were developing. Camp Sherman already had barracks and other buildings, but the training grounds, marching grounds, roads and all the other things a camp needed were the responsibility of the recruits: one way to make them productive. For the first twelve weeks, Brad underwent basic training to give him discipline and a sense of camaraderie with the others. He marched for miles every day, dropped and gave the drill sergeant fifty any number of times, exercised, learned to read maps, experienced tear gas and attended lectures among other things.
“Left! Left! Left right left!” the drill sergeants called out as they marched. “That’s my left, Recruit! Not yours!"
“I want to help the little old ladies,
Feed the poor and hug some babies.
I want to rid the world of crime,
Make life safe for yours and mine.”
“I want to build a happy life,
With my husband or my wife.
I’ll be sure that you are fine.
You get yours and I get mine.”
Of course, Brad didn’t want to help old ladies, feed the poor and all the rest of what he had to shout out in the cadence. That was part of his problem. So he attended classes daily to help him understand how society works, why he was there, and how he could become a useful member of his society. Some other recruits hadn’t gotten that far. They were in their 15th or 18th weeks of basic training, taking anger management classes and junior high level Math and English. Some not that high.
Cameras and microphones were by then small enough that a million of them could be in use without anyone knowing. The recruits were watched and listened to constantly. Computers could understand numerous languages and would inform drill sergeants of recruits who weren’t getting the message.
During his 12th week, Brad was caught talking with another recruit by one of the computers.
“Oh, man,” Brad whispered to the other recruit. “This really sucks. I gotta get outta here.”
“You and me both. Sometimes I want to just bash one of those drill sergeants over the head.”
“I swear every morning that I’m gonna do it. I know I am. I hate all this fucking bullshit about helping people and being a good member of society. When I get out, I’m gonna be smarter. I’m just not gonna be caught, that’s all.”
He never knew why he was given the extra two months of basic training. All he knew was that he was still there and had probably forgotten how long he’d been there anyway. By the end, however, he was talking about seeing his wife and regretted that he’d done something as stupid as trying to steal a Whopper. “This is way better than jail anyway, but I’d rather be out doing something. After this, I think I’d be happy to have a job. If I could live on the wages anyway.”
Even though he’d had to spend those extra months, or perhaps because of them, Brad had changed. He’d lost 20 pounds. He was definitely clean of drugs and alcohol. The change in his body made him calmer. He thought more clearly, his ability to concentrate had improved, and he was more disciplined. He was promoted to Private 2 and put on a construction job where the recruits had it easier. The sergeants didn’t yell so much, and the recruits weren’t constantly marching around. But even on these jobs, the recruits had regimented and disciplined lives. They got up in the morning at six, made their beds, fell out for role call, went to the mess hall for breakfast, fell back in, marched to the site, and worked all day. At lunchtime and at dinner, they fell out for role call and marched to the mess hall. After work, they had classes and some free time. It was just what most of the recruits needed. Those who couldn’t make it in one of these cushy jobs would be sent back to more basic training. That rarely happened. The computers and drill sergeants were too good at spotting problems before the guys got their taste of freedom.
In rare cases, a recruit would be considered unable to become a productive member of society. That rarely happened at Camp Sherman. It was more likely to happen at camps where the men had committed more violent crimes and had been members of gangs or hate groups. In those first years, they were sent back to prisons with the understanding that if they were good prisoners, they’d have a chance to go back to basic training. A few were found mentally ill and sent to other facilities for help.
Today, of course, a lot of that is unnecessary. Some people criticize today’s program as a modern day version of the Moonies’ and Hari Krishna’s weekend retreats, when a person would be brainwashed into joining the cult after just a weekend and would give all their money to the religious group. Most don’t care about the method. There’s no torture. What they care about is that it works, and it does in most cases.
When Brad was paroled, he already had a job which was found for him. He’d gained considerable skill and a liking for operating heavy equipment. He moved back to his hometown and made a wage that he could definitely live on. Gone were the days when a prisoner would be set free to have to find his own way and frequently report to a parole officer. The employer was given a tax break that was barely worth the effort of weekly reports to the parole board, but it helped get recruits hired. Unless the reports indicated something amiss, parole officers only occasionally checked on the released criminal, and when they did, they were able to check more thoroughly by going out to see the workplace or the home. Parole officers didn’t have time to sit in offices.
Brad’s employer, Elayne Griffin, started to have some worries about Brad after he’d been with the company for about six months. Officer Thorpe went out to the site to have a chat with Brad. When he got there, Brad was working a huge shovel and was nearly ready for his break. Thorpe walked across a large area of gravel and yelled. “Brad! Brad!”
Brad didn’t hear the shouting but happened to see the officer out of the corner of his eye. He shut the shovel down and climbed off. “Officer Thorpe! Hey, how are you? It’s been awhile.”
“I’m all right, Brad. I just came by to see how you’re doing. How is everything?”
“Great. I’ve got a good job here.”
“You like what you’re doing?”
“Sure,” Brad said honestly. “I learned this in camp and liked it. It beats all those other crappy jobs I used to get. And it pays well.”
At the same time, two other officers and a dog were in Brad’s apartment, checking for drugs, guns and anything a guy like Brad wouldn’t be able to afford. He was living alone then, his wife having divorced him while he was away. These days, we don’t use dogs, of course; but at that time, dogs were essential for sniffing out drugs and guns.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” the officer said. Because Thorpe wanted to get out of the sun, he suggested a spare room in the office, a temporary metal building with the inside made into a passable working space with separate rooms.
Once there, Officer Thorpe reached into his pocket and said, “Well, let’s get this part over with anyway so we can talk.” He pulled out a swab and handed it to Brad who wiped it in his mouth and handed it back.
Thorpe rubbed the swab on what looked like a memo pad. “Brad. Come on.”
“It was just that once, Officer.”
“Gee,” Thorpe said, looking Brad in the eyes. “I thought you were doing really well out here. That’s why I haven’t been out for a month.” He looked down again. “Looks like more than once to me.”
Brad’s cheeks puffed as he blew out air. “Oh, man. Does this mean I’m going back to camp?”
Officer Thorpe had a heart. He didn’t want to send Brad to camp for a slip up, but he also had a job to do. “That depends, Brad. You know the procedure. I have to know who sold it to you.”
“Look,” Brad said. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk in front of him. “It was just a mistake. I like it here. I’m doing really well. You can check me every week from now on if you want. Every day. I don’t care.”
Thorpe sat back. He took out a small book and doodled on it. “Okay, Brad. I do need to know where you got it.”
Brad’s eyes lit up. “You mean, you’re not sending me back to camp?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not heartless, Brad, but you’ve violated your parole. I need you to cooperate if I’m going to be able to help you out. Otherwise, I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
Brad sat back again and looked at the floor for awhile. “Okay. The guy’s name is Frankie. I don’t know his last name. He’s always at his house on Spring Street.”
“How do I get there?”
“You know where I live. Just go to Spring Street, make a right. It’s a blue house on the right. Maybe the third or fourth one down.”
“His last name?”
“No idea, Officer. Really. I wish I knew.”
“Okay, we need a unit at Spring Street,” Thorpe said, and the computer relayed the message to headquarters. “Just wait here,” Thorpe said. He went out and talked to Elayne, who put another worker on Brad’s shovel. Then he got Brad. The two talked all the while they drove downtown.
He was transferred to a new camp in Montana that the recruits themselves were developing. Camp Sherman already had barracks and other buildings, but the training grounds, marching grounds, roads and all the other things a camp needed were the responsibility of the recruits: one way to make them productive. For the first twelve weeks, Brad underwent basic training to give him discipline and a sense of camaraderie with the others. He marched for miles every day, dropped and gave the drill sergeant fifty any number of times, exercised, learned to read maps, experienced tear gas and attended lectures among other things.
“Left! Left! Left right left!” the drill sergeants called out as they marched. “That’s my left, Recruit! Not yours!"
“I want to help the little old ladies,
Feed the poor and hug some babies.
I want to rid the world of crime,
Make life safe for yours and mine.”
“I want to build a happy life,
With my husband or my wife.
I’ll be sure that you are fine.
You get yours and I get mine.”
Of course, Brad didn’t want to help old ladies, feed the poor and all the rest of what he had to shout out in the cadence. That was part of his problem. So he attended classes daily to help him understand how society works, why he was there, and how he could become a useful member of his society. Some other recruits hadn’t gotten that far. They were in their 15th or 18th weeks of basic training, taking anger management classes and junior high level Math and English. Some not that high.
Cameras and microphones were by then small enough that a million of them could be in use without anyone knowing. The recruits were watched and listened to constantly. Computers could understand numerous languages and would inform drill sergeants of recruits who weren’t getting the message.
During his 12th week, Brad was caught talking with another recruit by one of the computers.
“Oh, man,” Brad whispered to the other recruit. “This really sucks. I gotta get outta here.”
“You and me both. Sometimes I want to just bash one of those drill sergeants over the head.”
“I swear every morning that I’m gonna do it. I know I am. I hate all this fucking bullshit about helping people and being a good member of society. When I get out, I’m gonna be smarter. I’m just not gonna be caught, that’s all.”
He never knew why he was given the extra two months of basic training. All he knew was that he was still there and had probably forgotten how long he’d been there anyway. By the end, however, he was talking about seeing his wife and regretted that he’d done something as stupid as trying to steal a Whopper. “This is way better than jail anyway, but I’d rather be out doing something. After this, I think I’d be happy to have a job. If I could live on the wages anyway.”
Even though he’d had to spend those extra months, or perhaps because of them, Brad had changed. He’d lost 20 pounds. He was definitely clean of drugs and alcohol. The change in his body made him calmer. He thought more clearly, his ability to concentrate had improved, and he was more disciplined. He was promoted to Private 2 and put on a construction job where the recruits had it easier. The sergeants didn’t yell so much, and the recruits weren’t constantly marching around. But even on these jobs, the recruits had regimented and disciplined lives. They got up in the morning at six, made their beds, fell out for role call, went to the mess hall for breakfast, fell back in, marched to the site, and worked all day. At lunchtime and at dinner, they fell out for role call and marched to the mess hall. After work, they had classes and some free time. It was just what most of the recruits needed. Those who couldn’t make it in one of these cushy jobs would be sent back to more basic training. That rarely happened. The computers and drill sergeants were too good at spotting problems before the guys got their taste of freedom.
In rare cases, a recruit would be considered unable to become a productive member of society. That rarely happened at Camp Sherman. It was more likely to happen at camps where the men had committed more violent crimes and had been members of gangs or hate groups. In those first years, they were sent back to prisons with the understanding that if they were good prisoners, they’d have a chance to go back to basic training. A few were found mentally ill and sent to other facilities for help.
Today, of course, a lot of that is unnecessary. Some people criticize today’s program as a modern day version of the Moonies’ and Hari Krishna’s weekend retreats, when a person would be brainwashed into joining the cult after just a weekend and would give all their money to the religious group. Most don’t care about the method. There’s no torture. What they care about is that it works, and it does in most cases.
When Brad was paroled, he already had a job which was found for him. He’d gained considerable skill and a liking for operating heavy equipment. He moved back to his hometown and made a wage that he could definitely live on. Gone were the days when a prisoner would be set free to have to find his own way and frequently report to a parole officer. The employer was given a tax break that was barely worth the effort of weekly reports to the parole board, but it helped get recruits hired. Unless the reports indicated something amiss, parole officers only occasionally checked on the released criminal, and when they did, they were able to check more thoroughly by going out to see the workplace or the home. Parole officers didn’t have time to sit in offices.
Brad’s employer, Elayne Griffin, started to have some worries about Brad after he’d been with the company for about six months. Officer Thorpe went out to the site to have a chat with Brad. When he got there, Brad was working a huge shovel and was nearly ready for his break. Thorpe walked across a large area of gravel and yelled. “Brad! Brad!”
Brad didn’t hear the shouting but happened to see the officer out of the corner of his eye. He shut the shovel down and climbed off. “Officer Thorpe! Hey, how are you? It’s been awhile.”
“I’m all right, Brad. I just came by to see how you’re doing. How is everything?”
“Great. I’ve got a good job here.”
“You like what you’re doing?”
“Sure,” Brad said honestly. “I learned this in camp and liked it. It beats all those other crappy jobs I used to get. And it pays well.”
At the same time, two other officers and a dog were in Brad’s apartment, checking for drugs, guns and anything a guy like Brad wouldn’t be able to afford. He was living alone then, his wife having divorced him while he was away. These days, we don’t use dogs, of course; but at that time, dogs were essential for sniffing out drugs and guns.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” the officer said. Because Thorpe wanted to get out of the sun, he suggested a spare room in the office, a temporary metal building with the inside made into a passable working space with separate rooms.
Once there, Officer Thorpe reached into his pocket and said, “Well, let’s get this part over with anyway so we can talk.” He pulled out a swab and handed it to Brad who wiped it in his mouth and handed it back.
Thorpe rubbed the swab on what looked like a memo pad. “Brad. Come on.”
“It was just that once, Officer.”
“Gee,” Thorpe said, looking Brad in the eyes. “I thought you were doing really well out here. That’s why I haven’t been out for a month.” He looked down again. “Looks like more than once to me.”
Brad’s cheeks puffed as he blew out air. “Oh, man. Does this mean I’m going back to camp?”
Officer Thorpe had a heart. He didn’t want to send Brad to camp for a slip up, but he also had a job to do. “That depends, Brad. You know the procedure. I have to know who sold it to you.”
“Look,” Brad said. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk in front of him. “It was just a mistake. I like it here. I’m doing really well. You can check me every week from now on if you want. Every day. I don’t care.”
Thorpe sat back. He took out a small book and doodled on it. “Okay, Brad. I do need to know where you got it.”
Brad’s eyes lit up. “You mean, you’re not sending me back to camp?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not heartless, Brad, but you’ve violated your parole. I need you to cooperate if I’m going to be able to help you out. Otherwise, I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
Brad sat back again and looked at the floor for awhile. “Okay. The guy’s name is Frankie. I don’t know his last name. He’s always at his house on Spring Street.”
“How do I get there?”
“You know where I live. Just go to Spring Street, make a right. It’s a blue house on the right. Maybe the third or fourth one down.”
“His last name?”
“No idea, Officer. Really. I wish I knew.”
“Okay, we need a unit at Spring Street,” Thorpe said, and the computer relayed the message to headquarters. “Just wait here,” Thorpe said. He went out and talked to Elayne, who put another worker on Brad’s shovel. Then he got Brad. The two talked all the while they drove downtown.