Hunger Strike.

Hunger Strike
I once went on hunger strike. Long story, but here’s the short of it.
Back in the army, after an arrest, I was taken to a base in Edinburgh — you can read more in Beyond the Call of Duty.
I was staring down one grim option: get sent back to my company in Germany… or get sent back to my company in Germany.
And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face the shame of walking back in there, knowing I’d chosen loyalty to my mother over the Queen.
“Oh yes you are, Taylor. It’s an order.”
“Oh no I’m not, Sir. I’m not going back.”
What could I do?
I went on hunger strike.
For three days, I ate nothing.
On Monday the sergeant came into my cell, locked eyes with me and said:
“Listen up, Taylor. My boys are sick of the extra paperwork. You’ve got one chance. Go to breakfast right now… or my boys will take you out back and kick the living daylights out of you.”
It was an easy decision.
“Yes, Sergeant. Breakfast sounds lovely, thank you.”
In the end, I didn’t go back to Germany. Instead, I got three months in the Glass House.