Homeward Bound Ch. 05

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Here SHE comes...
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Joe456
Joe456
60 Seguaci

The shadow could look like a rock among the others, till a continuous noise in the distance woke it up. Men. Men incoming. Not so many. But incoming.

Here they are, the shadow thought. There were just two. Clearly visible under the moon. Drifting on the stony, gravelly ground. The noise of the gravel under their feet, closer and closer in the silence. And now, their voices too, unintelligible yet, just a syllable now and then... Too little to guess the language they were talking in... But one of them was clearly an Afghan. Chitrali beret and all the rest...

"Hey... when do we stop for the night?"

"Wait a bit more... there has to be a creek, a small river, here around... We need water... After that creek, I don't know where else to find water... Not so much water, at least... "

"We can look for it tomorrow... I am tired... "

They are coming straight here, the shadow thought. Maybe they needed water, and there was a big creek right there. So they were REALLY coming in...

And the shadow got his gun. Single shot, no bursts. The AK47 was not a sniper rifle, but there were no bullets to waste...

The shadow aimed at the man with the Chitrali beret, held the breath, grit the teeth and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the gun was like a fist on the cheek and the gritted teeth felt the blow. Missed!

"Heck!" the medic said, and hit the dirt behind a small slope. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes!" the soldier answered, from behind a grove some meters away. "How many could they be?"

"Well, there has been just one shot, so it could even be just one... But if they are many... "

"If they are..." the soldier ranted: he was losing his marbles. "K'ciòrtu! Gdiè nàkhren vy, dushmani? Pakajìte vàshu mordù!"

"K ciòrtu"? "Nakhren"? "Mordu"? But then they were...

"Stòì! Stòityes!" the shadow cried.

It had the voices of a very, very scared girl.

The medic and the soldier were not less amazed hearing that female voice shouting in Russian.

"It's one of yours!" the medic said.

"It's a girl!" the soldier smiled. "A girl! I have been almost killed by a Russian girl! It's funny!"

"Stòityes! Niè dvigàityes, ciòrt vosmì! Otkuda vy sdiès! Shto vy dièlaete!" the girl kept shouting.

"What is she saying?" the medic asked.

"Who we are, why we are here, what are we doing... Normal!" the soldier snorted. Now, the whole situation seemed comic to him. Just a mixup, no "dushmany", nothing serious! He rose his head over the grove. "Dyèvushka, niè bòisya! My svaì..."

Another shoot showed him that was not all that simple. Another near miss, but nearer than before.

"Drusyà ili vraghì!" the girl was shouting, hysterically, always weeping. She HAD lost her marble already...

"Drusyà, tvòyu màt! Ty nie ponimàesh?" the soldier roared. So, "drusyà ili vraghì" means "friend or foe", the medic thought... For a minute, nothing more happened.

"Làdna! Davàite!" the voice said, a bit more calmly. The soldier looked at the medic and move his hand as to say "Let's go", and both men moved on. Then, the girl cried again:

"Stòityes!", and the two men stopped as frozen. The voice was still talking loudly, but not more shouting. "Kak savùt... "

"What she said?" the medic asked.

"He wanted the name of the goalkeeper of the national football team!" the soldier grunted. Prudence has never been too much, the medic thought. Then he shouted.

"Dàsayev!"

"Davày!" the voice said, in an almost normal tone. The soldier looked at him, surprised, and he just shrugged. It was football, soccer, after all... The best game in the world...

"And now let's hope she will not ask the whole formation!" he said, moving on.

The soldier did not laugh.

There were no other questions. The two men joined the girl. She was clearly over a barrel, even a bit quacking, but even so, the soldier did not feel sympathy for her. He roughly snatched the rifle from her hands.

"Ty... Duràtskaya blyàd ty! Pochtì ubìla menyà!"

"Blyàd eta tvayà sistrà!" she hissed, showing her teeth.

"Stop now, stop at once! We have made a big enough mess already!" the medic said. The girl looked at him, shocked.

"It's YOU who HAS said "Dàsayev"?"

The girl had camped right by the creek the medic was looking for. She had some food on her own, though very scarce. She was dressed in an oversize Afghan jacket, with some holes and some brown blur that could be blood, over her normal western style woman dress. She had also a "pattu", the usual Afghan blanket, on her shoulders and a Chitrali beret on her head, like the one the soldier had stolen to the man who should have killed him, back in the "aul". Surely she did not buy that attire in a shop. But in the distance she could look like a lonely wandering male. And that was why she wore it.

Of course the presence of a Russian girl all alone in the Afghan countryside, with Afghan clothes that clearly had had another owner till recently and an AK47 discreetly mastered, was curious to say the least, but the girl insisted to know first why they were there too, especially the medic. His own presence there, together with a Russian soldier, after all, was not less unusual. She wanted to be sure the medic was not a spy, and the soldier, not a deserter.

Once she had all the information she wanted, she told her story. She worked in a small transformer station, not too far from there, together with Afghan and Russian technicians. One fine day, the Afghan rebels had seized the station and captured them. Maybe they wanted to get a ransom for them, or an exchange of prisoners, or whatever advantage which could justify the fact they did not kill them on the spot. But they seemed not so able in the negotiations. So the execution line seemed more and more likely...

"And then?" the medic asked. The soldier translated the question, and the girl answered with a grin. The medic just understood the word "Sòbibor". He knew it was the name of a Nazi concentration camp, but what had it got to do with Afghanistan?

"And then they did as they did at Sòbibor," the soldier translated.

"Why? What happened at Sòbibor?"

"Sòbibor! Only Nazi lager where people succeeded to escape on their own! And was a prisoner Russian officer to organize the run!" the girl answered with an approximated Italian, but with pride.

"So you have run away?" the medic wondered.

"We tried! Many of us dead, but if we remained, we all dead! So we played the game!"

"Where are the others? Those who did not die?"

"I don't know! We run, and then, each one on his own! So they don't can take us together and kill us together!"

"And you have killed someone, for not to let them kill you... separately... " the medic said.

"Oh, yes, I done!" the girls nodded, with no repentance. She put her hands as if she held an automatic rifle, and moved them to the left and to the right as if to spread bullets around. "Tatatatata!"

"Okay, but now, keep it cool!" he said, with the most authoritative tone he can muster. The girl just smiled, nodded and shut up. She was still high on adrenaline. That's why she had such a light sleep, and why she had been awakened to their steps on the gravel. She thought they were Afghans haunting her, that's why first she had shot, and then asked about Dasayev... Understandable...

"But how did you get the gun, first?" the medic asked.

"Oh! Easy! These dushmany think women without "parànja", without veil, are whores... And I just played the whore! I approached a man with a gun, made sweet eyes to him, caressed his face, and... "

"And Zac!" the medic said, passing the nail of his inch on his own throat, from the left to the right.

"How did you understood that?" the girl asked, simulating surprise.

"Intuition!" the medic said, calmly. Elementary, Watson...

"Hmm... "Ty khìtry chelovèk"... You are intelligent man... " the girl snorted, smiling,

"Thank you... Well, now we better sleep for a while. I will take the first watch... "

"No need to take watch. I heard you too, I can hear everyone." the girl said, very self-assured.

The man scanned the horizon. Gravel, gravel everywhere, for hundreds of meters around. As if someone had unloaded it there purposefully. The moon was high and full, and there was not a cloud. And the girl has proved to have good ears and the sleep of a dog...

"And they don't know who Dasayev is, right?"

"Right!" the girl said. She took her rifle, put a round in the chamber with swift and precise moves and smiled to the medic.

"Hmm... " the medic said.

Some time later in the night, the medic moved towards the place where the girl was sleeping. Of course she noticed the movement, but she let him come closer.

"Listen... that boy and me, there, were wondering... Whether you feel cold... "

"Do you want me to make you "Zac"?" she asked, in a detached tone, without looking at him.

"No... But I don't want to find someone frozen tomorrow morning... Even less a girl... "

"Then come, and keep your hands in check... "

The medic turned his head towards the soldier and invited him to come close, moving his arm. Then he laid on his right-hand side, behind the spine of the girl, touching her just with his own backbone.

"Is it fine that way?" he asked.

"Hmm... " the girl mumbled. It was fine. She too felt the cold of the night. And that man knew what correctness is. The soldiers laid on his right-hand side too, and he found himself looking in the eyes of the girls. Nothing romantic at all. Her eyes were beautiful, but deadly serious. Determined. If he had a first idea to pick her up, he forgot it in a wink. She was not for him. Not of his league.

The girl looked silently in the eyes of the boy, for a while. A she-wolf who looked at a dog puppy...

"Spi, malchik..." she said. Sleep, baby. Sleep...

The boy closed his eyes, and felt on them the ironic puff of the girl, as a light blow of warm wind.

And he dreamed to be at home.

The medic woke up at dawn, but he decided to let the solider and the girl sleep. Especially the girl.

He thought about the first time he slept back to back with a woman. It was three years before, with Francoise, right there, in Afghanistan. They had been a stranger to each other till then, but that night was a bitter cold, really. A good solution. 37 Celsius degrees from each, and no unrequested intimacy. They kept doing that way for a while, and then... Yes, they did it. It had been her own decision, he would have never allowed himself to...

Why did she decide to do it? Maybe because she knew him enough. She had seen him enough times pulling out small splinters from a wound with a bobby pin or something alike... Or maybe it was a reaction, to all those deaths all around. She wanted to feel warm, pleasure, not only fear, sorrow and despair... No, it was not love, not yet: it had come later.

And it had lasted, even far from there: Paris, France. To meet each other at the "Gare de Lyon", the station when the trains from the South get to the capital... Walking along the Seine, finding a small hotel in the Marais... Making love on a real bed, many times... She liked to stay above him, and he didn't mind at all... It was nice to see her playing the "cowgirl"... very nice...

And then she had talked him about that foolish decision. She wanted to come back. Where? There, in Afghanistan. But why in the hell go back there? It's a war, and it's not our war, it's just an imperialism against the other, between the two litigants, the third dances! And the third is the goddamn Islamic fundamentalism! Do you understand?

Yes, she understood. But she wanted to come back there all the same. Among all the places in the world which needed two doctors fool enough to pack and leave their cozy lives in West to help people in the middle of nowhere, she wanted to come back right there. They are a people who have been invaded, she said: they need us. Oh, yeah... And how had the "invaded people" treated her? It was not our war, Francoise... I had told you...

Sure, it was not even the war of the Russians. They too would have done the right thing staying back home. Just like him.

Yes, they made it dirty, sometimes, even dirtier than what was necessary. Too much schematics: who is not with us is against us. And if someone is "against", in a war, you shoot him. Even with the air force... The point was, in the first times, the things, maybe, were not so ultimately clear... Then, for sure... A bomb on a house with a family inside, and even the most peaceful of the mountain men, who had minded his own business till then, could become a full blown "mujahideen"... Was there such a need for it?

And in fact, in 1986, the things were changing. Less bombs, more propaganda. Not exactly "winning hearts and minds", but, something like that. "Political work", so Radio Kabul said. He followed the broadcasting to improve his own language skills. But maybe it was too late...

Yeah, they kept fighting too, of course. And they had learned how to fight there well. In the best way: by their own mistakes. Very less tank and truck convoys, too easy to block and destroy. Helicopters everywhere, airborne troops. They had come very close to choke the supply lines of the rebels from Pakistan. If just they had fought that way from the beginning, send my regards to the heroic rebels... But then, the Stingers came, and the helicopters had to fly very higher, around 4000 meters: less close support for the infantry, less mobility, all gone.

The war has almost become a positional war again. "We held the coastline, they held the highlands", so to say. And in a positional war, it's hard for those who have to attack. And they were the Russians. Because the others, in order to win, just had not to lose. "The government loses if it does not win", and vice versa for the rebels.

That's why they could not win. Not for the "dirtiness", or because they were wrong: in a war, you don't win because you are right. You win because you create the conditions to win. And if you can't do it, you lose. And there, they could not.

That is, yes, they could even win, on the long run, but it would have taken years and millions of lives. Including many of theirs. They should have deployed much more than a hundred thousand of men, for a very long time, with the perspective of losing many of them. And they had got the picture, yes, sooner and better than the Americans in Vietnam. So they had started to withdraw, with almost three times less casualties. Maybe, even among them, someone would have said "the politicians did not let us win!". The mother of the fools is always pregnant.

The medic stood up, stretched his back and his legs, sat again and looked at the sky and at the horizon. The sun was rising. And nobody was in sight. Thank God.

"And I said hey, gunner man, that's quicksand, that's quicksand, that ain't mud... " he sang, low voice.

Yes, that's quicksand, he thought. Real quicksand...

Joe456
Joe456
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