Homeward Bound Ch. 07

Another night. The medic woke up and looked around. All was quiet, and he lay down again, but he realized that the sleep had gone. So he stood up, taking care not to wake up anybody. Since he was awake, he might as well guard the place until dawn.

He started thinking about what he had told the girl, about 24 hours before. it was the talk that he had thought to do with the Russians, in case they got him and interrogated him. No tricks, just why and how he was there. It was just a logical question to ask, for an officer. And no ideology inside, no hymns to the "free world", to the CIA and let alone to the "Freedom Fighters". Just what he thought the Russians did wrong there. Going head first into a war that was not worthwhile, with all the possible consequences, even for the civilians...

No, he did not believe in the "brotherly help". And this, surely, not out of Russophobia. Maybe, it was because of the Choir of the Adelchi he still recalled from his high school studies. "And the hoped prize, promised to those braves, should be, you poor beggars, to change someone's fate? Just putting an end to a lost people's toils?"

No, it worked not that way, back then, in the age of Charlemagne, and it worked not that way then and there, where he was.

It never works that way.

Yes, he had seen the Russians bombing that "aul" and he had asked himself "why". Why right then, why right there. He was there for a routine visit, and then, out of the blue: alert, planes incoming. There were some people with some Stingers, but they used those weapons as if they were spoiled babies playing with toys: too carelessly. They shoot the missiles too early, being sure to hit the planes all the same, as if they were shooting for ducks in a pond. But those guys in the planes were not ducks. They were professionals.

At a certain point, they started flaring and chafing all together, banking with their planes to avoid the missiles, when the missiles were too close to make a turn. All these evasive maneuvers fooled the Stingers, one by one. And before the guys in the "aul" could reloaded their rocket launchers, the planes had dived, dropped and gone already. And he had had the answer to his question. A big, huge, terrific explosion. Not the explosion of a house, or a cave, hit by a rocket: the explosion of an ammunition dump! That was what those helluva guys were looking for. They knew that all that stuff, bullets, grenades, even fuel, maybe, was there, in that "aul", on that day. All that booming stuff.

And they let it all make "Boom".

Yes, he too had got a whiff of some big operation of the "freedom fighters" against some big Russian base in the surroundings. Evidently, even the Russians had got that whiff. They knew the trade, no doubt. So that was not a war crime committed for the sake of it: not that time. It was a military operation: fair target, intelligence and everything. But the result of that "military operation" was terrible. An onslaught that would have been much too much for a hospital to care of, let alone for a single medic.

And thank God, where the Stingers stroke out and the planes came in, he had understood just in time what was the only sensible thing to do: hit the dirt, keep your head a bit off the ground, and pray your "Gawd". Yeah, that's right: there are no Atheists in foxholes. And his "Gawd" had been very more efficient than that of many, many others...

Or maybe it was not the point. It was not his time to die. Yes, that was that. If he had survived all that jazz, and so many others did not, it was just because of it. He had not to die that day, and he had not died. When his time had come, he would have been a dead man. Period.

So, why bother, he had thought.

And since then, he had just kept thinking that way. Why bother?

-

Ahmad Dekhtah had seen many dead men in eight years of war. But not so many in a row.

Since they day they managed to refuel in the "aul" and started again, they did not do anything else: just seeing dead men. First, the two men along the road, with just one AK47 close to them and no food or water nor anything else of any value. Then what remained of a convoy, with lots of corps of men and mules. And now, that tank. That dead tank. With other dead men inside. More men to bury. Burying again...

With that dead tank stuck in the middle of the narrow dirt road, it was impossible for them to pass with their pickup. They had to go back and look for another road, Or any other way to get to Kabul.

Two men had done all that. Two men, alone, tired of walking, maybe starved, had done all that.

"That" is called "fighting", Ahmad thought.

-

The soldier boy saw the base first. It was an old fort, partially in ruin, built by one of the many civilization who had roamed Afghanistan and India throughout the centuries, maybe a Mogul fort, maybe a British one. But now it was a Russian base. Or so the boy said. And he had no reason to lie.

"Well... You are arrived", the medic said.

"Why? Where do you want to go?" the soldier wonder.

"To Kabul. Don't you remember? I don't want to end up in Puli Charki... "

"And do you think you can make it, on your own?"

"I speak the languages, and I am a medic... There are not so many around here... "

"It's not enough to be left alone, here, you have seen it," the soldier said. "Do you remember those two "dushmany",some days ago? They wanted you dead, medic or not."

"You have no choice," the girl said. He asked himself, whether he had had a choice, since he had decided to help the guy. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty". Only the future is foggy...

"All right. But let's keep our hands behind our napes, while we go there... "

"Why?" the girl wondered. "We are Russian... "

"Did you forget how we are dressed? You have shot that guy because he wore a Chitrali beret. But we all are dressed more or less that way. What would you do, if you saw three figures dressed like us, from there?"

"I would zero us in!" nodded the guy, snorting.

And he put his hands between his nape, and started walking.

They walked slowly, always with their hands on their heads, straight to the base. And every now and then, the soldier and the girl shouted "Rùsskye!" or "Niè strelyàete!". The medic thought about a movie, "Cross of Iron", by Sam Peckimpah. There was a scene just like that. It was better off not to think too much how ended up that scene...

But they arrived at the base without any incident. And they saw there was nobody at the base anymore.

"Well... they have left and gone away!" the medic said, wandering in the base's yard.

"Maybe the withdraw had really started, at the end!" the soldier said. He did not seem so sad about it. When it takes, it takes.

"What is that crate?" the girl wondered.

Yes, there was a crate left down in the yard. It was broken. Likely it had fallen from a truck when the soldiers had left the base, and no one thought to stop and take it back on the truck's bed. Who cared: provided to go home... There was a machine gun and some ammunitions inside. A present for the Afghans, the medic thought. Kill each other with this...

"'Oy Gospodi!'" the girl said. "There is other thing, here!"

The medic and the soldier joined her. He was standing in front of a wall of the base. There was a written on it, in Cyrillic characters.

"You had to contend with us for eight years," the soldiers translated. "Now you will have to contend with our mines for eight more. Sooner or later you will find all of them... With your feet!"

"There is a PS, it seems... " the medic said. Indeed, two characters separated the first paragraph of the message from the second. The soldier translated the second part.

"P. S.: if you read this message, then you have been lucky enough for not to jump on a mine before to arrive here, but the luck doesn't last forever..."

"You mean..." the medic asked, "That is... we have walked through a minefield?"

"It looks like that... " the soldier said. The medic breathed heavily, blowing the air from his mouth, and leaned on the wall looking into the sky. It was not yet time for him to die, clearly... But what a heck...

"A seichàs shto my dyelaem"?" mused the girl. She looked at the man. "And now what we do?" she translated. The man thought about it and shrugged.

"We will pass on the same path we came here, just the other way. It seems it's large and safe enough for us. Maybe it's the road the truck have followed to leave the base," he said. It was a logical hypothesis, and the soldiers and the girl nodded.

Since they were walking more than an hour without stopping, the medic decided to stop there, and the Russians approved. The soldier went to look for any other thing could have been left at the base, beside the machine gun and the ammunitions, but he did not find so much. Scarce food, a few bullets, binoculars, some bandages and other medical items.

They were finishing their Spartan meal when the girl saw some flash from out of the window of the room where they seated. A glow more than a flash.Not an explosion. The reflex of the sun on some metal polished surface, some watch, a car, a too much polished gun barrel, who could say...

""Chòrt"! There is somebody there!" she said.

The men looked at her, and she nodded at the window. The soldier took the binoculars from the table when they had taken stock of their loot in the base and looked through the window, scanning the horizon. Then he too swore, but very stronger than the girl.

""Yòb tvoyu mat!" he said. Fuck your mother! "Dukhi! And many too!"

The girl took the binoculars from the hand of the soldier and took a look. They were at least thirty people, maybe more. And they were coming straight on the base.

"Are they armed?" the medic asked. A very stupid question, judging by how the girl looked at him. But he was hoping against all odds that there was no need for another firefight... They could be merchants in a caravan, maybe, could not they?

"Look at them by yourself!" she dared him. He took the binoculars by her hand and looked at the incoming group. Yes, armed. "Freedom fighters", or just normal harriers after the battle, interested in whatever the Russians could have left, or at least, to whatever that could be sold? it was too late to leave the square free for them. They were following the same road he and the Russians have followed to get to the base. And there was no other way to get out. For all he knew, there could have been only mines, plenty of mines, all around the base...

"Do you want to take care of them?" the girl teased him, sarcastically. He looked at her, she nodded at the machine gun, then looked at him again, smiling. Come on, show me that you are a man...

"Hey, my name is not Rambo... I don't know how to use it!"

The girl snorted, Christianly overlooking the reference to Rambo. The soldier boy was already preparing the gun to fire. Well, right, it was up to him. It was a Russian machine gun, after all...

When the weapon was ready and in place, even the soldiers had an instant's afterthought.

"They are too many... And we have just these ammunitions... " he told the medic. Then he said the same thing to the girl, in Russian. The girl started to talk nervously, but the man said to the soldier.

"No worry: they don't know that we are here and how many we are. And even if the machine gun is not enough, then we have always the "Kalash". Just shoot, as it takes. It will be enough," he said calmly. That was kinda moment when you HAD to shoot...

The soldier boy nodded. He let the group of "dukhi" come closer, till they all were well in the field of fire of the machine gun, and then he pulled the trigger.

The first "dukhi" came down without even knowing what hit them. The other ones tried to run away, but they were too much within the field of fire to make it through. Then some of them took shelter behind the corpses of the dead, and tried to return fire. They shot purely out of desperation, but one of all those bullets winged the soldier in the arms. He shouted and stopped shooting, and then one of the "dukhi" had the time to take on the RPG he was carrying on his back, and load it with a rocket propelled grenade. Then the girl gripped the machine gun and started shooting again. The man with the RPG was hit in his spleen, and he could not keep the weapon aimed at the base: the tube ducked, pointing at the ground, but the man pulled the trigger all the same, and the rocket exploded on a mine less than a meter from him, destroying completely him and a half dozen of people too close to survive. The girl was shot shuddering and quacking like an epileptic, shaken by the vibrations of the weapon which was going on shooting almost on its own. Some bullet tripped the mines on both sides of the free trail, killing other people. Keep shooting, thought the girl, keep shooting, keep shooting...

When the girl managed to take the finger off the trigger, the ammunitions were over for some minutes, and all the men in front of her were dead and gone. He stood up breathless and took her "Kalash", without looking at the medic who was taking care of the soldier, then she went out of the base, on the path between the mines, they all had followed about an hour before, looking around, just in case there were people still alive.

None.

The medic bandaged the arm of the soldier, told him to keep it cool, the worse was over, and got away from the base, to reach the girl. She heard his paces, but she did not turn her head. She kept looking at the dead "dukhi", his mouth open, his eyes low, his breath slower and stronger than normal.

"The boy is just a bit in shock, but the wound is nothing serious. What we have found in the sick bay was enough to fix it, " he said without looking at her. She nodded, but did not turn her face yet. The medic looked around himself and scratched his head. "You have really cooked them... " he said.

The girl had a strong hiccup, press her belly with her hand and turn her head to the medic.

"Can you look other side a while, please?"

"Uh?" the medic wondered. Then he got the picture, said "Oh, sure!" and turned his head away.

"Thank you!" the girl gasped.

She poked two fingers in her mouth and bent at 90°...

"Is it better now?" the medic asked, looking back at her.

"It's better!" she said, and spat something on the ground. The medic shook his head. Too bad. Now her stomach was empty again...

Maybe he should not have said "cooked", the medic thought...

That night, they found a not totally ruined hut were to sleep. The kind of thing that the Afghan peasants used to call "hotel". With no irony at all.

One more time, the girl decided to watch first, somewhere out of the hut. And after a while, she got into the hut, and the soldier boy got out. The medic had the impression that she had "ordered" the guy to go, before he himself decided to get up and go to watch out in the night. "O'er the ramparts we watch... "...

She still thought that he was a poor old man, that he had to rest... The medic snorted.

The girl lay down less than half a meter away from him, and for some minutes, none of them said a word, though both were awake, and each one knew that the other was awake.

"You never ask, why me am here," observed the girl.

"Curiosity killed the cat, the Englishmen say," he answered. She snorted.

""Lyubopìtnoi Varvare, na bazàre nos atarvàli"!" she joked. Then she looked at him. "To the curious Varvara they cut the nose in the marketplace." she translated. Well, their version, the medic thought. She looked at the ceiling of the hut again, "I never killed a man for a question..."

The medic got the picture: she was yearning for a chit-chat. Well, nothing wrong...

"Why you are here?"

"I came here for the money... "

"Money?"

"Yes, money... They paid well here, more than home. Except in Siberia. But it's cold, there!" she snorted.

"What was it: the wage of the fear?"

"Well, in the beginning, it was not so fearful. Or maybe they did not tell us all the truth... And I had another reason to want to come here... "

"What reason?"

"I was... in love with an officer... "

"An officer... "he snorted. She felt hostility in his voice, and she turned her face to him.

"What's wrong with the officers?"

He turned his head to her and answered, slowly and harshly.

"I hate all the officers. All the men who led other men to the slaughter!"

"All the RUSSIAN officers?"

"I've said ALL, I didn't say "Russians". White, black, yellow, it doesn't matter. ALL."

"Hmm... " the girl snorted. An Anarchist, a Libertarian... but not a fool, and not a foe, she thought. She lay back again on his spine. "However, one fine day, HE went to the slaughter, all alone. They captured him. And after some days, we found him. Dead. He was naked, he had lost all his blood, his torso was all scorched, all his bones were broken, and... "

"And?"

"He was no more... a man!"

Silence. Maybe she wanted to say "they cut away his balls", but she did not know the words. Or maybe that was not her style...

"He knew, in this war there are no Geneva convention for the prisoners. All the worse for those who... "

"There are many ways to kill! My grandfather killed Germans for four years, but he KILLED them, as a soldier, he did not SLAUGHTER them! They are NOT soldiers, they are... "

"I know, I know... " he said. She did not finish the phrase: there were no words in his vocabulary. You need guts to kill, almost as much guts as you need for performing operations. It's not just to pull a trigger and that's all. Where did she find those guts if she was neither a soldier, nor a secret agent? There was where... Hate is a good teacher. "That's why you enjoy so much to kill them?" he asked. She nodded. Yes, she enjoyed it...

"I thought I was going to get out of my head... But it didn't happen. I just stopped asking, whether it was right for us to stay here. Now we are here, soon we all will be home, and It will be a good day for us. In the meantime, if they try to kill us, then we HAVE to kill them. I don't care if they fight for their freedom. Even a running thief wants to be free. But if he shoots at you, then you have to shoot at him: that's all."

"A people of running thieves?"

"There are DIFFERENT people, different groups, you know that, if you know this country. There are many, very different groups. And they are not all against us. We have worked with this country since more than half a century, many years before the "invasion", or as you like to call it. The Afghans had made a deal with us, against the British, when the British were in India. We have built hospitals, schools, powerhouses, the university in the capital. And we even helped to make it all work. Yes, you are right, we have killed women and children in this war, and this is terrific, even if we did not want to do it. But how many of them, we have saved? And how many of them THEY have KILLED? They are bombing Kabul with rocket thrower, since two years, every now and then, and they don't care if they hit civilians... "

"I know, I have heard about it... " the medic said. The girl was pushing an open door, but it was good to let her push the steam away. It was good for her. She breathed harder.

"Why we have to think to be worse than them?"

"You are not WORSE than them. You are just OUT of your place. This is THEIR war, not yours. Let them slaughter each other. They don't ask for anything better. Tajiks against Pashtun, Pashtun against Hazaras, Uzbeks against everyone else... They could do it without you, if you stayed home, and when you leave, they will keep doing it. And if and when they finish doing it, they will be too few and too tired to bother you seriously, and maybe they will ask your help, then; but seriously... "