The Watch (32 page)

I decide to walk out to the wire at sundown.

Dusk has come with broad strokes of color that reflect off the mountains. The air cools rapidly, and the stars appear one by one. I glance at my watch and think of Jenna dressing the twins for school and feel a lump form in my throat. I want to gather them in my arms
and hold them there. May God protect those He loves. May He protect them until the wandering warriors come home.

I hear the sound of footsteps behind me and turn around. It’s Pfc. Ramirez, one of the mortar crews, his T-shirt dark with sweat. Good evening, Sir, he says.

Evening, soldier.

Don’t mind me, Sir. I’m just setting up markers for my sights.

He nods at the mountains. When are we going to take the fight to them, Sir?

Soon, soldier, soon. And if they swarm us before we do, I want it to be the final experience of their lives.

He tugs reflexively at his M-4 rifle.

I’m rarin’ to go, Sir, he says. Ready to eat nails.

Only a matter of time, soldier, I reply, and watch as he walks slowly back to his position by the Hescos.

A strong wind has begun to blow across the plain. It puffs up the loose, knee-length shirt and baggy trousers of the Tajik interpreter as he passes Ramirez. They don’t greet each other.

The interpreter approaches me and raises his hand to his heart.

Salâm, Comandan Saab, he says.

Salâm, Masood, I reply. Che hâl dâred?

He starts, and his face breaks into a delighted grin. You speak Dari! I would never have imagined! I hadn’t heard you speak it earlier.

I know a few words. Just enough to get by.

But I am forgetting my manners, he says quickly, mortified. You asked me a question about how I was, and I am fine, Comandan Saab, thank you. Khub astom, tashakor. Then he says: Mêbakhshêd, Comandan Saab, excuse me for my rudeness, but you took me by surprise. Not one of the other American soldiers speaks the language. Not a single one.

Oh yes? Well, that’s a shame, isn’t it?

He misses my sarcasm, but, in the meantime, a flock of birds wheeling overhead distracts my attention.

Do you know what those birds are, Masood? Are they warblers?

I don’t know their name, Comandan Saab, but they are good for shekâr kardan.

They’re a tad on the small side for hunting, aren’t they?

No, Comandan Saab, they are very tasty, especially the young. These birds make their nests on the ground on hillsides, and we harvest the chicks by the hundreds and snack on them.

I look up at the darting birds again. They’re a bright yellow and green. Their wings catch the dying light.

I don’t suppose you’ve any laws to protect birds and suchlike, eh?

Oh, there are laws, he says with a rueful smile, but these days they are on paper only. When we have a new government, we will enforce them. But first we have to get rid of the topak salaran.

Well, I’ll do my part to help you get rid of the gun rulers if that’s what it’ll take to protect the wildlife. I happen to believe that animals have as much of a right to the land as men.

He looks at me sideways. Are you fond of birds, Comandan Saab?

I sure am. I grew up in the prairies, which are wide tracts of grassland. We’ve many unusual birds. The prairie chicken, for instance.

To show him, I puff up my chest and strut about with my hands held out stiffly by my sides in imitation of the mating dance of the male bird.

You are a real Afghan! he says excitedly. All Afghan men love birds and flowers. We love beauty in all its forms.

Beautiful women?

Women, not so much. Only genuinely beautiful things.

You don’t say, I remark dryly. I point to the girl in the field.

What d’you make of her?

I went out to talk to her this afternoon, Comandan Saab. I wanted to ask her why she rejected our food. She’s very stubborn, very proud. She wouldn’t speak to me. I said we should be friends. She sent me away.

She didn’t say anything at all?

Only that she had no interest in anything other than burying her brother’s body.

Do you think that’s true? Is that really why she’s here?

He shoots me a darting glance. If you want to know the truth, Comandan Saab, I will tell you. I think the girl has been placed here to deliberately divert your attention. She is the property of the black-hearted Taliban. As soon as you relax your guard, they will attack under the velvet cover of darkness.

So you think she’s the bait for their trap?

His answer is swift and unambiguous. Besyêr balê, he says. Yes, absolutely. There is no other explanation for her presence.

Then he adds: We are in the heart of Kandahar province, where the Taliban have their stronghold. I have no doubt about the girl. All these people have the same poison running through their veins.

In the quiet that follows, I grow aware of the vultures high overhead, and the wind sending dust devils racing through the field.

I raise my binoculars and scan the slopes.

All right, Masood, thank you, I tell him. I’ll see you later. Ba’dan mêbinêm.

Sabâ mêbinametân, Comandan Saab! See you later, as the Americans like to say.

He turns to leave, but I stop him.

Lowering the binoculars and facing him, I say casually:

Oh, and by the way, before you go, I heard that she was wailing like a banshee when you left her this afternoon. What happened?

Oh, that was nothing. I told her about her brother, Comandan Saab, and that she wasn’t going to get him back.

Now why would you do that?

Because it is the truth, Comandan Saab.

I feel the color mount to my face. Controlling myself, I say firmly: Hold your horses. You’re not to make those decisions, okay? Those are mine to make, at a time of my choosing. She’d have found out tomorrow, in any case. There was no need to cause her suffering.

I don’t want to cause trouble, Comandan Saab, I’m just trying to understand. Would it cause her to suffer more if she found out the truth now or if we let her live in ignorance for one more day?

I glare at him.

That’s exactly the sort of question that causes trouble, I tell him. What’s there not to understand? Your job here is to translate for us and respond to specific queries. Anything outside of that, you need to ask permission from Lieutenant Ellison, First Sergeant Whalen, or any of the other officers. Is that clear?

Yes, Sir, he says, completely subdued.

Good. You can go now.

1900.

I run into Ellison and Whalen in the mess tent. We’re all there for the same reason: coffee. All around us, men are drifting in little groups toward the Hescos. I watch them for a moment, and then ask Whalen: What’s going on? Are we having a fucking concert again tonight?

They look at me warily, and then at each other.

Whalen says: I think some of the men are hopin’ she’ll play …

And I’m hoping she’s gonna be out of our hair from tomorrow, I interject, glancing at my watch. Last night she started playing at eight, and it’s only seven o’clock now. So what’s biting these guys?

They’re probably going early to get good seats, Sir, Ellison offers.

It just goes to show how much there is to do around here, I grouse. Which reminds me, I go on, tomorrow’s going to be a big day. The birds are flying in at noon. They’ll be bringing replacements for the men we’ve lost, so we’ll be back to our full complement. We’re also getting vehicles driven up from KAF to replace the Hummers shot up in the firefight. Brand new M-ATVs, straight off the shop floor. We’re gonna use them to piggyback into the mountains. And then, later on in the week, there’ll be contractors showing up to rebuild the guard tower and install plumbing so we can finally have working showers.

Do you want me to draw up work parties, Sir? Whalen asks.

That’ll depend on the situation with the contractors. But before we can deal with any of that, we need to clear the deck of pending tasks, starting with the girl. Once we get her out of the way, I want a proper memorial service for the men we’ve lost. And while I realize that no memorial is going to be adequate, we’ll be remembering our brothers, and I don’t want any fucking distractions.

Even as I’m speaking, I feel a tension constricting my throat, and have to stop short. I half-expect Nick to walk around the corner.

I see Whalen’s eyes tearing up as well. Ellison coughs and looks away. I forget about getting coffee and, excusing myself, leave the mess tent abruptly. I knock against a soldier on my way out but don’t stop.

Entering the blessed silence of my hut, I lurch over to my desk, knocking over a stack of folders in my haste. My heart is pounding like a hammer. I sit down and rest my forehead on the desk. I feel a sort of panic, and then, almost immediately, an overpowering fatigue. My tiredness is so extreme, it’s as if it’s devouring me alive.

I drop off into an exhausted sleep seconds later.

2000.

A familiar music penetrates my sleep, followed, almost instantly, by a gunshot.

The music stops.

I hear the sound of raised voices, and snap awake.

I run out with my 9 mm and see a crowd gathering outside one of the B-huts.

I shoulder my way through the men and enter the hut to find Doc and Whalen and Staff Sergeant Schott already there. Whalen’s holding a soldier in his arms. Doc’s attaching an IV to a saline bag. Then I notice the pistol on the floor and pick it up. It’s hot to the touch. I place it on the nearest bunk.

Schott draws me aside. He lowers his voice. Attempted suicide, Sir, he says.

Who is it?

Specialist Garcia, Sir.

How bad is it?

Bullet creased his skull. He’ll survive.

I look around the cramped hooch. It reeks of sweat and body odor. I don’t know what to say. At length, I nod and tell him to ask Whalen to report to me with Doc when they have the situation under control. I glance at Garcia one more time and leave the hut.

I emerge into the silent and expectant crowd.

I pause for a moment to address the men. My mouth feels dry and gummy, and I’m still bleary-eyed from sleep. He’s going to be okay, I tell them.

A tent flap snaps in the darkness somewhere.

Is he hurt bad, Sir? someone asks.

Not as far as I could tell, I reply gently. I feel fiercely protective of them.

One of the soldiers closest to me—Alizadeh, I think—gasps with relief and covers his face with his hands. I pat his shoulder and make my way back to my hut.

I’m writing up a report on the incident when Whalen and Doc show up. I look at their tight, grim faces. He’s fine, Doc says somberly. Sedated and under observation.

Good, I reply. I’d like your report ASAP. I’m shipping him out tomorrow. He needs psychiatric attention, quite obviously. I pause and run my eyes over them. What about you guys? How’re you holding up?

I’m too worn out to think clearly, Sir, Doc admits.

I’m all right, Whalen says.

Good man, I reply. It’s just one more fucking complication that’s gonna take up our time, but we’ll have to deal with it. We can’t have
it dominating the day—or discouraging the men. There’s too much else to be done.

I’ll take care of it, Whalen says. I’ll round up the NCOs and have them sit down with their boys. It’s a first for most of them, so it’s going to take them some time to get over it. He pauses and runs his hand wearily across his face. Anything else?

It’s a big deal, First Sarn’t, I emphasize. We can’t afford to have it trip us up. We gotta make sure it remains an isolated case.

He shakes his head. It won’t trip us up. I’ll make sure each one of my soldiers is okay.

They’re probably not gonna be able to sleep tonight, that’s for sure.

They’ll have to figure out how to deal with it, Doc says, but, just in case, I’ll check in on the boys in Garcia’s hooch.

Do we have any idea why?

His wife dumped him, Whalen answers.

He shoulda come to us.

He did. I was going to set him up with counseling.

The stupid, stupid fuck! I burst out. It had to happen now. It had to be us.

Whalen’s tired gaze is replaced by an expression of resignation.

I lean back on my chair and compose myself. I reflect that when I signed up to fight wars, I could never have imagined they’d include a mental health component. I feel played out, ready to throw in the towel. At length, I merely shrug my shoulders and break the heavy silence. Put that in your report, I tell Doc. I don’t want the word to get out that we’re out to lunch when it comes to looking after our men.

After they leave, I continue to sit motionless for a while.

The night air comes in at the door—air filled with the smell of the desert, a dusty mineral smell so sharp it’s almost cruel in its potency.

0045.

I’ve been lying in bed trying to go back to sleep ever since I woke up. I toss and turn in the hollow that my body has molded in the mattress. My sweat-soaked pillow squelches unpleasantly against my head. Finally, a fly buzzing around the hut puts an end to any more thought of rest. I give up and get up wearily from the bunk. I switch on the light, and the first thing that catches my eye is the damn book by Sophocles that Frobenius lent me. As I pick it up and flip through the pages, I hear his voice going off in my head: You have to read this. It’s about as cogent an analysis as anything you’ll find about where we are today.

And where are we, according to you?

We’re in Kalyug, Captain. It’s the age of Creon. ’Cept that he’s here, there, and everywhere. He’s the government and the corporations and everything else that matters, and he’s totally faceless. He’s a machine, a system, he has his own logic, and once you’re part of that, it really doesn’t matter if you’re a grunt or a general: you’re trapped in a conveyor belt of death and destruction. And that’s the saddest thing. The saddest thing is that we’re part of Creon. We’re all compromised and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s like losing your virginity. You can’t get it back once it’s gone.

That’s gotta be the most friggin’ paranoid thing I’ve ever heard, Lieutenant.

I’d have to be morally dead if I weren’t paranoid under these circumstances, Captain. I kid you not.