Authors: Elliot Ackerman
Lie down! shouted Yar and his voice echoed across the ridge as though it were that of God, and the men responded as such, bowing to the ground and searching for the voice.
Shall we interrogate our prisoners? Yar asked us through a smile.
We jogged down the side of the mountain toward the men. One at a time Yar grabbed them by the backs of their shirts and lined them up along the trail. He pushed them down, hard, so they squatted awkwardly on their haunches. Mortaza helped. The two pulled flex-cuffs tight against the men’s wrists and the plastic cut into their skin. Our prisoners craned their necks, twitching like birds that clutch the same limb, trying to glimpse us.
Tawas ran up the trail. Yar pointed at him and cried out: You and Aziz check their things.
Their motorbikes lay in the road like a pair of sunning dogs. We rifled through the small bundles lashed on the back. The men didn’t have much with them—a few heavy wool blankets, three large bottles of orange Fanta, and a couple plastic shopping bags filled with stale naan and dried apricots. Tawas tucked his bubblegum behind his ear and drank from one of the bottles of orange Fanta. He offered me a sip, but I refused. I didn’t want to steal from these men.
There were no weapons, but this didn’t mean the men weren’t Gazan’s fighters. All four were military age, and fighters often traveled from place to place unarmed in case of checkpoints such as ours.
Yar stood over the men as I came up behind him. They have nothing but bedding and some food, I whispered in his ear. He shrugged and gave my report as much weight as if I’d told him what I’d had for breakfast.
What do you all know of Gazan? The question was met with silence and downcast eyes. Yar nudged one of the men in the back with his boot. The man, who was perched awkwardly on his haunches, couldn’t stop himself from slowly toppling face-first to the ground. Yar leaned down and placed his eyes level with the man’s. He growled: You expect me to believe none of you know who Gazan is!
The man lay with his cheek in the dirt and his hands bound behind him. His breaths turned to grunts as he used his neck and shoulders to lever himself upright. Of course I’ve heard of Gazan, he said, but I don’t know him.
Yar snorted back. He shot a wad of spit on the ground and kicked the wet gob into the man’s face. Watching, I winced. These men had no weapons and as far as we could prove had done nothing. Their presence on the trail was difficult to explain, but this seemed too much.
Our prisoners sat on their haunches stupid with fear, fear of Yar, and, I realized, fear of me. Their limbs were folded at tight angles but none of them had enough meat on his body to strain against the awkward position. Yar walked between the four bundles of joints, flesh, and dirty clothes and spat another question: Where are you traveling from?
None replied. They tried to make themselves inconspicuous, each holding on to the three-in-four chance that they would avoid Yar’s next round of interrogation. Yar took his time as he selected his victim. He enjoyed torturing the men with his choice. He casually crouched alongside one of the prisoners, who had a smooth face. There was the loud crack of flesh against flesh as Yar slapped the man across the cheek with the three callused talons of his mangled hand. Again he spat his question in a hot whisper: I asked, where are you traveling from?
The smooth-faced man whimpered against the strike, but managed to keep his footing. His eyes bulged wide, the whites netted in a red web of veins. A violet thistle in the lapel of his vest stood defiantly against Yar and he sniffed against the pain. We are traveling musicians looking for work, he said.
Yar canted his head to the side, puzzled.
Behind Yar, Tawas laughed and orange Fanta bubbled up through his nose. He wiped his chin and the smooth-faced man grinned at him. Yar looked back and canted his head to the other side. He also grinned and then struck the smooth-faced man with the full and closed fist of his good hand. Yar’s blow pulled the man’s feet from under him and he hung in the air for a noticeable moment before he landed on his side. At this, the other three prisoners took a sharp breath. So too did Tawas.
I took a full step away from Yar.
He pulled another prisoner up by his bound wrists. The man was ugly with a flat nose, large ears, and the wide Mongol face of a Hazara. He stood eye to eye and chest to chest with Yar, but he trembled and looked very small. Yar enjoyed his trembling and again snorted, his nostrils flaring. If a flat-faced chungayz
such as you is a musician, he said, where is your instrument? Before the ugly man could answer, Yar pushed him backward. He lost his balance and toppled to his side next to the smooth-faced man. The ugly one and his friend slowly rose to their feet. The smooth-faced man’s thistle had been crushed and it wilted from his lapel, absurdly. The two presented themselves before Yar, their clothes filthy and hair now matted with fine dust. Yar leaned back and laughed. I thought he laughed at their sorry appearance, but soon I knew he laughed at his power over them.
The scene was shameful. These men had no nang. They took Yar’s beatings without fighting back. But Yar had no shame in delivering his blows. One of the men on the end who had escaped Yar whimpered:
We find instruments where we go. We don’t have the money for our own.
The sniveled response was too much for Mortaza. Any more of you dogs open your mouths and we’ll break your skulls, he sneered.
Yar nodded his approval. I can’t stand to look at these darwankee
,
pussies, he said and flicked his wrist for Mortaza and me to take them away. We heaved the four men to their feet and pushed them up the shale slope. Our HiLux was parked in the ravine on the opposite side. Mortaza and I marched our silent group in a single file. No one spoke. The shame of being beaten like an animal, the shame of watching a friend suffer, the shame of abusing helpless men. Silence brought us shame and the shame brought us to silence.
Tawas stayed back with Yar and they rolled hand grenades under the motorbikes. Two low thumps, like cans of soda being crushed, echoed down the ravine. The four men kept their eyes on the loose shale in front of them as they listened to their possessions being destroyed.
Why did the men have no instruments? I took comfort in this and imagined Gazan and his fighters searching for their missing comrades and finding only two destroyed motorbikes. What other business could these men have had on the trail? Whatever sympathy they wanted us to feel for them was a deceit. If we let them prey on our sympathies, later they would find us, or our comrades, and we would be the victims as their real nature was known. I made a loop of this in my mind, layering it into the truth I thought it should be. And maybe it was.
Our HiLux sat in the ravine, dented and painted gray as the mountain. Mortaza and I loaded our prisoners in its bed. A chill grew in the air and announced the night before the sunset. For them, the ride in the cold would be an added brutality. They wore nothing but their thin shirts. None of us wanted to sit with them on the long journey back to Shkin.
Aziz, stay in the bed, Yar told me. Mortaza, you drive for a bit.
But I can drive, I protested.
Yes, but you’re better on the gun, said Yar, opening the door to the cab.
What about Tawas? I asked.
Yar looked at him, bubblegum tucked behind his ear, still guzzling orange Fanta, which dribbled down the front of his shirt. Yar shook his head. Yes, it’s best that you be on the gun, he said.
Mortaza gave me a cruel smile.
Pa kona da keegda, shove it in your ass, I told him and spat on the ground.
I slid the water, ammunition, and other supplies around in back to make myself a comfortable seat, then I crammed a prisoner into each corner, an inconvenient cargo. I climbed onto my perch, our HiLux’s engine turned over, and we crept along the soft pebbles of the ravine. I leaned against the cab and rested my palm on the machine gun’s buttstock. Lazily it swung from side to side. A large crate of ammunition stuck awkwardly out from the front right corner of the bed. Here the smooth-faced man sat. His arms were jammed behind his back. Each time we hit a bump, the crate crushed his fingers. He winced, but made no noise for fear of another beating. I pulled a knife from my belt and reached behind him. Seeing the blade, he flinched, but when I cut his flex-cuffs loose and his hands sprang free, he offered me a full white grin that could be seen even in the fading light. I returned my hand to the machine gun’s buttstock and allowed our truck to sway me back and forth like an infant. The smooth-faced man fixed the thistle in his lapel and tapped out a beat against the aluminum bed. The other man, the ugly one, hummed softly and their song traveled along the mountains and back to our firebase.
O
ur patrol arrived at the firebase in time for a half night’s sleep. Shortly before we entered the front gate, I tightened a fresh set of flex-cuffs on the smooth-faced prisoner. As I did, he looked up at me and seemed more upset than if I had left his hands bound for the whole ride back. And what thanks was that? I became sick of staring at him and his three friends and couldn’t care less whether they were four Taliban or four musicians. We delivered them into a one-room hut with a heavy padlock, their home until Commander Sabir decided what he wanted done with them. As for me, I reminded myself I was a soldier and forgot them. And several nights later, when an unscheduled helicopter landed at the firebase, and then afterward, when the mud hut was empty, I reminded myself again.
None of us came to the Special Lashkar to sit on checkpoints. We came for badal against Gazan. We began to think Commander Sabir’s outpost would prevent that. For him nothing was more important than the outpost. From it, he could extend his control over a large swath of the border, regulating anything and anyone who wished to cross. He’d also pledged to hunt down Gazan from here. But if we killed Gazan, the villagers would never let us maintain the outpost. We would’ve removed the threat that gave us power over them. Destroying Gazan and his fighters would never be a good option for Commander Sabir. He needed them.
The spingaris resisted the outpost, but we kept pressure on them through our checkpoints and by allowing Gazan’s mortar attacks into Gomal. There things had become so bad that it was rumored some of the spingaris had changed their minds about our proposal. When enough of them did, Commander Sabir would get his outpost.
He would prosper in it. Not only would he control the border, but he’d receive kickbacks from his friends in Orgun and Kabul who would bid on the contracts to build the outpost. To man it, the Americans would surely add more soldiers to our payroll, money that Commander Sabir pilfered. None of this could happen without Gazan.
In Pashto, Commander Sabir’s type of war is called ghabban: this is when someone demands money for protection against a threat they create. For this type of war, the Americans don’t have a word. The only one that comes near is
racket
. Our war was a racket.
I know that now.
The next morning at breakfast, Yar told all who would listen about our adventure at the checkpoint. He leaned over his food and said: As the two motorbikes came on Tawas, he stood frozen, his feet like roots grown into the middle of the trail.
Did he finally move? someone called out.
Yar clasped Tawas by the shoulder. This is a courageous one, he said, ignorant of fear, stupidly brave! He did not move but stood, daring Gazan’s fighters to charge him, and instead they skidded off the trail.
Did they run? asked someone else.
I shot a single burst, said Yar, and all four froze like little boys when their fathers call. Yar jumped on his seat, unslung his Kalashnikov, and put it between his legs. Thrusting with his hips, he shouted: But now I was their father!
Hoots and laughter filled the mess hall. From the far corner Com
mander Sabir watched. His split lip pulled over his bottom teeth, unrolling into an ugly smile. He looked down at his food.
I finished breakfast and rushed to the motor pool. I hoped to see Mr. Jack’s black HiLux or Atal’s white one parked among ours. Imperfect and secretive as they were, these two served as my only beacons to that life which existed outside Commander Sabir’s authority. On this hilltop the values of his universe were total and my own threatened to be lost in them. Years ago, up on the roof of our house, Ali once taught me the trick our father used whenever he got lost in the mountains. Ali took out a compass and showed me how to get a reading from two points and to draw those lines on a map. He explained how I could always be found where the lines crossed. For his example, he used the bazaar in Sperkai and the beacon on the radio tower, the one whose red light filled my father’s ruby. When he drew the lines, they met right over us.
But that morning, in those mountains, I could see no farther than our beat-up truck, which we’d parked in the center of the motor pool’s gravel lot. I pulled my tools from a plywood bin and worked beneath it. I couldn’t say what I worked on that day or the next, for that matter. Life at the firebase had become an endless repetition of vehicle checkpoints and maintenance routines.
Just like all of us, Issaq hoped to go on the offensive. At least twice a week he took our squad to a compound of abandoned mud huts by the range. Here we practiced raids. The huts’ thatched roofs had collapsed long ago and Issaq scrambled up a three-rung ladder to stand atop their bare walls. He watched as each of his teams worked through the mechanics of clearing a compound. We flooded the rooms, screaming after invisible enemies and each other. Issaq looked down at us shouting corrections: Clear your sector! Who’s covering that window! Check the dead space! He kept a handful of gravel in his cargo pocket. If one of us made the wrong turn at a door or in a hall, he struck a rock off our hel
met. Sometimes he missed, and rocks to the face, shoulders, or ankles were common. After each turn through the house, he leapt off the roof, corrected us all, and then set up tables and chairs as obstacles for the next run. This added to the difficulty and we rushed through the house again, throwing anything in our path across the room. Training eased our impatience for action, for a while.