Each day they smiled at her, because when she was angry and her French was fast gabbled then none of them could understand her.
In the afternoon, each day, she climbed the hillside above the village and sat under an old rooted tree and picked herself flowers and sometimes made a chain of them and watched the children who shouted at the goats and the sheep flocks, and wondered why there was a war, and where there was a war. Sometimes she would unbutton her blouse and feel the sun against her skin and cry aloud in her frustration that the war was outside her reach.
It was more than an hour since he had last seen them. The first shadows were falling and heaving the great cataracts of grey onto the rock surface. He was sweating, and when he had walked all day it was usual for the stump of his left arm to be rich agony and the straps of the claw to work weals into his skin. And his feet hurt, boots filled with grit because the soles were adrift from the toe cap. Bloody Soviet boots. Each time he had himself a Soviet and a chance to get to the body he always looked first to see if the bastard was size 10. Each eight weeks he needed a Soviet stiff, size 10.
One more corner, one more outcrop around which the tracks of the men and the mules disappeared. He was noisier now. The lightness of his tread had gone hours earlier.
He turned the corner, he could see the tracks' line stretching ahead of him, falling towards the lights of Jalalabad. He didn't want to go down to the river plain. He wanted to stay high, but the tracks led down, so Schumack followed.
'Where are you going?'
The voice boomed out. A big voice, a voice of command. The words in English.
Startled, Schumack spun, and ducked.
'I said, where are you going?'
The man was sitting easily on a rock a dozen feet above the path.
'Who are you?' Schumack said.
'Let's start with who you are.'
Schumack gazed up into the fair stubbled face, saw the camouflage smears on the cheeks. He saw that the man was not armed.
'Schumack, Maxie Schumack.'
'You're far from home, Mr Schumack. I'm Barney Crispin.'
'You're not adjacent yourself, Mr Crispin.'
'What's your business?'
'Same as yours, I fancy.'
'Why are you following me?'
Schumack watched as the man slid down from the rock, landed on the track, slapped the dirt from his blanket.
'I was lonely.'
'That's a piss poor answer.'
'And a piss poor question. What's on the mules?'
'Go whistle, Schumack.'
Barney turned away, set off briskly down the track. From a distance Schumack started again to trail him.
10
He had lit no fire, he preferred to be swathed in his blanket. He was no longer with a column of mujahidin. He was his own master. His own rules did not allow for a fire. The hunger racked him, but he was a trained soldier. He wondered how the boy could sustain himself without food and water. In the morning they would have to come down from the hills to the plains of the Kabul river to find food and water.
The pebble landed in the entrance of the cave, rolled and came to rest against Barney's boots. When he was in the field he would never remove his boots, not even to sleep, if sleep were possible on the floor of the cave with the hunger in his stomach. He had loosened the laces, that was a concession. It was the third pebble.
Barney heard the voice close to the cave's mouth. A voice shredded with impatience.
'You haven't eaten, Barney Crispin. All day you haven't eaten. If a man has no food then he cannot be on his own.'
'Be careful,' the boy whispered.
'I will be careful, Gul Badhur,' Barney said. But we have no food . . .'
He heard the voice call again.
'A man isn't a crapping island, Crispin.'
'What food have you?'
'Some bread, some dried fruit.'
The shadow crossed the mouth of the cave. The moon was lost for a moment as the shadow crossed it. There were the sounds of a man moving on knees and elbows over the dry ground.
'You don't hurry yourself, making up your mind you're hungry.'
Barney heard a hand searching in the darkness, felt fingers touch his boots, reach to his socks. He stretched out in the blackness, took the hand in his fist.
'Thank you,' Barney said. The boy had moved back into the cave and sensed his nervousness at the intrusion. Now he edged forward. They ate fast, eagerly.
Barney pulled his blanket over his knees to catch crumbs of bread. Dry, hard bread, but satisfying for all that. And after that were the raisins that he could gulp down, and beside him the boy ate his share in silence.
'I'll ask a question, it's "yes" or "no" for an answer. If it's "yes" then we talk about it, if it's "no" the questions finish. Is Maxie Schumack a freelancer?'
'He's a freelancer.'
'Tell me.'
His stomach warbled on the food and Barney settled himself back against the missile tubes.
'I was born Maximilian Herbert Schumack, Christ knows where they took the names from, and they're dead so I can't ask. I was born in New York City, fifty-two years ago. There's not much to show for it, where I was born, it's a car park and garage now. So, I'm an old bird, what we call a clover fucker. I took a Greyhound to Bragg when I was seventeen and enlisted. I went up and I went down. I had stripes, I was busted. First place I kept my stripes was Da Nang. Shitty place, shitty bars, shitty expensive girls. My first trip to 'Nam, we hadn't much time for bars and whores, and I'd been fifteen years in the Corps and I was a veteran, and I'd never had a shot fired at me before. To stay alive with the god-awful kids they gave me I stayed clear of the bars and the whores. I didn't get clap and I didn't get my arse shot off. You're a fighting man, you know what it was in 'Nam, and you don't need the fucking New York Times war stories from me. Next time I went back was Khe Sanh. They say the Corps doesn't dig. My platoon dug at Khe Sanh. I stood over the bastards till they'd dug. And dug. Didn't do a lot of fighting, just sat in holes with the rain pissing down plus the incoming. Had a bit of time to think there, and I reckoned I'd cracked it. Sam's got himself in a heap of shit here, I reckoned. Weren't many to say Sergeant Schumack got it wrong. I took my platoon out of Khe Sanh with one KIA and three WIA. That was good. Sam gave me a medal, said I was a credit to the fucking Corps. I went back one last time. On the roof of the Embassy chucking slants off the Hueys, that the fat cats wanted for a ride out to the fleet. Sam was deep in the shit by then, up to his ears. Didn't take me to tell Sam that.
We'd been seen off by the fucking gooks. I did some time at home after Saigon went, and I got another medal, not that any bastards Stateside wanted to know. On Stateside they reckoned that Sergeant Schumack and half a million others had lost Sam his little war. The old shits, who'd never walked the paddies with the incoming, they reckoned we'd lost a war we should have won. Most didn't but I stayed in. Nowhere to quit to. I burned a bit and I boiled and I stayed in the Corps. I got Kabul in '78, Embassy marine guard. Piss awful place, on the front desk in full dress, spit polish boots and the medal ribbons. And then we lost the Ambassador, "Spike" Dubs. Great guy. Some shite-arses lifted him between the Residence and the Embassy. Sam screwed again. The Soviets, the advisers in the fucking ministry there, told the Afghans what to do, they crapped on all we told them. They busted in where he was holed up and played a shooting gallery.
"Spike" Dubs died. Sam couldn't help him. I was brought home. Another Stateside garrison town for a super fucking veteran. Then the mothers took our Embassy in Teheran, crapping all over Sam, like everyone was, like it became a habit. They put a force together, a Marine Corps force, and Schumack was on the team. Eight times we were due to go and bust that place open, and seven times Sam hadn't the balls, rubbing his fucking hands together and wondering what the civvie casualties would be. Who gave a fart what they'd be? The eighth time we went. I don't have to tell you what happened, Mr Crispin, the whole bloody world knows what happened. Sam foul
ed up. I tell you this, the 'Nam wounded my faith in Sam, Kabul butchered it, and Desert One buried it. I quit. Too late but I quit. I took the money and I holed out. I went up to Canada and I bummed. I was putting canoes in the water for smart arse kids, and clearing up their fucking garbage. To the kids I was like something from under a stone.
Last year I bought a ticket, 1 paid a one-way airfare to Pakistan. I lost my hand at Desert One for Sam. They said they'd keep me in, as an Instructor or a drill pig, but Sam's all shit. Sam's no longer my place. I took a bus ride to Peshawar, and I walked in here a fortnight later. I'm here for keeps, Mr Crispin. I'm staying like we never used to. I'm staying here, and no bastard in the Pentagon tells me I'm aborting. I'm happy as a pig in mud. You understand me?'
'I understand you,' Barney said.
'I talk too much.'
'You don't have a lot of chance to talk.'
'Here? I've shit all chance to talk . . . My turn, same question, yes or no. Are you a freelancer?'
'No.'
'That means . . .'
'That means there are no more questions.'
'What's the load on the mules?'
'No more questions.'
Schumack persisted. 'I had a glass on you. You didn't tie the sacking too well. It's tubes you're carrying.'
'As you said, you talk too much.'
'Tubes is mortars, but you don't carry on two mules a load of mortar bombs that's worth a damn. Tubes could be anti-tank, but they've all they want of those from the Soviets and the Afghan army. Tubes could be ground-to-air . . .'
Barney could smell Schumack close to him, he could make out the dim shape in front of him.
'Ground-to-air would be rich, Mr Crispin.'
Barney heard the boy wriggle nearer to him, heard the tension of his breathing.
'I tell you straight, you won't have any idea what it's like to be under the helicopters and have no way of hurting the bastards. What makes these guys in the hills crap themselves? The helicopter. What makes Maxie Schumack wet himself? The helicopter. To see a ground-to-air knock the pigs out of the sky, I'd laugh myself sick.'
Barney said nothing.
'I'm going north in the morning,' Schumack said. 'Which way are you going?'
'North,' Barney said.
'Across the river?'
'Into Laghman, north to the mountains.'
'I've something you're short of, Mr Crispin.'
Barney put out his hand. His fingers brushed the smooth wood of a rifle stock, felt the cold metal of a curved magazine and the sharpness of the foresight. He took the Kalashnikov in his hand. He was a man who had been naked and was now clothed. His hands ran the length of the barrel, flickered over the working parts, found the cocking lever and the Safety catch.
'There's two more magazines for you.'
'Thank you. You've given us food, you've given me a weapon. I've nothing to give you.'
'You've plenty.' Schumack laughed. 'You'll give me the happiest moment of my life.
You'll hear me cry laughing when you blast a helicopter mother.'
His laughter bubbled in the quiet of the cave and Barney managed a smile and, sitting apart from the two men, Gul Bahdur could not understand their enjoyment of the moment.
In the morning they came down to a village.
The two men and the mules stayed back from the mud brick buildings marooned in the cultivated fields. There was no chance of a secret approach to the village, the dogs howled a warning of their coming. The boy went forward.
Barney and Schumack said little to each other as they waited. They had not spoken when Barney had loaded the mules at the cave's mouth, and Schumack had not pressed forward to see the markings on the tubes. Between such men understanding came fast.
When they had started out Schumack had led, not because he tried to assume control, but because it was better that a man not leading a mule be on point a hundred metres ahead.
The boy returned with a bucket of brackish water for the mules, and with bread for the men.
After they had left the village they were all the time descending, following the shepherds' paths that headed for the ribbon of villages beside the river. The boy had pointed out to Barney the grey and white scar of Jalalabad cut into the green beside the river. The line they took would bring them to the river some eight or nine miles short of the town.
As they walked, there was no scent of war. Finches darting in the scrub bushes, butterflies hovering on their path, the far away chime of a goat's bell. Mid morning, a high sun, small shadows under their feet, and Gul Bahdur had come level with Barney's shoulder.
The boy looked into Barney's face.
'Why do you give yourself to this man?'
Barney blinked back at the boy. 'What do you mean?'
'He is of no use to you.'
'Who is of use to me?'
'The mujahidin, my people, they are of use to you. This man is unimportant to you.
Without the mujahidin, the fighters of the Resistance, you can do nothing.'
'That is true.'
'When we climb into the mountains of Laghman you will meet the real fighting people of the mujahidin, not the people in Peshawar who play at the fighting, you will meet the real warriors of the Revolution.'
'What are you telling me?'
'I am warning you that the fighters in Laghman will be careful of you. Do not expect them to fall on their knees just because you bring them eight Redeyes.'
'I know that.'
'You are a foreigner and an unbeliever. To some of the fighters you will seem like an adventurer, to others you will be an exploiter. You must win the respect of the fighters.'
'And Schumack?'
it is good that he has fed us, and it is good that he has armed you, but he cannot help you to win the respect of the fighters. Do you know why you must have the respect of the fighters, Barney?'
'You're going to tell me, Gul Bahdur.'
Gul Bahdur ploughed on, ignoring the interruption.
'When you fire the Redeye and you kill a helicopter, then the Soviets will bomb the nearest village. When you kill another helicopter then they will bomb another village.
For each helicopter, another village. The men whose respect you must win are the men from those villages. Because of your Redeye the bombs will fall on their families, their homes, their animals.'
'I know that.'
'That man cannot help you to win the respect you must have . . . You are not angry with me for saying this?'
The boy looked keenly up at Barney. Barney slapped his hand onto Gul Bahdur's shoulder. There was relief on the boy's face.
'Barney, you,are going to kill one helicopter, take the pieces from it, then go?'
'Yes.'
'Barney, why did you bring eight Redeyes, for one helicopter?'
Barney walked on without replying. They were dropping down over the hill slopes towards the Kabul river.
Abruptly the mule that Gul Bahdur led came to a stop.
The boy pulled at the rope attached to the bridle, the mule eased its weight back and braced its rear legs against the pressure. The boy tugged hard, viciously, and the mule was immovable. Its eyes were fierce, obstinate in their refusal. Barney had halted, turned to watch. He saw the way the mule had taken the strain from its front right leg as if to shelter the hoof. The boy picked up a handful of stones and started to throw them at the rear legs of the mule. The teeth were bared at the boy, but the mule moved neither forward nor back. Barney whistled twice, sharp and clear, and ahead of them Schumack stopped on the track. Barney felt their vulnerability. The boy slapped the haunches of the mule with his fist, but the animal would not move. Barney cursed. He gave the rope of his own mule to the boy and bent to examine the right foreleg of the animal. The hoof flashed in a kick close to his head.
'It'll be a stone,' Schumack said from behind him. it'll be tender. Let it rest a bit, then we'll get it out.'
Barney looked up into the clear blue of the skies. He saw a hawk cir
cling, up in the wind swirls. The hawk gave him the thought of the helicopter. A dozen yards from the path there was a shallow cliff and a slight rock overhang and a tree grew against the cliff. He led the way to this shelter.
Schumack said, if we rest him half an hour he'll calm, we can handle him after that.'
Together they urged the mule off the path. Barney sank down, closed his eyes, pulled his cap down over his forehead. He heard the whirr of the flies close to his skin, felt the brush of the legs around his mouth. It was a drowsy warm heat without the breezes of the upper hillsides. Barney's head was nodding. Schumack lay full length on his back, perhaps asleep, perhaps awake, unmoving.
It was the boy who heard the footfall. His hand caught at Barney's arm. Schumack had seen the boy's movement, sat upright with his rifle held across his thighs.
The footsteps came fast, the figure came into Barney's view. Barney remembered the idiot with the shambling limbs and the spittle smile and the wide eyes. Now the same clothes and the same features, but a fast and wary stride and the head bent low to follow the mule trail and a heavy pack on his back. The man stopped where the mules'
hoofmarks had left the path. His head spun to seek the answer. He saw the tethered mules beside the cliff face, he saw Barney and Schumack and the boy. A cracked sound broke from his throat, anger and astonishment and fear. For a second he was rooted, then he turned and started to run back up the path the way that he had come.
Schumack was cat fast. Off the ground, onto the path, the left arm raised as a bridge for the rifle barrel, the snap of the Safety, the aim, the single shot.
The man who had played an idiot fell, sledge-hammered, in full stride - smashed down onto the dirt path.
The shot blitzed the quiet from the trees.
In the pack they found a Soviet army radio transmitter. Schumack put his heel into it. Sewn into an inner pocket and close to the bloodied exit wound, they found a Parcham faction Youth cadre card. Schumack ripped it to small pieces. The pack was earth dirty as if it had been buried. A chill recognition for Barney that the idiot had seen him, a European, had followed him, would have reported that he would reach a certain village, would have broadcast his knowledge. He remembered the vantage point from which he had watched the attack on the village, and the tears of the boy. His estimated time of arrival in that village had dictated the hour of the strike. Schumack spoke of the idiot. . . Barney sucked the air into his lungs. And, Christ . . . Schumack had been fast, faster than himself.
(1984) In Honour Bound Page 13