The Watch

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  Just then, a flock of crows passes over our heads, and we both look up.

  Have you seen Shorty since the firefight? he asks suddenly.

  The dog? No, not that I can recall, Sir.

  Hmm. He’s probably still hiding out somewhere.

  Spitz usually knows where he is, I say without thinking, then pull up short. I forgot, I say stupidly.

  He stands up very straight, but when he glances at me, he seems gentle, resigned, almost defeated. He runs his hand over his face and shakes his head.

  Do animals mourn, Doc? No, don’t answer, he says. That was a rhetorical question. A slight grimace deforms his mouth. This is war, isn’t it? It’s what war does. In less than a month, I’ve lost my two most experienced officers …

  He lights a cigarette and tosses away the match with a gesture that indicates both helplessness and an excess of fatigue. His hand is trembling, I notice. He takes a single puff and chucks the cigarette away. He nods at me as if from a great distance.

  I’m going to get some sleep, he says. You know where to find me if you need me.

  About to leave, he catches himself. What are you doing here, by the way?

  I was just about to go to the medic tent, Sir.

  Tanner walks over at that moment.

  Connolly nods at him. How much longer are you here?

  Three more hours, Sir.

  Don’t forget that your next shift is from 0400.

  Not a problem, Sir.

  The C.O. nods tiredly and walks away.

  Pfc. Jackson joins us as he leaves. He asks Tanner: What was that all about, Sarn’t?

  We’re going to be on guard duty again early tomorrow morning, Jackson.

  No shit. How early?

  Four.

  Fuck.

  Yes.

  All four of us?

  All ’cept Grohl, Tanner says, and then smiles crookedly: This ain’t a fucking spa, soldier.

  Jackson gazes at him blankly for a few seconds before averting his face and returning to his position. I can’t tell if he’s pleased that Tanner’s omitted Grohl, or disheartened by the prospect of yet another night of inadequate sleep. Whatever it is, something about his reaction obviously bothers Tanner, and I reckon he’s about to pull him up for it, but then he appears to relent. Turning to me, he says: I have to remind myself that he’s only nineteen.

  Good call, Sergeant, I say quietly.

  We turn to look at the unusually subdued Jackson and catch him trying to disguise a yawn by breathing out through the corners of his mouth.

  On my way to the medic tent to relieve Svitek, I stop by Ellison’s hooch to talk to him about moving the corpse, but he’s sound asleep and dead to the world. I listen to him snoring exhaustedly for a couple of minutes—it’s probably his first sleep in days—and resign myself to waiting until the next day.

  The fog is thick on the ground when I set out to find him the first thing the following morning. Bradford’s passing by the medic tent, and I ask him if he’s seen the lieutenant.

  He’s either at the ECP, Bradford says, or else somewhere along the Hescos.

  There’s a sharp wind blowing again, and it whistles through the base. The grunts on duty at the ECP tell me that Ellison is checking up on all the men on watch. So I spend the next hour stumbling around the Hesco perimeter in search of the elusive lieutenant, a more difficult task than usual because the fog makes it impossible to see more than two paces ahead. I follow in his tracks, determined to find him. As I go from one guard post to another, it appears to me that most of the men have put the firefight behind them, and yet I can sense a residue of lingering tension as, heads hunched into upturned collars, rifles held at the ready, they squint to see through the uncertain light. Everything seems curiously dreamlike in the dawn light and the dissipating fog. The optics of the fog make it appear as if the men and the huts are all floating above the ground. From time to time, I lose sight of my surroundings completely, and then it’s as if I am no longer part of this world but somewhere else altogether. This odd state of mind must be an aftereffect of the events of the past twenty-four hours, some kind of delayed reaction to the battle itself. The feeling of dislocation is extreme, as if my nerves are strained and I’m experiencing at one and the same time all the contradictory stages of a dream. Equally unnerving is the fleeting nature of this sensation, because every time the fog thins and I can see around me again, I am brought back squarely to the present. What heightens the sense of unreality is the absolute silence across the base, as if the mist has dampened all its usual sounds. Instead, everyone seems to wordlessly watch the play of fog on the field and the mantle of clouds that first settles on the mountains and then lifts slightly, though not so much that the sun can break through. There’s no trace of life outside—with the exception of the three corpses at the very end of the field, all else is a bleak wasteland—and at this time of morning even the ubiquitous desert crows are missing.

  “By and by, though, as a pale pinkish light seeps through the clouds, the slopes are once more visible in the distance. From their foot, a narrow trail ascends slantwise until it bends at a sharp angle, climbing in a fairly steep zigzag between ridges and pine trees until it vanishes behind a scrim of fallen rocks. It continues out of sight through a high valley that extends far into the chain of mountains. It is in this region of sharply alternating light and darkness that Lieutenant Hendricks and Sergeant Castro met their end a few weeks ago in the course of a reconnaissance patrol. Since then, we’ve refrained from venturing into the mountains, although there’ve been rumors of Predator drone attacks and Special Ops missions in retaliation for their deaths.

  Gradually the sun eases out of the clouds and makes its presence felt on the plains. As it grows warmer, I take off my jacket. The lower slopes begin to light up, and soon the first rays of the sun sweep across the field and illuminate the base. The first birds appear: not crows, but two slow-moving vultures of enormous wingspan. They circle high above the bodies at the far end of the field but for some reason do not land. Two or three crows appear as well, but seem to be intimidated by the presence of the vultures and fly off into the mountains. Moments later, a hawk swoops down from a high peak and drives off the vultures. And yet, despite all of this aerial activity, perhaps because of the remaining strands of mist, over everything there reigns this peculiar, muffled stillness.

  Thankfully, the fog has begun to lift by the time I catch up with Ellison. He’s back at the ECP and has taken up position next to Pfcs. Alizadeh and Renholder. Relieved, I’m walking up to him when he stiffens and takes a couple of steps forward. Raising his binoculars, he trains them on the field. Alizadeh glances at him and squints through his rifle sight; neither of them notice me.

  I’m trying to make out what they’re looking at when Ellison whistles softly and Alizadeh exclaims: Shit! Something’s coming down the fucking trail.

  Then he says rapidly: It’s reached the field … it appears to be heading in the direction of the bodies.

  Renholder, who’s also looking through his sight, says: It looks like some kinda giant roach.

  I’ve finally managed to locate what they are talking about. I watch it intently, while Ellison tells Renholder to fetch the C.O. immediately. Already I can feel my stomach turning sour.

  Alizadeh’s still staring through his rifle sight. You’re not going to believe this, Sir, he tells Ellison in a hushed voice, but I think it’s a woman in a burqa … on some kind of platform on wheels. She’s using something to propel it forward.

  Ellison looks through his binoculars.

  Then Alizadeh says: Holy fuck. She’s pushing the thing forward with her bare hands!

  He lowers his rifle at the same time as Ellison lowers his binoculars. Ellison notices me standing next to him. Morning, Doc, he says tersely. What is it?

  I shake my head. It can wait, I answer.

  Alizadeh glances at Ellison uncertainly.

  What the fuck is going on, Sir?

  Elliso
n raises his binoculars again and surveys the rest of the field. It’s about a thousand meters from where we are to the foot of the slopes. As far as I can see, barring the woman in the cart, it’s as deserted as a moonscape.

  Ellison clears his throat and says calmly: We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?

  He turns to me. You better man your tent, Doc. We might need your services, the way things are shaping up …

  ISMENE

  FROM the moment I enter the huge helicopter in the Kandahar Airfield, I realize that my life is no longer my own. There are four other men on board: the three crew members in front, and an army doctor who spends the entire flight checking oxygen cylinders and assorted medical equipment. No one speaks to me. Their silhouettes make them one with the darkness inside and outside. The helicopter’s rotors keep up a deafening drumbeat. Pinpoints of lights illuminate the interior and reflect against shiny panels so that I feel I am inside a black room filled with colored mirrors. As we ascend with a shudder into the heavens, the lights sway back and forth, and I say a silent prayer and close my eyes.

  Blood beats in my ears. A constant pressure constricts my neck. If it is curiosity that persuades me to open my eyes again, I regret it instantly, for it makes me sick. Since I am strapped to my seat, my view is restricted to a narrow rectangle over the pilot’s shoulder, and I glimpse disembodied pieces of earth and sky. Boxed in glass, I brace myself as we plunge in and out of clouds the color of soot. Once I see a gray patch of water, probably a lake. The mountains look like serrated shadows rising into the air.

  I am about to be sick again when we plunge straight down through a hole in the clouds. I glimpse a small army base straight below, with the landing zone marked by blinking lights. The base grows in size and separates into a jumble of shadowy buildings slightly elevated above a plain. A funnel of dust rises up to meet us, and it is as if we are descending into the underworld. There’s a sudden jarring sound, and I feel a rush of panic as my head thrusts back and the restraining straps crush my body against my seat. A gigantic force strikes against my ribs with muffled blows. Then the pilot turns around and gives me a thumbs-up. Apparently we have landed.

  I hang my head in relief at my safe arrival. Everyone else is already bustling around, and I unstrap myself from my seat and drag out my pack. As I throw it over my shoulder, the first stretcher is carried inside. An officer runs up and yells something to the man lying on the stretcher, who smiles weakly in response. I squeeze past him and jump out, and am almost knocked off my feet by the helicopter’s downwash.

  Outside, everything is veiled by dust. There’s a line of stretchers waiting to be loaded, their bearers’ faces chalky with dust. I run coughing through sheets of sand whipped up by the rotors. As I pass the men carrying the dead and wounded, I am reminded of the djinns who render service to the angel of death. By the time I pass out of the radius of the landing zone, they have finished loading all the stretchers.

  I wait for someone to notice my arrival, but I might as well be invisible in the swirling dust. All around me the landscape is the color of dark graphite. A freezing chill attacks me from all sides. My gaze is drawn to the indistinct beehive shapes within the concertina perimeter—more like tombs than the dwellings of living men. My experiences with the coalition forces so far have been at a small outpost in Paktika province and the massive base in Bagram—but I can already tell that things are going to be very different here in the Tarsândan Outpost, as the Americans call it in their jargon.

  The helicopter takes off at that moment, a flurry of dust chasing it into the sky. It hovers in midair for an instant. In the darkness, a colorless break in the horizon signals the advent of dawn. The two Apache gunship escorts that have been circling overhead now draw apart to make room for the larger machine, and together they bank steeply into the clouds. One moment I can see their lights blinking through the haze, and the next they have disappeared, and all that betrays their presence is a rumble that grows steadily distant.

  I feel feverish with anticipation: a damp cold grips my bare hands as I zip up my jacket. Its fabric is wet, and I cringe at the memory of having thrown up—twice—during the flight. I lower my pack to the ground, take off my jacket—which smells—and stand there with my teeth chattering in the darkness.

  One by one the men make their way back from the landing zone. No one speaks: the only sound is the crunch of their boots on the gravel. The air is still thick with the dust whipped up by the rotors, and most of the men hold their heads down and have their collars turned up. Very few look at me. Fewer still acknowledge my presence. One of them slaps his hands together rhythmically as he walks past in order to keep warm. Soon I am the only one left in that deserted plot of land. Although I know it to be unnecessary, I pull out the crumpled sheet of paper from my pocket and confirm the date and place of my arrival. Just as I am beginning to wonder if I’ve become altogether invisible, a soldier stops in front of me and asks if I am the new interpreter. I cannot see his face because he is muffled behind a scarf, but I smile anyway and extend my hand.

  Hello, I say, yes, my name is Masood.

  This way, he says, ignoring my hand and walking on ahead.

  Although I find his rudeness incomprehensible, I shoulder my pack and follow him. We approach the concertina wire, then a wall of Hescos and firing positions lined with sandbags. As we walk past the Entry Control Point, I make out the silhouettes of the men on guard duty, but everything is shadowy in the indistinct light. Inside the base, some kind of night bird flaps away overhead. Then a match flutters in front of me as my escort lights a cigarette, holding it between two fingers. He turns to make sure that I am behind him, and his mouth makes a gray whorl of smoke. I notice that he has GOD inked on the scarf tied around his helmet.

  The farther we penetrate into the base, the more a thick mist seems to rise out of the ground. The air is cold, but also dank. The clouds that veil the sky are unusually low-lying and black. I expect my escort to say something, to point out landmarks and give me some sense of orientation, but he remains silent. Nor can I get any sense of the base, given the mist, except that it appears almost entirely lifeless and deserted. Then I remind myself of the early hour, and that these men have just survived a battle that, by all the accounts that I heard in Kandahar, was truly horrific.

  We pass what I assume is the cookhouse from the thin spiral of smoke that rises into the air. Then we make a sharp turn into a narrow lane between two plywood buildings, and my companion ducks in through a door that yawns open in the mist. He switches on a dim light, and I step in after him and am assaulted by the rank odor of stale air, sour feet, and dust. Scrunching up my face, I squeeze into an aisle between two rows of bunks. Ahead of me, my guide pauses, looks around for a moment, and pounces on a slim metal canister. He points it into the air as I watch nonplussed, and proceeds to release a steady stream of white mist that instantly shrouds the interior with a pungent chemical scent somewhat reminiscent of rotting flowers. Apparently satisfied, he lowers the canister and sets it down on the table. Then he takes off his jacket, helmet, and scarf, and I see how slender he is—almost as slender as I am—but with very wide shoulders from which his arms hang loosely like wings. His face is unnaturally pale—I can see the fine blue-green veins running across his forehead—his eyes are turquoise, his mouth bright crimson, and his closely cropped hair a silky blond. I find him very beautiful.

  I must have been staring, because he grows even more pale, if that were possible, and turns away. I hear him say in a muffled voice that this is where I am to be housed. With his face still held away from me, he points to a bunk and explains that the rest are empty because their occupants are on guard duty. He says that I must be tired after my journey and suggests that I rest until I am called for by the commander of the base. He doesn’t seem to expect me to ask any questions, because he puts on his jacket and helmet once more, wraps his scarf around his face, shoulders past me, and goes out. I am left wondering whether he’d planned to st
ay longer but for some reason changed his mind. I’m also taken aback that he didn’t feel the need to introduce himself, as is form, and, indeed, courtesy. Perhaps he is simply shy? All the same, I feel disappointed. I promise myself that I will seek him out and speak to him again.

  I watch the door close behind him and put down my pack on my bunk. The artificially scented mist has made it even more difficult to breathe, and I struggle with the unholy mix of its chemical smell as it combines with the body odors and the rest. Still, I try not to make too much of it and cope by tying a scarf loosely around my face. Taking out the map of the base that I’d been given, I prepare to study it in order to locate where I am. But when I sit down on the bunk, I feel immediately drowsy. Although I feel uneasy at the thought of falling asleep mere moments after my arrival, my fatigue overcomes me, and I put the map aside and stretch out. I lie there for a moment or two, simply listening to the labored sound of my breath as I inhale through the scarf, before my gaze is caught by the photographs of scantily clad women stuck to the roof of the bunk. They smile at me with intimate familiarity and put me in a strange dreamlike state, to which I gradually surrender.

  I wake to something warm and furry wrapped around my feet. For an instant, I am thrown back to childhood memories of sleeping under a sheepskin blanket in the dead of winter. But this particular blanket gives a low-pitched moan when I move my feet, and I sit up with a startled shout and draw up my knees. There’s an animal the size of a small bear on my cot. It stretches and yawns as it gazes at me. From the bunk across from me, a soldier, woken by the noise, extends his hand sleepily. I’m Alizadeh, he says. You okay?

  There’s a dog in my bunk, I blurt out.

  He nods politely, still half-asleep.

  Yup. That’s Shorty. It’s where he sleeps.

  But it’s my bunk!

  He doesn’t seem concerned in the least. Instead, he merely waves his hand.