The Watch

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  Why do you think the birds were storming?

  I was gettin’ to that, First Sarn’t, he replies calmly.

  Then he says: The meanin’ of the dream is clear to me, I think, an’ it goes like this. The crows be us, the land be where we’re at, the girl be the girl, the blood be from ev’ryone, an’ if we keep her from buryin’ him, there’s gonna be trouble, a whole load o’ trouble, ’cos that’s what the dream was all about.

  He gazes at me with certainty, while I give a tight little smile, which probably comes off as a grimace, while wondering to myself why we need military intelligence when we’ve a soldier who can interpret dreams.

  That’s very interesting, Pratt.

  I know it must sound nuts to you, First Sarn’t, but among my people, when you have a dream like that standin’ up, you take it seriously.

  I purse my lips. You’re from Fairbanks, aren’t you?

  From way north of Fairbanks, First Sarn’t, a tiny settlement called Allakaket, bang smack on the Arctic Circle. That’s my home of record. Cold, dark, and isolated. Sorta like this place at night.

  I guess I asked because some other people would hold that when you have a dream standing up, it’s called daydreaming.

  He flushes, a slow tan spreading across his weathered features.

  No, First Sarn’t, he says, I wasn’t daydreamin’. I know what that’s like. This dream was real, an’ it was diff’rent enough for me to rec’nize it for what it was.

  So what do you want me to do, Pratt?

  Convince the Cap’n to let her have her brother back. We’re killin’ the dead a second time round, an’ that ain’t right. He’s a corpse to us, but he mean ev’rything to her, an’ we’re keepin’ ’em both from findin’ peace—he in the ground, where he now belong, and she inside hesself, which is equally importan’. It ain’t why we’re here. We’re makin’ a big mistake.

  I decide I’ve given him more than enough time to speak his mind. All right, Specialist, I say briskly. You can go now. Thanks for bringing the matter to me.

  You gonna talk to the Cap’n? he persists.

  I’ll see what I can do, Pratt—but I’m not making any promises.

  Thanks, First Sarn’t. That’s a weight off my mind. I knew you’d gimme a fair hearin’.

  He nods at me as he leaves.

  I stand there for a moment, staring after him, and then I resolve to go and get some coffee to clear my head. On my way to the mess tent, I try to stifle an uneasy feeling, but once I’m there and making the coffee I’m even more distracted than before, and it takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that Lieutenant Ellison is trying to attract my attention.

  Do you have a moment, First Sarn’t?

  Yes, of course, I murmur absently, while attempting to regain my focus.

  You won’t believe what I’ve been dealing with this morning, he says angrily.

  Oh, really? I answer as I stir sugar into my coffee. I glance at him. Coffee for you?

  Umm … sure. I guess I could use it.

  You and me both, bro, I think. Aloud, I ask him how he wants it.

  Black, with no sugar, please.

  Then he says urgently: I need your advice. The shit really hit the fan this morning. A bunch of guys from my platoon want us to return the body in our custody to the creature outside.

  He couldn’t have gotten my attention faster if he’d slapped me.

  With a start, I turn around to face him, almost spilling my coffee in the process. For the first time, I notice that his pallor is even more pronounced than usual. I hand him his cup without a word.

  Clearing his throat, he says: At 0630 this morning, I was approached by a group of men from my platoon. They asked that we release the body of the Taliban commander to the woman outside. They claimed that, after her gig last night, they could no longer view her as one of the enemy, and our refusal to surrender her brother’s body for burial now struck them as—and I quote—“just not fair.” They ended by telling me that if I didn’t do something about it, they’d delegate a couple of representatives to talk to the C.O. themselves and try to persuade him to—and I quote again—“do the right thing.”

  Having said his piece, he looks down at the ground and adds: I can only tell you that I’ve never faced anything like this before. I feel almost apologetic for sharing this with you. It’s fucking outrageous!

  What have you decided to do about their petition?

  He looks up at me in astonishment. Do? Why, absolutely nothing.

  I take in his earnest, indignant face, and wonder if I should envy him his clarity, or chew him out instead for disregarding his men’s concerns so casually, however frivolous he may find them.

  Just then I hear a cough behind me, and turn around.

  It’s Heywood, the RTO. He greets us—first Ellison, then me.

  Addressing me, he says: Captain wants to see you, First Sarn’t.

  I turn to Ellison and excuse myself, then walk back with Heywood to Connolly’s office.

  The C.O. has his feet up on the folding table he uses as his desk. He looks completely done in, as if he hasn’t slept in days—which is probably close to the truth. He eyes me wearily as I enter.

  How you doin’, First Sarn’t?

  I can’t complain, Sir.

  Good. He takes his feet off the desk and leans forward.

  I spoke to Battalion about our problem outside, he says. Fortunately, KAF has a drone in the area and they’ve directed it over the slopes to find out if there are any insurgents hanging around. So we’ll find out about that sooner or later, and if they come back with an all clear, then we can go out and take care of Calamity Jane.

  Sir …?

  The LN outside, he explains.

  Any word from Battalion on the corpse?

  He massages his brow tiredly.

  Oh, they’re flying it out tomorrow, as planned, which will come as a fucking relief, quite frankly. It’s beginning to stink up the whole base, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and the medics have had no option but to be stoic and put up with it.

  I wait for more, and he says: If we do get word that there are insurgents on the slopes, then we’ll take out the cart, clean and simple. But if the slopes are deserted—and that’s a big if, I know—then we’ll have to eliminate the possibility of a suicide bomber, get as much info as we can, and get rid of her … or him. She’s in the way.

  Get rid of her, Sir?

  His eyes don’t leave my face. We’ll have to come up with something, he says.

  I begin to ask if it wouldn’t be wiser to wait until the new batch of ANA show up and can then be assigned to deal with the task, but he cuts me short: The ANA won’t arrive until tomorrow, and I’m not waiting another twenty-four hours while an LN holds an entire U.S. Army base hostage. Not a fucking chance—I’m waiting for word from the drone and then we’ll resolve the matter ourselves.

  I’m not sure I’m following you, Sir.

  This is personal, First Sarn’t.

  I consider this for a moment without saying anything. Then: What if we don’t hear from Battalion about the drone today?

  Well … then I guess you’ll have to send someone out to make sure she isn’t strapped with explosives.

  And if she’s clean?

  Sorry—what was that? he says distractedly, flipping his laptop open.

  What should we do if she turns out not to be a suicide op?

  We’ll still need to find a way to get her out of our hair, First Sarn’t—after grilling her thoroughly for intelligence, that is.

  That’s when I ask: Could we not simply give her the body, Sir?

  I’m met with an angry exclamation from Connolly, who glares at me.

  And what would you suggest I tell Battalion? And what about Brigade, and Bagram, and the clowns in Kabul? Do you want the whole fucking chain of command to come crashing down on our heads?

  Couldn’t we just send photographs? Why do they need the corpse?

  Connolly gazes a
t me for a long moment as if composing a suitable response. At length, he says: The powers that be in Kabul have made a big deal out of the prospect of displaying the body on television. They don’t want people to question its authenticity. Nor do they want to deal with the kinds of questions that have arisen in the past regarding the credibility of their claims about the deaths of key insurgents, who then turn out to have survived after all. The government is weak, and they’ll use anything they can to project their strength.

  But he’s already beginning to rot, Sir, I point out. I doubt he’ll be any good for displaying on television in another day.

  It isn’t up to us to interfere, he says firmly. We have our orders.

  He returns to his papers, then pauses abruptly and slams his laptop shut. What’s with all these fucking questions, Marcus? You’re not a novice, you know how these things work; there are things we can and can’t do in this situation. Our freedom of action is strictly circumscribed.

  We stare at each other without moving.

  Then he sits up very straight with his head tilted back to take me in as I look down at him from a height. Abruptly, he says: You’re looking ragged around the edges. It’s affecting your judgment, quite obviously. Why don’t you get some sleep?

  I nod slightly.

  Just do it, he urges.

  LIEUTENANT’S JOURNAL

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four … in five seconds I will have turned twenty-four. Yet another year added to my life. I hold up a mirror to my face. Below the wall of forehead, the eyes crouch warily. Stone-gray gaze, eyelids rimmed with red, lashes bleached by dust, mouth encircled by grime. Taut, thin lips, distant, long gaze. God of memory, god of longings: grant me the gift of rest.

  It’s night outside, a foggy, dust-smeared darkness. The wind whips the earth into shades, the desert hides in shadows, there’s dust, dust everywhere.

  Dust clouds, dust moon, dust senses.

  In the beginning, I wanted to make a difference. Dreamed we were a force for the good. Believed we could change this world: change it through the power of intention, goodwill, language. That was before survival became paramount. The mere act of staying alive. Alive: that single, most dangerous word. Dangerous, yes. We are never entirely ourselves until we contend with the length of the night, the fact of its finitude, its protean, distinct shades, its inevitable end.

  Absent star. When I look at myself in the light of day, I appear very different, even to myself. But in the darkness of the night, this is what I am.

  And so the moments pass, dust stirs the plains, the mountains hem in air. Twenty-four years. A window to a view that no longer exists. A calm, peaceful landscape. Sunlit stream winding through green Burlington hills. Graveled driveway, cars parked in front of the house. Dad with his sleeves rolled up, on his way to the tennis court, looking back over his shoulder and waving me good-bye.

  I’ve changed so much, who would’ve thought it possible? I, who used to believe I’d never change. Look at me now: I’m a stranger to myself. Bearer of the dead. My eyes close, but sleep does not come.

  DAY.

  Dawn. The silence is absolute. For an instant, the fog parts to reveal the plexus of huts and tents huddled in the half-light. Otherwise everything around me, this translucent, swirling haze, is bathed in tints of violet. Even the barren landscape assumes carmine shades. I’ve never lost the love of landscape that you planted in me, Dad. It’s sustained me in the most extreme situations and places. One day I’d like to pass that on to my children.

  So I began writing this journal for you, Dad. You said I would need a place to bury the graveyard that war becomes when the dreams of glory dissipate. I remember clearly when you told me that. We were walking down the long, planked pier, the still waters of the lake on either side of us. The pier seemed to go on and on, the water was an even-tempered blue, the lake sky-colored and sky-shaped. You said: I’ve never understood your commitment, but I respect you, so I’ve accepted it. I said: Thanks, Dad. You said: Time is what is left when we decide to start living, Nick. I want you to come back to us alive.

  I remember looking up suddenly when you said that. Something had startled me—not what you’d said—and at first I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then I noticed: In the clear light, the sky seemed to have no beginning, the lake no end. There was no line on the horizon.

  Before we turned around and walked back, you asked me what was going to be the most important thing for me on this deployment.

  My answer, the same as it ever was: Winning the war and bringing my men back alive.

  You said: Always remember that experience is an arch. That’s from Tennyson, by the way.

  I remember smiling as I replied: In the army we call it the steep learning curve. You go from innocence to experience. Then from experience to more experience. In other words, from shit hole to shit hole in an endless procession of shit holes, if you’ll excuse my French. From one …

  Problematic situation to another?

  Exactly. Yes.

  We laughed together at the way you’d deflected the possibility of more profanity by finishing my thought. But when we reached the end of the pier, you held me earnestly by the shoulder and said: This country is broken, Nick. We’ve been lied to and robbed blind and left to the mercy of swindlers. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt as depressed. No—not even during the Vietnam years. We’re desperately in need of heroes, Nick—of good, honest, hardworking leaders. We need men like you to come back and rebuild what’s been destroyed.

  I remember the long silence as I looked at you with sadness.

  You’re looking to us to come back and rescue the country, Dad?

  I am. I don’t believe war solves anything, Nick—and these wars in particular are like gaping wounds. They’re draining us of our lifeblood.

  NIGHT.

  So: this journal is where I put down my most private thoughts, Dad. It’s like the little compartment the others carry around in their heads where they stow away all their thoughts and emotions until such time as they can bear to safely unpack and dwell on the nightmares, the sadness. Dave Hendricks says it’s the first thing he does when he’s back Stateside, even before he meets the family. He locks himself up in a dark room and lets go slowly … He opens the box.

  Me? I prefer the white page. No dark rooms for me. No shut containers in the mind.

  No cigar box like the one that Connolly has in his desk drawer that he flips open every time something goes very, very wrong.

  I write down my thoughts instead. I live on the page. This is home for me now: my true home. And that St. Louis apartment with the Ikea furniture and Em’s collection of quilts and all our books from Vassar and on … that’s fiction. It’s a movie, a different life that featured some other man who shared my name and body for a time. He’s gone.

  He’s been gone for a while now.

  NIGHT.

  The long stare. The eyes that take on a life of their own. Emily remarked on it the last time we were together; she kept telling me to look at her and not past her at some gray distance. Where are you, Nick? What are you thinking of? And then, later, when the shock of our separation finally hit with full force: You chose to break away, Nick. You had a choice. You should’ve known that this could end. I tried to explain it to you, but you were always somewhere else. I could see it in your eyes. You were miles away. What happened to you? Do you like the way that sand tastes?

  Miles away. I’m twenty-four, but I’ve aged so much. My eyes are holes where light no longer penetrates. What did she expect? I’m no longer who I used to be. I’ve seen my core break away.

  I close my eyes, just for tonight. The sun still sleeps for me where she wakes.

  Why didn’t you wait for me, Em? I see your face in the sand everywhere.

  Tonight I’ll dream of you. Outside there’s a sickle moon. A glitter of yellow scales on my bed. Tonight I’ll plunge into my labyrinth.

  DAY.

>   In a few days, summer will end. I know why I’ve become so conscious of time, Dad. I’m afraid of not being able to see my son again. It keeps me up at night, and then in the morning I don’t want to get out of bed. Even the relief of having survived another twenty-four hours can seem ephemeral. It’s almost easier to walk over to the wire and watch those formidable mountains sweep their shadows over us. Strange how alien the mountains appear, and the desert as well, with its different coldness. Featureless landscapes. Futureless deathscapes. Still, you get used to them after a while.

  Although, when I come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I was near a forest.

  Or a river, for that matter. A garden, a pond, a park, a lake.

  We’ve heard rumors of orchards hidden deep in the mountains, and groves of mulberries and grapes. Also stands of holly oaks and cedars, giant spruce and cypresses. When I gaze at the wild, jagged rock faces that loom over us, it seems improbable. But then again, fruits are among the main exports of this parched, dust-choked land, especially melons and pomegranates.

  And grapes. Fourteen different kinds, can you imagine?

  As for melons, our ANA Uzbeks assure us that the best kind are not from Kandahar but from Ashkalon farther north, where, two thousand years ago, the Greeks led by Alexander—whom they call Iskander—is said to have introduced them from Macedonia.

  Alexander’s spirit still straddles this place like a colossus, by the way. When I think of the armies he led back and forth over the mountains—in winter, no less—in pursuit of the Persians and the local tribes, I am left, quite frankly, speechless. There is such a thing as military genius, I suppose. Sobering to think that we do not—emphatically—have anything to compare by way of leadership.

  NIGHT.

  What else can I tell you about the nature of this place?

  In the desert there are hyenas and jackals. We hear them call at night, but I’ve never seen them myself. The gray wolf used to be common here—it’s the same species as the ones back home—but the Taliban hunted them with Kalashnikovs, and now there are hardly any left.