by Phil Halton
Rashid shook his head. “We wait. The bandits in the village below aren’t likely to come up here looking for us.”
Jan Nasrollah scowled. “We should go and kill them. And all the rest of the bandits in this district.”
Rashid smiled. “As the Mullah has said, we will cut the head off this snake instead of fighting it inch by inch.”
“I am sick of walking. And hiding. I want to fight,” said Jan Nasrollah.
Rashid gave him a wan smile. “You will have your chance, my friend. Of that, I have no doubt.”
With nothing more to be said through parched lips, he and the boys tried to sleep as they waited for the sun to go down.
As night fell, Rashid moved down the line of men and boys lying in the wadi, warning them with a touch on the shoulder to get ready. The cooler night air was refreshing, though the thought of another night’s march was not a pleasant one. The Mullah stood with his heavy rucksack on his back, waiting for Rashid.
“We will move along the top of the ridgeline,” said the Mullah, gesturing with one finger. “We will stay far enough below the crest to remain unseen.”
Rashid nodded. “If you lead them that way, I will take Asadullah Amin and the bicycle higher up to see if there is a spring. We need water.”
The Mullah nodded in agreement, and without another word he turned and began to march. The others fell in behind him. Rashid watched them pass, one by one. Isa stared at the feet of the boy in front of him as he shuffled past. Umar forced a smile as he struggled along in line, but Rashid saw blood on his sandals from burst blisters.
As Asadullah Amin pushed his bicycle past Rashid, Rashid placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Wait here with me.”
Jan Nasrollah hesitated, as well, but Rashid waved him back in line. As he passed, Asadullah Amin saw that some of the boys walking near his brother were empty-handed, but his brother had three rifles and a grenade launcher slung across his back. Jan Nasrollah hunched forward under the weight but said nothing. Asadullah Amin blushed as he remembered the many days, before they found the madrassa, that his brother had led him by the hand, looking for food and shelter.
The column struggled onward, the Mullah’s long legs carrying him at a fast pace into the growing darkness of the night.
Once he was sure that the column was far enough away, Rashid turned to Asadullah Amin. “We are going to climb up there.” He pointed farther up the slope. “I am hoping to find a spring that we can use to fill these jugs.”
Asadullah Amin’s expression betrayed his dark thoughts. He let out a deep sigh. “Truly, Rashid, I am not sure if I can push this bicycle up this hill.”
Rashid handed his rifle to the boy and took the bicycle by the handlebars. “Follow me, then.”
The pair headed up the dry wadi together. The air became cooler as they climbed, Rashid’s eyes searching the area around them, never pausing as he marched. In time, he found what he was searching for: a small clump of brush, its leaves dark and very slightly fragrant.
They stopped beside the low brush, and Rashid looked closely at the branches. Small green buds hung from the ends of the lowest branches. He spoke while continuing to look intensely at the ground around them for more signs. “These bushes are drawing water up from somewhere.”
Rashid quickly found an area that looked as if water had run over it in the past. A shallow channel had been cut through the earth, leading to a small notch in a dry rock face. Rashid knelt down in front of it and began to dig with his hands. He pulled out scoops of dry earth and round stones. “These stones are a good sign.” He held one up to Asadullah Amin. “This was washed down from a stream somewhere above, perhaps a long time ago.” He kept digging at the notch in the stones until he was suddenly rewarded.
There was no gush of water, but the soil around his hands began to darken. He dug a little more and a thin layer of water pooled at the base of his hole. He scooped a little out with his fingers and pressed it to his lips. It had a sharp, metallic taste, but he gestured to Asadullah Amin to try some and pressed more of the water to his own lips, as well.
Rashid and Asadullah Amin continued to dig until one of the jugs could fit into the hole, its lips pressed up against the soil where the water continued to slowly well up. Rashid stretched a piece of scarf over the mouth of the jug and let the water run into it through this simple filter. He pulled some more small rocks and debris out of the cut in the rock, and the water began to seep through the earth a little faster.
The jug was only three-quarters full when Rashid decided it was time to leave. Asadullah Amin complained. “This is barely enough water for everyone, Rashid. We should stay.”
Rashid shook his head. “We have a hard walk ahead of us if we are going to catch up to the Mullah. If we lose him tonight, we might lose him for good.”
Asadullah Amin pulled the jug out from the hole with both hands, grunting with the effort, and Rashid quickly filled the hole back in and scattered some dry brush over top to conceal their work. He carefully poured water from one jug into the other to balance the load, and hung both of them back on the frame of the bicycle, tied together with a short piece of string. He began to push it back the way that they had come while Asadullah Amin followed, carrying their rifles.
In the distance they could see the checkpoint on the road, lit up with an oil lamp. The bandits were seated together, likely playing cards or dice. Asadullah Amin watched them for a while as they walked, pondering in silence, before asking a question. “Rashid, do you think that there are men like that, making a living like that, all over the country?”
“Sadly, I know that that is the case.”
Asadullah Amin was silent for a few minutes again. “Then … are we no more than grains of sand fighting against the desert?”
Rashid said nothing, letting his footsteps punctuate his thoughts. “I have been like a grain of sand blown by the wind, dust collecting wherever it catches against something bigger than itself. But a strong wind can shape the dust and the sand. The Mullah is such a wind.”
Asadullah Amin nodded, and they walked onward without speaking. The journey down the slope was much easier than the journey up had been. Rashid thought briefly of his own youth. Riding bicycles had been one of the few pleasures for teenagers where he’d lived, but that seemed like a thousand years ago now, or a dream. He shook his head to clear the thought out.
Farther down the slope there was more dry vegetation to conceal their movement. Rashid and Asadullah Amin moved quickly, trying to catch up to where they thought the Mullah would be. When the ground became flatter, Rashid handed the bicycle over to Asadullah Amin again, and took his own rifle in his hands. Cradling it in his arms, he moved smoothly along a track that he assumed the Mullah had taken before them.
Before they’d gone very far, Rashid paused again, looking intently at a low bed of leafy plants. He laid the bicycle down, careful not to spill the water, and squatted to examine the vegetation that grew beside the trail they walked along. He pulled a stalk out of the ground and handed it to Asadullah Amin. It was a little stiff from lack of water, but was long and leafy. “Eat this,” he said. “Wild rhubarb.”
Asadullah Amin took a tentative bite. It tasted tart, too much so, but it was also juicy. He finished the stalk off quickly. Red juices dripped down his chin, but he wiped them up with his finger and licked them off. He squatted down beside Rashid and pulled another stalk out of the ground for himself. Rashid had slung his rifle across his back and had pulled up the front of his shirt to make a basket. He filled it with as much rhubarb as he could find before they moved off again.
It took two more hours of hard walking to catch up to the Mullah and the others. The Mullah had stopped the group in a rough circle, ready to fight if it had not been Rashid and Asadullah Amin who approached. Nearby stood the shells of a few burnt-out buildings, the remains of a small village left jutting from the landscape like rotten teeth.
When the Mullah saw the bicycle reflected in the
dull moonlight, he knew who it was. He stood up and waved briefly at the pair before squatting again behind cover.
As Rashid and Asadullah Amin approached the Mullah, he stood up and clutched Rashid in a bear hug. The Mullah spoke in a whisper, his lips cracked and dry. “Asalaam aleikum, my brother.” His eyes twinkled as he said the familiar words. “May you not be tired. May you be strong. May your house and family prosper. May your health be ever good.”
Rashid hugged him back. “We found water, but not much.”
The Mullah squeezed him again. “Enough to share between us all right now?”
“Of course.” Rashid handed the Mullah a stalk of rhubarb. “And we found this. Enough for everyone, as well.”
“Praise be!”
Rashid and Asadullah Amin moved through the group, handing out the rhubarb and offering drinks from the jug. When they reached Jan Nasrollah, he was flat on his back, exhausted. Asadullah Amin held out a cup of water to him. “Drink, brother.”
Jan Nasrollah barely lifted his head. “I don’t need it. Give it to the others.”
Rashid eyed him carefully. “Do as he says,” he said.
When Asadullah Amin had moved farther down the line, Rashid offered his cup of water to the boy. “Take this. There is no shame in being thirsty.” Jan Nasrollah opened his eyes and looked around before gulping down the water. He then took a piece of rhubarb, looking guilty as he chewed on the stalk.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“It is not far to Nasir Khan’s,” said Rashid.
“How far is not far?”
“We will be there tonight.”
Jan Nasrollah smiled. “It will be a great fight,” he said, “with much opportunity for glory. His men will not give up as easily as these others we have met.”
Rashid smiled encouragingly. “We travel in the footsteps of greatness. This is the route that Alexander’s army took.”
“Who?” asked Jan Nasrollah.
“Iskander. Alexander the Great. He fought here thousands of years ago. Kandahar is named after him.”
“Was he an Afghan?” asked Jan Nasrollah.
“No, a Greek.”
“Then we would have beat him,” said Jan Nasrollah.
Rashid laughed quietly. “Rest for a few more minutes, my friend. And then we march.”
The first light of dawn began to glow below the horizon. The Mullah led the long line of his followers into a small gully where they could conceal themselves again during daylight. He stood in the centre of the group as they gathered. “We will stop here for the day.”
Boys and men flung themselves down wherever they stood. Hands rubbed aching feet, and no one spoke. There was more shade and concealment here than the previous day, so no one needed to hang his patu as a shelter. Soon most of the group were asleep, not yet tormented by the full heat of the day.
Rashid squatted beside the Mullah, not yet ready to rest. “How close are we now?”
The Mullah thought for a moment. “No more than a few hours’ walking.”
“Do you want me to scout it out in daylight?”
The Mullah clapped Rashid on the shoulder. “You are a good man to have for a job like this, my friend. But we are too close to expose ourselves needlessly. I have seen it with my own eyes, as have you and Isa. We will be victorious —”
Rashid mouthed the final word. “Insh’allah.”
The Mullah smiled. “Insh’allah. Now rest. I will take the first watch.”
“Don’t you need sleep, as well, Mullah?”
“I am refreshed by my complete submersion in the will of God. I will rest later.”
Rashid was exhausted. He lay down beside the Mullah. Before long, like the others, he, too, was asleep.
The Mullah waited until the night sky was completely dark before waking the others. Everyone had slept for most of the day, and as they woke they looked at each other groggily. It took the Mullah several tries to get everyone on their feet, shaking them awake one at a time, careful not to make too much noise. He had Rashid check each of their weapons, making sure that nothing was forgotten, before he led them off into the night.
The Mullah led them in single file, taking a circuitous route behind a small crest that overlooked their destination. When he saw that their position was good, he signalled to the others to stop. He crawled up to the top of the crest and saw that Nasir Khan’s home sat only four hundred yards away atop its hill like a squat fortress, with a few smaller houses scattered through the valley around it. He watched as the gates opened just wide enough for two guards with automatic rifles to slip out. Once they were through the door, it slammed shut and was barred with an audible rattle. One of the two guards carried a small parcel of food, the other a lit lantern. They walked over to the tank that guarded the hilltop, where two other men awaited them.
The new guards relieved the others, who had probably spent the day lounging in the shade of the tank. The guards who had been relieved walked sleepily to the gate and were admitted back into the compound. The other two climbed atop the tank and sat, looking out over the valley.
The Mullah watched them from his vantage point. Rashid had crawled forward to lie beside him, his eyes fixed on the compound. The others lay in various positions behind them, out of sight.
The Mullah spoke to Rashid and gestured at the rusted tracks and sprockets on the tank. “It looks like it has not moved in a very long time.”
Rashid’s expert eyes examined the tank. “I doubt that it can move. It is sagging on its tracks. It looks like it was dragged or pushed into position.”
“So it is only the gun we need worry about. The plan that you suggested — are you sure you can do it?”
Rashid nodded. “Isa and I will have both guards’ throats slit before they can raise the alarm. Even if it is immobile, we don’t want to have to fight that tank if we don’t have to.”
The Mullah’s eyes scanned the countryside for a covered approach to the tank, extending one finger to indicate the route that he saw. “You could crawl up alongside that jumble of rocks and gravel.”
Rashid strained his neck to see what the Mullah meant. He could just pick out the ground that the Mullah’s eyes had found. The night was dark, with clouds drifting across the moon. Once he was satisfied that he had seen the route, he asked, “Will you wait here with the others? You will be able to see us once we are close.”
The Mullah’s eyes searched the ground again. “No, this is a little too far. We will move around the slope and wait in a position over there.” Rashid strained to look again. “We will be concealed as we wait for you, though more by darkness than anything else.”
Rashid nodded. The position the Mullah had selected looked good. “Once the tank crew are dead, we will blow the doors. We will set the charges as you move closer. As soon as they go off, we will all charge in.”
The Mullah nodded in agreement and clapped Rashid on the shoulder. Then he slid back down the slope and rolled over to face the others, Rashid squatting beside him. Umar sat nearby, his feet out of his sandals and both covered in blood. The Mullah glanced at Umar but said nothing, instead beckoning everyone to move closer to him. When they were ringed tightly around him he began to speak, his voice very low. “We will wait until just before dawn — when the guards are tired and thinking only of going to bed.”
Rashid quickly sketched out the plan in the dust, scratching out lines with a stick and using stones to represent the compound gate and the tank. The dim moonlight cast a grey pall over the diagram on the ground. “Isa and I will eliminate the outside guards,” said Rashid. “We will then place the charges on the doors. When they blow off, everyone will follow the Mullah into the compound. We must move room by room, working fast to keep them off balance.”
He looked around at the others, their faces shining faintly in the moonlight. They looked tired and anxious.
The Mullah spoke to them softly, saying the words they needed to hear. “Our journey has been long. The struggl
e is not yet over. But by the dawn, we will be victorious, insh’allah, or we will sit at the feet of God.”
The boys whispered a response in unison, “Allah-u akbar.”
The Mullah whispered back, “Allah-u akbar.”
Rashid moved to where Umar sat, his face a mask barely concealing his pain. He lifted from the ground the rocket-propelled grenade launcher that Umar had been carrying, unloaded it, and checked over the mechanism. “Do you remember what I showed you?” asked Rashid
“Of course,” said Umar.
“And you?” asked Rashid.
Jan Nasrollah held up his grenade launcher, showing Rashid that he had already wiped down the firing mechanism. “I do.”
Rashid smiled and spoke to everyone who could hear him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then I suggest that you get some sleep. I will be the first sentry.”
The men and boys all quietly took off their remaining gear and found positions where they could sleep. The cool night air was a blessing, and wrapped in their patus, they lay quietly. Isa moved to lie down next to where Rashid sat. His skin was grey and his eyes were glassy.
Rashid leaned over and spoke quietly in his ear. “There will always be times that you feel like this. Like you want the needle again. You fight this struggle every day. But you can win. I know, as I have done it. Am doing it now.”
Isa looked at Rashid but said nothing. Rashid turned over and crawled a short distance away, peering over the crest and focusing his attention on the compound and the men sitting on top of the tank. Although they had the chance to sleep, none of the others, except the Mullah, closed their eyes. They lay thinking and waiting.
The Mullah slept deeply.
CHAPTER 26
The pre-dawn morning was dark, the moon having retreated behind a thick bank of clouds. The inky blackness concealed Isa and Rashid as they crept slowly through the underbrush toward Nasir Khan’s fortress. Each carried a kalash tightly in his hands, and the canvas backpack that hung heavily on Isa’s back was filled with explosives. His feet dragged in the dust as he walked, weighed down by his burden.