Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Hops?’

  ‘Houblons,’ said Summerfield in French, but Badr didn’t know the word. ‘What we make beer with.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘It was damn hard work too.’

  ‘It will be good to compare,’ said the young man. ‘Here—take your Enfield,’ he added, passing the heavy rifle across as though it were the lightest of sticks. ‘It is not only the harvest that will exhaust you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Summerfield looked keenly at Badr, a little pinch in his stomach.

  ‘Last week I was in the foothills to the west. The war in Europe hasn’t stopped the French objectives here in Morocco. I saw columns of lorries in the plains. Many soldiers. There were aeroplanes too. They are setting up a base, Harry.’

  ‘An offensive?’

  Badr sighed, letting out a stream of smoke and shook his head.

  ‘This has been going on for almost forty years, Harry. They are like rabid dogs—they won’t give up. They started in the north, then the south. The mountains—the High Atlas—are all that remain. We have no minerals here. We have no precious metals. What do they want if it is not just domination and subjugation?’

  ‘Electricity, maybe,’ said Summerfield. ‘They will build reservoirs and dams to produce electricity for their industry and infrastructure. It is progress.’

  ‘Their progress. The old Resident-General, Lyautey, an old man who loved this country like his own, found other ways. He was an old warrior, true, and fought many battles with us—but he believed in leaving us our traditions and our lands. Now things have changed.’

  Summerfield remained silent, feeling helpless. He shrugged his shoulders. What could he tell the young man? That it was in their interests too? That the two worlds could learn to live side by side? That maybe, in a hundred or two hundred years, Morocco would be free again? He felt suddenly guilty of his Europeaness, his whiteness. They had dominated the world for more than two thousand years, restless and driven by the obsession with wealth and a damned curiosity. Somehow it all seemed natural and at least indisputable, unstoppable.

  ‘So you bring me my rifle,’ said Summerfield, finally. He too let out a sigh. ‘Will there be a battle?’

  ‘No. Not like you think. No big battles like in the books and films. We cannot fight their numbers. We cannot even, for long, stop their offensive. But it is time to take you on a patrol. Maybe you will find the occasion to practice your shooting some more. We are adept in the art of skirmish.’

  46

  Two days later, Summerfield found himself part of a small column of fifty men. They left before dawn and the heat that would settle fiercely on the slopes. As they picked their way along the tracks westwards and into the next range of valleys, Summerfield saw a woman’s shape at the window of a house. It was Raja and she had risen to bid her farewell to Badr—a few low-voiced words, a nod, a gesture. It was a poignant little separation and made Summerfield’s throat seize for an instant. He wished, like his young friend, he had a woman to say goodbye to; a love to look forward to returning to.

  The light was a violet-blue and made everything seem almost unreal—like a Hollywood western backdrop. The smell of thyme nipped the air, mixed with the occasional fetid waft of animals cooped up in their stables. The inevitable dry bark of a dog coughed at them as they passed a shepherd’s dwelling and continued monotonously long after they had mounted the western flank of the valley and followed the crest. At one point, looking out over the landscape, Summerfield picked out a similar column setting out below them, a dark centipede of men zigzagging slowly as it picked its way along the serpentine tracks. As day broke and the two columns advanced, one above the other on the flank of the valley, Toubfil, their lanky, unsmiling leader gave the order for a song. For a mile or so before they parted direction, the two columns marched on, one on the high track, one on the low track, echoing each other with verse and chorus.

  Summerfield felt the excitement in him, buried deep out of reserve but also pulsing regularly in his head and veins as, part of the band of tribesmen, he had murmured his contribution to the song. He had never shot at anyone before—and shooting at a Frenchman, a European, one of his own?—and wondered if even he could. A nagging voice inside him suggested that he had no reason to do so. At one point, aware that he was growing annoyed with the internal battle, he resolved himself to concentrate on the precise moment, the journey to and if and leave the decision for later.

  They ate from their provisions for the first two days—pancakes and salted semolina. They must have covered ten to fifteen miles or so and Summerfield’s legs ached with stiffness from the incessant climbs and descents which had caused his knees to swell. On the third evening, Toubfil bought a goat from an isolated shepherd, carefully choosing the animal from the herd, superstitious of the markings and avoiding anything that might present a sign of ill-omen. They ate it, roasted on a spit behind a crop of boulders, and it was delicious.

  That night a young messenger from the Gral-eb-naa tribe who inhabited the area slipped into their camp with news of French troop movements. Hardly had Toubfil begun to question him when a light—a warning fire—flickered in the distance, indicating French presence. Toubfil, rising from his subdued conversation with the young messenger, seemed to scan the blackened horizon for a moment as though checking for a decision. Finally, he turned and gestured in the direction of the fire. Yallah, he said tersely and was off before the majority of the column was on its feet.

  The young Gral-eb-naa tribesman—Summerfield guessed he was all of thirteen years old—led them at a fast pace through the darkness despite his bare feet. Before long, Summerfield found himself panting and had to halt. His rest lasted a full four seconds before Badr’s shape doubled back along the thin track and tugged on his arm. His friend spoke no words, but the glare from his eyes indicated that it was forbidden to stop. Summerfield nodded, gritted his teeth and pushed on.

  The column climbed upwards, taking to a steep, zigzagging and sometimes crumbling path. Only once did Summerfield look down at the sheer slope and the dark abyss below and it was enough to make him tremble. Pulling himself together, he focused on the man in front, copying his exact pace and footing. An odour of sweat and fear and leather hung about the column as they climbed on. Someone further on farted involuntarily in the effort and Toubfil hissed a reproach. At last, the column reached the crest of the mountain and, not stopping, continued on down the other side at an even faster pace. Summerfield calculated that they had been on their feet for almost twenty hours and wondered if someone had to collapse before Toubfil ordered a halt. He wondered if it would be him. Everything ached—from his lungs and the painful rubbing of his rifle on his collar bone to the stab of effort in his thighs and calves at each step down the steep path. A blister on his right heel burnt like hell.

  After two more hours of forced march, coming to a small hollow between two valleys, Toubfil finally brought the column to a halt. The men eased themselves down with a series of sighs and drank. Badr picked his way to where Summerfield lay sprawled against a tree stump and flicked his head as if to ask how he was. Summerfield pointed to his legs and winced. The young man nodded in the darkness and gave him a grin with his shocking white teeth. He sat on his heels in front of Summerfield and seizing a leg, much like a sports doctor, began to massage the knotted muscles. Summerfield fought to contain his groans—half-pleasure, half-pain.

  Almost immediately, Toubfil sent off a messenger, a man named Rahul, to make contact with the other column and the order was passed on in silent gestures to sleep. Summerfield closed his eyes and even before Badr had finished his massage, he fell into deep unconsciousness.

  An hour or two later the movement of his chattering teeth awoke him. A cold, cutting breeze was blowing in from the high ranges to their east, permeating his layers of clothes and even the animal skin that Badr must have covered him with in his sleep. Normally, the tribesmen would have lit huge bonfires of bracken and wood to heat up the air. This time there was
only a small mound of pebbles under which a dim glow of embers suggested fire. It was kept alight for tea, the tribesmen’s sugar-high fuel. Toubfil was kneeling there, looking out into the distance and the darkness. After some deliberation, Summerfield picked himself up and moved over. Toubfil turned his head and gave a surly nod as Summerfield sat cumbersomely down. Summerfield shivered violently and cursed himself. The warrior would surely think him weak. But Toubfil said nothing. Instead, he reached for a headscarf, picked out a large pebble from the mound and rolled the hot stone in the material. He handed the bundle across, gesturing urgently to Summerfield with his head. Choukran, said Summerfield, taking it and holding it with his two hands to his chest. Choukran.

  The men did not wait until dawn. As if the early Morning Prayer had programmed them over the years, they rose fifteen minutes before the first streaks of light appeared in the eastern sky and had already drunk their tea and chewed their bread in the space of ten minutes when Toubfil gave the order to march. The dim clattering of rifles and a few gruff murmurs were all the sound they made. Searching for Badr, Summerfield tucked the wrapped pebble inside his clothes and followed his back as the column of men plodded once more upwards and south. At one moment looking up, Summerfield saw more flames on a distant mountain slope.

  ‘Another warning fire?’ he murmured, pulling himself up to walk by Badr.

  Badr shook his head. ‘It is a burning village, Harry. There are no warning beacons on that slope. At least we know where the French soldiers are.’

  An hour later, Toubfil held up his hand to halt. The fifty men froze without noise. Toubfil’s large, bony hand, silhouetted against the grey-blue sky, made a flattening motion and all of sudden, Summerfield found himself the only man standing. He looked around him, bewildered. Then Badr pulled him down and put a finger over his mouth. Seconds passed and then came the grunt of Toubfil’s voice as he rose. Salaam allikoum came the greeting from behind a hedge of thorn bushes and the first shapes of the men of the second column pushed through into the clearing.

  For thirty or so minutes, Badr disappeared to join Toubfil and the leader of the second column, a shrewd-featured though handsome-looking warrior, Saïd. Dispersed throughout the rocks and bushes, the ninety or so men snatched at the occasion to close their eyes while their leaders discussed the next course of action. Summerfield, shivering again whenever they stopped, lit up a pipe and smoked miserably in the numbing wind as he lay prostrate between two old and fallen sections of tree trunk. Oddly enough, he remembered a breakfast scene from years ago when he’d been at grammar school in Tonbridge. It was a ritual to take tea, muffins and scrambled egg before beginning lessons with, as the fluffy-chinned, braying-voiced pupils were called, the wild ones. So strange, he thought, hearing laughter in his mind’s eye, so English. So bloody strange and English and lovely… Had he really messed up his life? he wondered. Have I really wasted what I thought was meaningless and dull? I could murder a bloody muffin right now.

  Toubfil, Saïd and Badr—the three leaders—came back among them, bent double and picking out men for their respective assault groups. Saïd tapped Summerfield on the shoulder, but hardly had he done so when Badr appeared and spoke something rapid and in dialect to Saïd. Waha, nodded Saïd and gave Summerfield a brief smile followed by a sign to join Badr.

  Grouped into three clusters, each group received a murmured lecture from their respective leader. Badr, the youngest of the three and almost the youngest of his hand-picked group, seemed to have the older men’s immediate respect and attention. It dawned on Summerfield that the young man’s absences from the valley must have won him much experience in whatever mysterious actions he got up to; much more than any of the older tribesmen among them.

  Badr used a small piece of stick to draw out the lines of the valleys before them, stabbing at the earth to indicate the village that had been set aflame. He proposed that the French troops were logically heading for the next village, some five kilometres east—‘over this mountain,’ he said, nodding upwards and behind them. ‘This is where we want to engage them.’ The men nodded silently. Badr’s voice grew grave, his eyes turning into hard, black stones. ‘Saïd’s group will act as bait. They will run like a herd of scared goats—up here,’ he said, tracing a line with his stick. ‘We and Toubfil’s men will act as snakes, hidden in the rocks on both sides and ready to strike. We will not confront them at close distance. They will try to advance—they are determined. Every time I give the order, you will fire and then move back to where I tell you to go. There may be artillery—know that now. Very important: nobody is to remain behind. If anyone is injured then we either take him with us or, if he is unable to be moved, we shall be merciful by finishing his life. It is a dishonour and an ignoble threat to our families to be taken prisoner. Does everyone understand this? Yes? Then let us go forward—some of you with God’s blessing and others, like I, with the blessing of free man. Come!’ Summerfield rose with the others and stood behind Badr. ‘Sidi Summerfield,’ muttered Badr over his shoulder. ‘I remember once in Marrakesh how reckless you were. It resulted in you nearly getting beaten to death. Please, Harry—this time, no silliness. Stay with me and obey me. It would be no glorious ending you are searching for to die on these foreign slopes! Remember that you are destined for a greener, more English heaven than this.’

  An hour’s climb and twenty minutes descent lead them to their positions, some two kilometres downstream from the village of Itdirzt. A mule sauntered by as they crept behind their respective rocks and Summerfield recognised the rider as Rahul, the messenger Toubfil had sent out two days before. Despite Summerfield’s smile, Rahul remained cold and un-answering as he continued on down the valley track, rocking gently towards where Badr supposed the French scouts would encounter Saïd’s men.

  Badr drew Summerfield towards him and a small hollow crested by natural parapet of debris and stones.

  ‘This is good to rest your rifle on,’ said Badr. ‘How are you, Harry?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Summerfield. ‘A little thirsty, though. And damn hungry too.’

  Badr grinned fleetingly and reached into his pocket. ‘Here—a pancake I bartered for a bullet. Eat.’ Summerfield nodded in gratitude and began chewing. ‘You will probably tremble, Harry. We all do. It’s a mixture of fear and excitement. Indeed, most of the time, mostly fear. Do not worry. If you cannot aim, then do not shoot. It is a waste of a good bullet.’

  ‘So what do I do? Throw stones?’

  ‘No, Harry,’ grinned Badr. ‘Just pray and swear—hopefully, doing this will help you aim.’

  A long hour passed and then the sound of shots echoed up the valley path. Ten or so followed by a spaced two or three. Badr raised his hand—the sign for them to get ready. Further shots rang out in varying intervals, cutting into the silence that had overtaken the valley.

  ‘You see that point there,’ said Badr, softly. ‘Where the rock pushes out by the old tree.’ Summerfield nodded. ‘Point your Lee Enfield just there—this is where they will poke their heads round I am sure. Ours are the only rifles capable of precision shots.’

  ‘And you trust me to be precise,’ said Summerfield, ironically.

  More shots and shouts reached them—Saïd’s men retreating. From his position, Summerfield saw two shapes suddenly appear and he tensed, squinting through the sights. Badr grasped his forearm and Summerfield looked up, startled. The young man shook his head. The shapes were two of Saïd’s men, retreating, as planned, up the track that led to them. A minute later, another appeared, limping heavily. The cries were coming from him—a mixture of pain and frustration, as he pulled himself up the steep track. A light automatic clattered from the rocks behind him. He looked round at something, flung the rifle from his shoulder and began scrabbling crazily up the track.

  ‘It’s Ali,’ hissed Badr. ‘They will kill him.’

  It was then that the two khaki clad soldiers appeared bent double and advancing. They did not shoot and Badr understood immedia
tely.

  ‘They want him alive. Open fire, Harry—too bad for the plan!’ Badr raised his hand—the signal to fire. The sound of Badr’s shot made Summerfield’s ears explode. His eyes seemed to see everything without seeing—his trembling hands, Badr’s hand pulling back the bolt, the sliding click, another explosion. The cracks of other rifles as Badr’s men also opened fire. ‘Shoot!’ urged Badr, shaking Summerfield violently. ‘They’re catching up Ali.’ Summerfield brought the Lee Enfield up to his shoulder, saw a shape and fired blindly. The rifle bucked painfully into his chest and he swore. Badr again loaded and fired—one of the French soldiers went down out of sight. ‘Got him!’ spat Badr. ‘Harry—concentrate on the second.’

  The next Summerfield knew was a strange humming over his head—like an insect flying past. He cocked his head, curious. ‘Harry—what are you doing?’ Badr’s face was red and angry. ‘Get down—they’re shooting at us, don’t you realise?!’

  ‘Christ!’ gasped Summerfield. He sank down and inched his eyes towards a hole in the parapet. He could see a dozen or so other huddled shapes moving up the valley path, stopping, ducking, disappearing only to rise and move forward again. There must be a whole platoon of them—the advance guards of the French attack. He looked to his left—Badr was sliding down, loading, sliding back up and firing at a regular rhythm.

  ‘Do as I do,’ he said, without glancing at Summerfield.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be moving back?’

  ‘Not before Ali is safe.’

  Summerfield felt dazed. His mind wandered blankly for several seconds and then unconsciously, he pulled himself up, aimed and fired. And again.

  ‘He’s over there,’ said Badr. ‘Thirty yards in front, behind the rock. He can’t walk.’

  Summerfield peered over the parapet, searching for the unfortunate Ali and then span round, letting out a shriek. ‘Fuck! My back—they’ve shot me!’ Badr grabbed him, turning him roughly onto his stomach.