by Louis Nowra
He walks beside me, his eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon or beyond to a place only he can see. He says nothing when I speak to him and keeps a steady pace. I pause a couple of times to give him water. I have to squeeze open his mouth to pour water down his throat. He doesn’t complain and doesn’t flinch when I touch him. It’s as if his body is here but his mind is elsewhere. Whatever he has seen, he has been badly traumatised by it.
Eventually we round a switchback and suddenly the valley is below, down a steep slope. There are crops but most of the fields are ploughed or left to pasture. In the distance is a small village surrounded by mud walls.
It’s slow going moving in a zigzag fashion down the hill. One time I slip on some stones and trying to balance find myself sliding forward on my back. When I stop, I realise I’m still holding on to the boy. He stares listlessly at the sun. I lift him up and point to the village. Home, I say. You’ll soon be home, Sonny Jim.
With Prince still leading we reach the outskirts of the village and hide in some long grass. The countryside is too open for me to get any closer without being seen. I motion Prince to stay and I walk the boy to the dirt road that leads to the compound. I let go of his hand. His eyes focus on the ground as if seeing beneath it to an underworld below. I lift up his head so he faces the village. There, I say, there’s your home. I point and tell him to go there. I step away and he stands rooted to the spot as if he has no will of his own. I don’t know how to wake him up to his situation. There’s only one thing I can do. I spit in his face. At first he doesn’t react but when I do it a third time, he jumps as if waking from a dream. He looks bewildered to see me and wipes the spittle away, and for a moment examines his hand as if he half expects to see blood. He looks back at me and a flicker of anger crosses his face. I point again to the village. He follows the direction I’m pointing in. You go. You go home! I order. He nods, as if understanding, and in that even pace of his, he starts towards the village.
I return to my hiding place to watch his progress, to make sure nothing dreadful happens to him. The plan is to cross the river and head across the plains opposite. I hear the distorted and distant cry of a mullah, over a tinny public-address system, calling the faithful to prayer. His voice is drowned out by the sound of a motorbike. I see a bike on the dirt road, with a driver and his pillion passenger, both dressed in Taliban black with white turbans, rifles slung over their shoulders, heading towards the boy a hundred metres away. The motorbike stops and both men get off and talk to him. I don’t know what he is saying, if anything, until he turns and points in my direction.
It’s strange but I am not surprised he’s told them where I am. I don’t blame him. I’d have done the same if I was his age. The driver and passenger jump back on their bike. It roars into life, veers off the road and races straight towards me, bumping over the rough soil of a ploughed paddock. The passenger aims his rifle. There’s a shot, and a puff of dust rises near my feet. Come on, Prince, I shout. Prince sees me making a dash towards a crop of green maize and runs after me.
The maize is shoulder-high and I leap into it as a shot buzzes over my head. I hear Prince behind me squeezing his way between the dense rows of stalks. I push my way through the crop towards the middle. The driver has switched off the bike and everything is quiet. I crouch amongst the thick green stalks and leaves, so as not to be seen, and listen carefully. My skin is prickling with fear. Prince is gazing up at me for some sort of answer or reassurance. I make the hand gesture for him to be quiet and pat him.
There’s the faint rustle of leaves to my right and a second later a similar sound coming from in front of me. The crunching sound of feet on stalks becomes louder. Where do I aim? Right or straight ahead? Prince starts growling. I’m about to stop him, because he’s giving our position away, when he barks at something. I look to my left. A man in black is pushing his way through the maize. He stops a couple of metres away, as surprised to see us as we are to see him. He lifts up his rifle. I go to aim mine but my arm won’t move. I look down and it’s caught up in the thick clump of stalks. As I frantically try to pull my rifle free, Prince leaps at the soldier. There’s a loud sharp crack and Prince twists backwards in mid-jump as a bullet hits him. He drops to the ground and is still.
The Taliban points his gun at me but by now I have freed my arm and I fire. The bullet hits him in the chest. He grunts loudly and slumps, but does not fall because his body is caught up in the stalks. He doesn’t move. I push through the maize to Prince. He’s lying on his side, blood pouring out of a hole in his neck. I can’t believe it; he saved my life and now he is dying. Two shots ring out and bullets rip into the leaves near my face. I fire blindly in the direction of the shots. There’s a cry of alarm and loud rustling sounds, as if the man is running away in panic. I don’t have much time. I have to get Prince and myself out of the maize.
His eyes open and he staggers to his feet, only to flop down. I drop my rifle, lift him up, and wrap him around my shoulders as I have seen Casey do when practising to prepare for an emergency like this. He’s heavy and I begin staggering. I’m dry-mouthed with shock, and telling myself to breathe. Breathe to help me be calm, breathe to help me carry my load, breathe to live, breathe to save Prince.
I make it to the edge of the crop, where I pause and carefully take a step out into the open and look around. I can’t see the second man. He must be on the other side of the field, where his motorbike is. This gives me a little time to examine Prince. I place him gently on the earth and kneel beside him. His eyes are half closed and he’s panting with pain. The blood from his neck is slowing to a trickle. I turn his head and I’m stunned to see that there is another bloody hole on the opposite side of his neck, only smaller, where the bullet has exited.
He’ll die unless I can get him help. I grab the last of the Quick Clot from my medical kit to powder his wound then I hear footsteps running on the hard earth. The Taliban soldier is screaming something in his own language as he sprints towards us, pointing his gun at me as I’m kneeling next to Prince. I feel for my rifle, only to remember I left it in the maize. I fumble for my pistol, when I hear a shot.
The force of the bullet throws me onto my back. The pain in my left side is excruciating, as if I’ve been branded with white-hot metal and it’s searing my flesh. Time seems to slow down. I feel the wound at my side and glance at my fingers; they’re scarlet with blood. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to sleep, but my bloodied hand, as if acting independently of me, grabs my pistol from where it had fallen to the ground. Things are becoming dreamlike, as if everything around me is no longer real. The man who wants to kill me shouts something again and takes a couple of steps closer to have a clearer shot at me. I have no time and point my Glock in his general direction and press the trigger. There’s a slight recoil. The Taliban soldier moans in agony, drops his rifle and clutches his right thigh near his groin. He grimaces and then, on seeing me taking aim again, hobbles away as quickly as he can. I fire two shots more but miss. He vanishes around the side of the crop.
I notice a movement and am amazed to see Prince trying to stand. He’s shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of a painful migraine. I can feel the warm blood from my wound seeping down the inside of my left trouser leg. I unbutton my shirt and am horrified to see that a large piece of flesh, the size of a golf ball, is missing from my left side. Blood is pouring out of the gash. The pain is almost unbearable and I yawn to stop from fainting.
The motorbike roars into life and it appears from the other side of the maize, crossing the ploughed paddocks, the driver bouncing up and down as he heads towards the road. Once he reaches it he turns south towards the village. It won’t be long before the alarm is raised and more Taliban will be coming after us. The driver is going fast, leaving an enormous dust trail behind him. We’ve got to get out of here.
I’m putting my revolver back in my belt when I hear an explosion. I look up and see the bike and the driver disappear in a puff of black smoke. It takes me a few moments
to realise that the bike has hit a roadside mine. There is no way he would have survived such an explosion. The only thing I feel is a sense of relief that the death has given us a little more time.
12
There’s a chance that the bullet that passed through Prince’s neck hasn’t damaged any vital organs. I can’t look at him for fear of breaking down. He has saved my life but at a terrible cost.
Working quickly, I cut the legs off my trousers and wrap them around my torso, hoping this will stem the bleeding. The trousers become soggy with blood. Pain almost causes me to pass out. I search for a morphine tablet in my medical kit, but they’re all gone. I have no time to retrieve my rifle. All I have is my pistol and knife.
Come on, boy, we have to go. His eyes are dull with agony as he walks slowly beside me. When we reach the stream I fill the water canteen and Prince drinks deeply. There’s a hill ahead of us and beyond that nothing, just treeless plains. The day is heating up and it will be a gruelling march to reach our target, a village that should be somewhere to the east.
After crossing the stream, we walk up the slope. Our progress is slow. My blood loss is making me weak and Prince seems to be in pain every step. It would be so easy just to stop and give in, but I will myself on, as if commanding myself to do it, just as Prince seems determined not to stop either, because if we do, we will die.
The sun is so bright that it becomes a white light, blinding and painful. Sometimes I look behind to see if we are being followed. I’m in despair at how little distance we have travelled. Only our footsteps are signs of life in the dirt, as if we are the first and last living things on a dead planet. My body throbs with soreness as if every part of it has been pummelled. Prince’s head is beginning to droop and his limp grows worse.
The desolate earth before us begins to shimmer, as if it has become the ocean. I know it’s a mirage but it has a reality that is hard to shake. The sight of the sea drives me on. Once or twice I collapse to my knees with exhaustion and pain. Prince waits patiently for me to struggle to my feet and then we move on again through the furnace.
Soon we are not in a desert but seem to be on a beach walking down to the sea. I hear myself whispering, Thalatta! Thalatta! The sound of the jingle trucks swirl around in my head. I spin around, half expecting to see a convoy of them chasing us. But there is nothing. I cough up blood but do not care. Right foot … left foot, I tell myself, as I try to concentrate on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.
I stop for a moment to try and find any sign of a place where we can shelter from the heat and recuperate, but there’s only the beckoning sea. I sorely need to rest. I’m about to move off again when I sense that Prince is not with me. I look back and see he has stopped some twenty metres behind. I hobble back to him. He’s lying on his side, with the black film of his eyes peeled back revealing his true blue eyes, but they’re not sparkling; their beauty is dulled with pain. His tongue is lolling out. He’s close to death. I spit on his face trying to get a rise out of him, but he doesn’t care any more and only sighs. I find myself shaking him and screaming out his name, but he doesn’t move.
I kneel in the hot earth, staring at him, and begin to weep. I take out my revolver. I can’t leave him behind in pain, to die alone. It will be better to kill him and then myself. I aim at his head, but my finger can’t press the trigger. I hear a tinny sound, like mechanical mosquitoes and I see two black dots, with large dust clouds trailing behind them, heading towards us. The glare is harsh and I squint to see properly. I make out two motorbikes, both with pillion passengers. I hear myself groan with despair. We’ll never escape the Taliban. They will keep at us until we’re killed. There’s no way out, Prince and I are going to die in this godforsaken land. I don’t know what date it is, but I’m going to die before I reach nineteen.
The realisation that I will die strangely calms me. I pull out the pistol and fill it with bullets. What amazes me is how steady my hands are. How detached I feel. I aim at the motorbikes and start shooting. I don’t feel any recoil. It’s as if the revolver is an extension of my arm, they’re both one and the same. A bullet hits the first driver and his motorbike spins out of control and accidentally rams the other one. The collision flings the riders and passengers onto the ground. Nobody moves for a moment and then three Taliban emerge from the dust cloud and run to the fourth who lies still.
There’s probably enough time for me to put some distance between us. I slip my gun back in its holster and with a supreme effort and buckling knees, I lift Prince up and wrap him around my shoulders. I’m determined we will live or die together. He’s so heavy that I stagger under his weight and almost drop him. I steady myself and begin to march. The warmth of his belly against the back of my neck consoles me; it means he is still alive.
We make our slow way towards the sea. The grey earth and blue sky meet at the horizon and I find myself on the sandy floor of the ocean. I’m Captain Nemo walking on the bottom of the sea. I have a strong sense we are being followed and, turning around, I spot three black sharks on our trail, only fifty or so metres behind us. They look scrawny and hungry, eager for us to drown. I can’t shoot at them because that would mean I’d have to take Prince down from my shoulders, but I know, with a certainty, that if I do then I won’t have the strength to lift him up again. All I can do is keep moving. Insects buzz and whistle around my ears as the Taliban shoot at us.
My right leg is covered with sea lice drinking the blood that’s leaking from my wound. The pain has gone. I don’t feel my body or Prince’s weight any more. I hear more buzzing and whistling around me. We’re making our way through the water so slowly it’s as if I’m wearing a bulky deep-sea diver’s suit and heavy lead boots. The sea begins to shake and a terrifying noise, as if announcing an approaching sea monster, fills my ears. I try to stop myself from giving in to exhaustion but there is nothing I can do. My legs begin to wobble, as if their bones have been removed and I tumble to the ocean floor, Prince landing next to me.
I twist my body and glimpse the black sharks closing in on us. I look up at the surface of the blue sea and am amazed to see a gigantic sea spider falling rapidly towards us. Its mouth is wide open and it’s going to eat us. My hand wraps around the handle of my pistol but I don’t have the strength to pull the trigger. I lie on my back, Prince at my side, and wait to be taken. I’m past caring about the sharks and the spider. I’m beyond pain and feel as if my spirit is leaving my body. I’m comforted by the thought that we will perish together. I reach out and rest my hand on Prince. He bends his head and licks it. The warm, moist tongue feels beautiful.
13
There seems to be no difference between dreaming and reality, life and death. The world is darkness and in it I hear scraping noises, echoing footsteps, the soft voice of a woman, a puffing sound and distant men whispering – are they whispering about me?
Light comes and I see I am in a bed and my arm and chest have tubes attached to machines. I’m confused and then slowly realise I am in a bed in the army hospital. Now I remember – Prince and I were saved.
I learned later that an American drone had spotted an allied soldier and a black dog. It was only after the Australians recognised us in an aerial photograph that they realised there were survivors from the raid. A helicopter was sent to rescue us. I don’t remember the ride back to base, all I can recall is the anesthetist injecting my arm and Prince on a stainless-steel table next to me, with a tube running out of his mouth as a surgeon worked on him.
The nurse told me that my first words after waking from surgery were Where is he? She thought I was referring to Casey, but it was Prince. After two days I had recovered enough to ask where he was, fearing he might be dead. A nurse told me he was still ill and being kept under observation in the vet’s surgery. I was desperate to see him but the doctors thought I was too weak to move. The painkillers were affecting my mind and I’ve been told that I began to rant, saying that I was being lied to and that he was really dead.
It was only after I threatened to pull out my intravenous dripline that I was lifted into a wheelchair and taken to the vet’s surgery.
My body shook with anxiety. What if I was being lied to and far from recovering he was actually dying? I was wheeled through the operating theatre to the back room. The medical orderly opened the door and I took a deep breath, afraid of what I might find. In the middle of the room was a large cage and inside it Prince was lying on his side on a brown blanket, with a tube running into his mouth. Patches of his fur around his neck and flank had been shaved where the wounds had been stitched up. The only sign of life was the slight rise and fall of his chest. I called his name but there was no response. I began to cry, cry like a baby.
Every day I’d visit him and sit in a chair, still attached to my dripline, just watching the rise and fall of his chest, hoping that he was getting better. But he seemed in a state of limbo, neither improving nor becoming worse. I’d keep vigil for hours, praying for him to get well.
The remains of those killed on the mission, including Casey, were eventually recovered. On the day Casey’s body was to be flown back to Australia for the funeral, I stayed alone for an hour in the aircraft hangar beside the coffin draped with an Australian flag. Casey, I told him, I always looked up to you. You were the one I always wanted to be like. Without your Prince, I wouldn’t have made it. I promise you, Casey, from the depths of my heart, I will always care for your Prince. He’s mine now but your spirit is inside him.
I visited Prince and told him about the goodbye. I knew he couldn’t hear and even if he could he wouldn’t have understood, but I had to share the news with him. Maybe it was a coincidence but he opened his eyes and looked straight at me, his stump of a tail wriggling for a moment on recognising me.
A week later we were allowed to exercise and the two of us did circuits of the base every morning and evening, slowly regaining our strength. On one outing we were photographed and interviewed by reporters. Ours was called ‘a feel-good story’. I didn’t think it was. I had lost my friend, and a dozen men on the raid had been killed.