by Tom Young
“Let’s move,” he said. “Now.”
Bent low, Parson led his crew eastward down the creek bed.
19.
Pain.
Pain like Hussein had never known surged from his right foot. He felt as if an invisible jinn had hacked off his toes with an ax. In fact, for all he knew, a jinn really had brought him this bad luck. Jinns were the descendants of an angel who had defied Allah. Entirely possible that one would try to rob Hussein of his moment of triumph.
Hussein rolled onto his side amid crushed blades of grass and hot, expended cartridges. He did not scream. He ground his teeth and let a moaning whine escape his lips as he exhaled. But he made no other sound. It would take more than an infidel bullet to make him cry. Hussein was a soldier of God.
His foot hurt so much he forgot his hunger. He wanted to look at the wound, but he kept enough of his wits to avoid sitting up. Surely the gaalos would see him and get off a better shot next time. They had hit him purely by luck. By the will of Allah, maybe he had hit one of them the same way. No way to find out now.
Keeping his head low, he shifted his weight to his elbow and glanced down toward his feet.
Blood already stained the grass stems, and flies and flying ants began investigating the blood. The sight reminded Hussein of places where hyenas had torn their kill. Even the thought of moving the foot brought more pain. Hussein drew in a long breath. He held the air in his chest, then let it come out hissing from between clenched teeth. He rotated his ankle to look at his toes.
Or what was left of his toes. A bullet, maybe something even bigger than the rounds fired by his AK, had torn off his big toe and the one beside it. A third toe hung by a tendon. Blood streamed down his foot. The blood pumped out with each beat of his heart.
Hussein squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Opened them again. He did not know whether to curse the jinns for causing this wound or curse them for not letting the big bullet strike his head. He could be in paradise by now, a martyr whose work was done.
But that was not Allah’s plan. Hussein remained on earth and in pain.
And such pain. He had heard fighters say bullet wounds don’t always hurt much at first. Something about shock and the will of Allah and the heat of the bullet dulling the pain.
Those people were fools or liars. Nothing dulled this pain. Hussein’s foot felt as if someone were sawing it off, crushing it, and burning it at the same time.
“Allah, give me strength,” he whispered to himself.
He wondered if he would bleed to death. Could someone die from a foot wound? Hussein had no idea. Al-Shabaab had given him no first-aid training and no first-aid equipment, except a rag he kept in one of his vest pouches.
Twisting to his left, Hussein opened the pouch and pulled out the rag. The movement caused him to turn his foot just enough to brush the wound against the stalk of a weed, and that sent even more fire shooting up his leg. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut until the pain subsided from a raging blaze to a steady boil.
When Hussein was little, he’d suffered a toothache, and an aunt had pulled out the bad tooth with pliers. From that experience, he thought he knew pain, but that was nothing compared to what he felt now.
With his good foot, he beat down some of the grass. He hoped creating a clear spot would let him move around without repeating the mistake that had just caused him so much agony. Hussein bent his right knee and brought his foot within reach.
He gripped the foot with his right hand and felt warm blood flowing over his fingers. If he tied the rag around his foot tightly enough, perhaps the bleeding would stop or at least slow down.
Hussein shook out the rag. Someone had cut it from a dirty bedsheet, to about the size of a man’s shirt. The sheet must have belonged to a woman: Pink flowers decorated one corner of the fabric. Not a fitting bandage for a fighter. Hussein did not care. In a minute or two, that frilly flower would be covered with the blood of jihad.
He folded the rag in half lengthwise. Then he folded it again. Hussein raised his mangled, dripping foot as high as he dared. He placed the rag under the arch of his foot, then tied an overhand knot across the top of his foot. He pulled the knot tight.
Oh, the pain.
The knot squeezed the broken bones and torn muscles. The pain made Hussein’s eyes fill with water, but he uttered no sound. He sucked air in hard and held it. Underneath the roar of pain, Hussein felt pops and cracks where solid bones should have been.
By now, blood covered his foot and ankle and had spattered all over Hussein’s trousers. Splintered toe bones jutted from torn meat in a way that reminded him of a slaughtered chicken.
Now, to cover the wound. That third toe, dangling, presented a problem. No way to save it; the mangled toe could only get in the way.
Hussein knew what he must do. He unsnapped his machete from its sheath, withdrew the long blade. He turned his ankle this way and that, trying to place the machete’s cutting edge on the toe’s remaining tendon without slicing anything else. Each time the toe flopped, the weight of it pulled at the tendon and sent jolts of pain.
Finally, Hussein contorted himself to rest his bad foot flat on the ground. Holding the machete in his right hand, he touched the tip of the blade to the bloody tendon. The tendon lay across matted, blood-soaked grass.
Hussein gripped the machete handle in his fist and thought to himself: Allahu akbar. God is great. He pushed the blade with a stabbing motion.
Perhaps the blade needed sharpening. Perhaps Hussein did not push hard enough. Instead of making a clean cut, the blade pulled the tendon until it snapped.
Hussein’s agony soared to new heights. He would have thought one had to go to hell to feel this much pain. He stifled a cry. His eyes streamed. But his mangled toe was gone.
He lay on his back, still gripping the machete. Breathed in, out, in, out. A dome of blue sky wheeled above him. A cloud in the shape of an angel—a good one, he hoped—drifted with the wind. Hussein wondered if that was an omen, or if the pain was bending his mind.
If you are an angel, he thought, if you came from Allah, then give me strength and wisdom.
For a moment, Hussein let his body rest and deal with the shock. The pain rolled back some, like a wave breaking on shore and then sliding away into the ocean.
He hadn’t imagined this much hurt was possible. No one should have to feel such pain. Not even an unclean animal like a dog. Not even an infidel. Not even a sinner like the one he’d helped stone. The next time I kill an infidel or a kafir, Hussein thought, I will try to do it quickly.
Time passed in a way Hussein could not track. Maybe he’d passed out; he had no measure of how long he had lain looking up at the sky. But there came a moment when he felt strong enough to finish tying the rag around his wound.
The ground felt tacky underneath his foot; perhaps the blood had begun to clot and dry. When Hussein raised his foot, grass and leaves stuck to the bottom of it. The severed toe lay in the weeds. Ants crawled around it, their feelers twitching.
Hussein shifted his hips and bent his knee. Now he could reach the ends of the bloody cloth. He wrapped one end over the wound, carefully, carefully. He let the cloth touch the torn flesh and . . . it hurt. Yes, it hurt, but not like before. Maybe he would actually live through this.
I’ll never run like I used to, Hussein thought, and that is a curse. I was so fast on my feet.
But he could still walk. He’d seen people with worse injuries hobbling through the streets of Mogadishu.
Hussein wrapped an end of the rag around his ankle, then over the wound once more. He did the same with the opposite end of the rag, and by the time he finished, four layers of cloth covered the injury. He tied the ends together in a final knot around his heel.
The sounds of battle came from farther away now. The booms, pops, and stutters of gunfire gave no indication of who was winn
ing and where Hussein should go. He wanted to rejoin his al-Shabaab brothers. They would help him if they could, but that depended on many things. If we must move quickly and you are wounded, he’d been told, we will give you the gift of a mercy bullet.
Hussein did not want that kind of mercy. He hoped to go to paradise, just not today. If Allah had wanted to bring him home, the bullet that had just crippled Hussein would have killed him.
I have been spared for a reason, he concluded. I will fight on and learn that reason. I cannot run but I can still shoot. I can still kill those gaalos.
What glory he could earn if he caught or killed them now. All the al-Shabaab brothers would honor him. Even the hateful Abdullahi would have to respect him.
Hussein thought of a traditional children’s tale his mother had told him and his sister when he was little. He used to love hearing the story at bedtime. It was one of the few things he could remember about his mother.
There once was a fine prince from the city of Harar. Tricksters and deceivers within his father’s court caused the prince to be cast out from the palace. He fended for himself through travels across Somalia, fording rivers and crossing deserts. He always treated animals with kindness, and the animals returned his goodwill.
One day, the prince saved a mouse from some boys who were chasing it. He threw his coat over the mouse, and when the boys came running up, he told them the mouse had disappeared down a hole. You might as well find something else for amusement, the prince said.
When the boys left, the mouse squeaked in gratitude. She told the prince she would return the favor if ever she got the chance. The prince doubted that a mouse could do him any good, but he thanked the mouse for her courtesy and went on his way.
Later in his travels the prince came across a magnificent mansion with golden gates and windows of crystal. Surely such a wealthy household will give me shelter, the prince thought, so he called at the gate.
The gatekeeper tried to warn the prince away. My mistress is the most beautiful woman in the world, the gatekeeper said, but evil magic has possessed her. Every man who sees her wants to marry her. She says she will agree if the man passes a test. But she kills the man if he fails. The tests are always impossible.
Intrigued, the prince ignored the warning. When he saw the woman, he realized she was indeed the most beautiful woman in the world. He accepted her challenge as the gatekeeper shook his head sadly.
The woman gave the prince this test: He must hide from her for three days. She would use her magic to try to find him, and if she found him, he would die. She would give him a one-day head start.
The prince set out from the mansion, running as fast as he could. He found no safe place to hide, and he realized he would soon lose his life for being so foolish.
His friend the mouse found him in distress. The mouse had an idea to save him, though it would require great courage. She could lead him through a hole in the ground to the throne of the King of the Jinns. The woman, even though possessed by evil, would never think to look for him in such a scary place.
The plan worked. When the third day passed and the beautiful woman had never found the prince, the evil spell was broken and kindness returned to her heart. The woman and the prince married and lived happily ever after.
Hussein knew very well there was no such thing as happily ever after. Still, he thought some of the story’s lessons applied: Think for yourself and do brave things—things no one else would do—and you may find reward. He could not run, but maybe he could walk.
Only one way to find out. Hussein raised his shoulders off the ground. He rolled to his left and put most of his weight on the side of his hipbone. The motion jarred his wounded foot, and it hurt. Hussein winced, but he found he could bear the pain.
He propped himself with the heel of his left hand. Rested for a moment. Shifted his right knee, slowly, slowly. Rotated himself until he crouched on his hands and knees. The new position of his legs brought a new kind of hurt. Now the wound throbbed like the beat of Bantu drummers.
Hussein felt queasy. He paused to let his mind clear. Spat into the grass.
He knew he was about to face tests of his courage and strength like never before, and the first test involved merely raising his head. Would an infidel bullet blow his brains out?
The danger did not matter. To walk, he had to get up. He shifted his eyes from the ground and the ants to the tops of the grass and the sky. Extended his elbows so he could see above the grass.
No shot came. The field of dry grass waved like swells on the ocean, moving to a breeze that caressed Hussein’s face. Smoke drifted above a distant tree line. Someone’s thatch-roofed house was burning. The firefight had died down enough for Hussein to hear the rumble of a truck engine. He had no idea whose truck, and he saw no other person. Hussein knew Abdullahi may have gathered unwounded al-Shabaab survivors and left him to fend for himself.
Now his next test. Hussein reached for his machete and slid it into his sheath. Snapped the sheath closed. He grabbed his AK-47 and stood it with the heel of the stock to the ground.
Hussein used the weapon as a crutch. He placed his good foot flat on the ground. Inch by inch, he raised himself nearly to a standing position. His left leg supported most of his weight, and the rifle took the rest. Hussein picked up his wounded foot and put the heel to the ground.
Experimentally, he shifted a little of his weight to that heel. Now the Bantu drummers drummed loudly. He lifted the rifle and stood straight. Still, no bullet came his way.
Hussein took in a deep breath, picked up his wounded foot, and set it down in front of his good foot. He tightened the muscles of his face. Once again, he whispered, “Allah, give me strength.”
He took a step. Oh, yes, it hurt. All the angels and all the jinns knew it hurt. But Hussein was standing, rifle in his hands.
He took another step.
Hussein was walking.
Hussein was a soldier of God.
20.
The dry creek bed led to a collection of huts on the outskirts of Ras Kamboni. Parson stooped low, moving ahead of his crew. He listened to the scattered cracks of rifle fire, trying to discern order, finding none. Though the banks of the creek bed had provided good cover for a mile or so, the channel now shallowed to form little more than a slight depression in the ground. Parson needed a new plan because his group could no longer move and remain hidden.
Geedi and Chartier kneeled beside him. Dirt streaked their flight suits, especially along the forearms and at the knees. The Frenchman’s face flushed red with exertion. Grit flecked Geedi’s close-cropped hair; Parson wondered if the grit came from low-crawling or from dirt kicked up by bullets.
Body armor weighed down on Parson’s shoulders and made him sweat all the more. He longed to take off his armor, and he knew everyone else did, too. But he’d heard too many stories about people removing their armor because they were tired—and then getting killed.
During the pause, Carolyn Stewart took out her camera and, again, began recording. She panned from Gold to Parson to Chartier, paused on Chartier’s pistol. The actress had tied her tangled red hair in a knot, and though sweat dampened her face, she seemed no more exhausted than anyone else. Probably the result of a high-dollar personal trainer, Parson figured. At least she could keep up.
Stray strands of blond escaped from Gold’s ponytail and fell across her eyes and cheeks. She seemed the least tired. That didn’t surprise Parson; he knew she kept herself Army fit even out of the Army.
And she was giving him that look—the same one she’d given him while on the run in Afghanistan. Watching with a detached calmness, waiting for his next move.
“Are you thinking about taking shelter in one of those houses?” Gold asked.
“Yeah,” Parson said. “I don’t see a lot of options right now.”
“Let me go see if I can talk to somebody,�
� Geedi said.
Parson considered that for a moment. He hated to put Geedi out ahead of him; he felt protective of the young flight mechanic. However, a good officer deployed his resources as needed—and nobody else spoke Somali.
“Do you think it’s safe for you?” Parson asked.
“I only know what I read and heard back in Minneapolis,” Geedi said, “but I don’t think these people have fond memories of living under al-Shabaab.”
Parson looked at Gold. She nodded.
“All right, dude,” Parson said. “Be careful.” He decocked his Beretta and offered it to Geedi. The mechanic did not take it.
“Sir,” he said, “I think I’ll be better off without it.”
“You sure?”
“If the people in those huts are friendly, I won’t need it. If they’re al-Shabaab, they’ll cut me down before I get to the door.”
And if that happens, Parson thought, I’ll put every round I got left into the asshole who did it. The situation reminded him of the times when Gold had contacted locals in Afghanistan. She had an instinct for knowing whom to trust. Parson hoped Geedi’s intuition worked as well as hers.
As a military officer, Parson had learned you couldn’t become an expert in everything. You had to trust the people under you. A crew’s interdependence reminded him of the aspen groves of his beloved West. Each tree shared a common root system, living as a single organism.
“Okay, go ahead,” Parson said. “If anything happens to you, I’ll kick your ass.”
Geedi smiled. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
“Bon courage,” Chartier said.
“Thanks,” Geedi said.
Parson thumbed the hammer on his Beretta to cock the weapon.
“I’ll cover him toward the houses,” Parson told Chartier. “You watch for anything sneaking down the creek bed.”
“D’accord,” Chartier said. He pointed his Smith & Wesson back the way they’d come. The bore of the big pistol looked uncommonly large, practically like a scaled-down grenade launcher. But though the weapon boasted plenty of knockdown power, it offered a pathetic rate of fire. And Parson’s nine millimeter ranked as a peashooter compared to an AK-47. They were covering Geedi more in principle than in fact.