Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  “The CIA provided a psychiatrist to try to help me work through and understand that the men who died screaming in my nightmares were not my fault. It took a long time for the therapy to work. I had been a witness to their deaths. I was usually the last patient the psychiatrist saw in the evening and after many months of what I felt was no progress, I suggested to him that maybe we should try different techniques and a different approach. He answered that we were progressing on the right course for the massive remorse and guilt from which I was suffering. He said that it was a common problem, and that I needed to be patient and continue practicing the mental exercises he had prescribed.

  “The man always conducted our sessions dressed in a long, starched, white coat. This was, I supposed, the standard uniform that all psychiatrists wore when conducting therapy sessions. I had never seen him dressed in any other clothes. I gathered my notes and got ready to leave when for the first time in all the months I had been a patient of his, he took off his coat, hung it on the hook behind the door, and went back to his desk. He sat down and began writing. He had on a short-sleeved shirt and when he wrote on my file, I could see that he had numbers tattooed on his forearm. I was shocked that a holocaust survivor was my psychiatrist and was unsure if I should say something. Instead, I saw that he had eight evenly spaced numbers, then said good night to him and left.

  “The next day, I went to the library to see if I could find which Nazi concentration camps tattooed their prisoners with eight digits. I was not able to find the answer. He never mentioned the numbers or showed them to me again by taking off his coat. He didn’t need to. Both of us knew that he’d shown them to me. After that, I finally came to the realization and understanding of my true situation, as opposed to what he must have gone through as a child in a concentration camp. I was able to come to terms with my guilt and realized I needed to move on with my life in the same way the psychiatrist had moved on with his life. He showed me the numbers to have me understand he felt my pain, but had put it behind him and learned to move on with his life even though the gas ovens had roared every hour on the hour and the smell of burning flesh has shrouded him 24 hours a day.

  “When my therapy ended, the psychiatrist told me if I found a situation similar to what caused the inner recesses of my mind to explode with remorse and implode with guilt, I should confront that situation immediately by talking aloud to myself and re-live in detail what had happened. Failing to do so might trigger the nightmares once again.

  “The nightmares disappeared over thirty years ago and have not returned except for an incident many years ago after I lost all my money in Iran and arrived here in Chicago flat broke. I was able to soon snap out of my depression and forgot about it until about three months ago, when I experienced a mild panic attack at the police station the day I went into the terrorist’s hotel room and discovered the plot to attack the jumbo jets. As a safety measure to ensure that after so many years I don’t have a relapse, I am going to describe to you the sequence of events that started a long time ago. I have to do this if I am to help you, but I also have to do this for me.”

  Jalal sits in silence, watching me, listening.

  I get up from my chair and start pacing back and forth without speaking. My stomach roils as I fight for control. Jalal watches me carefully and I stop pacing.

  “When America realized that they were going to attack Iraq, the CIA secretly prepared. Kurds are surrounded by enemies and a great deal of secret information was shared in those days by both our countries as we cooperated to defeat our common enemy. My assignment was to gather information on Iraqi troop movements as they were preparing to launch a two-pronged attack against Kuwait and other Gulf nations. I was flown into Kurdistan and made my way to your village in the Zagros Mountains.

  “America is well equipped with sophisticated radar equipment and spy planes. However, a number of branches of our intelligence needed accurate ground sightings.

  “Your father had a network of secret agents in Iraq and in those first few weeks, I was able to gather a considerable amount of troop movement information, but more importantly, I was able to identify the designated supply lines as their armies prepared to move forward. Once their armies began attacking, they had to receive a constant supply of new equipment, ammunition, gas, spare parts, medical supplies, and food.

  “Dara’s people, most of whom lived in villages along the routes selected, were able to pinpoint precisely which roads and railways would be used. I was also able to report the alternate routes they would use if a supply route was bombed. More importantly, we identified where supplies were being off-loaded and warehoused. The Iraqis would likely move the supplies under cover of darkness, so I mapped out areas of desert where they would not be hidden. We pinpointed those areas, as well as each of the bridges they would have to cross. Eventually they would be forced to break cover to get supplies to their troops. They could not hide in forests indefinitely until our planes flew away. They stockpiled ammunition in hospitals and schools in many of the villages.

  “Your father introduced me to the farmers he could trust whose farms were near roads or railway lines. I supplied them with two-way radios and taught them how to use the equipment. Convoys of trucks and trains could hide in the forests or tunnels under the mountains, but once they moved, even at night, the farmers would hear them. This was when we needed to be informed. Dara would then signal to us and our bombers would be sent to destroy them. Using codes that I changed each day, I relayed this information back to Langley by radio.”

  Jalal interjected, “I know that area well. My cousin Hamid, about whom I’ll tell you later, came from there. Did my father tell you my aunt lived there?”

  “I don’t remember, Jalal. Dara might have. When our war against the Iraqis was over, Dara kept the radios and the farmers informed him in the same way whenever the Iraqis came to harm your people,” I said.

  “Anyway, I stayed in your house and remembered you as a small shy boy who was usually asleep when your father and I returned late at night and left before dawn. Your father and mother were the first Kurds I’d ever met. Your parents were very much in love with each other. Most Arabs in the Middle Eastern countries I’ve visited were never demonstrative with their spouses in public, but your parents were unlike the usual Arab couple. There was an aura about the way that they interacted; it surrounded them and their love for each other was there for anyone to see. Your mother was always waiting for Dara when we returned, no matter how late at night. I sensed in her a sadness that she anticipated he would be killed one day and every day was important for both of them.

  “One morning, we prepared to leave as we usually did at sunrise. Your father told me to go ahead and that he would catch up in a little while. I followed the riverbed until I reached the narrow mountain pass, just south of your village. The pass was so narrow we could only walk through one at a time. This was the route we walked each day to go down into the valley. I had been walking for about half an hour and Dara still had not caught up to me.

  “This was unusual. I became concerned, thinking I had taken a wrong turn. I began retracing my steps and was about to enter the narrow pass when I heard the hammer of a rifle click as it was eased back to fire. At dawn, the quietest time of the day, the noise echoed off the walls of the canyon. I stopped, waited a few seconds, then tiptoed to a large rock. I saw two men with their backs to me aiming their guns towards the entrance of the pass. They were hiding behind a large bush.”

  Jalal interrupts me. “Then, Jay, you were the one who tackled the two men?”

  I nodded.

  “My mother told me that you’d saved my father’s life, but not when or where. I assumed that it was in another country, not outside our village. Everyone knew that an American soldier had saved him. I didn’t know it was you. I wonder why my mother never told me. Continue please.”

  After another sip of coffee, now cool, I said, “The men must have been hiding there when I passed them a few minutes earlier,
for I had not met anyone as I walked along the path. Obviously, they had not been waiting for me, for if I’d been the intended target, I’d already be dead. I realized that your father must be their target.

  “I was armed only with a knife, as your father was bringing the guns. I undid the straps of the radio I was carrying on my back and slowly lowered it to the ground. The I unwrapped the antenna I carried on my shoulder, unhooked my water bottle, food rations, spare clips of bullets, and took off my watch. Unsheathing my knife, I quietly started to walk toward them. I looked down on the ground before taking each step so as not to break or move twigs or stones that might alert them. You Kurds are masters when it comes to stalking silently.

  “When I saw the two men suddenly tense, their shoulders and arms stiffening as they prepared to fire, I realized they would start shooting in a few seconds. Shouting Dara’s name as loudly as I could, I ran at them.

  “Startled, they both turned, guns swinging around toward me. The strap of one of the guns snagged on the bush, so I jumped at the other man, hitting him in the chest with my head. We both fell to the ground. I stabbed him in the chest and pulled the knife out as quickly as I could. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the muzzle of the gun aiming at me. I threw myself at the second man’s legs with my knife outstretched to stab his knee. I remember feeling a giant hammer hit my shoulder. Then I heard the roar of the gun and felt the pain as my shoulder seemed to explode.

  “I had no sensation of being thrown backward by the blast onto the man I’d killed, but realized immediately as I lay on top of him that I had lost my knife. Panicking, I tried to get up, knowing that if I did not get up fast, I would die. I couldn’t move. There was a great stillness, a deathly quietness all around me. I had never ever experienced such a deep quietness before and didn’t know why, but I knew that my life was about to end. Everything the man was doing was sharp and in jagged slow motion. All I could see was the gun inches from my eyes, and as I looked deep into the shaft of the barrel, I wondered if I would see the bullet before it smashed into my face. My body was tense and trembling, my gut knotted with fear, as I waited for that bullet. Then I lost consciousness.”

  I pause, look around the room, and rub my eyes for a few seconds. “Have you ever been shot, Jalal?”

  “Yes, Jay, I know what you mean about the great stillness. In Kurdish, we have a saying which when I translate means something like, ‘the silence felt by a baby in its mother’s womb as it gently turns.’ We also call it the Great Peace. I, too, have experienced it one time. I know what you talk about. But let us not get sidetracked. Please, carry on telling me what happened that day.”

  “When I awoke, I don’t know when, I felt that there was a hot knife being turned again and again in my shoulder. The knife seemed to turn in every part of my shoulder and though I tried, I couldn’t move it. I realized I was strapped down onto a bed. I opened my eyes and saw your father looking down at me. There was another man standing next to him, holding a scalpel covered in blood. Your father lifted my head and told me to swallow some liquid that would deaden the pain. I drank the liquid as fast as I could swallow, trying not to taste the foulness, for it smelt like rotting wood. As I drank the liquid, I saw the man waiting next to your father. I looked at his face but he was looking at my shoulder and did not see how afraid I was of his scalpel. Within seconds, I fell asleep.

  “I remember that a fly woke me up. It buzzed around my face louder and louder, wings beating about my eyes until I felt it land on my upper lip. I didn’t know where I was, then suddenly, I remembered the barrel of the gun. I moved my head, tried to open my eyes, and the fly flew away. The effort was too great and I did not feel that I had sufficient strength, so I stopped trying to open my eyes and fell asleep again, still worried that the gun was pointing at me.

  “When I awoke again, I felt no pain. I opened my eyes and saw it was still daylight. Something had awakened me and I did not know what it was. I tried to drift off to sleep again, when all of a sudden I heard screams. Alarmed and confused, I sat up. My shoulder was only a dull ache. I got off the bed and stumbled to the door. Outside, I saw Dara surrounded by his soldiers. I heard the scream again.

  “I shouted to your father, asking him what was going on and why all the villagers were standing around in front of the house. Those villagers standing near me nervously moved away as your father walked in my direction. Before I could say anything further, he took my face in his hands and kissed me on the forehead, then on both cheeks. Your father thanked me for saving his life and said that he was able to capture the assassin just before the man was about to shoot me.

  “He’d brought the man back to the village and could have executed him there or set him free in exchange for one of your soldiers that had been captured. Your father, however, had decided the captured man would be extremely valuable if he could find out from the man who in the village had betrayed him. If he didn’t find out, his enemies would try to kill him again. He had no idea who planned the ambush and was certain that neither of the two assassins was the mastermind. Someone wanted him to die and the only way he could be sure was to make the assassin talk.

  “Your father had ordered the whole village to watch and see what he was going to do to the traitor. The people of the village had formed a large circle around the man lying on the ground. They were watching him as he was being tortured. Somewhere in the crowd, the accomplices were now watching, knowing that they would eventually be named. Dara had stationed his loyal soldiers and personal friends to seal off the surrounding perimeters of the village to stop any of the guilty from escaping. He selected another group of soldiers to stand behind the assembled people.

  “Dara had confiscated the weapons of the villagers whose loyalty he was not sure of and seized any weapons found hidden when he conducted surprise house searches. Your father’s second-in-command, your uncle Mustaffa, had the assassin staked out in the sand and was making small cuts about an eighth of an inch deep and an inch wide on the man’s body. He then would pull the skin and flesh down slowly, tearing it away from the man’s body. The key was to pull it down in strips little by little so the pain could continue longer.

  “The pain must have been excruciating. Dara knew how bad the pain was, because the Iraqis had tortured him in this manner when they captured him. Luckily, his soldiers had rescued him as they were pulling down the third strip on his chest. He said that the burning sensation all around the tear hurt like no pain he had ever felt before.

  “Dara instructed Mustaffa to tell the assassin that he would die and could not bargain for his life, but, if he would name all the co-conspirators quickly, he would be shot and not skinned. This was said loudly enough so that all those watching could hear. Shooting him would be the only mercy he would receive. The assassin had already named one person. Dara had captured the man, who was now tied up and watching the man being skinned. The captured man knew what fate awaited him. Hearing the screams of the man being tortured would make him talk quicker so that he would be shot instead of being tortured.

  “Dara still needed to torture the assassin a while longer, in case there were more persons involved. When the pain was too severe, he would tell Mustaffa everything that he knew. Only then would they shoot him.

  “The traitors could not escape and they knew it. Your father’s rationale was that unless he killed all the traitors and eradicated all potential assassins, next time they would not miss; it was his life or theirs. He did not have any alternatives. Those people had to be caught and he had to rid his village of the danger that they posed.

  “I went back to my room and lay on the bed, knowing Dara was right. The man had been a split second from killing me, but I could not watch him die the way they were killing him. The screams continued for many hours. It was nearly dark before I heard a single shot.

  “Throughout the night, I heard many different voices scream. As the sun began to rise, the last single shot was fired. Each man who was tortured that night had a different terror
in his voice, a different scream as he continued to beg Mustaffa to shoot him and end the torture. I discovered that no two people scream in exactly the same way. I also discovered that no matter how I tried to cover my ears with blankets and pillows so as not to hear the animal-like, thrashing screams, I could not eliminate hearing the sobbing and begging for their lives to

  be ended.”

  Jalal says, “You don’t need to go on, Jay. It is not necessary to upset yourself so.”

  I continue as if I do not hear Jalal speak.

  “The nightmares, as I explained to the psychiatrist, were always the screams of the condemned men followed by an eerie deathly silence that lasted for a long time as Mustaffa waited for the confession. Mustaffa continued to sharpen his knife on a large stone, which was placed near the man’s head in his line of vision. Instead of wetting the stone with water to sharpen the blade, Mustaffa used the men’s own blood. In my dream, I was always the man being tortured and begging Mustaffa to shoot me. The pain was more than I could bear and when he came close to me, his knife turned into a scalpel dripping my blood. He would continue to make an incision, then slowly tear the skin and flesh down my body a quarter of an inch at a time. Then he would return to the stone and begin sharpening his knife again. After a long silence, I would hear Mustaffa moving toward me and know that the agony was about to begin. I would start to cry; shit and piss would foul my pants.

  “All my life, Jalal, I have prided myself in never betraying anyone’s trust. Standing up for what was morally right was my strength of character and the code of ethics by which I lived. But as I heard Mustaffa coming closer in my dream, I was prepared to confess to anything, admit to everything, name anyone, even my family, my friends, my country. I was willing to betray my country, my people, anyone, but Mustaffa would still not believe me and continued to torture me all night.

  “In my dream, before he finally kills me, he carves out on my forehead the mark of Cain and the mark of Judas, for he has recognized my cowardice and that I am a man without honor. He has recognized that I am a man that would betray anyone, even my country and the people I love, and for this he despises me and continues to torture me. As I prepare myself to die, I know in my heart that in the life after death, those two marks of shame on my forehead will be with me throughout eternity. Everyone who meets me will know that I am a man unworthy, a man who is a coward. I am a man without honor.”