The Human Body

by Paolo Giordano

  Mattioli shoots.

  Mitrano shoots.

  No one has had time to figure out which direction the RPG rocket came from, so they take aim at the sheep rushing down the hill, as if they were the threat. Things become clear soon enough, however, because the enemy starts hitting them with everything they have, from all sides. Mortar shells erupt from the villages of Terikhay and Khanjak; clearly the artillerymen have had time to plan, because the strikes land a few dozen yards away. Small arms fire converges on the column from every direction, then more rockets, and shrapnel that shatters in the sky and hails down on their heads. An inferno, hell on earth.

  Pecone, Passalacqua, and Simoncelli shoot.

  Cederna makes out two armed shadows up above, at nine o’clock, and doesn’t stop firing until he’s neutralized them both. The satisfaction he feels when the first one jerks back isn’t anything like what he’d imagined; it happens too quickly and from too far away—it’s almost more gratifying to put a hole in the center of the silhouette at the firing range.

  Ruffinatti shoots.

  Ietri performs his job zealously, though it’s not much: he hands Di Salvo the ammunition belts and in between dealing them out he tries to pinpoint the enemy with binoculars, so he can then give the location to Cederna. He’s very calm. It’s almost as if he doesn’t realize what’s happening. A sheep rubs up against the hot metal of the door, then looks at him intently; Ietri stands there in a daze, watching it, until Di Salvo yells: “Ammo, asshole!”

  Allais, Candela, Vercellin, and Anfossi shoot.

  René shouts over the radio: “Move forward—go, go, go!”

  Zampieri is the one who should move because she’s first in the column, but she’s frozen. Her mind is a blank; all she sees is those sheep and she wonders what they’re doing there, although the more pertinent question would be what is she doing there.

  Camporesi honks the horn to rouse Zampieri. No one hears it; there’s too much noise.

  An RPG blows up another truck.

  Egitto is blinded for a few seconds by the flash of a mortar bomb that kills a dozen sheep in one strike. The ambulance shudders.

  “Move, move, move!”

  The sheep are running wild. They do an about-face to clamber back up the mountain, collide with those that are racing down, and tumble along together for a few yards without ever falling.

  “Move, damn it, move!”

  Camporesi floors the accelerator, steers to the right to get around Zampieri’s vehicle, and passes her, tires squealing. Some sheep move aside to let him through; others are ruthlessly mowed down. He makes it to the front of the column, cuts through the bleating flock, runs over a pressure plate made of two stolen graphite strips and 1.5-volt alkaline batteries with his left front wheel, sets off the charge placed under the plate, and the Lince blows up.

  • • •

  The charred pieces of the Lince lie scattered over the dry grass. Ietri stares at them from behind the mud-spattered window. He could rub the glass with his forearm to see better, but a part of him knows that the dirt is mostly on the outside and it wouldn’t do any good. Peering more closely, he realizes that some of the burnt remains on the ground, the smaller ones, aren’t mechanical but anatomical. For example, there’s a boot still attached to its sole, upright, with something sticking out of it. He’s not sure what the others are. So that’s how a human body is blown apart, he thinks.

  The blaze spreads from the vehicle to the brush, radiating a few yards.

  How many sheep must have been killed by the explosion? Maybe fifty, but it might be more, a gory carpet of fleece overhung with dense smoke billowing up from the flaming chassis.

  Salvatore Camporesi, Cesare Mattioli, Arturo Simoncelli, and Vincenzo Mitrano no longer exist. They’ve been vaporized.

  Angelo Torsu, after an acrobatic fight, lies faceup thirty paces from the demolished vehicle. He lost consciousness, but came to almost immediately. He can’t feel any of his limbs, he’s blind, and he can barely breathe. Rather than worrying about anything more important, he’s concerned that a sheep might come and lick him; he dreads the idea of a rough tongue passing over him in the dark. He’s bleeding a little everywhere and he knows it.

  Marshal René has completed his mental roll call. He was slower than usual, but the result he’s come up with is accurate. He’s missing Camporesi, Mattioli, Mitrano, and Simoncelli. Torsu is out there, unmoving, most likely to be counted among the lost, he thinks. The marshal’s eyes fill with tears—something new for him.

  Being heroic is not enough to be a hero.

  The enemy had stopped firing, but has resumed almost immediately, seemingly only made bolder. Cederna is the only one who has the presence of mind to return the fire. He shoots, reloads, shoots, reloads, shoots, reloads, not stopping to catch his breath.

  One of the last incidents that Roberto Ietri remembers about his father is the night he woke him up to take him to see the wheat stubble burning. The countryside was all in flames, the entire Daunia on fire, the hills red against the black.

  Zampieri makes out bizarre shapes in the plumes of smoke: a tree, a hand, a gigantic dragon. None of this can be real.

  Torsu’s diaphragm shudders as he comes to. He also regains his sight (not entirely; his left eye is swollen and the eyelid partly shut). All Torsu can see is a portion of sky. Wherever he is, he has to let the others know that he’s alive. Assuming that there still are any others. Gathering up whatever energy he has left in his body, he directs it to his right arm and with an immense effort raises it.

  “He’s alive! Torsu is alive!” someone yells.

  René has also noticed the raised arm. The request to take action and rescue their comrade comes to him by radio from all the vehicles. But whoever goes out there without cover is likely to stay there. Once again, he has to make a difficult decision because of Torsu. God damn that Sardinian! Marshal René, a man of sterling character, the NCO who would like to be captain, the intrepid soldier, doesn’t know what to do.

  “Charlie Three One to Med. Charlie Three One to Med. Request permission to retrieve the wounded man, over.”

  René turns to Lieutenant Egitto. He’s in charge after all. “What should we do, Doc?”

  Di Salvo has to let up on the Browning if he doesn’t want to melt the barrel. He shoulders his rifle and goes on firing.

  The whirring of the blades of an approaching helicopter. No, there are two. Two helicopters! Here they come!

  Egitto replies to René: “Let’s wait.”

  Torsu’s arm drops to the ground. He starts to cry.

  Recklessness is a miraculous quality of young men and Ietri is the youngest of all. He’s just twenty years old. He sees Torsu’s arm rise and then fall back. I’m a soldier, he tells himself. I’m a man. Zampieri’s kiss is still burning on his lips and gives him courage. Shit, I’m a soldier! I’m a man! “I’m going to get him,” he says. “Don’t you move from there,” Cederna barks. He’s higher in rank, but who does he think he is, giving him orders? After what he did. Ietri opens the door and jumps out of the vehicle. He sprints, dodging the dead sheep and his companions’ body parts, and in an instant is beside his buddy. “I’ll get you out of here now,” he promises. But then he doesn’t know what to do, whether he should drag him by the hands or feet, or hoist him up and carry him on his back. But what if he has a broken spine? He’s come that far and now he’s uncertain. “Hang on,” he says, but more than anything it’s a way of telling himself: Move it!

  The enemy has plenty of time to take aim. The shots come from multiple directions at once, roughly the same number of bullets in front and in back. For that reason, though jolted, the body of Roberto Ietri remains standing for an exceptionally long time. The autopsy will reveal that the fatal bullet is the one that veers improbably from his scapula and becomes lodged in his heart, in the right ventricle. In the end Ietri sags and
collapses on top of Torsu.

  The night the fields burned he had fallen asleep in his father’s arms as they walked back to the car. He’d hardly ever stayed up so late, but in the morning he dragged himself out of bed so he could tell his mother all about it. She’d listened patiently, even the third and fourth time. Maybe this wasn’t the final thought the corporal had planned on before dying, the one he’d prepared, but it’s fine just the same. It wasn’t so bad after all. Life hadn’t been so bad.

  Torsu finds it hard to breathe again, his sternum squashed by his companion. He’s shivering now and he’s afraid he’s going to die. His face feels strange, as if someone has put ice on it. He whimpers. He didn’t think this would happen, that he would die leaving everything hanging. He feels stupid for what he did, for the way he acted, in general and more particularly for the way he treated Tersicore89. What good was all that truth? What difference did it make? She loved him, she understood him. He should have been satisfied with that. Now look where he is: crushed under the dead body of a comrade with no one to miss him, no one to cry out to. Just to feel less alone, First Corporal Major Angelo Torsu hugs the lifeless body of Roberto Ietri. He holds him tight. The body still retains a little of its human warmth.

  Colonel Ballesio dismissed everyone except her. When the subordinates left, he pushed his chair back with his pelvis and leaned his forehead on his folded arms. He hasn’t moved again. Could he be sleeping? Is there something she should do? She could go over and rest a hand on his shoulder, for example. No, it’s unthinkable. Their familiarity hasn’t nearly developed to that point.

  And she, Irene, how does she feel? Relieved for one thing, because Alessandro’s name isn’t listed among the dead. She’s stunned, of course, but it’s as if the real shock were slow to hit her. You’re sending people to die, Irene. I want you to realize that before it happens, because afterward there can be no excuses for you.

  A short while ago Ballesio had delivered a concise report of the battle to the soldiers assembled at the base and read the list of fallen comrades with exaggerated pauses: “Senior Corporal Major Simoncelli. Senior Corporal Major Camporesi. First Corporal Major Mattioli. Corporal Mitrano. They were on the Lince. Corporal Ietri was struck by small arms fire. The wounded man is First Corporal Major Torsu. The survivors are still under enemy fire. Now get the hell out, all of you.”

  Each name was greeted by sighs, moans, curses: an effective way to measure how well the victims were liked.

  Irene gets up, fills a plastic cup from the water tank, and takes small sips. Then she fills one for the commander. She places it on the desk, near his head. Ballesio heaves himself up. He has a red mark on his forehead from the pressure of his arms. He gulps down the water all at once and then stops to contemplate the translucent molded plastic.

  “You know what, Sammartino? I wish I had something personal to say about those guys. The men expect me to talk about their comrades tonight, to pay tribute to them, like a kind of father”; he says “father” scornfully. “Every good commander is able to. How decent he was, how brave he was, how handy he was with engines. A fucking story for each of them. And they’re right. But you want to know the truth? I can’t think of anything. I’m not their father. If I had kids like my soldiers, I’d spend my time kicking their asses.” He crumples the sheet of paper with the names of the fallen in his hand. Then, repentant, he smoothes it out with his palm. “I don’t remember the face of any one of them. Arturo Simoncelli. Who the hell is that? Vincenzo Mitrano. Him, yeah. Vaguely. I think I can picture this one too: Salvatore Camporesi. A tall guy. Does that seem to you like something I could say? ‘We mourn the loss of our friend Salvatore, he was a very tall guy.’ And these two? Ietri and Mattioli. I haven’t the foggiest idea who they were. Maybe I never even set eyes on them. There are 190 soldiers here at the FOB, Sammartino, 190 human beings who depend on me and the mood I’m in when I get up in the morning, and I didn’t bother to take the time to distinguish them from one another. What do you think of that? It’s interesting, isn’t it? I find it very interesting. You want to report that information to your superiors? Go right ahead and report it—I don’t really give a shit.”

  “Commander, please.”

  “They’re all indistinguishable. Tell them that too. Colonel Giacomo Ballesio says of his men, colon, quote, ‘For me they’re all indistinguishable.’ This one died instead of that one, so what? It makes no difference. Tell that to your goddamn superiors. It makes no difference. They were just kids who didn’t know what they were doing.”

  He’s livid. Irene is willing to tolerate the outburst up to a certain point, as long as it isn’t directed against her. She wonders what would happen if she really did decide to report the commander’s words. What he’s saying to her is a declaration, dictated by his grief but still a declaration, and therefore could legitimately be reported. Would she have the courage to do it? When they ask her for a detailed report on the FOB—and they will ask; after what’s happened they’ll want to be informed about everything—will she tell them this as well? Who would benefit from it, other than her professional integrity? She’d rather not go head-to-head with her own moral principles over such a question. The commander would be better off saying no more. She tries to interrupt, but there’s no way.

  “If they’re dead it’s because they made a mistake. They made a mistake. And I made a mistake sending them there. And you’re about to make another one, writing a version in your report that won’t even come close to the truth, to the complexity of the truth. Because you, Sammartino, let’s be frank, don’t know a damn thing about war.”

  Here they come, the accusations. There can be no excuses for you. She’ll let that pass as well; then she’ll turn her back and walk away.

  “And then there’s an infinite chain of errors that precedes you and me, but that doesn’t absolve us.” Ballesio’s forehead is perspiring, but he holds his hands strangely still, palms down on the table, like a sphinx. “We’re all guilty, Sammartino. All of us. But some of us . . . well, some of us much more so.”

  • • •

  Viewed from above, from the perspective of a helicopter, the circle of vehicles down in the valley looks like a magic symbol, a ring to ward off evil spirits. It would be worth photographing it, but nobody does.

  For the soldiers trapped in the armored vehicles the sight is less appealing: there’s the carcass of the vehicle still burning in some places, the amputated, decapitated, and mangled sheep, and First Corporal Major Torsu with the corpse of Ietri on top of him.

  They’ve arranged the vehicles in a circle, front ends pointed out, to ensure protection to the injured soldier. A distasteful maneuver—many of them had to crush the dead sheep with their wheels—as well as rash, since all or nearly all of them had to go outside the track, risking other IEDs.

  As the minutes go by since the firing stopped, Lieutenant Egitto’s eyes seize on new, less conspicuous details. His window is splattered with blood. Some of the animals, still wandering around disoriented, have string tied around their necks. And the dead soldiers’ weapons are miraculously intact.

  He’d shouted to Torsu to signal him with his arm every minute, to show that he’s alive and conscious. If he were to stop signaling, then the lieutenant would have to come up with something, a quick rescue. Someone would have to risk his life with him. But Torsu raises his right hand and slaps the ground diligently. He does this seven times in all.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  I’m still alive.

  It’s enough time for the helicopters to scatter the last of the enemy, make a couple of safety rounds, and attempt to land once, twice, three times, without success. The fourth time, a Black Hawk manages to touch down, so the others gain altitude again and co
ntinue to patrol from above, in large spirals.

  Egitto is contacted by radio from who knows where, some outpost hundreds of miles away, in the middle of another rotten desert where the radio operators, nevertheless, have cups of steaming coffee sitting next to their computer keyboards. The voice gives him instructions in the soothing tone you’d use with a child lost in the outskirts of a city, a child who no longer recognizes his surroundings: “He’s the doctor, right? Okay, it’s a pleasure talking to him, everything will be all right, they’ll get them out of there, they just have to follow instructions. Stay put for now, wait until they give them the go-ahead, once the area has been swept, you, Lieutenant— You’re a lieutenant, right? What’s your name, Lieutenant? Well, Lieutenant Egitto, choose some of your men, put them on the alert, and when we give you the signal, you’ll go out there together to help the two wounded soldiers. You’ll see that—”

  “One of the two isn’t wounded,” Egitto interrupts him. “I think he’s . . .” But he can’t say it. Could he still be alive after the number of bullets that hit him, after the way he crumpled? No, he couldn’t be.

  The voice on the radio resumes, phlegmatic: “The wounded man and the deceased, then. When you’ve done what needs to be done to stabilize the wounded man, you’ll load both of them into the helicopter.”

  Egitto feels a hand grab his arm. He turns to René. “The body stays with us,” the marshal says.

  “But . . .”

  “The men would never forgive me.”

  Egitto does and doesn’t understand René’s insistence. Team spirit is something he’s always observed as an outsider. Still, it’s up to him to make the decision; he’s in command. He’s not familiar with the protocol in such a situation, but he has the impression that the marshal’s request violates a series of rules. Who the hell cares?