The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  Mol was thin and lithe, her face a permanent pout. She flicked her head in little jerks, like a bird, to keep the hair out of her eyes. She never stopped moving—not fidgeting, but dancing to some wandering tune that only she could hear. She talked a lot about the future: she wanted three children, and money. She kissed him with probing virtuosity, like a saxophonist testing a saxophone in a shop.

  Hallie was short and dark, with luminous brown eyes. He took her to movies, to restaurants and bars, and for drives in the ambulance. She never made a suggestion of her own, but consented to all of his with a sly and playful smile, as if she were preparing a surprise that she knew he was going to like. She did not let him touch her.

  He saw little but telltale evidence of the war, such as sabotaged bridges and destroyed roads. The eastern and mainland forces cratered roads to impede the movement of the guerrillas, while the western and guerrilla forces barricaded the same roads to harass the eastern and mainland armies. Andrew could not grasp this distinction, so any roadblocks he encountered he ascribed to generic, impersonal “military tactics.” Indeed, he had trouble keeping straight who exactly was supposed to be fighting whom, and why—and in this respect was not unlike many of the soldiers and civilians he talked to. He believed that he was neutral; but since most of the people he dealt with were mainlanders or profiteers, it is not surprising that the roles of villain and bogey occasionally required by his imagination were played by the unseen, unknown partisans.

  One night, driving at a constant speed down a stretch of straight and open road, he found himself swerving and mashing the brake as a thundering geyser of dirt and light appeared in the road before him. He came to rest half in the ditch, his headlights illuminating some stalks of corn and a swirling cloud of dust. Blinking, he got out of the ambulance and staggered down the road towards the site of the explosion. Some mine must have detonated, perhaps triggered by the vibration of his approaching vehicle. Wonder percolated through him slowly. He might have been killed! Good thing he wasn’t! “Ha!” he shouted, and shuffled forward in the dark to investigate the size of the crater. Then from the ambulance came a noise like pistons popping out of the engine; at the same time a crackle of fireworks sounded from somewhere beyond the cornfield. “What the fuck?” The crackle was repeated; one of his headlights shattered, and twangs like snapping cables whistled past him through the night. Bullets.

  “Hey!” he cried angrily. More bullets.

  He loped back to the ambulance, hunching his shoulders but refusing to move quickly. He was an ambulance driver, a neutral; he was him. What were they thinking? He’d never done anything to them. He spun the vehicle around and drove back in the direction he’d come. The next day some soldiers explained that the mine had also been intended for him, and that only poor timing or the unreliability of the electronic fuse had saved him. They too assumed that the attack had been conducted by partisans.

  When at last he met some of these partisans face to face, he did not, however, find them greatly fearsome. One afternoon he came upon what from a distance looked like just another crater-filling party, but which proved to be a barricade-building party. Men, women, and children were singing as they tossed broken furniture and cinderblocks and scrap metal pell-mell from trucks into the middle of the road. Teenagers with rifles motioned superfluously for him to halt, and a mustached man wearing a faded camouflage jacket hopped down from one of the trucks and gestured at him to roll down the window. Instinctively, Andrew became affable, contrite, and a little stupid—the same persona he adopted when pulled over by the police.

  “Where are you going?” —“Just over to Pokeshole. I guess the road’s closed?”

  “And where are you coming from?” —“A place called Turnip Flats. Do you know it?”

  “I know there’s a mainland army base there.” —“That’s where I came from all right.”

  “You’re working for the mainland army?” —“Not exactly, no. I go where I’m needed.”

  “You’re needed in Pokeshole?” —“There’s some sick people there.”

  “And now, you’re carrying sick people?” —“No, sir.”

  “What’re you carrying now?” —“Oh, a bit of just about everything, I guess.”

  “You’re not carrying weapons?” —“No.”

  “No bombs?” —“No bombs.”

  “You won’t mind if we take a little look?” —“Not at all. It’s just foodstuffs and stuff. Canned peaches and condensed milk, mostly. A few cartons of cigarettes.”

  “For the sick people.” —“I’m not sure who all gets what, to tell you the truth. I just carry whatever I’m asked to, if I have the space.”

  “You’re being paid to do this work?” —“No, sir. I’m a volunteer.”

  “Like us.” —“I guess that’s right.”

  “Only without political convictions like us.” —“I’m neutral, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You have no opinions about the war?” —“No.”

  “It’s neither good nor bad?” —“Well, I’d have to say that it’s mostly bad, from what I’ve seen.”

  “But like the weather, no one’s to be blamed for it.” —“I’m sure it’s plenty complicated.”

  Throughout the interview, the mustached man had been looking carefully all around Andrew, as if registering evidence of his ideological decadence. Now he looked briefly in Andrew’s eyes.

  “You are in fact a rather despicable character, aren’t you? With your shady hithers and hences and your total indifference to the struggle of the oppressed.” —Andrew shrugged. “I think I’m doing what I can to help.” —“Sadly, we at this moment in history are enlisting the help of even unscrupulous and despicable characters of such unsavory type as yourself. Seeing as how you’re utterly devoid of principles, you I predict will have no objection to our taking these medical supplies, of which we’re currently in desperate need.” —“Help yourselves.” —“Of course you don’t mind. You’ll always be able to get more at Pokeshole, or at Turnip Flats, or at Pastor’s Hill, am I right?” —“I guess so.”

  “We’d have great need of those also. So great a need, in fact, that we’d happily pay for them. And pay also, retroactively, for these we take now—to show that we, at least, have some scruples. We aren’t communists, you know. We’re not opposed to profits, if they’re earned in a just cause.” —“I’m not sure when I’ll be back this way, but sure, I can try to bring more, what is it? Bandages, iodine, stuff like that?” —“Simply everything. Medicines especially. All kinds. I am not a doctor.” —“I’ll see what I can do.” —“Thank you. Also, we’re taking the peaches and canned milk this time. For these we’ll pay now.” —“Okey-dokey.” —The man with the mustache withdrew some bills from a wallet. “This a fair price?” —“Sure,” said Andrew. (Later, when he counted it, he was disappointed.)

  “We cannot dismantle this roadblock now, you understand. You’d not mind going the long way?” —“Not at all. So long.” —“Farewell. Also, I should mention, we’ve taken the cigarettes.”

  They had taken the gurneys too, and not only the medical kits but the cabinets containing them, and a flashlight, and a pair of shoes for which Andrew had just traded a box of batteries. He had now no reason to continue to Pokeshole, and a reason positively not to return to Turnip Flats. He had been staying in Whitefield with Hallie’s family, for whom he’d been selling butter, but they were acting oddly: Hallie had begun petting him and speaking to him cloyingly in sentences that dissolved in baby talk; her mother, who’d doted on him, had become aloof; her father, who’d never concealed his disdain, had become warm and solicitous; her brother had with significant silence shown him a pistol and a box of grenades; and her younger sister, Cassie, had begun looking at him imploringly and trying to get him alone. Now the interview with the mustached partisan had left him obscurely disgruntled. He did not like the man’s implication that he, an a
mbulance driver and volunteer, was some kind of crass opportunist. He decided that it was time to go to Knob Grange.

  At Knob Grange his ambulance was re-equipped, a medic was assigned to him, and he was sent in a convoy to retrieve the corpses of twenty soldiers killed the night before in a skirmish. The site of the battle was the scorched and writhen remains of a sorghum field; the farmer’s family watched the operation from the shadow of a smoking barn. The wounded had been evacuated by helicopter; a sergeant had stayed behind to direct the salvage team. He was not much use. He recounted the ambush of his patrol in disjointed fragments, but did not know or could not remember where all the bodies lay. Andrew and the medic rummaged through a swath of tangled grass, sending swarms of crickets into the air. At last they followed a trail into a grove of swaying poplars.

  “Well,” said the medic, “he’s dead.”

  Andrew agreed. The soldier was sprawled upon the ground like a climber across a cliff face. Despite the strained posture, the body was obviously lifeless—as limp and inert as a mannequin. Andrew was surprised by his own lack of surprise. The smell was bad, however.

  They fetched a gurney, and the medic suggested they flip a coin for the feet. —“I don’t care,” said Andrew, “I’ll take the head.” —The medic removed the soldier’s belt, dispersing a cloud of flies, and fastened it around the calves, while Andrew, following instructions, loosened the cartridge belt and stuffed the hands and arms inside it. “Ready?” The medic crouched and gripped the ankles, and Andrew hooked his hands into the armpits. —“Should we turn him over first?” asked Andrew. —“What for?” —As they heaved the body up and slammed it face-down onto the gurney, a grey porridge spilled from the man’s skull onto Andrew’s shirt. The medic guffawed mirthlessly. “Next time you’ll flip,” he said, and began removing the soldier’s boots, which were in good condition. Due to the shortage of adequate footwear among the rank and file, an injunction had recently been issued against burying the dead in their boots; but no provision had been made to collect or redistribute them. So the thief was technically following orders.

  As they trundled a second body back to the ambulance, Andrew muttered, “This isn’t exactly what I signed up for.” —The medic could not understand his complaint. “We’re not under fire, are we?” —Another ambulance driver agreed. “I’ll take clean-up over rescue any day. And this is a good clean-up as clean-ups go. It’s the fights we lose that you need to worry about fucking booby traps.” —“And snipers,” said the medic, “and potshots from howitzers. No thanks.” —Andrew, looking around at the field and the ambulances filled with corpses, snorted. “We won this one?” —“Fuck,” said the driver, “we scared them off, didn’t we?” —The medic said pettishly, “You heard the LC: we bagged at least a dozen of them.” —“Then where are the bodies?” —The driver flapped his hand dismissively, signifying distance. —The medic said, “Not our problem, is it?” —Another medic said that the partisans were always sneaking off with their dead before you could get a proper count of their casualties. —“They eat them,” said the driver. The medics laughed, but the driver assured them it was true. “They eat their own dead—like wasps.”

  Andrew did not like driving in convoy; and he did not like the medic, who was cynical and spoke of casualties as of meat. Nor did he greatly care for the other drivers, who lounged around the barracks, playing poker and roughhousing and half-listening to the radio for distress calls from patrols, but who seemed relieved when medevac helicopters were dispatched.

  That night he drove back to Whitefield, still smelling of death. He was stopped on the way by a group of partisans.

  “You’re working for the army?” —“Yes,” he said. —“Carrying their wounded to the hospital?” —“And their dead.” —“Daisy! You like that job, then?” —“Not much.” —“You won’t mind if we take a wee peek to be sure you’re not carrying any contraband or explosives or anything nasty?” —“Go ahead.”

  “. . . That’s all right, then. Thank you, brother. Now off with you to bed. I’m guessing you’ll need all your winks.” —“You’re not going to confiscate my supplies?” —“I wouldn’t dream of it, me. Your soldiers’ll need them themselves, I’m thinking.”

  Andrew had instinctively adopted throughout this interrogation the weary cynicism of the medic. Now the attitude persisted; he prolonged and embellished it, till he was hunched over the steering wheel, bowed by disgust and nihilism and fatigue. He felt pity, envy, and a little contempt towards Hallie and her family, who did not know what war was really like.

  There came into view on the western horizon a flickering glow, like sheet lightning but more colorful. He slowed and rolled down his window, and heard a sizzling and popping like grease in a hot pan.

  A firefight. At this distance it was beautiful—a pulsating sunset. He groaned, flicked on the siren, and turned west at the next crossroad.

  The noise of the fight grew louder exponentially; soon the nearly continuous thunder of artillery completely drowned the siren and the rattling of the ambulance over the road. The cacophony shook the earth and caused the air to buckle. At last he pulled over, climbed out of the vehicle, and simply stood there looking about him in amazement that anything could be so loud. The ground beneath his feet bucked as the shells came whooping dementedly out of the sky and crashed down, still a mile or more away, beyond a wooded rise. The sky above was filled with smoke that writhed garishly as yellow and green flares sank slowly through it. He got back in the ambulance and drove a few meters farther before a shattering concussion seemed to land right on top of him. But he was all right; he drove on.

  He passed a burning farmhouse and was temporarily blinded by the flames. Still he drove on, feeling for the edge of the road with his tires. Then a flare ignited high overhead, illuminating the landscape like a sickly, quivering moon. In a pasture a hundred meters away, black figures crouched, gesticulated, or scrambled back and forth. He pressed the brake; were they partisans? Slowly, taking shape out of the skittish shadows, a helicopter lifted into the air, pivoted uncertainly, and again alighted. So they were not partisans. He turned onto a rough track and continued toward them.

  Here the explosions were literally deafening—so loud that he could not hear them, only feel them. Climbing out of the ambulance, he did not even bother covering his ears. He could not keep from ducking, however. In between the shells he heard terrific ripping sounds like a gigantic canvas being torn, rasping splintering sounds like trees falling, and a deep underwater throbbing sound. All this noise must have been originating somewhere in the woods beyond, for none of these people were firing weapons. They shouted at each other and into handsets and were apparently understood. One of them shouted at Andrew.

  “What?” —“Durm fad vuggith lizem onv!” —“What!” —“TURM FAD FUGGITH SIZEM ONF!” —“Oh.” He turned the siren off; the soldier went away, cussing.

  He asked two soldiers what was happening, and received two lengthy, frantic, but incomprehensible answers. Then a couple of medics bearing a soldier on a stretcher emerged hobbling from the trail out of the woods. Others assumed the burden and loaded it onto the helicopter, which immediately took flight, just as another landed.

  Andrew shouted into the ear of a lance corporal, “Can’t the choppers get any closer to the casualties?” —Modulations in the shelling rendered the lance corporal’s reply intermittently intelligible: “Fey’n dzych, but the only bolliter brail do buck down is completely seezoach im-om tie fa vuggith kithea’ce mortars. We’ve lost two zvickis arsecky, amsh fa uffiz byruld won’t risk it. Not that I fucking traing feng.”

  Andrew pointed at his ambulance and said that he would go in and get some of the casualties. The lance corporal gave him directions to the most seriously injured, and told him to bring them back as far as the helicopters. Andrew nodded, though most of this was garbled, and what was not garbled, excitement prevented him from heeding.

 
; Entering the woods was like entering a dim underground corridor: the branches formed a low, arched ceiling that screened the light, and the thick foliage muffled the noise of the shells and the guns. He turned on his headlight—just in time to avoid running over two medics carrying a stretcher. The trail was deeply rutted and the ambulance swayed and shuddered as he progressed.

  It was almost with relief that he emerged at last into a clearing lit like a fairground by flares, burning trees, tracer bullets strung like fairy lights, and the red-hot, white-hot flash of bursting shells. Other than the convulsive light, nothing moved. Humps that might have been bodies, hiding or dead, dotted the ground. And there, ten feet from his front bumper, slowly flailing one arm, lay a wounded soldier.

  He pulled forward, hopped out, and knelt down. “Hi, pal! Can you walk?”

  Private Jeremy Faulkin could not walk. In fact, he could not feel his legs. A strange indigestion-like pain originating approximately in his pelvis had expanded down into the space his groin and legs had inhabited, and continued expanding until he and his pain seemed to be twelve feet long. His body was suddenly strange and awful to him; he sensed its limitless capacity for disfigurement and transformation, and was terrified, less of death than of what he might become. He did not trust himself to speak.

  Andrew dashed in a crouch to the next soldier, knelt, and touched their shoulder. It was a girl. She was dead. Her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the distance, her mouth pursed uncertainly. He moved on to the next hump. “Hi, pal! Can you walk?”

  A boy with a pale face looked up at him with eyes like open mouths. “Sure I can walk!” —“Then come with me! I need your help!”

  There was a lull, or diminution in the shelling, and, as they ran back to the ambulance, Andrew could hear bullets all around him, buzzing like angry bees. He felt that he was dodging them; and when a mortar shell exploded nearby, sending him briefly to his knees, he felt that he had ducked a deadly fan of shrapnel at exactly the right moment. Private Lorrie Spack, who had been following him, was not so agile, and was hit in the neck with a fragment. He fell to the ground, clutching his throat, only a few feet from Private Faulkin. “Shit,” said Andrew.