Honor Courage Commitment

by Jordan Danzig

  She tried to recall more details from the course on ‘Kidnap Survival’. How far did we travel? How many MPG does an SUV get? I don’t bloody know. It was mid-morning when we left the village; dark on arrival here. Where is here? Higher altitude than the village and much colder. She pulled back the sleeve of her fleece to check the time. Her watch was gone. Dammit! They took it when the put the bag over my head.

  She slumped on the mattress, pulled the blankets tighter and sat so she was facing the door, rocking herself in an attempt to keep warm, but sleep would not come. What’s going to happen to us? There’ll be a ransom demand, surely. Who’ll pay it? The British won’t negotiate with terrorists. Will the Americans? She made a pillow with another blanket and curled into a ball. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the day’s events, but the images kept returning.

  She opened her eyes. Her brain struggled to make sense of the low chanting coming from somewhere outside. She slowly uncurled her stiff limbs. I must have finally dozed off. Daybreak was creeping through the small hole and there was now enough light for her to see a bucket in another corner of the room. She shuffled over to the hole which was about the size of her head, but by craning this way and that she could see out—onto an exterior wall. She turned her attention to the bucket. Empty. Toilet? She shrugged off the blankets and jumped up and down to get the circulation going in her cramped arms and legs.

  The chanting ended and shortly afterward the door opened and a covered tray was placed on the packed earth floor. The door closed again without a word being spoken. The last thing she’d eaten was the hearty American breakfast at the FOB and that was twenty-four hours ago. She carried the tray to the mattress and gingerly lifted the cloth, fearing she would find a sheep’s brain, eyes, or something worse. The food turned out to be an unexpectedly edible surprise consisting of a wooden bowl of yogurt, some naan bread with a handful of raisins and nuts on the side. The liquid in the pot was hot green tea. She couldn’t find any cutlery. Is that cultural, or to prevent me fashioning some kind of weapon or a tool to enlarge the window and escape? And if I did, what the heck would I do? She mixed some of the fruit and nuts in the yogurt and broke the naan into pieces to scoop the mixture out of the bowl. She used her finger to wipe the bowl clean before filling it with tea. She refilled the bowl twice more. It was a tiny respite from the night of anxiety. Food was necessary to keep up her strength and resolve.

  The meal warmed her, but the draft from the hole in the wall would soon counteract it. She took the cloth from the tray and held it over the hole. The lightweight material covered the opening, but also cut out some of the light entering the room—and there was no way to secure it.

  The door opened and a man pointed to the tray and the bucket. Amanda handed him the tray but kept the cloth. When she indicated the bucket was empty he left.

  Now, what?

  No one came to see her throughout the rest of the day except to deliver another meal in the evening. Her bucket was also taken away to be emptied at this time. No one spoke to her. From her Kidnap and Hostage Survival training, she knew this silence was an expected psychological tactic. She maintained a humble posture and made no more than fleeting eye contact with those who brought her food. Each night, she stuffed a blanket into the hole to shut out the cold and removed it when she heard the men praying in the morning.

  Amanda was either haunted by fears of what awaited her or bored by the mind-numbing isolation. To fight both, she sang pop songs and recited poetry learned in school. She attempted to do some of the fitness exercises she’d watched Angel carry out with consummate ease. He would have good-naturedly derided her pathetic attempts at emulating him, but the exercises kept her warm and help to stem the thoughts of whether she’d ever see him again. She found a small stone and used it to scratch a mark in the mud wall each morning.

  On the morning of the third day of her captivity, she asked the man bringing her daily food if he spoke English. He stared at her without expression. She held his gaze for a couple of seconds, then turned and pointed to the hole in the wall. “Do you have something to cover that . . . please?” She turned around at the door closing and gave a rueful laugh. That went well.

  It reopened again a moment later. A different man stood there. “Small English,” he said.

  Amanda smiled at him and repeated her request for a window covering. She wrapped her arms around her and shivered.

  He nodded and grunted.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “Could I please have some extra water to wash in?” You didn’t understand that, did you? She mimed the actions. “Water? Wash?”

  Understanding dawned on her captor’s face. He grunted again.

  OK. Let’s go for broke. She pointed to the bucket. “Any chance of some toilet paper?” Oh, heck. No way you understood that. Grimacing, she pointed to the bucket once more and with her right hand made a vague motion to indicate bottom wiping.

  The man shook his head. He indicated she should use her left hand instead of her right. He then mimed washing his hands.

  “You have got to be joking!”

  The man uttered another grunt and left.

  “Gee, thanks. So, was that a no to all the requests? A yes to them? Or a mix of yes and no?”

  Her answer came sooner than expected. Small English entered carrying a pail of cold water, some rags, and—somewhat incongruously—a half-used bar of soap. A second man came in and Amanda’s eyes widened at what he dumped onto the mattress.

  She bowed slightly to the first man and catching his eye, she patted her heart several times. “As-Salaam-Alaikum,” she said. Gosh, I hope that’s correct. The man regarded her from the corner of his eye, then placed his hand over his heart and replied. “Was-Alaikum–Salaam.”

  When the men left, Amanda ignored her meal and ran to the mattress. There were three black sheepskins and a black leather coat. She picked up the coat, admiring the soft leather, but when her hand touched the lining, she gasped and then laughed. This is no time to be climbing on the moral high horse. Bugger it, I’d even eat that horse now! She caressed the tight coils of Astrakhan fur, made from the pelts of newborn karakul lambs. She refused to wear the mink-collared coat her mother gave as a sixteenth birthday present, but that was a fashion statement—this was a survival tool.

  That evening, the door squeaked its usual announcement of supper but instead of a meal being laid down, the Marine whose execution she’d stayed was dragged into the room. Two trays of food and drink were placed on the floor, but the men didn’t leave. Seeing the Marine struggle to sit up, she went to his aid. His face was bruised and swollen, his uniform blood-spattered, and his boots missing. She offered to help him with his food, but Small English spoke.

  “No help.”

  The men made more comments in their own language and laughed at the man crumpled against the wall. The Marine got to his knees and shuffled over to the tray of food. He reached for a bowl and Amanda sharply inhaled. His hands were a puffy rainbow of colors and a couple of his fingers were at an odd angle. His face contorted in pain as he concentrated on the food. He managed to get his right hand into the pilau rice dish and scoop a few grains past his split lips. The onlookers laughed at his efforts and they filed out of the room.

  Small English repeated his warning, “No help,” and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Was that a threat, you bastard? Amanda swept her gaze around the room. I very much doubt you have a camera in here, but let’s test that theory, shall we?

  The Marine stared at the tray, making no further attempt to feed himself.

  “Here, let me help you,” Amanda whispered. She tore his naan bread into tiny pieces and fed him the rice dish. After every few mouthfuls, she offered him a sip of tea. At the start of his meal, his hands were trembling. By the last bite, they had steadied somewhat. Judging by his eagerness to finish the food, she wondered if it was the first meal he’d eaten since arriving. He never said a word throughout and he kept his gaze averted the who
le time she was feeding him.

  What on earth have they done to you? She tried to encourage him over to the mattress but he wouldn’t move, so she fetched the sheepskins. He curled up into a ball on them and closed his battered eyes. She covered him with some blankets and lay at his side to provide additional warmth.

  He managed to rasp something, but Amanda only made out the word, “They—” She fell asleep with her hand on his hip.

  The next morning, she awoke to the Marine mumbling, “They’re coming.”

  A short time later, she shot to her feet when the door opened. Only one tray was placed on the floor. The Marine struggled to his feet. Amanda held out her hands to him but hurriedly stuffed them under her armpits thinking it might not be in his best interests. She remained silent as the men dragged him away.

  Over breakfast, her thoughts turned to Washington. She hoped Washington was being treated in the same manner as herself. But what if she isn’t? What if . . . what if what’s happening to the Marine is also happening to her?

  She spent the time between meals trying to occupy her mind with all the things she’d been doing to pass the days, but this one lasted an eternity. Would they bring him back? Or maybe they’d bring Washington. Or both of them.

  Amanda paced the small room. Her hunger and the failing light meant the usual time for the evening meal had passed. Is this a new tactic? Mess about with the timings to upset me? I won’t let it. Her train of thought was disrupted by loud voices outside the door. It opened and the Marine was deposited face down in front of her. His combat shirt was gone. He was down to a green t-shirt and his desert camouflage trousers. Dear God, what have they done to you this time?

  Two food trays were set down and the guards jostled for position in the doorway, leering at the Marine while they waited for him to attempt his evening meal. His hands, now more swollen from the broken fingers, were useless to him as tools. On his forearms and knees, he crawled over to the soup that was the evening meal and lapped at it like a dog. The guards roared with laughter and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Amanda shouted. She pointed at the Marine. “Medicine. Hurt. Help.”

  One of the men spat at the Marine and Small English laughed.

  Amanda steadied her voice and addressed Small English. “Wait.” She pointed to the LED camping lantern in his hand. “Please, may I have that?” She added mime. “I need to see him.”

  A heated discussion ensued between the two insurgents, but Small English must have held more authority as he handed Amanda the lantern before pushing the other man out the door and closing it behind them.

  Kneeling next to the Marine who was still feebly licking at the soup, Amanda swiped away her tears of anger and despair. “Stop,” she said, placing a hand on his back. “Please, stop.”

  He stopped but continued to stare at the bowl. Amanda gently pushed him over into a sitting position with his back supported against the wall.

  “Look at me,” she said in a hushed tone.

  He showed no sign of having even heard her.

  She held up the lantern and placed a fingertip under his chin. “Look at me.”

  He slowly raised his battered eyes to hers, blinking against the light.

  “What’s your name?”

  Nothing.

  “What are you called?”

  Silence.

  She felt under the neck of his t-shirt for his dog tags. There were none.

  Did the insurgents take them? To strip you of your identity? To dehumanize you? It seems they’re doing a pretty good job. No, you’re still fighting them.

  “Hey,” she tried again, even softer. “I’m Amanda. Please, tell me your name.”

  “—head.” It was more of a grunt than a word.

  Damn, what is it Angel says when he wants something repeated? Ah yes. “Say again.”

  “Jarhead,” he mumbled.

  “Jarhead? Is that your nickname? I know it’s a nickname given to someone in the Marines.” Maybe you told your captors your name is Jarhead. But they’ve got your dog tags.

  They’d told her not to help him, but they didn’t intervene when she’d lent assistance before. If they don’t want me to help him, why do they bring him? She dipped the bread into the soup and fed him until he indicated he’d had enough. Which was after he consumed all of his—and half of hers.

  On the verge of falling asleep, he croaked out the same two words, “They’re coming.”

  “No, not now, sweetheart. Get some sleep. I’ll watch over you.” Amanda slept during the day now and spent the night comforting Jarhead and talking to him about her life, so far away from all this, in England.

  The insurgents returned for him in the morning. He made no attempt to stand, so one of the men beat him with a stick.

  Amanda jumped to her feet and stepped toward the guard. “You swi—”

  Jarhead stuck out a foot and tripped her. The men pulled him to his feet and took him away.

  They brought him back in the evening. This time, his t-shirt was gone, his feet were raw, and his torso black and blue.

  What the hell are they doing to you all day! She bathed his wounds in the meager water meant for her to wash in.

  He was too weak to chew anything, so Amanda helped him onto the mattress, where she held his head and gently trickled tea from her fingers into his mouth.

  He croaked his usual goodnight. “They’re coming.”

  They come every bloody day, but how much more of this can you take?

  The following morning the former Army interpreter opened the door. “Time to go, pig.”

  Jarhead didn’t move.

  “Move pig—or we turn our attention to the woman.”

  Jarhead feebly raised an arm a few inches. His captor took it as the signal that he was ready for the day’s interrogating to begin and two men pushed past Amanda to drag him away.

  “This one is strong,” said the interpreter. “But he will break; they all do.”

  Amanda sat back on her heels and cried until there was nothing left to give. She’d had Jarhead’s life spared back at the village, and now he was laying it down to keep her and Washington alive. As long as he’s alive. No, as long as he can move we’re safe.

  When he was returned to her that night, his breathing was labored. Amanda covered him with the blankets, cradled his head in her lap and waited for dawn. He opened his eyes once in the night and whispered a variation of his usual goodnight message. “They’ll be here soon.”

  “Who will, Jarhead? Who will?” Omigod! He hadn’t been telling her ‘they’ were coming to keep her calm; he’d been telling himself. His last waking thought each night, to keep himself going day after day, in the belief that he would be rescued before his torturers killed him.

  By dawn, his breathing had become slow and shallow. He opened his eyes once more, and something that might once have been a smile passed over his bruised face. “They’re here,” he said in a clear voice, looking into her eyes.

  “Yes, they’ve come for you,” she said softly. “They’ve come to take you to a peaceful place where there’s no more pain. Go with them.”

  He continued to stare at her. Amanda gently closed his eyelids with her fingertips.

  The door opened to take him for his daily beating. Amanda didn’t rise. She stayed with his head in her lap, her hand soothing his forehead. She’d run through this scenario every day in her head, wondering how she would deal with it, if—when—her time came. There was nothing; she was totally numb. Taking care of Jarhead every evening had helped take her mind off her situation. She immersed herself in what she had been trained to do; she nursed him back to some sort of health each evening, so he could go and be tortured afresh the next morning.