As they say goodbye, the warlord looks satisfied—but does he really believe he’s ever going to Denmark? Obviously, he’s confident that Ove jan has understood him. It’s not asylum he has been promised in Denmark, but something else. A solution to a problem, though Steffensen doesn’t know either the problem or the solution. He’s bluffing, he thinks.
Steffensen has discussed the warlord with his interpreter. “You are the new Afghanistan,” says Roshaan, who always answers that the old Afghanistan is stronger than the new one. “Look at my fellow students in Kabul. They’re lazy and stupid. Yet because they are sons of powerful warlords, they receive scholarships to study in the US.”
“Connection, networking,” says Steffensen. “That’s the modern world. You have to learn how to network.”
“This has nothing to do with networks,” objects Roshaan. “It’s about the stupid’s right to rule. The warlords are nothing but a band of illiterates.”
“The illiterate wants an education for his son,” says Steffensen, “and soon for his daughter, too. That’s progress.”
At this point in the conversation, the interpreter always looks despondent.
Steffensen collects information about Atmar, things he didn’t know previously. At some point the warlord’s militia was tasked with protecting the thirty-kilometer road from the Danes’ area to Helmand province’s capital, Lashkar Gah. He set up checkpoints along the entire route. Steffensen cannot discover, however, if Atmar was ever paid for his services to the NATO troops. No entry exists in any of the financial reports.
He discovers something else, however. Atmar’s men were extorting exorbitant sums from locals every time they passed a checkpoint—the beginning of the end for the entrepreneurial warlord’s militia. Predictably enough, the locals allied themselves with the Taliban. Atmar has lost all his checkpoints to the enemy, who retake them, one by one, until the road to Lashkar Gah becomes as dangerous as before, passable only by heavily armed convoys who must shoot their way forward, kilometer by kilometer, while roadside bombs echo in the landscape.
No one has come to the aid of the struggling militia, and the explanation is as simple as it is revealing. NATO forces simply cannot officially ally themselves with any private militia. The battle between the Taliban and Atmar’s militia resembles a showdown between rival gangs, with one important difference: in the eyes of the locals, one gang, the Taliban, represents law and order and the other is merely a band of rejects. Turning the militia into a private security firm isn’t enough. It might function on paper and in the Ministry of Defense when justifying expenditures, but out here on the battlefield it’s meaningless. Atmar’s militia must become part of the national security apparatus. But how?
Law and order, said Atmar. Uniforms, respect, you don’t say hello to us, he told him. These are the clues he offered Ove jan amid all that nonsense about asylum in Denmark.
Steffensen decides to pay Ghuli Khan, the local police commissioner in Girishk, a visit. He wants to ask him if he needs anything, even though he already knows the answer. The police commissioner back on Bornholm would have said the same thing: more men.
Although Steffensen meets the police commissioner regularly, he has never actually spoken to him. Now he’s questioning Herluf Jørgensen, a ruddy Danish police officer who helps to train the local police force in Girishk. The portly Jørgensen with the receding hairline comes from Ringkøbing, a city that hasn’t seen a murder since 2006. In Girishk, a run-down town where muddy paths function as roads and clay homes with invisible cracks collapse beneath the weight of their neglect, at least a hundred murders occur each year, and those are just the ones that have been recorded. Jørgensen, who’s from western Jutland, isn’t easily intimidated. That’s Afghan culture, he says, unavoidable behavior in a war-torn country—and Steffensen thinks he’s probably right about that. The fact that murders are even recorded shows progress.
Jørgensen has only good things to say about the police commissioner. They share an excellent working relationship, and Ghuli Khan has publicly declared his friendship with the Dane. “When you return to Denmark, I will resign,” Khan has told him. “I am here for your sake. You are my source of inspiration.” Together they make unarmed rounds on the same streets where Danish soldiers, fearful of suicide bombers, rarely go on foot patrol.
Jørgensen helped raise money for the construction of a mosque on the grounds of the heavily guarded police station, so that police officers can pray without the fear of being blown up. Jørgensen cut the ribbon at the mosque’s opening ceremony. On his website he uploaded a photograph that, in Afghan custom, shows him and the police commissioner hand in hand. On several occasions, and in reports to the Ministry of Defense, Steffensen has praised Jørgensen. He feels that they are inspired by the same ideas. Cooperation, not confrontation.
When Steffensen meets Ghuli Khan at the police station, the police commissioner seems anything but imposing. Of average height and heavy, he has a large gut that his tight uniform only emphasizes, and his cap is a size too small. Yet, the insignificant nature of his appearance makes him seem trustworthy, if not inspiring.
The meeting goes well.
Naib Atmar’s men will receive uniforms and become part of the police corps; thus, when they’re in need, they can call for assistance from the foreign forces. That’s what Atmar wants, wisely realizing that he cannot ask for it himself. Because Ove jan must raise the subject, Atmar has served up only hints of his idea to the Danish commander, like tiny pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
Steffensen can see how much he enjoys the game. A warlord’s men will be integrated into the police force. They could just as easily remain outside it—even become lawless opponents of it. Are these new policemen exemplary officers of the law? Hardly. But this isn’t Denmark; there’s no law and order in Afghanistan. You have to start somewhere when you’re rebuilding a country from the ground up.
Afghanistan is not as strange as it might seem. People should reserve their ideals for solemn occasions and realize that rules often have to be bent. Only buildings with flexible joints can survive an earthquake, and Afghanistan is an earthquake zone, a challenge to human reason.
A war that’s lasted more than thirty years—what hasn’t it done to people? The goal is to gather up the last pieces of humanity from the charred earth and try to make sense out of them. The survival instinct is the strongest that exists, but one man’s gain need not be another man’s loss. The survival instinct can also manifest itself in community and cooperation, and it’s Steffensen’s job to see that it does.
He invites Atmar to yet another meeting and informs him that he has something for him. For a moment he considers bringing along a one-way ticket to Denmark just to see the warlord’s face. Would he be furious, disappointed, or surprised? Either way, he’d view Ove jan as an idiot. Instead, he tells him that he’s pulled some strings so that Naib jan’s men can be incorporated into the police force.
Naib jan lays his hand on his heart and bows his head humbly. “It is a great honor,” he says.
And he never says another word about asylum in Denmark.
22
The platoon is visiting Spondon, a patrol base northeast of Girishk on the other side of the river, when they discover that something is wrong with Schrøder.
Spondon isn’t much more than gravel bunkers, HESCO bales, and hastily constructed tin-roofed wooden sheds; the cots have only half a meter between them, and they have to shit behind tarps in plastic bags they have to bury themselves. There’s nowhere to hide when the grenades start to fly.
It all starts at night.
Shortly after midnight, they hear sounds coming from Schrøder. He isn’t snoring, but they can hear him. They’re vigilant—even asleep. The platoon leader is moaning softly, interrupted by deep groans that sound as if they’re being caused by sudden punches to his stomach. Standing up, they turn on their helmet lamps. Schrøder lies peacefully on his side, almost like a child; his half-open hands are close to his
face, but without warning, they clench. His eyelids are moving. Suddenly his eyes open wide, but in the light of their helmet lamps, his wide eyes seem to see nothing. His pupils contract. They stare at him like psychology students doing sleep studies. Sidekick waves his hand in front of the platoon leader’s face. Schrøder doesn’t react. Testing, Sidekick sticks an index finger close to one of his eyeballs. Still no reaction. Sidekick grabs his camera and starts to film his contorted face. “Stop that,” says Hannah, who has to bunk with the men because of the cramped conditions in Spondon. The others laugh, though with a certain nervousness. In a little while, the platoon leader calms down.
Hannah wants to sit on the cot, rest Schrøder’s head in her lap, and stroke his cheeks. She doesn’t recognize this sudden wave of tenderness. She’s used to taking care of others, but this goes much deeper than concern or feeling responsible. She doesn’t know what to call the feeling, but she’s afraid that the others can tell something is going on between her and their platoon leader. That would be bad not only for the squad but also for her and Schrøder. There’s something fragile between them—and the last thing it needs is comments and looks from the others. When they make love, it’s intense like a wrestling match. Yet she senses that what they have is made of glass.
An hour later, Schrøder starts moaning and groaning again. This time they can’t fall back to sleep, so they lie there chatting. They vacillate between being irritated, then worried, and then deeply shaken as if hiding an inexplicable urge to join him in moaning.
They shake him but to no avail. He doesn’t wake up. They pour water on his head, but he dries off his face in his sleep and keeps moaning. Now and then he speaks, although no one understands what he’s saying. Is that Pashto? They position three men by his cot and flip it over. He’s heavy and lands with a thud on the floor. But he still doesn’t wake up.
“Did you know about this?” Hannah asks Viktor. “Don’t you sleep in the same tent as him? The officers do bunk together.”
Viktor scratches his bald head. “He always seems so calm. Considerate in everything he does. He sleeps normally. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
In the morning they gather around him.
“You know you moan in your sleep, don’t you?” says Viktor. The others are sitting in a circle behind him. It resembles a debriefing after an engagement. They’re perplexed. They have no idea how he’s going to react, nor do they know what advice to give him. They don’t want him to view himself as a problem. He just needs to stop making so much noise at night. They don’t care about the rest of it—that’s his concern.
“I moan?”
They start to laugh. His ignorance is both liberating and disarming. Schrøder laughs, too, at their reaction. “Really? I moan in my sleep? I mean—I’m not also talking in my sleep, am I? I’m not revealing my deepest secrets to you assholes?” His tone is cheerful, but for a moment there’s a worried look in his eyes.
Viktor shakes his head. “You talk, but we can’t understand what you’re saying.”
Sidekick takes out his camera and turns it on. Schrøder concentrates on the small screen. He hears the moaning and groaning, and then the unintelligible words.
“I’m speaking Pashto,” says Schrøder, looking relieved. “I take it you’re mentioning it because you want me to stop moaning? Why not just wake me up?”
“We tried,” says Viktor. “You don’t wake up. We poured water on your head. We tossed you out of bed. We couldn’t wake you.”
“Can’t a lieutenant get his beauty sleep without a bunch of grunts interfering?”
“You know what we mean.”
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. So what should we do? Any suggestions?” Schrøder looks around. “What about duct tape?” Smiling, he strokes his light-blond beard. “Of course it’s a total insult to my vanity. I’ll have to shave some of this off, so it doesn’t get caught in the tape. Otherwise, I don’t see the problem.”
That same evening, he shaves. Once again they can see the perfect Cupid’s bow with the little scar, which has been hidden for months. He still has some beard left on his cheeks and around his chin. At bedtime, he stands there in his underwear with scissors and a roll of duct tape. They can’t help but laugh at the sight of him.
He’s about to bring the tape up over his mouth when Hannah stands up. “Let me do it,” she says. She places it gently over his mouth, carefully smoothing it out with her fingertips. Hopefully she hasn’t given them away. She has to try to control herself.
Adam, who has been staring, abruptly looks down while blushing behind his chestnut-colored beard.
“Does it bother you?” asks Hannah, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
Schrøder shakes his head. Pushing the sheet aside, he lies down on the cot and then pulls the sheet back up to his chest and folds his hands. He looks like someone about to undergo a surgical experiment with no anesthesia. The only thing missing is the leather straps to hold him in place.
They all sleep through the night.
They wake Schrøder with some fresh-brewed coffee. “What are you dreaming about?” asks Viktor, handing him the cup.
“I can never remember, but it must be something violent if I’m reacting like that.” He looks around at them. “Listen,” he says in the same firm voice he uses when he’s issuing an order or leading a debriefing. “If any of you are starting to doubt me, now is the time to say so. Have you seen my hands shaking? Do I seem confused?”
They all shake their heads.
“Anyone who thinks I ought to see a psychologist, raise your hand.”
No one moves.
“Anyone who thinks I ought to buy everyone a beer for keeping you all awake when we get back home again, raise your hand.”
They all raise their hands—except Hannah.
“Anyone who thinks that when we get back we should buy Schrøder all the beer he wants for being the best platoon leader ever, raise your hand,” she says.
23
“So, what were you dreaming about?”
Hannah knows she’s repeating Viktor’s question, just as she knows that Schrøder already said he couldn’t remember.
They’ve made love in their own fierce way, but at the moment Schrøder climaxed, he stared right into her eyes. That’s not something guys usually do. They usually leer at your breasts or ask you to turn over so they can ogle your ass. What is sex for them anyway? Masturbation in front of a peep show window where, instead of their own hand, they use someone’s body? Maybe she’s like that, too. Their eye contact compels her to ask about his dreams, that and the feeling that maybe it’s more than eye contact. For a moment a door seems to open between them, something in his eyes inviting her to step inside.
“You really want to know?” he says, grinning.
She nods. “So you can actually remember?”
“Yeah, it’s just nobody’s business.”
They’re no longer in his tent—it’s too risky. She asks what would happen if they were caught. “We’d probably both get sent home,” he says. “Or if they think I’m indispensable to the platoon, you’d be shipped home, while I would get let off with a reprimand.” He winks at her. “Either way, it would be bad for your reputation. You know women always have to work twice as hard in the military. I, on the other hand, would get points for having scored with you. But seriously, it would be a real mess . . . What we’re doing is a real mess.”
They both laugh.
“And yet we keep doing it,” she says.
“There’s this thing called the ethical code. An officer cannot enter into a dependent relationship with a subordinate. So, Hannah, I’m in the danger zone with you.”
Is that an invitation? Is now the time to ask if he has entered into a dependent relationship with her? She really wants to hear him say yes, but what if he doesn’t answer, or he says no?
They’ve discussed where to meet when the tent is no longer an option. Down behind the shed near the shoot
ing range? They end up at the lot where they park the APCs. They open the hatchback on one of them. They’re wearing their headlamps. She suggested candles but Schrøder shook his head. At first they lie down on one of the stretchers, but it’s too narrow. They wind up lying on top of their clothes, on the floor. It’s cold but they soon get warm.
They’ve changed positions. Now she’s half lying on top of him. With her finger, she traces his Cupid’s bow, which she loves for its perfect little curve. Something good has come from his nightmares: his upper lip is no longer hidden behind a beard.
He hesitates a little, as if using her finger as an excuse not to answer her question about the dreams haunting him. “I stand half naked in front of a mirror,” he says. He starts to speak quickly, as if he’s anxious to get it over with. “My back is covered with boils, constantly bubbling up and bursting like boiling water. A large piece of my cheek is gone, and I can see the jawbone beneath it. But it’s not bleeding. My brain is exposed and the lobes look like bloated, gorged worms writhing around each other. There’s something large in one eye, and when I stick my finger into my eye to remove it, a part of my eyeball comes out with it. It sticks to my fingers like whipped egg whites. It’s like I can peel off parts of myself without it having any consequences.”
He laughs disarmingly, as if he just told her a joke. She senses that she shouldn’t ask anything else.
It’s not compassion Schrøder’s dream awakens in Hannah but recognition. I could have the same kind of dream, she thinks. My entire childhood was just like that dream.
Schrøder never asks about her life, and she’s relieved by his lack of curiosity. She could talk with Adam about her upbringing, because there was nothing between them. Love and compassion don’t necessarily go together. People try to evoke others’ compassion because they’ve given up on being loved. She has seen it so many times—girls who market themselves as victims, but the only thing they awaken in guys is guilt masquerading as love. It just doesn’t last. With Adam she senses the possibility of friendship, but that’s something else.
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