The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  Lasse, Nikolaj, and Daniel are also dead, as are Aske and Jonas.

  The gunfire goes on a bit longer. Shots keep penetrating the lifeless bodies, which jump as if receiving an electric shock, although no intact nerve endings are left to react. The bullets’ brutal blows create the illusion of life. And then silence. The young men lower their Kalashnikovs, as if paralyzed by the effect of their actions. The old men, their faces blank, sit in rows in front of them, as if they’ve just witnessed a play that had no effect on them.

  Schrøder stands motionless, viewing the scene.

  His blond hair glimmers in the sunlight; his mouth is visible, but the rest of his lower face is covered by a thick beard that’s as blond as his hair. His Danish uniform matches the dusty colors of the desert. He’s still holding his helmet.

  Across from him, a dozen meters from the dead, Sidekick is still standing with his camcorder at his eye. Every one of his muscles is tensed. He hasn’t blinked. His eye has become one with the camera, which is still filming.

  Schrøder walks over to him. Through the camera lens, Sidekick can see the platoon leader approaching, until his face fills the entire field of vision. Schrøder’s hand closes around his wrist, forcing him to lower the camera.

  “It’s over,” he says.

  In this moment Sidekick feels nothing but an overwhelming exhaustion suddenly rise through his body, as if he’s been immersed in scalding water. He blinks for the first time and then closes his eyes.

  “Look at me,” says Schrøder. There’s no hard, commanding ring to his voice. It sounds, instead, as if he’s speaking to a child.

  Sidekick closes his eyes. He feels as if his heart, anticipating the mercy shot, has already stopped beating.

  23

  Nothing happens. Sidekick opens his eyes again.

  As if awaiting an order, the Afghans stand in a circle behind Schrøder. There’s no compassion in their eyes, but there’s no hate, either, no triumph, not even a trace of the excitement they must have felt in the middle of the slaughter. It hasn’t registered that he’s the only survivor; he barely realizes that he’s alive.

  Mournful sounds emanate from the heap of gunned-down soldiers. Someone must still be clinging to some microscopic remnant of life, a rattle here, a moan, a deep sigh, like one last air bubble breaking on the surface of the water. Maybe it’s only blasted organs shifting around. Two of the young Afghans walk among the blood-smeared piles. They raise their weapons, aim, and fire a short round at close range. They look like custodians who missed a dirty spot on the floor and are now raising their scrub brushes to finish the job.

  “You’re in no condition to speak,” says Schrøder, taking the video camera from Sidekick. A little electric bleep sounds when he turns it back on. He moves over to the piles of dead bodies and carefully films their mangled, bloody faces.

  He hands the camera back to Sidekick. “You need an ending for when you create your portraits.”

  Sidekick suddenly notices the smell of blood and excrement rising from the courtyard. He’s beyond fear. He feels no spite, only an overwhelming exhaustion, as if his heart’s idiotic beating is nothing more than a breathless prayer for life sapping all of his remaining strength.

  “How does it feel to be the sole survivor?” Schrøder points his rifle nonchalantly at Sidekick as if he’s going to fire. “You’re the one who gets to answer that question. You’re the one who lives to tell the story!”

  He motions to the Afghans standing around him. Two of them open the gate. Schrøder takes a step back. “Go,” he says.

  Sidekick is almost blind with nausea. Schrøder follows him out through the gate. Outside lie the bodies of Jannick, Joakim, and Tobias, who were watching the APCs. The vehicles are nowhere to be seen.

  “Now for the trip home,” says Schrøder. He points. “Home is that way.”

  24

  Sidekick staggers off. He feels like a child learning how to walk, trying to put one foot on the ground to test its strength, as if the earth’s crust is nothing but thin ice concealing a horrible death lurking beneath it. He feels a tingling sensation in his lower back, a telepathic connection between his skin and the deadly metal his still-living tissue anticipates.

  He has to force himself to continue; otherwise, he’d still be standing outside the gate, like a trash can full of slaughterhouse refuse. That’s how he feels. As if his body is nothing more than discarded meat, still held together by tendons and muscles, and inexplicably guided by a consciousness he can neither call his own nor connect to any independent will.

  He takes one step and then another.

  In the distance he can see Highway 1 and the cars driving by. His comrades’ names roll around inside his head. Iraq Robert, Årslev . . . and the three outside the gate . . . Jannick, Joakim, Tobias.

  At some point he must have reached the highway. A horn beeps and he stumbles onto the shoulder. For a long time he stands there staring at the passing cars. He’s not thinking about anything. All the passengers in the cars turn around to look at him, but no one stops.

  Walking along the highway, he reaches the outskirts of Girishk. He has no idea how much time has passed. The road is lined with shops, garages, butchers, and eateries, a jumble of people moving around each other, threatening to spread out and block traffic. There’s the rancid smell of dust and woodsmoke, oil and rubber, spices and raw meat, a smell he’s never noticed before. Piles of overripe fruit emit their own sweet rottenness, which blends with the stench of entrails and blood from recently slaughtered fat-tailed sheep dangling from iron hooks beneath suspended tarps.

  He’s attracting everyone’s attention. Afghans stop and stare at him as if they’ve never seen a person like him, an unarmed foreign soldier walking among them. He might as well be walking around naked. Are they looking at him with wonder or contempt, like some fallen god who has revealed his vulnerable humanity? He feels defenseless, but does he look that way to them?

  Their eyes follow him, but no one comes near. He’s walking in a city of statues. A hand about to give somebody a few coins pauses in midair; a knife stops a few centimeters from a sheep’s throat. Only a pair of long-necked camels continue their munching, unaffected. All the other living beings pause to concentrate on him, though not one of them reveals in words or actions what they’re thinking.

  He has a feeling that any bullet fired at him, any stone tossed in his direction, any stab directed at his heart, would pass right through him. That’s the only reason they haven’t attacked him. He’s not really there—and they know it. It’s his ghost that’s passing through, restlessly seeking a place it can no longer enter.

  He can hear Schrøder’s departing words, his scornful “Home is that way.” But home is neither that way nor any other way. There is no home. He doesn’t see a traitor in Schrøder; he hasn’t stared into the abyss. He only sees the war and its simple relentlessness.

  Walking along the edge of the bazaar among the stalls, people, and animals, he feels as if he will never escape Afghanistan. Afghanistan’s deep-blue sky hovers over Hobro. The desert begins just outside of Vordingborg. Hindu Kush’s snow-covered mountains tower over the Storebælt.

  Three APCs drive up beside him and stop. He sees the matte-black barrel of a 12.7 pointed threateningly at the bazaar. A Danish voice rises above the engine’s roar. “What’s happening? Why didn’t you respond on the radio?”

  The words mean nothing to Sidekick. He doesn’t think that he’s safe now. He thinks about the morphine lollipop in his gear. Taking it out, he frees the white ball of sugar from the plastic case and sticks it in his mouth. It cracks as he bites into it. A sugary-sweet taste spreads in his mouth.

  His body feels as if it’s about to fly.

  25

  Sidekick is silent all the way back to Camp Price. A medic examines him closely in the APC and finds no sign of injuries. He is in a state of shock. That’s the initial diagnosis. He’s also on morphine, which doesn’t make him any more accessible, and
he’s clinging to a video camera he refuses to give up.

  The doctor on duty at the field hospital in Camp Price decides to keep him there until he is himself again, whatever that means in his current condition. Fifteen men rode out. Only one came back. Three APCs have disappeared. No radio contact. And there’s only an hour until nightfall.

  Møgelhøj and Andersen are called in. Steffensen is nowhere to be found. Coffee, adrenaline injections, whatever it takes. They have to get some life into him. It’s literally a matter of life and death, an expression meaning little to the doctor, as that’s his job every single day. Everything always involves life and death here. His name badge says “Leif Reintoft.” “Listen, Reintoft. We have to speak to him.”

  “I don’t know what I can do,” says Reintoft. “This isn’t just a case of fatigue. He’s just—what can I say—emotionally hard to reach.” Reintoft adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, worn to emphasize his distinguished appearance. It’s hard to tell whether he’s fiddling with his glasses to reinforce his medical authority or if he’s feeling uncertain at this moment.

  “Show us to him.” Møgelhøj sounds as if he’s giving an order.

  “I don’t think that’s advisable in the patient’s present condition.”

  “He isn’t a patient. He’s a witness.”

  Sidekick lies stretched out on a hospital bed. He’s covered with a tight white sheet and doesn’t look at them as they step into the room. The doctor follows, but Møgelhøj waves him off with an imperious gesture. Reintoft hesitates for a moment. He lifts his hand to his glasses again as if he’s about to say something and then leaves the room.

  Møgelhøj sits down on the edge of the bed like a concerned uncle who has come to ask about his nephew’s well-being. Andersen looks around for a chair but, not finding one, stands there perplexed.

  “How are you?” asks Møgelhøj.

  Sidekick doesn’t respond. Although his eyes are open, his pupils are fixated on a point in the ceiling above him, as if he’s not registering the auditors’ presence.

  “You’ve certainly been through something,” says Møgelhøj, trying to sound as jovial as possible. He can hear how absurd his own words sound. He has no idea what the soldier in the bed in front of him has been through—that’s what he wants to find out. He exchanges glances with Andersen.

  “Hello, Andreas,” Møgelhøj says to Sidekick. “Are you there? Can you hear me?” He stifles the urge to shake the supine soldier.

  Sidekick’s lips suddenly start to tremble uncontrollably. Møgelhøj places a hand on his shoulder. The soldier’s gaze doesn’t change. His face remains motionless. Only his lips are moving. His breathing becomes erratic, as if he’s about to start sobbing. His chest rises.

  “Maybe he’s starting to hyperventilate,” says Andersen. “We need to get hold of the doctor. I don’t think we’re going to get anything out of him.”

  Møgelhøj nods. As he places his hand on Sidekick in a symbolic attempt at compassion, he discovers the camera. They’ve been so absorbed by his expressionless face that they completely overlooked it.

  Sidekick’s chest rises again. “Schrøder,” he says.

  Møgelhøj takes the camera. Sidekick doesn’t try to hold on to it.

  26

  Along with a nurse, the doctor races into Sidekick’s room. Before closing the door, he casts a reproachful glance at the two auditors, now sitting side by side out in the hall.

  Møgelhøj has turned on Sidekick’s camera and flipped open the screen. With one hand, he activates the picture, which shows a row of Afghans and Danish soldiers sitting across from each other in a courtyard. Between the two groups stands the platoon leader, Rasmus Schrøder, speaking Pashto. The Afghans listen attentively, while the Danish soldiers stare down, their faces reserved. Suddenly shooting breaks out. The camera shakes, but not so much that they can’t see a wall of gunfire and men in Danish uniforms being thrown about. There’s blood everywhere, and on-screen it looks shiny and unnaturally red.

  Møgelhøj hits pause. His hands are shaking. He turns to Andersen. “I don’t know what to say. This is so horrible . . . I don’t know if I can stand watching it.”

  Andersen takes the camera from him and hits play again. The crackling salvos of gunfire sound like static interference, and then the shots die down. The platoon leader is still standing there. His image jumps up and down, as if he’s on a trampoline. He moves toward the camera. In the background there’s more noise as the Afghans pace around among the soldiers to fire the last mercy shots. Schrøder’s face fills up the screen. He seems calm. “You can turn it off now,” he says. The film stops, and they return to the initial screen and a menu of film clips. One of them shows a bloody face. Møgelhøj presses it. One face after another appears slowly as the camera pans across a pile of tangled bodies. All the faces are shattered and covered in blood or pale and hollow, their eyes staring blankly. Danish soldiers—and they are all undeniably dead.

  Møgelhøj covers his mouth. It’s unclear if he’s trying to stifle a moan or about to throw up.

  “I don’t understand any of this.” Andersen’s voice is uncertain.

  They look at each other. “I can’t watch it again,” says Møgelhøj.

  “We need to talk to him again.” There’s something resolute in Andersen’s voice now, as if he’s trying to prevent them from succumbing to the paralyzing effect of the images of the dead soldiers. “It was an ambush. And the platoon leader, this Schrøder, must have been in cahoots with the Afghans.”

  “Yes, but it makes no sense.”

  “Even so, we have proof.”

  They both stand up and, without knocking, enter the room where the doctor and nurse are tending to the soldier, who they now realize is the only survivor of a massacre. The nurse holds the soldier’s hand. Andersen walks over to the bed, shoves her aside, and then holds the screen up in front of the soldier’s face. He sets the film in motion.

  “I’d like you to confirm that you have just been an eyewitness to a massacre of Danish soldiers and that you are the only survivor.”

  “I cannot allow—” Reintoft suddenly realizes what has just been said and interrupts himself. “What?” His eyes are wide behind his glasses. The nurse hides her face in her hands.

  The soldier stops staring at the ceiling and focuses instead on the screen where the massacre of his comrades is playing over again.

  “Schrøder,” he says. “It’s Schrøder!” His voice is suddenly steady.

  Møgelhøj and Andersen exchange glances. “We need to talk this through,” says Møgelhøj. “Is there a place where we can talk in private?” He looks imploringly at the doctor.

  Reintoft nods. “My office.” He leads them down a corridor and into a small room where, in addition to a desk and two chairs, there’s a bunk covered with papers.

  “We need to stay levelheaded.” Møgelhøj’s hands have started shaking again, though he manages to keep his voice calm. “Facts! Facts! Thirteen Danish soldiers have fallen in an ambush. Apparently their platoon leader was behind it, or at least working with the Afghans.” His voice suddenly breaks.

  They look at each other, realizing that they’re still standing up. “Let’s sit down,” says Andersen. They pull two chairs out from the desk and sit facing each other. Møgelhøj hides his face in his hands. Andersen rubs his back. It’s a very unusual situation for both men; they’ve never touched each other in any intimate manner.

  Møgelhøj removes his hands from his face, although he’s still bent over with his elbows resting on his knees. “Sorry,” he says. “I need to pull it together.” He stares in front of him. “This makes no sense.”

  “That’s an assumption we’re not allowed to make in our line of work,” says Andersen. “We have to assume there’s some meaning somewhere—and it’s our job to find it.”

  “Yes, but we can’t just invent theories and see conspiracies all over the place.” Møgelhøj’s voice sounds desperate, as if he’s appealing to Andersen.
Møgelhøj is usually the one who speaks on their behalf, both when they discuss ongoing cases and when they’re in interrogative situations. Suddenly their roles are reversed, and clearly neither of them is accustomed to this new dynamic.

  “Right, so—” Andersen clears his throat. He looks down at Møgelhøj’s hands, which have started shaking again. “Can you try to control your hands? It’s distracting when they shake like that.”

  That makes Møgelhøj jump. “Sorry,” he says, shoving his hands into his armpits. “I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s hard for both of us. But still we have to focus.”

  Møgelhøj nods, his hands still under his arms.

  “What was I saying? Yes, so, if you want to fight against foreign forces in Afghanistan . . . I mean, if you’re not an Afghan but for some reason you sympathize with the Taliban or you’re opposed to something you view as imperialism . . . then what do you do?”

  Møgelhøj looks at him with no enthusiasm. “Tell me,” he says flatly.

  “You travel to Peshawar in Pakistan and find some rebel group that will have you. They send you to a training camp, where you learn how to operate a Kalashnikov and maybe how to plant roadside bombs. More than likely, they’ll tell you that you can do more good in your own country. So you return to Glostrup and fumble with a bucketful of chemicals hoping to someday make the nearest train station go up in smoke. Or you travel to the land of your dreams, where your most ridiculous wishes are fulfilled. Poorly armed and with no knowledge of the enemy, you wind up as cannon fodder in Allah’s name in Afghanistan. But that’s certainly not what Schrøder has done here.”

  “No,” replies Møgelhøj, “that’s not what he’s done.”

  “No, but maybe he’s done something similar. Right in front of our eyes. How do you come to Afghanistan highly trained, equipped with the best weapons modern technology can provide, and with in-depth knowledge of your enemy’s mind-set, strategy, and plans? If you have a burning desire to kill Danish soldiers, what’s the best way to get incredibly close to them without raising even the slightest suspicion? Think about it!”