The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  Hannah hesitates but asks anyway: “What is your boy’s name?”

  “Zuy,” replies Sara coldly.

  6

  Seen from the highway, the desert looks flat. Driving into it, they realize it’s actually a labyrinth of small depressions and low ridges dotted with dense, leafless shrubs. It’s midday, but the shadows are not as long as they are on a winter afternoon in Denmark.

  It’s easy to park the APCs so that they aren’t visible from the highway; the real problem will be finding them again. They leave Gustav, Dennis, and Sebastian behind as sentries, though they’ll maintain radio contact. Their mood is suddenly depressed. Will they ever see each other again? This will be the first attack where they can’t expect any air support. They often talk about the cowardly Taliban, using roadside bombs instead of fighting man-to-man, but they fight with five-hundred-pound bombs dropped from the air. The roadside bombs are detonated with a cell phone, the bombs with a call on the radio. What’s the difference?

  They’re finally going to do what they’ve been dreaming about all along: meet the enemy face-to-face. They’re uncertain about it—but they also feel an excitement they’ve never known before. Now, all their training will be put to the test.

  They approach Sangin from the south. From a distance the city proffers the same view as all the other Afghan desert towns: endless clay walls rising three to four meters high. They don’t get any actual sense of a city. Still, anyone who’s ever been on patrol in an Afghan town won’t recall any sense of being on a street. It’s more like yard time in a prison. Impenetrable walls at every turn. “All the yokels live here in their gang hideouts,” as Viktor says.

  None of them has ever walked on patrol in Girishk. It’s too dangerous. Patrols are done in armored vehicles, with watchful gunners whose weapons scan every street and wall. But not this time. Another new experience for them.

  Sara leads the way, her eyes fixed on the road as if she’s looking for tracks. There’s something somnambulatory about her. Shouldn’t she be looking straight ahead, so she can get her bearings? They left the boy back at the APCs.

  Steffensen wonders how they look to the eyes watching them from the scattered compounds. He has no doubt that they look exactly like what they are: a group of foreign soldiers out after something. Not any typical patrol.

  “These uniforms suck,” says Hannah, as if she’s just read Steffensen’s mind.

  Steffensen nods. The uniforms are too visible, and visible is exactly what they can’t be if they want to succeed.

  They’re close to the outermost houses. They have no idea how far it is to the city center. In Girishk, the southern suburbs with their endless wall-lined dirt roads lie several kilometers from the city center. It’s probably the same here. American soldiers would stick to the busiest main roads.

  “Right now it’s to our advantage that even the cities they claim are totally purged of Taliban are basically out of control,” says Hannah. She glances at Steffensen.

  They step through a wide opening between two walls and find themselves in the middle of a street with no stalls, doors, or windows. They still feel as if it’s yard time at a prison. New walls rise at the other end of the street. Their view is blocked on all sides, and there are no people anywhere, not even children. They can’t tell whether that’s a good sign or a bad one. Sara keeps walking with her head bent, as if guided more by intuition than eyesight. She stops suddenly and turns her head toward a gate. Her movements seem robotic. “Here,” she says. “The man you are looking for is here.”

  “Wait a minute,” says Viktor. “Why don’t we send her in first? She knows them. Then she can see if Schrøder and his men are in there. It could save us a lot of trouble.”

  “But won’t that warn them that we’re on our way?” Hannah looks skeptical.

  “Ask her.”

  Hannah presents Viktor’s idea to Sara, who immediately rejects it. “I cannot,” she says. “They will never let me in. I am an outcast. They left me in the qalat where you found me because they do not want to have anything to do with me.”

  “What have you done?”

  Sara ignores Viktor’s question. “I cannot,” she repeats. “It is not possible.”

  “Okay.” Viktor doesn’t look convinced. “If she won’t do it, the rest of us can’t just knock on the door and ask. It would be suicide if Schrøder is in there. And once we’ve blasted our way through the gate, there’s no turning back.”

  He orders his men to prepare the explosives, which they do quickly and routinely. There are two loud bangs, and then smoke billows out from the walls and into the street. “We take him alive!” yells Steffensen, though no one can hear him in all that noise. They’re in. There are men in the courtyard, while others stream out of doorways in the surrounding buildings. Women and children flee in the opposite direction, away from the gate, and a few press themselves up against the walls. A pair of children who’ve thrown themselves on the ground are holding their hands protectively over their heads. Men holding Kalashnikovs race out of the doorways and fire in all directions. These are battle-trained men they’ve attacked, not a bunch of innocent civilians. There are a lot of weapons here and many who know how to use them. Normally they’d be pulling back and calling for air support now, but this time they’re on their own.

  In a corner of the courtyard, automatic rifles lean up against the wall, along with several rocket launchers. The qalat’s inhabitants have obviously never tried to hide their weapons; they must have felt sure of themselves. A half dozen men are on their way toward that corner; some barely look like teenagers yet are already trained and ready to die. That’s where the soldiers still close to the gate concentrate their fire—and the Afghans run straight into it. A larger boy, one of the fastest sprinters, keeps running after he’s been hit, until he slams into the wall. He tumbles onto the rifles, which fall scattered. An adult man who was right behind him skids forward on his heels and then falls over backward before hitting the ground with a thud.

  They shoot at doorways where there’s more enemy fire. Two women unable to find cover tumble around in a swirl of loose clothing. A man is swept against the wall; the face beneath his turban blows apart when a shot makes a direct hit. Others jump back into doorways they were on their way out of.

  They already know it will be a difficult battle, going from room to room, and that they’ll find women and children inside. They don’t have much time. It’s only a matter of minutes before reinforcements show up. Or maybe the Americans.

  Before they pass through any door, they toss in a grenade. He’s hiding in there, the bastard, and sooner or later they’ll take him, dead or alive. Alive, says reason. Dead, says everything else within them. Their despair is gone, their doubt has vanished. All that’s left are the explosions and the sputtering rounds of fire, the shock wave from the blasts, the feeling of being totally present in the now, all of their senses at the breaking point, which is every battle’s reward. Who needs air support and five-hundred-pound bombs? They have themselves and the feeling of unstoppable force growing within them, shootout for shootout, room for room, murder for murder, victory for victory. And then the last round of gunfire dies down and they stop, exhausted and dripping with sweat, not only from physical exertion but also from a fear they never knew they could feel, because their brains refused to acknowledge the signals.

  The dead lie all over the houses and the courtyard. It’s hard to survey the casualties; they aren’t going to bother to count them. There are about twenty fallen, among them women and children. They don’t count them, either. What good will it do? They’ve gathered the survivors into two groups, men on one side and women and children on the other, with wounded in both groups. Some lie smeared in blood and gurgling on the ground; others sit upright with pale faces and staring eyes. Terrified, the children whimper. One boy, his face stiff, stares straight ahead. He’s not stifling tears—his eyes are filled with hate. They’ve forced the women to reveal their faces. A burka ca
n be the last wall a man hides behind, and they won’t give Schrøder that possibility.

  But Schrøder isn’t there. That’s the result of all this destruction.

  7

  Confused, they stare at each other. An expression of wild triumph in her eyes, Sara walks around among the dead and kicks them. She’s mumbling to herself. Maybe she really is crazy. Would she walk around the same way if they were the ones lying on the ground?

  Hannah looks around. She came out of one of the houses with blood splattered all over her flak jacket. Not her own. They haven’t suffered any losses. The attack was too sudden—and they were lucky. It could have gone wrong. There are weapons everywhere, and they were up against battle-ready men. But are they also Schrøder’s men? Was he ever even here?

  Hannah looks at the mumbling Sara, who has started rocking her head restlessly, as if her bloodthirst still hasn’t been fulfilled and now she wants more. Can they trust her at all? Has she just led them to some random place? Or have they gotten tangled up in a feud between two clans?

  Viktor grabs Sara and screams into her face: “Where is Schrøder?” With a strength that surprises the sergeant, the gaunt little woman tears herself away. “He is not here,” she screams back. Then she starts to mumble again. Still just as angry, Viktor repeats his question.

  How do they proceed? The chaplain stares at Hannah, who stares out into the air. Both seem preoccupied by their thoughts. The soldiers are suddenly weighed down. The rush of adrenaline is gone. They’re keeping a watchful eye on the disarmed men sitting with their hands tied behind their backs, up against a wall. It’s a dangerous moment; they are starting to feel doubt.

  Steffensen has been standing outside the gate with Sylvester and Sørensen, who are functioning as sentries. They’ve listened to the battle, the shots, the wounded’s cries, and finally the silence. In the end there’s always silence, thinks Steffensen, feeling that he’ll be reliving this again and again over the next couple of days.

  “I take it you haven’t found Schrøder,” he says when he comes face-to-face with Hannah.

  He couldn’t help but look around when he stepped through the blown-out gate. He saw dead lying all over the courtyard. He saw prisoners sitting together and women with their faces exposed. The sight was not so different from the one in Naib Atmar’s compound after the bombing. This time his reaction is different, though. What a waste, he thinks, what a waste.

  “So all this was all in vain,” he says to Hannah. He has to control himself to stay calm. He turns to the chaplain. “‘I know people,’” he sneers. “And you think you’re God’s representative here on Earth? How are you feeling about this? Just fine, I suppose?”

  Hannah looks at him with an expression he has never seen on a subordinate. “The gate is there,” she says, pointing toward the bombed-out rubble. “You’re free to go if you don’t like what’s happening.”

  She turns to the others. “We don’t know if Schrøder’s been here. That’s what we need to find out.”

  “Shoot a couple dozen people first, including women and children, and ask questions later.” Steffensen’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “Other people clear their throats before they speak. You just shoot. That’s how you search the premises?”

  Hannah moves abruptly, as if she has made a decision. She stands in front of the group of unarmed men and stares from face to face. They all stare back defiantly. She pulls a tall, thin man with a weathered face up on his feet. His turban has unraveled and hangs down on his chest. Hannah shoves him—hard—so he stumbles. He struggles to get back on his feet but never gains his footing because she drags him off mercilessly. In a degrading position, half on his knees, he’s lugged out and hurled into the middle of the courtyard. Supporting himself with both hands, the Afghan rises with difficulty. He stands up straight, brushes dust off his kirtle, and with rapid movements reties his loose turban.

  Sara walks over to them and carefully eyes the Afghan. Her mumbling stage seems to have passed.

  “Ask him what his name is.” Hannah points at the man standing in front of them.

  “Massoud,” says the man.

  “Ask him if he’s Taliban.”

  Once again the man replies before Sara translates. He must have recognized the word “Taliban.” This might not be his first time being interrogated. “We are not Taliban,” he says. “You have no reason to attack us.”

  “He is lying!” Sara interrupts. “The man you are looking for has been here. I know it!”

  “Ask him about Schrøder. Where is he?” Hannah’s jaw tightens and her voice is bitter, as if she’s about to erupt in rage.

  “You do not belong in our country,” says Massoud. “Afghanistan is ours, not yours.”

  “We’re dying for your sake!” Hannah’s left fist slams into the Afghan’s face. He stumbles back a step but maintains his balance. Dark blood runs from his nose into his gray beard. Hannah pulls him so close that they’re pressed up against each other. “So tell me where Schrøder is or I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Suddenly they hear shots and shouting coming from outside. Sørensen stands in the gate. “We’re under attack!”

  At Viktor’s command, they separate into two groups. Half of them race out of the gate to respond to the attack, while the other half herds the prisoners into the closest house. The confiscated weapons, piled up in a corner of the courtyard, receive a hand grenade.

  Hannah is still holding on to the man she was interrogating, and then she hands him to Gustav and Mathias. “He’s going with us,” she says. Three confused women stand over by one wall. “Them, too!” With her rifle raised, she directs the women over toward the gate. She turns to Simon, who is staring at her. “Don’t stand there gaping—if you want to get out of here alive, do as I say!”

  They reach the street. A little ways off, a group of Afghan men are advancing; they’re carrying automatic rifles and shooting while they run. Camper and Karlsen return fire from the gateway. Two of the Afghans are already lying in the street.

  When they spot the women, they freeze and lower their weapons. “Stop shooting!” yells Hannah. The soldiers also lower their rifles. For a moment there’s a cease-fire, not because anyone has reached an agreement, but because neither side can believe their eyes.

  “We’re fucking using women as shields,” curses Simon, who sounds as if he can’t believe what he’s saying.

  But it works. No one is shooting at them. The Afghans pull back, step by step. The women break into something that resembles a battle cry. It sounds as if they’re inciting their warriors.

  “What are they saying?” Steffensen is standing next to Sara.

  Enraged, she answers as if she’s one of them. “They are urging their men to shoot. ‘Shoot! We don’t care. Shoot in the name of your sons!’ That is what they are yelling.”

  They pull back slowly while holding on to the women, who are still screaming. The desert opens behind them. The Afghans follow, their rifles now raised, although they make no sign of doing as the women urge. Their numbers keep growing. Maybe they got into the qalat and freed the people who were locked in there, which means they’ve also seen the dead all over the courtyard and know what their opponents are capable of. More women, children, and men appear behind the fighters, though not all of them are armed. It no longer resembles an armed confrontation that has paused momentarily. Now it looks like a protest; the only thing missing are the banners.

  The crowd stops at the entrance to the street. The Afghans spread along the nearby walls until they’ve formed a human wall protecting the entrance to the city. They stand shoulder to shoulder while watching the soldiers slowly pull back. The women finally cease their excited shouting, maybe in acceptance of their fate.

  “What are we going to do with them?” Steffensen looks at Hannah. “We certainly can’t take them with us.” He’s appealing to her as if he’s afraid of the answer.

  Hannah shakes her head. “We can’t just let them go. We hold on to them un
til we reach the APCs.” She nods at the tall Afghan whose nose is still bleeding. “Him we take with us. I’m not finished with him yet. He must know something.”

  Desert surrounds them on all sides now, and Sangin has disappeared behind one of the small ridges. They start to search for the armored vehicles, which can’t be far away. They dare not crawl up one of the ridges to get a better view. Hannah fires off a flare, and a moment later another flare responds in the west. They change directions, and soon they can see the APCs.

  Dennis waves at them from behind his 12.7. Then he spots the women, who have re-covered their faces. “Hey, we have company. What happened?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. They’re leaving now.” Hannah turns to Simon and Sylvester. “Let them go.” The soldiers release the women.

  The three women stand there as if they haven’t yet realized that they’re free. Ignoring them, the soldiers load up the APCs and then crawl in. Massoud follows behind them. As they drive toward the highway, the women still haven’t moved. Dennis blows them some kisses. “We’re gonna miss ya,” he calls cheerfully.

  “You know why they are still standing there, don’t you?” Sara has taken her usual place next to Hannah in the open hatch.

  “No. I have no idea.”

  “They are disgraced. Everyone thinks you took them to rape them. That’s why they are still standing there. They no longer have anywhere to go.”

  “They were only with us for a few minutes. Something like that couldn’t have happened. Their families must realize that.”

  “You took them against their will.”

  Then it dawns on Hannah. Yes, she did know; she heard about it somewhere. How Afghan women become untouchable, the fatal consequences if a foreign man gets too close, even if a woman resists. Hannah bows her head. She forgot about it in the heat of the battle. She was caught in a rush of adrenaline—and maybe of something else.

  “The mission is the most important thing,” she says, trying to sound strong. “We had to do it. Otherwise we’d never have gotten out of Sangin alive, and many more would have been killed.” She feels an overwhelming powerlessness, a confusion she can’t succumb to. “Forgive me,” she hears herself say.