I can see bullets’ impact in the gravel. One of the men in front of me falls to his knees, lifts his Kalashnikov to his chest, and fires. For a moment I think he’s just trying to cover us, until I see the red spot spreading out on his shalwar kameez, right beneath his shoulder blade. As I run past him, he starts to stagger, supporting himself with one hand, his eyes starting to fade. Then his arm gives way and he lands on his side.
We reach the dense thicket beneath the willows. They don’t offer much protection, but at least we’re not visible. A group of Afghans are already there, and the noise from their Kalashnikovs is deafening. To my great relief, I also see several soldiers in Danish uniforms. I recognize the faces from my files: Dennis, Sylvester, the sergeant Viktor, Gustav, Sebastian, and Mathias. There’s no time for introductions—and in their eyes I probably look like yet another Afghan hillbilly. Taking cover on the ground, we try to catch our breath.
I look out across the field at the qalat they’re shooting at: I assume it’s the mercenaries from DarkSky, but I can’t be sure. The din from all these weapons is overwhelming. “Is that DarkSky over there?” I yell in Danish at the sergeant. Surprised, he stares at me and then nods.
About a dozen bodies lie motionless in the middle of the field, all of them wearing dove-blue clothes. Burkas. At first I think that a group of desperate women caught in the crossfire sought cover by throwing themselves flat on the ground. But something about the position they’re lying in makes me feel that they’re probably dead. Women who’ve been brutally gunned down—it must be the massacre Simon mentioned. What has happened here?
Seven boys, all about ten years old, suddenly sprint across the field. The intense gunfire doesn’t cease, although no one seems to be shooting at them. I doubt it’s because of any special concern for them—they’re just not worth wasting ammunition on. Maybe the boys are in a state of panic, but why haven’t the adults kept them behind the qalat’s protective walls? In a moment they’re going to run straight into the line of fire. Right before they reach the dead zone, they turn sharply and head for the qalat that’s the source of the shooting. They hug the wall, so I assume they’re seeking cover from the raging gunfire. Instead, they each toss something that looks like a rock, about the size of a hand, over the clay wall. One resounding detonation after the other reveals that they weren’t rocks. Gray smoke and flames rise above the wall.
As the gunfire coming from the qalat dies out, the villagers around me break into cheers. The soldiers are quieter. Everyone then rises and storms out of the thicket, with me on their heels. A throng of men, many in sand-colored uniforms, barrels out of the qalat closest to us. The assault on the qalat the boys peppered with grenades has begun.
Although shooting starts up again, the gunfire coming from inside the qalat lacks the same intensity as before and seems unfocused. In the middle of the field, three of the villagers kneel down, take aim, and fire their rocket launchers. With a roar, fire streams out the back end. The rockets leave a long trail of smoke behind them. I can tell that they hit right where we’d been shot from; rubble from the clay wall shoots up into the air in a cloud of fire and smoke, and the gunfire dies out.
Once we reach the gate, the soldiers plant explosives. We stay close to the wall as explosions ring out, turning the green metal locks into twisted scrap iron. The Danes are on the offensive now; the Afghans try to push forward, but they’re waved aside. I can see the ferocity in the Danes’ eyes, and I know where it’s coming from. In their minds, they’re firing at Schrøder—they’re storming in to kill Schrøder, even if he isn’t actually there. Holding the Kalashnikov in front of me, I race in with the Afghans.
Along one wall we can see the remains of a wooden platform, where the men from DarkSky were standing while shooting at us. Twisted corpses and body parts lie all over the ground, and there’s blood everywhere. At the other end of the courtyard, a handful of soldiers in American uniforms are still defending themselves. One of the Danes falls, along with several Afghans. The white smoky tail of a rocket streams across the courtyard and finishes off the resistance. But the Danes don’t stop. One by one, they vanish into the doorways to find any remaining survivors and clean out the rats’ nest.
I’ve never taken part in an ambush before. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I lay down my rifle. What would I have done if the battle had dragged on? I walk around the courtyard and stare at the dead. The sight of all that mutilation doesn’t exactly have a calming effect. Faces smeared in blood, eyes staring, torn-off limbs, abdomens oozing thick, glistening entrails. I try to remain disinterested. I have to play the observer who will have to file a report one day.
There’s a Dane among the fallen. I recognize him by his uniform. His eyebrows and eyelashes are totally white. He isn’t part of this platoon—his name is Karlsen.
The dead Afghans lie close to the gate. They all came with us, so the mercenaries from DarkSky had no local support. Whoever had been helping them among the arbakai betrayed them. The militia might be used to terrorizing the local population, but they aren’t used to the locals responding in kind—so they bolted.
We hear shots coming from inside the houses. An explosion. Smoke rolls out of a doorway. Then silence. Soldiers in Danish uniforms come out, their faces covered in soot. Two of them are dragging a man between them, the toes of his boots scraping the gravel. The shirt of his American uniform is dark with blood. As they toss him on the ground, he groans in pain. He rolls around, trying to lie on his back. His full beard is gray and brown with dust and dirt, and there’s a dark trail of blood coming from one corner of his mouth. He parts his lips, revealing two rows of unusually white teeth, in stark contrast to his soiled beard. I can’t tell if he’s clenching his teeth in pain or trying to smile.
“Can’t a guy get a cigarette around here?” he asks.
35
“We’re a nonsmoking army.”
A small middle-aged man with a well-trimmed mustache walks over to the injured man lying on the ground. He’s Colonel Ove Steffensen, the Danes’ commanding officer. I introduce myself. He doesn’t seem surprised. He looks like a man who takes things as they come—the only attitude you can have if you’ve been through everything he has.
“The secret service, huh,” he says. “And what is it you think you can do for us?”
“Get you home. That’s why I’m here.”
“One man? They haven’t allocated many resources for us. I take it you’re familiar with the case?”
“Not every detail. For example, I don’t know what your relationship is with DarkSky or what’s gone wrong between you.” I point at the courtyard, now filled with the dead.
“Wrong?” he says, and for the first time I note something other than sarcasm in his voice. “We just made mincemeat of the bastards.”
Shocked, I stare at him. His face reveals no sign of fury; only his words are angry.
“Perhaps this man can help with some information. He’s DarkSky’s man on the spot. A major, or so he says. Otherwise the only name he’s offering is Timothy. We’re very informal here, aren’t we, Tim?” Steffensen looks down at the man lying at his feet. “Personally, I call him Mr. Timothy. I think you have to follow proper etiquette.” His voice is dripping with contempt.
“One cigarette, Mr. Steffensen. Can’t you spare a smoke?”
“You heard me. We’re a nonsmoking army.”
“Come on.”
Mr. Timothy smiles wide, which seems to cause great discomfort, yet there’s some relief in his voice. Clearly he thinks he and Steffensen have some kind of understanding.
Steffensen motions for Simon to come over. “Take a look at his wounds,” he says. “Tell me what his chances are.”
Kneeling down, Simon removes Mr. Timothy’s flak jacket. There’s a lot of blood—the vest is useless against bullets fired at close range. He quickly locates the entrance wound and then turns Mr. Timothy over to see if he can find an exit wound. The injured man moans, but with great effort
pulls himself together.
“Here!” Simon looks up at Steffensen. “His flak jacket stopped the bullet on its way out. There’s probably a lot of internal damage. He needs to get to a field hospital—fast.” With trained movements, he applies a compress before dressing the man’s wounds.
“Should I administer morphine?”
Steffensen shakes his head. “No need. A waste of morphine. Let him fry.”
Although the conversation is in Danish, Mr. Timothy tries to follow along but has to give up. “Am I going to make it?” His tone is ironic, as if he’s beyond trivialities like life and death.
“That’s the least of your problems.”
Mr. Timothy smiles again, the same stiff smile as before. He clearly thinks that he and Steffensen are engaged in some sort of verbal tennis match. “Can I have permission to sit up?” Steffensen nods at Simon, who brings over a bloodstained backpack; he places it behind the injured man and helps him sit up. As he leans against it, Mr. Timothy winces with pain, and for a moment he looks like he regrets his decision.
“My allies among the locals must have had urgent errands to attend to when they ran off. You, on the other hand, seem to have acquired some new friends. People in Khan Kala are usually more accommodating.”
Steffensen stares at him but doesn’t react, which surprises Mr. Timothy. He seems to think they’re two chess players who’ve just finished a game and are evaluating their individual moves before they start the next one.
“Those children with the hand grenades—you caught me by surprise. Well done. I didn’t see that one coming. I mean . . . you’re Danes . . . world renowned for your high morals. And then child soldiers! No hard feelings. On the contrary. My compliments. I learn something new every day. Next time I see one of those little shits, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.” His tone remains affable.
I suggest to Steffensen that we tear ourselves away from the fascinating Mr. Timothy and lead the commander over to one corner of the courtyard. “We’ve left a trail,” I say.
“A trail?” Steffensen looks perplexed.
I point at all the dead bodies in the courtyard. “The bullets from your rifles inside those bodies—they’re M96s, aren’t they? Evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes,” I reply. “You’ve just killed a lot of people. Some of them American citizens, and probably a Russian or two. Bullets are easy to trace—and before you can count to three, you’ll have the American Special Forces on your tail. Mr. Timothy is definitely working for the American army.”
“Yes, but they couldn’t possibly have known what he was doing.”
“They may very well have known and decided to look the other way. They probably keep their distance from characters like Mr. Timothy and then deny any connection if things go wrong. But he’s still one of their own—and you can’t get away with killing an American citizen. Also, DarkSky has tons of armed men out here. Those boys aren’t the only mercenaries in Afghanistan. You’re all outlaws now.”
He’s starting to see the light. “What the hell were we supposed to do? It was us or them.”
He’s in pain. I feel sorry for him.
“Call your men together,” I say.
He orders his men to gather around us. Although they’re still on an adrenaline rush, I see something else in their faces. Steffensen introduces me. I look at each of them and speak their names. Two are missing. Karlsen, whose body I’ve just seen, and Lukas Møller, the chaplain, who I assume is back in DarkSky’s camp. Otherwise they’re all here. Steffensen, Viktor, Simon, Hannah, Andreas, Sørensen, Sylvester, Sebastian, Mathias, Gustav, and Camper. They’re impressed that I know their names, but they’re also conscious of Karlsen’s absence. They look around. I’m the one who announces their comrade’s death. Camper, who must be his buddy, looks away.
“Do you know who all of you are?” I ask.
Several of them shake their head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Why do you think the people in Khan Kala became your allies? True, your sand-colored uniforms look different than DarkSky’s blue ones, but you showed up with their tormentors. So far they’ve let themselves be terrorized without resisting. Why go on the attack today—and why just to help you?”
Third Platoon’s soldiers were flexible enough to adapt when the villagers suddenly joined their side. They’re well trained. They can think for themselves—in the short run—but they don’t have the big picture.
“I don’t know exactly what happened in this village,” I say, “but I know why it happened. You’re not, as you believe, NATO soldiers. You’re jihadists.”
They’re dumbfounded.
“You converted to Islam in a public ceremony. You were forced into it—but the locals don’t know that. They think you chose to do it because you realized the righteousness of their struggle, and now you’re fighting for them. So they ascribe all kinds of heroic deeds to you. They believe you’re here to help them. You’ve crossed the line in the sand, and now you’re on the other side.”
“This is crazy!” Dennis can’t believe his ears.
“That’s why you’re still living. They think you’re their saviors.”
I ask them to tell me what happened before my arrival. I’m not the only one who needs the overview—they need it, too.
Hannah steps forward, tall and slender, her head shaved like the rest of them. There’s an adhesive bandage running across her nose. Her fine eyebrows, her eyelashes, and her narrow face and mouth reveal who she is. Although decidedly beautiful, her face possesses a kind of neutrality, as if her beauty is waiting in the wings.
“We came down here with the guys from DarkSky. One of the local militia members introduced us to a group of young women they abducted from villages higher up in the valley. The women had ropes tied around their ankles so they couldn’t run away. They were crying with fear. We already knew what they were using them for—we’d seen it up in DarkSky’s camp. But there were so many of them here that we saw it as human trafficking.”
She pauses to rub her forehead, as if she has an itch.
“We said we’re not going along with this—that they had to let the women go. Mr. Timothy said that the women were useless then, so they’d have to get rid of them and it would be our fault.”
She pauses again and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“One of the militiamen grabbed one of the women and killed her right in front of us. I shot the bastard, DarkSky jumped in, and then the villagers attacked. The militia fired on the women before they ran off. They were just lying there in their burkas . . . on the ground with rope around their ankles.”
She starts to shake.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s so fucking unpleasant to talk about. But I’d like to tell you the rest.”
I nod.
“At first, we didn’t know the villagers were on our side. Then we realized that they were going after DarkSky and the militia members. They helped us get into the qalat. The bastards from DarkSky settled in across from us.”
Her arms reach out helplessly, but she stands erect. Only her shoulders disclose her emotion.
“I have to ask you to do something very unpleasant before we leave here,” I say. “Under no circumstances can we leave behind any clues.” I take a deep breath. Unpleasant is an understatement. “We have to remove all the bullets from the dead bodies—and the only way to do that is to cut them out.”
“There are bullets everywhere,” says Steffensen. “It isn’t a direct hit every time we fire.”
“A bullet in a wall is not evidence, but a bullet in a body is.”
I avoid using the word “desecration.” No need to rely on the ultimate argument—that it’s been done before by their allies. American Special Forces cut bullets out of the bodies of women and children they’d killed in an attack on a qalat in Gardez, in Paktia Province. Later, they claimed the Taliban was behind it and that
the insurgents had a tradition of mutilating their victims. If anyone has any doubts, we’re merely following in the footsteps of our role models.
I was expecting some protest from Steffensen, but his face is blank. So far he’s managed to keep it together, but he’s starting to respond to the bloody events of the last few hours as the desk jockey he really is. I think my arrival has sped up the process. I’m commanding Third Platoon now.
In one corner of the qalat, soldiers are going at it with their field knives. At times they call for the medic, Simon, who’s serving as a consultant. Each time he asks them to turn the body over to see if bullets have left any crater-size exit wounds. Mercifully, the force with which the bullet from a 5.56 millimeter rifle works its way into a body and out again has done much of their work for them. They’re all smeared in blood, and it looks like a slaughterhouse, except you can’t tell who’s the slaughtered animal and who’s the butcher. Now and then you hear the sound of a soldier gagging, but no one throws up. Their faces remain blank. Are they still thinking about Schrøder? Is it his body they’re mutilating?
Often Simon’s the one using the field knife; he cuts with the learned skill of a butcher. At one point he uses both hands to lift intestines out of a body he just opened. He places the entrails on the ground and, telling Sylvester to search them, moves on to the next body. I look away, but then I look again. I can’t help it.
I notice that Mr. Timothy is gone. I ask Simon if he knows where he went. “Two of the Afghans took him,” he replies. I don’t need to ask where: I know what’s in store for the major from DarkSky.
The soldiers finish sooner than I expected. “I assume we’re taking the bullets with us.” There’s a quiver in Steffensen’s voice, and his hands are shaking uncontrollably.
I nod. “We can always bury them somewhere later.”
The First Stone Page 48