The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  “Atonement? For what?” asks Steffensen.

  “Before you converted and became jihadists, you belonged to the foreign forces. You’ve brought many misfortunes to these people. Now you will show that your past is behind you. You are asking for forgiveness. That’s what the sheep means, a prayer of forgiveness.”

  “When does it end?” Steffensen’s face is filled with desperation. “Fuck, man! We’ve converted. We’ve massacred a whole platoon of mercenaries!” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this, too.”

  “You can if you want to get home.” I give him a stern look. “You have no choice.”

  I turn toward Simon, waiting with the field knife in one hand and the nape of the animal’s neck in the other. The sheep has stopped bleating. He knows animals. “Do it!” I say.

  I turn back to Steffensen. “I’ll say what needs to be said.”

  “Spare me the translation.”

  Ignoring him, I walk with Simon out to the middle of the square. I say a few words that are basically identical to those I just said to Steffensen. “Remember—it must be halal,” I tell Simon. “Hold the animal by the nape of the neck and make one clean cut across the carotid artery, windpipe, and esophagus.”

  He performs the slaughter just as I told him: the incision is quick and precise. “In Allah’s name, the most beneficent, the most merciful,” I say. The animal’s legs kick wildly as Simon holds on tight until, fatigued by the loss of blood, the sheep hangs loosely from his hand. He lays it gently on the ground.

  The men on the square aim their rifles toward the treetops. Our prayer of forgiveness is accepted, the atonement sealed. I ask the Danes to step out into the middle of the square. The village men surround them immediately and embrace them, one by one. Now we are all brothers.

  In one corner stand Malalai’s sisters, their expression as blank as before, with Sara beside them. Her expression is also inscrutable.

  Atonement, I think. Yes, but not for them.

  This is only the beginning. I’ll find out soon if my father has answered my letter. I have my own prayer of forgiveness. The most difficult prayer of my life.

  And the most insincere.

  Our lives depend on it being answered.

  40

  We spend the night in the village. We stay in various houses and courtyards, surrounded on all sides by the protective walls the Afghans have had to live with for millennia. The village’s residents place sentries on duty, as do we. I spend a lot of time translating to help coordinate preparations for the night.

  The village men install another ring of safety around the village. Squatting, they dig into the ground with their hands to plant roadside bombs everywhere an enemy might try to sneak in. They know the earth so well that they can get it to sprout and give life; the same skillful hands can also sow death when necessary. Watching the villagers work, the soldiers exchange glances. From now on, they’re living in the opposite world, surrounded by locals they would have viewed as the enemy just days ago. Now they’re armed brothers.

  Third Platoon overnights in the same qalat, but the men from the first village come over to sit with them when food is laid out in the courtyard. They’ve fought together, and now they’ll eat together; their new comrades in arms choose the juiciest morsels of lamb, which they place on large pieces of naan.

  The soldiers’ faces are closed and exhausted. Møller looks as if he’s decided never to open his mouth again. Hannah is distant, although the tension remains. She looks as if she didn’t sleep at all last night.

  I sit next to Steffensen, who also looks exhausted. I ask about the drone that flew into the mountain not far from the bazaar. He nods. He saw it happen. There’s just so much he can’t understand. Right now he looks as if he’s about to give up.

  He must think I know what I’m doing, because I exude self-confidence. I have to. I have plans—he doesn’t—but my plans are an endless chain of unlikely “ifs.” I only act as if I believe in them. Still, I can’t ignore Steffensen’s authority, his role as commander. He has to exhibit faith in himself and what we’re doing. I can’t take over full command, even if I’m the one who has it. We’re playing a game in which I act like his adviser and he acts as if the decisions are his.

  We discuss the drone threat. Will we see another drone fall out of the sky right before our eyes? Steffensen thinks we’re out of Schrøder’s range, but I’m afraid his optimism is unfounded. “At this very moment, Schrøder is probably sitting in front of a satellite image looking down at us. He might have been following us all day. Anything is possible with that man.”

  I don’t tell him we’ll have to meet Schrøder one last time before this is all over.

  Although Steffensen doesn’t seem to be guessing my thoughts, he must have some intuition. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I have no qualifications for all this.”

  There’s no electricity in the village. Bonfires have been lit, and flames flicker around the courtyard. Steffensen leans in to compensate for the darkness surrounding us. “I don’t know how to fight a man like Schrøder.”

  “None of us do.” I fight the urge to place my hand on his shoulder—no need to seem patronizing.

  “It’s not just that. If I understand correctly, we’ll be fighting against drones and helicopters. No one here has been trained for that. Superiority in technology and firepower is our starting point. Every time we haven’t had any air or artillery support, we’ve gotten screwed.”

  “Well, this is a problem we can’t bomb our way out of,” I say.

  He hesitates. “We’ve never been able to do that. In fact, that’s why we were screwed. Faith in our superiority turned out to be a fantasy.”

  “We’re the guerrilla soldiers now.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better. Guerrillas have time on their side. We just want to get home—but the guerrillas are home.”

  “At least we have weapons now.”

  “Yes, at least we have weapons.” His voice still sounds despondent.

  41

  It’s late, but Hannah is still sitting there staring into the fire, her face half covered by the bandage. Her eyes are in shadow.

  After I’m certain no one else from Third Platoon is nearby, I sit down next to her. “We need to talk,” I say.

  “About what?” She continues to stare into the flames.

  “About Schrøder.”

  She startles. “What about him?”

  “You two had a relationship. He told me himself.”

  She flinches as if I’ve struck her. “What did he say about me?”

  “He said he revealed everything to you but that you didn’t grasp any of it.”

  The words wound her, but I see something else. Hannah might be a tough girl, maybe she’s been with several men, but she’s inexperienced at love. You can learn to operate an automatic rifle and believe the world has nothing else to teach you yet still feel the insecurity of a child. That’s the way it is for many people. She pulls herself together. Her face tightens and the sleepiness dissipates. Yes, she’s as vulnerable as a child, but she’s also strong—and it’s not the military training that has hardened her. She’s attended a much tougher school.

  “Nothing we speak about will go any further,” I say.

  “He said a lot of things. Some of it seemed incredibly wise. Some of it I didn’t understand.” Her voice is flat, as if she’s filing a report. I can hear how professional she is. She quickly realizes that the current situation makes it useless to keep anything hidden. “Whenever I didn’t understand, I thought there was something wrong with me. Other things made me angry. I thought he was being patronizing. Sometimes he said things that upset me.”

  “How?”

  “I was worried about him. I thought he was smoking dope or something like that.”

  “Try to remember what he said.”

  She has a surprising memory, and I have the same reactions to his words: I find some of it wise and some of it inco
mprehensible, and I recognize some of it from my conversations with him. I can just picture him acting smug in front of a young, infatuated woman. It’s easy to impress others, and he couldn’t resist the temptation. Of course he’d push the envelope and almost reveal himself. Still, I don’t think I would have guessed his plans before he set them in motion, and I tell her that. “Even I couldn’t have figured it out. Don’t feel guilty because alarms didn’t go off. You got burned—we all do sometimes. Someone leads us on because we’re trusting, and I’m not saying that because we’re too trusting. Trust is important if you’re going to have normal relationships with other people. You’ll get that chance with someone else. I’m sure of it.”

  “Really? You make a living out of basically mistrusting everyone. It’s your profession.”

  “You have to be able to distinguish your professional life from your personal one. They’re two different things. I know it can be difficult. Some of our experiences make us think that life sucks. But trust me—it doesn’t.”

  Her expression softens. Maybe I struck a chord. I can tell this has been plaguing her. She’s felt not only lonely but guilty, too. Maybe she’s taking the first steps out of Schrøder’s shadow.

  I return to her conversations with him. “There was something he said to both of us—something about an overweight man with osteoporosis. What do you think he meant?”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t understand any of that. Or when he asked if I would die with him in an unholy war.”

  “Isn’t there a song by Amy Winehouse where she sings about backing up her man even if he fights what she calls an unholy war? He told me he didn’t have any motives. Do you know what a griefer is?”

  She nods. “It’s someone who ruins video games for others, just because he can.”

  “Yes, and that’s just what Schrøder is. A griefer. An unholy warrior. And he’s not the only one. I think we’ll see more like him. Schrøder has no goals. There’s nothing a griefer wants to win or defend—that’s what makes them so unpredictable and strong. The secret service searches for people like themselves who fit into certain boxes. State actors or terrorists with clear goals. But Schrøder? He’s one of the cyber war’s lone bogeymen. He’s not some internet guerrilla warrior—he has no plans, no revolutionary programs he wants to carry out. He’s not trying to achieve anything. Why go through all the effort of acquiring a weapon? Why waste the energy? Online, you’re just a click away from thought to action—and then you’re breaking into the Pentagon, taking control of a drone, or flying one plane into another. Why change the world when you turn it into one big video game and blow it all to hell?”

  I stop. I let myself get carried away. I’m worried that the way I’m talking might remind her of Schrøder.

  Hannah has been listening attentively. “He had strange dreams,” she says. “He screamed in his sleep. Every night he would dream that his face was falling apart.”

  That’s a new piece of information, but it doesn’t surprise me. “Maybe it’s not so strange to have those kind of dreams if you’re trying to keep track of all the different masks you wear so no one will recognize you.” I tell her about all the identities Schrøder has created online.

  I can see how embarrassing it is for her to talk about Schrøder. I ask if she thinks he has any weaknesses. She mentions his dreams again, but she can’t think of anything else.

  “Andreas’s camera,” she says, abruptly changing the subject. I let her. “He got this idea that we should create an online memorial, not just for the fallen with their birth and death dates, like on the Citadel, but also a documentary about our lives out here. Battles, talking, anything. A memorial for the living, too. Schrøder was always encouraging him to film everything, even as his prisoner. DarkSky confiscated his camera, but now he has it back again. You probably don’t realize it, but he’s filming us as we walk through the valley. You said a lot of encouraging things about surviving and coming back home, but we all know there’s a pretty good chance we’ll die. That’s why Andreas said we should talk to the camera, say something important.”

  “A final farewell to your friends and families?”

  “No, not like that. That’s always so fake. Something important, something from deep inside. About ourselves, no matter how hard or painful it might be.”

  “Think he’d let me see it?”

  “I don’t think the others would like it. They wouldn’t be as open next time. They’d feel spied on. You’re just not one of us.” She looks at me imploringly. “You have to understand that the camera isn’t just Andreas’s life. It’s also ours.”

  42

  We get ready to leave in the morning. The soldiers have slept indoors. I’ve slept outside, wrapped in a woolen blanket, close to a fire. I’m starting to get used to sleeping on the ground.

  When Third Platoon enters the courtyard, they’re dressed in freshly washed and starched white kirtles and baggy sirwals supplied by the villagers. No helmets or flak jackets. They’re guerrilla warriors now and are finding it easier to fit in with the Afghans. Hannah’s in a shalwar kameez, too, but none of them is wearing a turban. Their bald heads are taking on a darker hue as the stubble slowly grows in.

  We’re about two hundred people. A group of villagers leads the way, followed by the soldiers, blending in with the crowd, and then women, children, and animals, then more villagers and an armed, vigilant rear guard. Scouts have been sent out in advance.

  We’ve walked for about half an hour when we hear muffled explosions rolling up the hillside. Someone has entered the deserted village and triggered the buried roadside bombs we left. A murmur rises from the marching procession. The children’s shouting dies down. Pulling them closer, the women look back anxiously. The men pause, their faces watchful.

  Steffensen orders six of his soldiers to join the rear guard. Good, I think, you’re reacting. You have the big picture. You’re the commander. We exchange a quick glance, and I nod.

  We could pick up the pace, but I don’t think that’s wise. If a lot of people rush forward, it looks like they’re fleeing—and that quickly turns into mass psychosis and panic. Understanding this instinctively, our vanguard of armed Afghan men maintains the same calm tempo, one suitable for the gently sloping terrain. I think it would be a good idea right now if everyone started breathing exercises to keep their heart rate down. I’m not afraid of our pursuers—I’m afraid of the chaos of animals and people if panic breaks out and we lose control.

  I walk back along the procession to see how the rear guard is reacting. Six villagers, their shoulder bags surely filled with explosives, are ready with Kalashnikovs. They want to disburse new roadside bombs. A boy of about twelve is directing them. He’s a child, but not necessarily to the villagers. He might be an oldest son who lost his father and became the head of the household. He’s not a child but a man among men. A severe tic makes the right side of his face contract at regular intervals.

  “Do you understand now?” he says. They nod somberly. “Do you have everything with you?” They nod again. He speaks with authority, in strong contrast to his unsightly tic.

  The boy can tell I’m an outsider. “Don’t worry,” he says in English. “We’ll make it.” He reaches out his hand. “My name is Sharif.”

  “I speak Pashto. What’s happening there?”

  “Wait and see.” Sharif smiles secretively. He continues to speak English—he’s trying to impress the others.

  They wave the Danes over to them. They will serve as backup while the roadside bombs are disbursed. I ask if they need me to translate. “No, thanks. We speak the same language,” says Viktor, who doesn’t know yet that the boy has mastered English. The others smile. They seem elated; it’s good for them to fight. Along with the villagers, Viktor, his three boys, Dennis, and Camper run down the mountainside. Sharif is among them.

  A half hour later, we hear more explosions, followed by gunfire. Our pursuers are closing in.

  This time we stop. The men form
a protective wall around the women and children. Although the animals are running back and forth, they stay close. Another team of men—this time only Afghans—is sent back, and I decide to follow along. We don’t hear any more shots as we quicken our pace, though we stop short of running. Our visibility is good, so we don’t have to worry about being taken by surprise. After we’ve gone about a kilometer and a half, we spot them.

  The Danes and Afghans are walking back together; as far as I can see, they haven’t suffered any losses. “We won’t have to worry about them any longer,” says Viktor to me. “These guys are pretty tough.” He nods appreciatively at the villagers, who smile back. “I’m fucking glad we aren’t fighting you!” He slaps one of them on the shoulder, and the Afghan gives him a shove.

  “We really thought they wanted to plant roadside bombs, but no—this was much more inventive. Booby traps hung in trees, right at chest level. Gigantic explosive effect. A radius of about . . .” He looks around.

  “Six or seven meters,” says Dennis. “It took out three or four men at a time once they touched the trip wire. The idiots were too busy looking down for roadside bombs, loose earth, that kind of thing. They never saw it coming. Then we took care of the rest. Man, what were they thinking? There were about ten of them. Did they think they were hunting civilians?”

  Dennis points at the boy standing a ways off. “Sharif knew how to set the booby traps. I don’t know where they learn that kind of thing, but he’s fucking clever.” He walks over to the boy and hugs him. “I’m just singing your praises,” he says. “You know your shit, man!”

  Sharif looks at Dennis. His eyes sparkle as he laughs and his right cheek twitches again. “Yeah,” he says. “I know my shit, man.”

  Someone says it sounds like a gigantic electric lawn mower. Others compare it to the sound of a combine at harvest time. Except this combine isn’t preparing for any harvest in the sky.

  Somewhere high above us, a drone hovers, filling the air with its incessant whir.