The Green Platoon

by Martin Hand

  Chapter Five

  The first glimpse the lads got of their new landscape was from the charter as it gradually descended from 36,000 feet. From the chatter, it seemed they had been expecting something out of Lawrence of Arabia – rolling sand dunes for as far as the eye could see. The desert would be a novel sight for them, particularly for the lads from the northside of Dublin. Some of them had never strayed south of the River Liffey, never mind the south of the Mediterranean.

  But their hopes of seeing miles and miles of undulating sand dunes were immediately dashed. Instead they looked down on a mountain range, rock rather than sand, red rather than yellow. You could already appreciate the oppressive heat in the absence of green in a landscape that could only have been forged under a baking sun.

  The plane gave a sudden violent jump, as though it was thumped ten feet upwards.

  ‘Are we after clipping one of those mountains?’ asked Private Taylor.

  Sergeant Doyle rolled his eyes. ‘Soldier, if we clipped one of them hills, I can assure you, me boy, we’d be well on our way to Heaven by now.’

  They finally came to a complete stop on a remote concrete runway surrounded by rocky undulating desert, the mountains now in the distance behind them. It had the look of a military installation, judging by the few small, camouflaged buildings that made up the site. The desert air introduced the boys to a different smell. A fragrant, warm smell, which left the impression that something pleasant must grow here during some part of the year. They walked down the aircraft steps and on towards a minibus, which was now approaching the group.

  ‘Me first look at the Leb,’ said Taylor.

  ‘I think not, since we’re in Jordan,’ Sergeant O’Brien replied.

  ‘What, the model?’

  ‘No, Jordan the country, you eejit. Now pipe down, we’re off to briefing and billeting. Time for some real soldiering.’

  The troop journeyed for about fifty minutes to what was to be home for the next three weeks. They murmured away about the strangeness of not being in the destination they had expected. A lot of them had researched Camp Shamrock in the Lebanon, where to go on leave and all that. This destination, when they arrived, was a stark, fenced-off site. Its eight stone-built single-storey buildings had the grim look of standard military dormitories. The lads were quickly marshalled into one of the buildings, which was set up for briefing purposes.

  ‘Hello, my name is Captain Mohammad Almadi. On behalf of the Jordanian Army and at the request of the Palestinian Authority, you are all welcome to my country.’

  Captain Almadi was the first foreign soldier the young lads had ever encountered and was a relaxed, pristinely dressed officer. He displayed an impressive set of decorations on his uniform. There were a lot of them for a youngish-looking man.

  ‘As United Nations peacekeepers you are mandated under UN resolution 1580 to conduct an observatory mission on sites within the Palestinian West Bank. Your leadership team, Sergeants O’Brien and Doyle, will brief you on your orders. You will be orientating in my country for twenty-one days. Transportation across the Dead Sea has been arranged. I wish you every success in your mission. Inshallah. I will be your platoon liaison for the duration of your stay in Jordan.’ He saluted before he left, and everyone rose to give their formal salute.

  The sergeants were quietly pleased.

  O’Brien thought, At least we’ve taught them that military is a strong, rigid family. You must have respect, or you have nothing. ‘Short and sweet. Gentlemen and lady,’ he bellowed, stressing gentlemen and de-stressing lady, ‘all enlisted men will proceed to building four and pick a bunk. Private Martha O’Dowd will bed down in building six. That’s your first taste of Islam, Private O’Dowd. No males and females together unless you’re married.’

  Sergeant Doyle pitched in to hold up his part of the double act: ‘Initial patrol of the terrain in thirty minutes. You’ll be covering twenty kilometres. Get your bags from the bus and move it, move it!’

  Easy for Sergeant Doyle to say; he was staying behind to mind privates Paul Devitt and Martha O’Dowd while they did barrack sentry duty. Both sergeants had been mildly put out by the change in these two since the last days of basic training. The privates had been quiet and withdrawn and had asked permission to miss the famous end-of-basic-training party in the officers’ mess. Nonetheless this was the army, and Sergeant Doyle believed a twenty-four-hour sentry shift in the glaring sun would be just the job for them. That would shake them out of their homesickness or whatever else ailed them.

  Sergeant O’Brien had been well briefed on the terrain and was happy to lead the reduced platoon on what, for them, should be a straightforward tour of the surrounding dry country. He had done it in the Lebanon, and this wasn’t much different. Both sergeants knew that they would eventually have to field questions about their location and the mission. This was a completely new location for the Irish Army. Even so, the West Bank was, in their opinion, no more volatile than the Lebanon had been when they were there twenty years previously. The youngsters might be oblivious to the situation, but those older privates were likely to be trouble, O’Brien thought. They watched the news. It wasn’t lost on the sergeants that this was quite an honour, in a way, to be picked for a new type of mission. This was probably a career swan song for both of them. But again, there was a nagging question: why send a bunch of raw recruits with a couple of briar-like older privates?

  Sergeant O’Brien marched off into the afternoon sun with the gang of nine, full packs on their backs and in assault formation to boot. This was the desert winter sun but it was still darned hot. Sergeant O’Brien literally had his satnav up his sleeve. He used a compass and map, in fairness, as a double check. The platoon knew they would not have radio contact with their new base. Leaving within the hour hadn’t left time to set up a communications station.

  It was less than two weeks since the infamous Wicklow hike, and the youngsters at least were up for a bit of physical exercise. People were feeling a bit rough after a long flight. A bit of exercise would be a welcome relief. O’Brien had the sense to place the older men, Mark and Seamus, at the opposite ends of the diagonal, with him in the middle. This was the sergeant’s design so that he wouldn’t get an earful of questions from those two. Standard instruction was to only speak to the soldier on either shoulder, and, in a low voice, pass messages along the line. As it turned out, he had Peter and Joe on his immediate right and left.

  The trek wasn’t long underway when footwear, just like in Wicklow, became an issue. The army didn’t seem to do breathable boots, and the soldiers didn’t have the cop-on to wear light cotton socks. The lads hadn’t a clue about Jordan, but in a way that didn’t matter, and for two reasons. One was that they had all thought they would end up in dessert terrain, albeit with more sand than the hard-on-the feet rock they got. Desert they were certainly in, so what did the country’s name matter? Secondly, after two and a half hours out, foot blisters were beginning to mean that they didn’t care where they were.

  Another thing that always caught the Paddies out when they travelled south was how quickly and early darkness falls. Sergeant O’Brien got an uneasy feeling when he copped that the sun was starting to dip. He convinced himself that they could still get to within a kilometre or two of the camp before dark – even more impressive to approach the joint Irish and Jordanian sentries in darkness on his first foot patrol.

  Seamus, from the top of the diagonal, filtered word down to the sergeant that there was contact three kilometres due north-east, meaning they were not alone in the desert. In fairness to O’Brien, he immediately replied up the line to change direction and engage with the ‘target’. In other words, he wasn’t returning to camp and reporting that on the first sighting of inhabitants he decided to keep moving in the opposite direction.

  Now Sergeant O’Brien was wishing again he had his choice of corporal with him, someone to confide in and bou
nce a few ideas off. Fuck it, he thought, it wouldn’t have bothered me if we didn’t run into anybody today.

  It took the platoon about thirty-five minutes to move into proximity that revealed what the ‘target’ was.

  ‘Wow, this is the real deal,’ Joe murmured when four camels came into view. ‘This must be those Bedouin guys.’ Maybe a Leaving Certificate geography flashback was kicking in.

  The lads’ nerves started to abate and fingers disengaged from triggers. Sergeant O’Brien had never ordered them to engage in the first place.

  There was a single tent, big enough to walk into without stooping. Strangely, a good fire was burning outside. The only person they could see was a man, as determined by his bulk. The figure was wearing light-blue and grey robes, which shielded his entire body. Only his eyes were exposed through his shemagh.

  He began to approach the group of ten soldiers, and when he was close enough, he addressed the man in the centre to show respect, either because he was talking to a senior man, or perhaps because he was talking to the man wearing stripes. The conversation, in what Sergeant O’Brien deemed to be Arabic, was never going to go far.

  ‘I take it none of our number has a word of Arabic,’ said O’Brien, addressing his troops but keeping eye contact with the azure blue eyes of the Arab speaker.

  ‘If we had it would make no difference,’ Fionn said. ‘He’s speaking Aramaic. It’s a more ancient language.’

  On hearing Fionn, the tribesman immediately shifted his gaze towards him.

  Removing the covering from his mouth, a torrent of words sprang forth, as if he thought Fionn might understand. It was at least clear that the desert camper had some issue that warranted urgent attention. When he saw that his words were not understood, he resorted to an equivalent torrent of hand gestures.

  ‘Sarge, I don’t speak the language of mad waving hands, but I think you and Fionn are being invited into the tent,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Steady now, lads. I don’t want to do anything stupid,’ Sergeant O’Brien replied.

  Fionn broke his gaze from the tribesman to look at O’Brien. Out of the corner of his eye, the sergeant could see Fionn’s vivid expression and knew it could be easily interpreted to mean, ‘Stop being a fuckin’ eejit, Sarge.’

  Certainly the Bedouin interpreted it that way, and it resulted in further gestures and entreaties to enter the tent.

  Once Fionn took a step forward, Sergeant O’Brien had no choice but to follow suit. They entered an aroma-filled home, where their eyes took a couple of moments to adjust to the darkness. The coolness of the tent was immediately disarming, as was its comfort and spaciousness. The Bedouin was silent now, as if he himself had entered a lair where he did not exert control. The two Irish soldiers became aware of a sobbing sound. A slender figure had its back to them and was rocking gently back and forth over a little child. The woman was robed as heavily as the man, but all in black. The men could only see the face and two small feet at either side of the swaying woman. What they could see looked lifeless and sick. Fionn went into the gesturing business himself and started a conversation with the Bedouin to ask if he had permission to approach the child. The man responded by placing a firm hand upon the woman’s shoulder and speaking softly. The result was instant. The woman rose and moved to the far end of the tent. Even less of her face was visible, and although they did not make eye contact, Sergeant O’Brien saw the bloodshot and weary eyes of a young woman.

  The man motioned Fionn to move forward, which he did slowly, out of a growing respect for the gravity of the situation. The child was soaking and sick. A plump little girl, maybe less than two years of age. She had the kind of pudginess that a mother would love, knowing it would burn away as soon as the child mastered walking.

  ‘What do you think, Sarge?’

  ‘I think I wish Sergeant Doyle was here instead of me. He was a medical two-striper once upon a time. Look, Private, we must be aware of where we are. I have a responsibility for my men. I’m going to give the order to move out. We will be walking two hours in darkness even if we leave now. We’ll report the situation to the Jordanians when we get back.’

  The effect of this conversation on the Bedouin couple was immediate. The man started talking and the woman started to cry again, and this time it was audible to the boys outside.

  ‘Sarge, the reason they’re making a fuss is because they know their child is close to death. I’m guessing they are part of a bigger group and have been left to catch up when they either bury their little girl or return when she has recovered. They probably think we were sent from God as the girl’s last hope. What we must look like, a bunch of pale Paddies in the Jordanian desert. The Jordanian army will not send a medic to a Bedouin camp. It just won’t happen.’

  ‘Jaysus,’ replied the sergeant. ‘What ever happened to an army where soldiers took orders?’

  O’Brien was a father himself and somewhere deep down he knew that his private was trying to save him from a memory that might haunt him later. ‘For fuck’s sake, you that knows it all, what do you suggest?’

  ‘Give me a few minutes,’ was Fionn’s calm response. He got up and walked out of the tent to find the troops happily sitting around the fire now that there was no heat left in the sun. They had lost no time in taking their boots and socks off.

  ‘Taylor, my man, did I hear you say your ma stocks up with antibiotics when she’s in the Canaries?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘So I want the answer to my next question to be yes.’ Fionn was keeping the situation light-hearted. ‘Did you bring any of the ma’s drug haul with you?’

  ‘Well yeah, but–’

  ‘Shush, shush.’ Fionn stopped Taylor in his tracks. ‘I want the answer to my final question to be yes, also. Do you have any on ye now?’

  ‘I do, yeah,’ said Taylor as he produced a slightly crumpled white and blue box from the backpack that he had been resting on.

  Fionn took a quick look and said, ‘Does your mother have life insurance on you, Taylor?’

  ‘What d’ye mean?’ replied Taylor, a little miffed to be relieved of his drugs.

  ‘Only fourteen months past their expiry date,’ Fionn revealed.

  ‘Well, she only goes to the Canaries every second year.’

  ‘They’ll have to do,’ said Fionn.

  ‘D’ye mean? You’re taking them?’

  ‘Listen, there’s a sick child in there whose need is greater, believe me.’

  ‘But what about it if I get sick? You know it’s sixty bucks back home for a doctor’s prescription. Imagine how much it is here! Yous had better be doing a whip round for me if I get a bad chest or something.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Fionn as he went back inside the tent.

  Sergeant O’Brien was keeping a useless vigil over the situation.

  ‘Sarge, I think these might be the man for the job,’ said Fionn as he popped two capsules from the blister pack.

  ‘Jaysus, Fionn, if that child dies after us giving her medication, we might be fired out of Jordan quicker than planned.’

  ‘It’s your call, Sarge, but I wouldn’t make the call thinking that we’ll be in trouble with Jordanian officialdom. I doubt if they give a tinker’s curse for wandering tribesmen.’

  ‘Look at the size of those bloody tablets! A horse would have trouble swallowing them, and that poor little thing is unconscious.’

  ‘Sarge, get himself to get herself over here and paying heed. He’ll listen to you.’

  When Fionn had their attention, he proceeded with a manoeuvre that he could have anticipated would earn him a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument. He rolled the child gently onto her side and popped two of the antibiotic tablets into his own mouth, where the generation of spittle was clearly audible.

  Fionn then took a dripping capsule from his mouth and inserted i
t as a suppository. His actions were more of a surprise to Sergeant O’Brien that the parents, who had implored the pale men for help. The couple probably felt compelled to comply with the Arab tradition of, having asked for alms, accepting what was then offered. Fionn then added a second spittle-lubricated suppository, with the mother drawing a breath in anguish as a weak squeal emanated from the baby. Fionn then produced a notepad, tore out a page and drew a kind of diagram showing sunrise and a sunset. Beside each he placed a capsule that he had burst out of the pack.

  ‘Sarge, you’re good at the comms. Explain the plot line, will ye? Remember, just one tablet at a time from now on.’

  O’Brien was impressed with his private and hopeful for the child, so he obliged, mumbling, ‘I thought I gave the orders round here.’ He felt the better for making a decent stab of saving the youngster, even if he realised that Fionn had manoeuvred him into it.

  Before they left the tent, Fionn did something that further surprised the sergeant. He placed his hands on the hands of the women and said, ‘Talitha, kum, your child will be well.’

  O’Brien was surprised both that he would touch the Bedouin woman and at the confident assertion, not to mention the foreign words that the woman, at least, seemed to understand.

  The two men now emerged from the tent to be pleasantly warmed by the glow of the fire against a now dark sky.

  ‘Listen up, boys,’ Sergeant O’Brien said. ‘There’s a really sick child in there, so let’s keep the noise down. We’ll bed down here for the night and move out at daybreak.’

  There were a few moans and groans.

  ‘If you could survive a winter’s night in the wilds of Wicklow, then a balmy night in the warm desert should be no bother to ye. We’ll move a bit away and build our own fire with a bit of kindling from theirs.’

  ‘Sentries will be Pete, Seamus and Joe, in two-hour shifts. If a snake gets into camp on your shift, then you’re on the next flight home.’