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Authors: Elliot Ackerman

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BOOK: Green on Blue
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My brother was brought here last night, I said. I can’t find him.

His name and injury? asked the man.

Ali Iqtbal, I said. He lost his leg.

My throat choked against the words. From a drawer in his desk, the man pulled out a folder filled with handwritten lists. He sorted through the reams of lined paper, scrawled with blue ink. He slid the mess back in the folder, shook his head, and tossed the stack into the drawer.

These are all the ones with missing legs, he said. Your brother is not here.

He is here. He was brought in last night and wheeled into there, I said, pointing to the surgery ward. Look again, Ali Iqtbal.

He may be here, answered the man, but he’s not on my list. They’ve been adding names all morning. Check back later.

He palmed down a few licks of fallen hair.

I stepped from the desk and looked along the hallway. At its far end stood two men. From their mouths, I could see words passing quietly and quickly between them. One of the men was light-skinned, clearly an American. He’d grown a large beard, but its bush was an unconvincing disguise, thick and blond as it was. I could feel his eyes rest on me from
behind the sunglasses he wore even inside. He spoke a last word to the other man and walked away. This other man walked toward me, talking loudly.

What’s the problem, brother?

He spoke perfect Pashto, but wore an American uniform. He took a few steps closer. I wanted no dealings with an American, but when I got a better look at him and saw his hooked nose, high cheekbones, and lean muscled frame, I knew he was a Pashto.

My brother, I can’t find him, I said.

He came in last night? asked the man, his question reeking of cigarettes.

I nodded.

After Gazan’s attack? he added.

I’m not sure. It was after the attack at the bazaar.

Yes, Gazan’s attack, said the man. As for your brother, you are not asking the right people. Come.

He led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor. We walked down another linoleum hallway and arrived at a corner door. A stencil on the door read
HOSPITAL SUPERVISOR
.

What is your name? he asked me.

Aziz Iqtbal. My brother is Ali.

Very good, I am Taqbir, said the man. I’ll take care of this for you.

I crouched against the wall and waited. As I did, I saw two other men dressed like Taqbir walking up and down the corridor. They wore the same green-and-brown-spotted uniform. Every so often, they entered one of the private rooms or spoke with family members who waited outside. They’d kneel, place a wife or grandmother’s hand between theirs, speaking quietly. Though the two seemed gentle and earnest, I felt suspicious of them.

After a few minutes, Taqbir returned. I have found Ali, he said. But there is something you should know.

I looked back at him, stupid and afraid.

Taqbir continued: His name is not listed with those who lost a limb.

But I saw him. His leg was missing.

That may be so, he answered. But Ali is listed as having a serious injury to the organs.

He paused.

I stared back. Taqbir watched me, hoping I understood.

As a man, he said, your brother is no longer complete.

Tightness spread across my chest, through my throat, and into my mouth and eyes. It spread as a web does, weaving into parts what was once whole. Taqbir rested his hand along my shoulder. He fixed a solid stare at me. I wanted his strength.

It is only right that you should know this now, he said. You will need to be strong when you see him.

I nodded.

It had not occurred to me that I would need to be strong for Ali. I’d hoped some assurance of his might allow me to accept what happened. But this horror was for all time. To survive, Ali now relied on me.

I thanked Taqbir, but I didn’t want to thank anyone, my resentment was so great for all I’d lost. I felt very small standing next to him. I looked into the gray flecks of his eyes, like a hawk’s, and at his face, with its sharp and certain angles. All of it offered me nothing but pity.

We walked outside, to a yard behind the hospital’s main building. Here the ground was hardpan dirt. On it rose a large three-pole military tent. Parked next to the tent were two ambulances. A few of the paramedics I’d seen last night stood around them, their stares full of sympathy. They understood my situation. I tensed my face into a blank mask.

Taqbir parted the green canvas flap with his arm and warm fumes of sweat, smoke, and blood pulled us inside. In the tent’s center two stoves burned and the sap of the wood crackled and spit. The chimneys consisted
of hollowed cooking-oilcans stacked and nailed together. They leaked. Cots lined the tent so closely that there was no room between them. Doctors climbed onto the ends of the cots, hovering above their patients.

I walked the rows, searching for my brother. Many of the men had bandaged faces. I looked for a missing leg. I could only identify Ali by his loss. And soon I saw it. A white sheet rested flatly where something was gone. Gauze covered the hollow of Ali’s left eye. At his waist, a sopping red wound was dressed with an adult diaper.

His head was turned away from me. From beneath his gown and bedsheet, his knee and shoulders poked up like the three poles of the tent. My tears came silently. I had nothing to say to my brother, no strength to offer him. To be crippled as he was takes all of a man. It takes his nang.

An orderly passed by. I grabbed his arm. He looked back at me with flat eyes that showed nothing. Why is my brother here instead of in the hospital? I asked.

This is the outpatient ward, he said.

From my mouth words came in a shout, surprising me: These men are not ready to be discharged!

Not all patients get well, he said. We will keep him here for a couple of days. A longer stay can only be arranged through the hospital supervisor.

Taqbir watched me from the tent’s flap. He picked the dirt from his fingernails with a long commando knife he’d pulled from his belt. I rushed toward him, pleading: Unless something is arranged my brother cannot stay here.

Taqbir kissed his teeth and patted my shoulder. I’ll check, he said, wait here.

He walked past me and down the rows of cots toward Ali. I stood by the tent flap. Taqbir leaned over my brother. He kissed his teeth again and shook his head. At the foot of Ali’s cot was a stool. On it sat his cell phone, prayer beads, and my father’s ring. Taqbir picked up the ring,
but left the rest. He whistled and waved his hand to the expressionless orderly. I couldn’t hear the words spoken between them, but the orderly knowingly pointed at each of my brother’s wounds. Taqbir listened and continued to shake his head solemnly.

Taking his time, Taqbir walked back up the rows of cots, inspecting the broken bodies on either side of him as a commander reviews his troops. Every few steps he stopped and looked down his nose, considering one of the heaps that lined the tent. His inspection complete, Taqbir planted himself at my shoulder. Come, he said, we must see if something can be arranged. Ali is in a dangerous condition. As we turned to leave, Taqbir placed the ring in my palm.

You should care for this until your brother is better.

I’d lacked even the courage to speak to my brother, but now I slid his ring, the ring of my father, on my finger.

Taqbir smiled at me. Good, he said. And I noticed his many gold teeth.


From his black leather chair, the hospital supervisor waved us into his office. He turned off the flat-screen Hitachi that hung from a ceiling mount by the door and removed his feet from his wood-paneled desk. On its top was an empty in-box. He tossed the remote control into it. Carved across the front of the desk, in an elaborate script, was an aayaath I’d learned in the madrassa:
There comes forth from their bellies a drink of diverse hues wherein is healing for all mankind.

Two brown leather sofas, stained with watermarks, sat on either side of a glass table. Spread across the table were steel dishes, the rims pressed with a floral print, each one filled with pine nuts, raisins, and pistachios. The office was arranged to impress, but it did not seem like a place where work was done.

Come in, come in, said the supervisor to Taqbir. Who is your young friend?

The supervisor was a small fat man. On his bald head, the ceiling lights shined in a crown. His neck and cheeks hung toward the ground, heavy with age and fat. He took out a cheap paper packet of Seven Stars. Before he could open them, Taqbir tossed him a pack of Marlboro Reds. The supervisor smiled, pulled back the cardboard top, and sniffed them. He smiled again and extended the cigarettes toward us. Taqbir held up his palm. The supervisor lit one and greedily inhaled. As the rich American tobacco filled his lungs, he hacked into the bend of his elbow. While he did, Taqbir spoke: This is Aziz. His brother was very badly wounded in yesterday’s bombing.

The supervisor shook his head and slowly regained his breath. Gazan is a dog to do these things, he said. He’s become bold. A bombing in the bazaar! And what will the Americans do? They give so little to those who support them. Perhaps after this bombing they will be more generous, but enough of this. Please, you must be hungry.

He gestured toward the plates on the glass table. I hadn’t eaten since the day before. I filled one hand with raisins and the other with pine nuts.

How can I help you? asked the supervisor.

My brother is in the outpatient ward after only one night, but his wounds are still serious.

This is a hard thing, he answered. These days a hospital is less a place for healing than for dying.

The supervisor moved to the opposite sofa. He leaned forward, picking at a few pistachios. As he ate white spittle formed on the corners of his lips. He looked around the room with an empty stare as though he were solving an equation—my brother’s life, my livelihood, and his hospital’s vacancies divided one into the other. Turning toward his desk, he continued: It is as the Aayaath says,
healing for all mankind
. I must weigh each man against another. My position is very difficult.

Surely something can be done, said Taqbir.

There is only so much I can do, said the supervisor. My heart wants to help this boy, but we must be practical.

He turned his eyes toward the ceiling.

If there were more, said Taqbir, could his brother be kept here?

The supervisor stood from the sofa. With a fresh handful of pistachios, he circled the room. Of course, he said, but more of what? Where is there more of anything these days?

More money, said Taqbir.

If I had such money, I would pay the fees myself, said the supervisor. Do not misunderstand me. My every desire is to help.

And if I paid the fees? asked Taqbir.

I can’t repay you, I interrupted, but Taqbir’s outstretched hand silenced me.

The supervisor stroked his fat face, and said: If expenses are covered there will be no problem.

Then the matter is settled, replied Taqbir.

He stood, bowed, and motioned for the two of us to leave. The supervisor sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. He reached forward, took the remote from his in-box, and turned on the Hitachi. As I walked out the door, he called behind me: Taqbir is a man of great generosity. You are blessed to call him a friend.

I never saw the hospital supervisor again.


We left the office and stood in the corridor. Taqbir took a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket. He lit one and looked at me. He frowned with disappointment.

You are not happy that your brother is saved? he asked.

I am.

He took another pull on his cigarette. You know from my uniform that I am a military man, he said, but do you know about the Special Lashkar?

I shook my head.

We work in the south of the province, he added. Near a town called Shkin. You know of Shkin, yes?

I nodded, but had never been. Shkin was a day’s drive south. As I would learn, to call it a town was generous. It was really fifteen mud huts along the high desert plain of the Pakistani border. To the south of it, the plain rose into wild mountains, remote villages, and a savage, isolated war.

We fight against the Taliban to uphold Pashtunwali, said Taqbir. The Special Lashkar protects the border and keeps men like Gazan in their place.

So you fight for the government?

We fight for the nang
of our homes, but for no government, answered Taqbir. He stuck his chest out in his clean American uniform.

So I am to serve in the Special Lashkar?

You are lucky for a chance to strike back at Gazan, answered Taqbir. In badal
there is nang
for you, and for what has been taken from your brother. As long as you fight, Ali will be cared for here.

I had no one but Ali. To care for him was my single alternative. And single alternatives have a logic all their own. Men go to war with such a logic, and my thinking was that of a young man, clear and unclouded by experience and doubt.

When do I leave? I replied.

Taqbir reached into his cargo pocket. He handed me a slip of paper no bigger than a matchbook. You know of the American base near here, the one outside Sharana village? he said.

I nodded. The helicopters from FOB Sharana often flew over Orgun. Following their flight patterns, the FOB was a day’s walk north, or so I’d heard.

Go to its back gate tomorrow, he said. Call this number. Tell them your name and that you are going to Shkin.

You aren’t coming with me? I asked.

Bring only what you must, he said, seeming not to hear me. Everything will be provided.

Then I will meet you in Shkin, I said.

What makes you think I work at that firebase? Taqbir spoke his words coldly.

I thought you were a soldier, I replied.

I am, he said, but not a common one as you will be. My work is here, and you should thank me for it. There are others who would welcome such generosity.

I stared at Taqbir. In his hard face and crisp uniform I could see a part of my future, but I understood none of it. I was now a servant, maybe not to Taqbir, but to men like him.

BOOK: Green on Blue
2.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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