Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War (14 page)

‘May I ask, sir …’

‘Ask what?’

‘If you’re alright?’

‘Couldn’t be better! Say what you were going to say.’

‘In such circumstances … I mean, after suffering from thirst for such a long time, if a person drinks too much water, will he explode? Or die suddenly? I’ve certainly seen with my own eyes how men can pass away just like that!’

‘A flask of water can hardly kill a man, can it?’

‘No, sir. But … we don’t have much left either …’

‘It’s not much, I know. The dying, the thirsty … but we’ve been stuck here for too long. Just tell me what we should do with our men. I can’t leave them on this scorching ground under the sun. What should we do with them, soldier? What was your name again?’

‘Anoom, sir. I’ve commandeered a spade from the enemy trench, sir. Allow me to bury them right here, or on the flank of the hill. Close to the water tank. You know how to recite the death prayer, don’t you?’

‘First we must recite our intention. But I’d like us to take them with us. My heart won’t let me abandon them here. In this narrow pass.’

‘We could take them with us, sir, sure. But where to? I don’t have a compass on me. If I’d had one I wouldn’t have been captured. What about you, can you work out which direction we should go in?’

‘I unravelled a ball of string behind us so we could retrace our steps, but heavy bombing has churned up the ground. So we’ll just have to take them to our own trench
for now. Now go and get that giant up on his feet, will you? We need him to help us carry his victims. Go and give him something from the flask!’

‘Then what, sir?’

‘I’ll sling a body over my shoulder and climb the hill. You take another and the giant can carry a third. Just make sure you keep your eyes on him.’

‘I’ll lay one body across his neck and shoulders without untying his hands. And I’ll tie his feet together so that he can’t pull any tricks while he’s carrying his burden. Like leg shackles! In just two round trips we can carry them all up to behind our machine gun. It’ll be fine if you just take one body, sir! The two of us, Saad and I, will do the second round. You can go back down to fetch some more water. There aren’t many intact flasks left, but … in the best case scenario the radio telephone might start working again. Then we could call for an ambulance, assuming one can cross the front line.’

‘Cross an area that’s in the enemy hands? Very well, remove his blindfold and take him over to the bodies. Let him see the results of his handiwork at close quarters!’

‘His men were lying about all shot to bits too, sir, as a result of our firing … and our men just went down to that accursed water tank. One by one … I couldn’t stop them. Thirst and the sight of the water tank had made them take leave of their senses, every last one of them! What could I do? They were young. They were volunteers who didn’t really have any understanding of military discipline yet. Instead, they just took the idea of martyrdom for granted. Each person putting the others before himself …’

‘So what preventative actions did you take that failed, Lieutenant?’

‘Well, I tried talking reason and logic to them, telling each of them what his duty was. I stressed the need for order and discipline. But some of them had been through no more than six weeks of training. I tried every which way I could, sir, I even told them stories and parables! But it was useless, sir, impossible. They would have started fighting among themselves in the trench and I wanted to avoid that at all costs! After the heavy bombing and the annihilation of the reserve forces, when our line of communication was broken, the men’s mindset changed completely. The radio telephone only transmitted a single message, saying that we couldn’t expect relief any time soon. And that we should act on our own initiative. That made things worse than they were already. I was the group’s senior officer. Commander of my unit. Before the destruction of the reserve forces the men had a certain look about them, but afterwards the atmosphere was quite different. That was only natural. I tried to pretend I wasn’t afraid, but … it was a dead end, sir. We’d come to a dead end. Enemy forces had taken the ground behind us, and in front of us were lines of enemy troops who gunned down anything that moved. Hunger and then thirst grew. We were forced to stay in the trench for days on end. Our tactics switched from offensive to defensive and then from defensive to explosive, punctuated with moments of reckless hope. What would you have done in my place, sir?’

‘That’s not the issue here. You were the one in command, and you decided on a particular course of action!’

‘It was inevitable, sir. Inevitable! As deranged as they were, my men knew that they didn’t want to die of thirst in their own trench! Between staying put and dying or going to find water and saving the others they chose the second option. Hoping that they might succeed. Their action was the height of honour and self-sacrifice as well as of desperation and helplessness. Is it my fault that war knows nothing of honour? Each of them went down in the hope of rescuing the remaining men from certain death, even if the price was martyrdom. But that Saad who I took captive was extraordinarily skilful and every shot of his found its target!’

‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

‘Sir?’

‘I asked why you didn’t kill him in the trench there and then, when you came upon him and put the tip of your bayonet on his spine and pressed the muzzle of your sidearm to his temple?’

‘Yes … I couldn’t, sir.’

‘You couldn’t? What do you mean you couldn’t? Your bayonet was pointed right at his spine, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes sir. It would have been possible to shove the bayonet into his spine and he would either have died instantly or been crippled for life. I could also have blown out his brains with my pistol. But I couldn’t. I can’t kill a human being.’

‘What? You can’t kill a human being? Why did you go to war, then?’

‘To do my duty and if necessary to kill soldiers.’

‘I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense!’

‘It’s quite simple, sir. Soldiers are different from human
beings. You can’t see a soldier’s face from far away. They usually move in groups, as enemy units. You kill a nameless opponent. A soldier or soldiers are killed with your weapon and they fall to the ground. But a human being … No! That morning, the small of my prisoner’s back was drenched in sweat, which left a trail of perspiration on that part of his jacket. The smell of his sweat reached my nostrils and I saw him shiver suddenly, as if emptied of life! His heart beat louder and louder as I stood over him. Louder by the minute. I could hear him breathing. Panting like a trapped bull. Straight away, he dropped his gun and one of our men – who he had taken prisoner – pulled the gun towards himself with his foot. He surrendered. He dropped his weapon and surrendered. Complete surrender. It felt like his wish had come true as he was taken prisoner. I saw him turn into someone different, into himself, into a person. The man was exhausted. The unit under my command was only responsible for scouting and reporting the situation at the enemy front line to the relevant command centre. We weren’t a combat group. Although, naturally, we hadn’t gone to the front just for fun!’

‘Lieutenant … there is a note in this file to the effect that you volunteered for military service. You were an only child, which would have given you a reasonable excuse to stay in the reserves. But you insisted in no uncertain terms on going to war. Tell us in your own words … what subject did you study at university?’

‘Pure maths, sir!’

‘Pure maths? What’s the use of pure maths?’

‘It has all sorts of uses – and none!’

‘How so?’

‘Like pure poetry. Pure maths is like pure poetry. Like sheer poetry. It may or may not have a use. To be honest, I wanted to become Khwarizmi, but I turned into Ayn al-Quzat! I was thinking of studying astronomy but it never happened and I … was
besmel
ed!’

‘Lieutenant, could you tell us your main motive for volunteering to join the army?’

‘The enemy’s presence, the presence of the enemy, the homeland and a sense of duty and …’

‘Could you please describe your family circumstances to this court, fully and frankly? We are all soldiers here, regardless of our varying degrees of responsibility and rank. You had a sister, too, a medical student, didn’t you? Isn’t it true that she disappeared during the troubles?’

‘No, sir. She turned into a dove as well!’

‘A dove? What do you mean? Was her name “Dove”, or are you speaking figuratively …?’

‘No, sir, she became a dove. They took her away and for weeks there was no news of her. Sometime later, one morning when I was getting ready to go to college, as I put my foot up on the edge of the pool to tie my shoelaces, I noticed that Mahi had turned into a dove and was sitting on the roof: “Good morning, Koochik,”
^§
she said. “I’ve become a dove! It was you who told me people can turn into doves!” As I stood there, gazing up at her, she asked me to burn her clothes if they were ever sent home. She told me they were dirty and unhygienic. She’d been a bit of
a cleanliness freak since childhood, our Mahi, very obsessive-compulsive. That’s why she was studying psychiatry. Then she flapped her wings and flew off and every morning thereafter I’d hear her voice from the rooftop. But I couldn’t see her anymore. Yes, sir, Mahi became a dove too!’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Then … it didn’t take more than six months for our mother to die of grief.’

‘And after that?’

‘Before he went mad, my father moved to another province to stay with the family of his sister, who had a daughter betrothed to me, called Mahsa.
^‖
We called her “Dove” too. She was studying architecture. But when they rescued her from the cellar of the ruined house she didn’t have any fingernails left, from clawing at the cellar walls to try and find a way out. Three days had passed since the house was bombed.’

‘Why? Why did that happen? Was she anti-revolutionary too?’

‘No, sir. She studied interior architecture and usually did her homework in the cellar of the house, in the empty, shallow pool. In fact, that old cellar was her study. When one of the enemy missiles hit my aunt’s home, Mahsa was preparing for her thesis exam in the cellar’s empty pool with one of her university friends. After struggling for three nights and days to escape, they were weak and exhausted. And they were terrified too, sir. They found them lying side by side, with their heads on each other’s
shoulders. Would you like to see Mahsa’s photograph, sir? But no, I’d better not … it’s a family photo. Her head isn’t covered. I’ll describe her to you instead. She’s got auburn hair, hazel eyes and a pale complexion. It’s a full-length portrait.’

‘So after that you decided to join up and fight?’

‘No, it was long before that, sir. Please don’t belittle me! I was already at the western front when that incident took place. No one had the heart to tell me until I went on a five-day leave.’

‘Did that incident have any effect on your mental state, Lieutenant?’

‘It must have had some effect, I guess. The dovecotes at the house were flattened too.’

‘Lieutenant! I want you to listen carefully to what I’m about to ask you and make sure that your answer is correct and precise!’

‘I’m all ears, sir!’

‘You … Mister Koochik-Kameh, nicknamed Kehtar,
^a
you caused the martyrdom of five of our brothers while you yourself … How is it that you didn’t feel any remorse and weren’t afflicted by guilt after your subordinates were martyred while you … survived?’

‘One, they were my brothers too. Two, I didn’t achieve that honour because I was going to be
besmel
ed. Three, I am not the one who has stayed behind and is being interrogated now; my soul is a dove who will fly away into the
blue skies over our town after this formality. Four, my conscience is deeply wounded, and henceforth, until the end of the world, every day a drop of blood will fall from the throat of the dove that I am; a drop of blood will fall on the clay roof of this house. Five, I am a
besmel
ed dove. Six, don’t send me to the lunatic asylum, please don’t!’

‘Lieutenant sir or Captain sir, or fellow soldier! Forgive my asking, but we’re mates now, right? Of course, you are the commander in charge, but … I’m curious since now and then you speak to yourself … for example, this “
besmel
”, you say this word more than any other, and along with that sometimes I hear the word “dove” too … dove … before all this I liked doves as well. But I didn’t like pigeon-fanciers. When I was a kid I heard one of them had sneaked up to the rooftop of his rival at midnight, into the pigeon loft or pen, and he decapitated all of his rival’s pigeons! Because, the day before that, one of his opponent’s racing pigeons had won the homing race. The races were run like this: they’d each take one of their racing pigeons to an unfamiliar town, and the accompanying referee would count from one to ten, and on ten the pair of pigeons were released and flew off. The poor birds had to fly back to their hometown and their nest from that unfamiliar town, covering eighteen or twenty leagues in the process. On the rooftops expert impartial referees were waiting along with the friends of the pigeon-fanciers, seated or standing, in the shadows. As soon as they’d released the pigeons, the owners and the referee would get back into the car and drive fast so that they’d be back in time to see the birds return. If the car didn’t break down on the way, they’d arrive at the same
time as the pigeons. The competing pigeons were usually male, as they had a strong instinct to get back to the nest and the female birds. This time, as bad luck would have it, one of the pigeons still hadn’t reached maturity and on reaching the town he became confused and returned to his roof and nest a few minutes later than his winning rival. In situations like that, a bit of skulduggery is quite normal, if you can get away with it. It is a rule that no one else’s pigeons may fly on the afternoon of a race, but even so a crooked competitor may persuade one of his mates to fly his pigeons. So when the competing pigeons reach the town, if one of them isn’t mature and experienced, it’ll get caught up among the rogue pigeons and precious minutes will be lost before it realizes its mistake, detaches itself from the flock, and returns to its own loft. By which time the race will have been lost. The referees even count the seconds; anyway, that’s precisely what happened on this occasion between the two rival pigeon-fanciers. I don’t know exactly what the stake was in this instance … they could bet anything, money or something else … for instance, maybe the prize this time for the winner was his opponent’s best bird, which the loser would have to surrender without demur, as well as paying travel expenses and the referees’ fee. Of course, the defeated rival stood to lose a lot, but most importantly his honour and pride, since he’d no longer been seen as the town’s top pigeon-fancier. So at midnight, the loser had gone up to his rival’s rooftop, into the loft, and … decapitated all the poor birds!’