In the Valley (16 page)

They had to cross a rickety bridge over the ditch to get to Bashir’s place. Paul always thought it would really suck to fall into its sluggish and unhealthy-appearing water. Z-man and he crossed over without incident, however, and approached Bashir’s shack. Sure enough, Paul could smell roast sheep and raw sewage, the typical reek of a Juneau village. He wondered if he would ever get used to the smell. Probably not, he reflected. They crossed through an opening in a low wall and went to a small doorway in the side of the house.

Bashir’s hooch was a typical Juneau house, in that it was two-story and located in the middle of a walled courtyard. The hooch itself was constructed of packed mud and straw, with tiny windows that looked an awful lot like firing slits and a log roof.

Once inside, Paul and Z had to make a tight right turn and climb a narrow set of stairs. The interior had been built to discomfit armed men, and Paul and Z experienced a number of clunks and bangs going up the steps.

Bashir’s men awaited them at the top of the steps, of course. Paul and Z were led into the low, smoky chamber where Bashir and his leadership were arrayed on pillows, seated in a circle. A place was open next to Bashir, and another place was open for Z-man.

Paul and Z sat down to eat and chat. Paul laid his rifle out carefully behind his pillow and removed his battle harness.

Bashir spoke. “My friends, welcome to our feast. Eat, relax, and enjoy yourselves.” Pashtuns were, Paul reflected, good hosts.

Everyone proceeded to tuck into the delights spread before them: a spicy cauliflower dish, bits of lamb’s flesh in the ubiquitous gelatinous fat, sprigs of some type of vegetable Paul couldn’t identify, and a heaping, steamy plate of rice with naan bread.

Even though Paul knew the food would contribute to his months-long case of dysentery, he munched away. Boys brought in cups of chai tea and carried away dirty dishes. Paul kept his eye on Z-man, making sure he at least nibbled on the food. Everyone tucked in. Finally sated, the men sat back upon their pillows, and the stories and jokes started.

Bashir began, “Oh, boys, let me tell you of a fight thirty years ago against suited soldiers of the force.” He looked at Paul and smiled. “Of course, now we have those same soldiers on our side, and good men they are, too!” Second Company’s soldiers laughed.

Paul had heard these types of stories before. They had ceased making him uncomfortable. It was a rule in counterinsurgencies that one day’s friend would be your enemy the next, and no one understood that like a Pashtun, a people who collectively were born and bred to war.

Bashir continued, “Oh, boys, and then I was wounded, and I thought I would die. I thought I would never see my father again, and I was so sad.” Paul thought of his father and sympathized with Bashir, down in his gut. He is a good storyteller, thought Paul.

But as with every Pashtun story, there was a twist. “Oh, boys, they carried me over the mountains, our good Dusheman Kush Mountains, where I thought I would freeze and die. I tell you, boys, I couldn’t feel my penis anymore; it was so cold!” There was some chuckling at Bashir’s words.

Bashir smiled himself and continued, “Oh, boys, I thought my penis had been frozen and would no longer work; it was terrible. I was so sad. Finally, we went down to the flatlands of Juneau, where we knew doctors who would save us.” Bashir paused.

“And my poor frozen penis—I thought my hopes for children had come to an end.” Bashir’s face was sad, tragic.

But then, with a shit-eating grin, he spoke again. “But then, let me tell you, boys, I saw a young boy with a bottom like a peach, and my penis—oh, it worked very well!” The crowd erupted in laughter; Paul laughed along with them.

Shit, and up to that moment, Paul had thought that at least one Pashtun, Bashir, wasn’t a pederast. After all, Bashir didn’t put up with the sexual antics in his company that plagued the other outfits in the battalion. Also, Bashir had three wives! Obviously, Paul’s impression was wrong. Bashir, it turned out, liked little boys just fine.

More stories came; each one dirtier than the last. Paul and Z sat and listened, and they laughed so hard they thought they would die. Finally, Bashir posed a question to Paul.

“My friend, I know that you are a long way from home, yes?” Bashir looked right into Paul’s eyes; Bashir’s eyes were black and liquid. Paul answered in the affirmative.

“Tell me, my friend, how is it that you amuse yourself? I know of no boys who pleasure you. Do you use your hand?” With that, Bashir made a gesture in the air, like a hand wrapped around his member, stroking back and forth.

Paul looked right at him and spoke. “No, no, my friend, it is forbidden by my God to do such a thing.” Paul wasn’t sure where this was going, but he knew that with Pashtuns, who took religion very seriously, a mention of God might stop this line of thought.

Bashir looked thoughtful. Then he brightened. “Ah, my friend, I have a solution for you! Second Platoon has a mule they use for pleasure!” Bashir made an expansive gesture. “You may have use of their mule!”

With that, everyone laughed uproariously. Paul thought Z-man was going to cry.

The hell of it was Paul thought Bashir was probably dead serious. He definitely knew that the Juneau soldier seated next to him, Asam, was serious. Asam kept placing his hand on Paul’s inner thigh. His attentions were starting to become an annoyance; Paul’s tastes did not run to men.

Later, with a politely turned-down and disappointed Asam taking his leave, Paul and Bashir talked of serious matters: war and the problems associated therein. Finally Bashir showed some of his weariness.

“Paul, my friend, I am tired of war. For thirty years, I have fought; my heart is sick. Over and over again, I see good boys die.” Anguished, he asked of Paul, “How do I leave this place, this Juneau? How do I save my men?” Bashir fell silent; he leaned back on his cushions, looking as sad and defeated as Paul had ever seen him.

Paul had no answer for Bashir.

Three months later, in the Baradna Valley, Paul was chasing Bashir into Pashto Khel after the morning firefight. The provincial police had just relieved
Paul of the responsibility of guarding the wounded POW’s, and the colonel was hot for Paul to get Bashir the hell out of the village.

Paul and Z started to move toward the village. With his rifle at the low ready, Paul picked his way over the small dikes in the marijuana field. There was a cluster of bereaved relatives of the dead standing by a wall. They got closer and closer to each other as Paul walked in their direction.

Paul eyeballed them as he approached. There were two veiled women, an old man, and two small girls in little ornate dresses. Paul saw in his halo that Z was right behind him, in trail. He briefly called up an overhead view of the dispositions of Second Company with his halo. They were ahead of him in the village, and a cluster of men were inside of a house.

Paul recognized the house, of course. It was the place they had been drawing so much fire from before, during the dawn firefight. He clicked back off the view. At least he knew what was waiting for him around the corner, dead ahead.

And he saw, with diamond clarity, the gauntlet he would have to run by the corner. No, it wasn’t armed opposition. It was a couple of girls and an old man. They were keening, wailing. Paul could and would face bad guys trying to kill him. Why was a little group of pathetic civvies bothering him so much?

Paul stepped over a swiftly running small irrigation ditch and neared the corner. To his right was the looming building with the girls; to his left was a street and the village wall that he had sheltered and fought behind earlier. Drooping dinosaur trees overcast the entire street; they shaded the length of the road.

As he stepped onto the road, he cast a glance at the girls on the corner. Their tear-streaked eyes cursed him. One little girl, about five years old in a green dress with orange henna-dyed hair, drew his attention in particular. She had beautiful, tear-streaked, dark eyes that followed him, uncomprehending.

The old man behind the little girls, however, stared at him with a fullfledged hate stare, his eyes burning like coals. Fuck you, Paul thought. Fuck you. Flinch, you old bastard, and I’ll shoot you in the face, you fuck.

His mind and eyes shied from the girls, however. He couldn’t face what they were telling him: you murdered our father. Paul had never felt so small, so angry, so like an invader from outer space, a creature. In fact, that was what he was—a destroyer of worlds, in this case the destroyer of the little world these girls had inhabited. Without a single word passing between the two groups, Paul and Z in one group and the little girls and old man in the other, Paul fled toward Bashir.

Bashir was easy to find. All you had to do was listen for the cursing and the crashes dead ahead, at about seventy-five meters. It looked to Paul as he walked up on the scene that Second Company was trashing and looting the house the dissidents had been firing from. Paul walked through a sticky puddle of blood and strode toward the house. His grip tightened on his rifle.

Yeah, he thought, maybe Second Company has the right to do this. But damn it, it was the province police’s job to search and question people. Bashir and his boys were fucking up the program by looting and pillaging. The colonel wanted the bullshit to stop.

So Paul would stop the mayhem. One thing about tinnitus, at least Paul was getting far enough away from the girls on the corner that he couldn’t hear them anymore, not over the ringing in his ears. It was a relief not to hear their wails.

But he was getting closer to the house. A Juneau soldier walked past him, holding women’s clothing. Paul’s mouth tightened. Bashir and his men had to act like professional soldiers, not like kids at a riot.

When Paul stopped in front of the house, he was pissed. Worse, he knew Bashir was pissed, too. You can’t fight and spill blood and not lose it a little.

That was the key: losing it a little was to be expected; losing it a lot was unacceptable. In combat, you had to keep yourself in an iron grip. What Paul was seeing, standing among loose shell casings and blood smears, was a breakdown in discipline. The bullshit had to stop.

At the front of the house, Bashir was having a screaming row with a provincial policeman; it looked as if they were going to draw down on each other at any second.

A piece of furniture flew out of a window; gunfire sounded from in the house. There was a streak of blood on the bullet-pocked wall outside. Paul gave a shout.

“Ohh betchaa!” Paul yelled. It was a standard Farsi greeting among friends. The furious Pashtuns looked over at Paul. With Paul’s shout, the spell had been broken between the two men. The cop shuffled off into the house, and Bashir came walking over, looking exhausted. Instead of combative, as Paul had expected, Bashir was simply tired.

“My friend,” said Paul, and he meant it. “My friend, call your boys and let us leave this cursed-of-God place. My heart is weary; let us go.”

Bashir nodded, his shoulders slumped. “I hate this village,” was all that he said. Bashir pinged Second Company’s halos, and the soldiers started to leave Pashto Khel with their loot.

Paul wiped his face and thanked God on high.

P
aul thanked God on high for the look on Sergeant First Whitehead’s face when he told him he was denying reenlistment—that cheese dick.

“Well, why are you doing this, Trooper Thompson? The force needs every soldier they can get, especially armored infantrymen. And I think you have the makings of a pretty good soldier.”

Paul lied. “Well, I just want to try out life on the outside, Sergeant First. I’m glad I had the chance to serve, but now I want to do things for myself. Besides, like you say, there’s no guarantee I’ll stay here in Ottawa if I stay in, and I’m going to marry a local girl.”

Whitehead frowned. “Listen, son, you’re not going to like this, but listen.” Paul, unfortunately, had already set himself to blow off whatever came out of Whitehead’s mouth, whether it was good advice or not. What did a crusty lifer like Whitehead know, anyway?

“Trooper Thompson, about twenty years ago I was in a similar boat to you. I had met a great girl too, on Montevideo 2, and I figured I’d get out and stay there—just like you.” He paused and looked off into the distance.

“Well, we had a two-week-long field problem right before I got out. When we came back into cantonment, I got a halo ‘Dear John.’ She didn’t even have the good grace to tell me to my face we were through.” Sergeant First Whitehead sighed.

“The way I figure it she did me a favor, lookin’ back on things. Now, I’m not sayin’ this is going to happen to you and your girl. I wish you both nothing but happiness and rainbows. Imagine, Trooper Thompson, if I would have stayed there, given up my chance to go back to Earth, and then she decided she liked something else better.” He paused for emphasis. “That would have been a fine kettle of fish.” Whitehead leaned back in his cheap government chair and looked at Paul for what seemed the longest time.

“What say you, Thompson?”

Paul couldn’t even contemplate Darlene doing something like that. The way he saw it they were made for each other. “I say I’m getting out, Sergeant First. I’ve got some things I want to do, and the force ain’t a part of that.”