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In the Wee Hours of the Morning, Near Kandahar
Mahmud and Hamid were asleep. They were rolled up in their robes, their heads on the ground, no pillow. It was an old Indian trick, taught to them by an antiquated Hindu: sleeping directly on the ground, the vibrations of approaching vehicles, or even of walking feet, would wake them. Not using a pillow was a little hard on the neck, but not so hard as getting caught by the Taliban.Mahmud awoke. Far off in the distance he heard a motor. He heard trucks. And shuffling feet, lots of them. They were approaching, along the road. He could smell camels. Was their position being attacked? Should he sound the alarm? He nudged Hamid and found his partner was already awake. The two hunkered down on the dark, gripping their rifles, and in the cool night air they could hear voices. Wriggling on their bellies, they found a position where they could make out the mob on the road by starlight. "Mommy!" a child's voice piped in Arabic. "I don't wanna force-march through the desert to Baluchistan!" There was the sound of a slap. "Shaddup and walk, ya little brat! You'll like it even less if the natives get us!" Four men walked past. They wore turbans, had unkempt beards and carried guns. One had two guns and a Yemeni knife at his waist; he must be a holy man. They were carrying sacks. One of the four men dropped a sack. Mahmud thought he could briefly see the twinkle of jewels. "Careful with that!" the holy man said. "There's enough in there to support us all for years!" Some pickup trucks went by, slowly passing the mob on foot. Someone went by on a bike, a rolled up carpet over his shoulder. A half dozen men walked by, surrounding a tall, bearded figure with a big turban and only one eye. "We gotta jihad!" the figure mumbled. "Hang them all... Doe-eyed virgins... Fight to the last man... the last bullet..." The figured cackled. "The wench showed an ankle! Two hundred lashes!" "Did we have to bring him?" one of the half-dozen keepers asked. "He's gettin' wound up again." "Get your turban on straight!... Infidels... Unbelievers..." "Karzai's got enough problems. Abdul, did you bring his medication?" "Cut their noses off," the one-eyed lunatic mumbled. "String 'em up... Send in the Americans! I'll take 'em on... One hand tied behind my back..." His voice was starting to rise. Mahmud had heard that voice before, on the radio. He looked at Hamid and they rolled their eyes at each other. "If he gets violent again," one of the half dozen said, "I'm gonna shoot him." "Ooooh. That'd be smart, with 5,000 armed tribesmen around us and 1,500 Marines! Do me a favor and don't do that." They tromped on another few yards and the volume of the incoherent ranting increased. "Glorious death... Rule with the iron fist of virtue..." The one-eyed loon pointed out that he was his own grampaw and his first cousin. He was waiting for a phone call from his good friend, God. "Look," the man who had spoken last said. "If he gets violent again, use this on him. Just bash his head in. We don't want any noise." They moved out of earshot and into the darkness. Mahmud and Hamid watched as more women and children walked by, then more men carrying bags with loot. A donkey trudged by them, not ten yards away, with two poison gas cannisters strapped to its skinny back. Someone went by carrying a bucket of anthrax. One unfortunate porter carried a bomb almost as big as he was. He was already glowing in the dark. The last of the stragglers finally finished trudging by. The two mujaheddin waited until they were out of earshot and then rolled back up in their robes and went back to sleep. In the morning Kandahar would surrender. Posted by: Fred Pruitt 2001-12-07 |
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