Sergeant Ralph “Hectic” Percy kicked open the door of the officers’ mess with his combat boots. Instead of getting the hell out of his way, the door swung back and got another firm kick for its troubles, then slammed angrily behind him. Percy walked across the metal mesh access point and stood at the top of the dusty makeshift stairs. He looked stoic and composed, but he was devastated.
This morning, Captain Percy had walked into the dusty HQ building for a debrief over the
incident last night. Two hours later, he had less than 24 hours before he and his team would evacuate the area. It was deemed to be too dangerous and just too much of a risk to remain.
Percy’s team had flown into this Afghani province from Kabul to support the Army field engineers, who were teaching bridge construction skills to the local Afghani tech heads and soldiers, as part of the Coalition’s attempt to instill functioning infrastructure in the country.
And last night, on a routine patrol, one of the Afghani engineers - Behnam – decided to catch a lift with Percy’s team. Just out from the base, their Bushmaster was hit by a roadside bomb and exploded into pieces, injuring three soldiers and killing two team members instantly. Killing Behnam. Percy blamed himself for their deaths, and thought it would have been better if it had been him.
Percy’s superiors said the incident last night was the ‘straw that broke the camel’s back’. The Coalition troops were being thumped by the Taliban, and had suffered heavy losses in all provinces of Afghanistan where they had a presence. But Percy figured that was nothing new in a war zone, and nothing new against an enemy that valued death over life, and power over democracy.
Last night Percy had no men to fight the might of the Taliban. And they were still mighty, all right! He had no men to patrol the area where the Taliban had laid their deathly trap. Percy knew they could take the Taliban; if only they had more time. And more resources. However, resources had been reallocated to
anywhere but controversial, conflict-ridden Afghanistan. Facing monumental pressure from some sections of the Australian media, the Prime Minister had decided to pull the Aussie contingent from this province.
Bloody media, Percy thought. They had no idea how things were on the ground. They wrote about the war, but many just spun negative rhetoric and Tweeted their days away in a complete disconnect from the realities on the ground in Afghanistan. Percy thought they were here to do a job, and as a trained soldier, he wanted to finish the job that they started.
The bright sunshine forced Percy to squint as he watched a group of young Afghani boys playing footy in the dusty paddock that was surrounded by more dust and dirt than seemed possible and a massive contortion of barb wire fencing, that was designed to belie the fact that there were soldiers in the area.
The logic was that the local tribes would never suspect Coalition forces to be on this base given that it was protected with what effectively amounted to a white picket fence. The logic had served its purpose until last night.
Percy patted down his fatigues, looking for his polarised sunglasses, and then remembered that he left them sitting on the ‘dash’ of the Bushmaster when he went out on night patrol last night. His glasses were designed for every type of weather condition known to man and offered protection from the brightest reflective surfaces, but were rendered useless once night fell.
Good men had been killed, and all Percy could think about was his sunglasses. It was easier that way. He was too experienced a soldier to wonder why he was spared;
why him? They were at war, and war meant soldiers and civilians will die. Good men who will do anything for you. Good men who
had done anything for him. True heroes. Percy stood on the top of the stairs and stared over at the kids kicking up a mini dust tornado.
Percy heard the familiar scream of an F-15E Strike Eagle as it ripped open the endless blue sky, and looked up just as it streaked above him and then rapidly started to reduce in size as it blasted over the mountains in the distance. The boys had raced over by the fence to get a better view, and stared at the fighter in awe as though it were the greatest feat in engineering history.
And then the village boys, six of them, went back to screaming and carrying on with the Aussie Rules football that Percy had kicked into their game before his debrief. As soon as they saw him leaning on the HQ staircase they flashed their cheeky, wide grins.
“Oozy! Oozy man! Kick the ball with us!” said a boy named Awrang.
“I’ve got some things to take care of, kid. Maybe tomorrow eh? ”
“You work one day and then not work for the next day! You have to shampoo your hair?”
Cheeky little brat. All the boys laughed and screamed as Percy walked down the stairs over to Awrang, who tried to run away but Percy caught his oversized dirty grey shirt, picked the boy up by his waist, and hung him over his right shoulder.
“Little man, that sport you’re playing is sacred. You have to learn how to play without cheating first”.
And then Awrang’s friends hooted with laughter as Percy walked over to the water tank and threatened to drop him in.
“I don’t cheat, Oozy! You are just no good because you’re old man!” shot back Awrang, the shortest kid in the group, but the one with the biggest mouth.
“What’d you call me?”
“Tough soldier man! Old tough soldier man!” he giggled, as he wriggled and pointlessly punched the broad back muscles of the commando.
“Put me down and we can settle this man to man! On the field with the funny ball”, said the cocky little kid.
“Man to man? You wanna settle this man to man?”
Percy put Awrang down in the dirt and ruffled his jet back hair. The kid stood up and came to just past the waist of Captain Percy, but all he could do was swing at Percy like a demented monkey.
Awrang was a cunning kid. Seven years old and sharp as a tack. He was of the local village, and spent his days creating trouble and mayhem for the troops, who protected him as if he was one of their own, even though Awrang was more than capable, somehow, of looking after himself. Nevertheless, he won over the soldiers with his dodgy card games, sharp wit and cheeky grin. Awrang was Behnam’s son.
Awrang was already showing an interest in his father’s profession. In fact, the only time the kid would focus on anything was when it involved fixing, making or breaking things. He had the brains to do whatever he wanted, yet the nation state in which he was born and bred did not exactly subscribe to the Afghani equivalent of the Great American Dream.
What was going to happen to Awrang?, Percy thought.
Awrang’s uncle, Rajeesh, was in the Afghani army battalion that was learning the ropes in this province from the Coalition troops. The local soldiers were improving in their military prowess, but it was clear that they had their training wheels on. But the cause was their own, and they had much to lose, and that counted for so much. And they had enthusiasm to burn and knew the ass end of a gun from where the bullet came out. Awrang would be okay because he had Rajeesh, a good honourable man. He
had to be okay.
Like most boys, Awrang simply loved anything that involved soldiers and guns. But tragically, his escapism was also his reality. Still, while Awrang and his friends were born to be realistic, they lived their lives carefree and innocently and full of hopes and dreams. The way it should be. And now Percy was about to blow Arwang’s world apart by telling him his father was dead, and that his soldier friends were leaving as well.
“Hey Arwang, I need to talk to you about something important. Come for a walk with me?”, Percy said to the young boy.
Awrang eyed Percy suspiciously, thinking this was a trap to try and throw him into the water tank again. But he saw something in Percy’s face, and came up to the commando he considered a friend. For all the tears for the cameras, none of the politicians had to deal with what Percy was about to do.
Percy told Awrang what happened to his father. Percy’s eyes welled with tears as Awrang apologised for his people killing the good soldiers. Awrang was saying sorry for betraying Percy. Arwang was apologising when he had just learnt his father had been killed? That’s a lot for a seven-year-old to shoulder and was more than Percy could handle.
And then Arwang didn’t want to talk anymore.
Tears rolled down Percy’s face as he watched Awrang walk away, with his head hung to his chest. Percy had betrayed this kid, not the other way around. This kid who had welcomed his team with open arms, loyalty and great trust. This kid, who felt
he had betrayed Percy, deserved so much more than trying to survive each day; come what may.
