Hasan Toptas - Reckless

‘That’s what’s happening, don’t you think?’ asked Resul after saying all this.

‘How am I supposed to know?’ Ziya would reply. ‘What do I care about the commander? If he wants to go over and piss on them, then let him do it.’

He’d drink the last of his poison and, head spinning, climb into the jeep, which had so many bullet holes that it would soon become a sieve, and off he would go on his night patrol, with Ahmet of Polatlı behind the wheel. They would follow the same routine as if the commander had been sitting there next to him, driving up and down their section of the border, searchlights sweeping the night to the left and to the right, and never speaking. Whenever they passed, the guards would come out of their stations and stand on the side of the road, their rifles slung over their shoulders, and when they saluted they looked like shadows looming in the night. If he caught sight of Veysel Hoca, who was back from medical leave, or Hayrullah of Adana, or Serdar of Çorlu, or Osman of Selçuk, Ziya would tell Ahmet to slam on the brakes, and they would quickly exchange news. And after the jeep continued on its way, Osman of Selçuk would shake his fist at the dark, yelling, ‘Fuck off, you fucking village, fuck off!’

It was not just while he was driving that Ahmet of Polatlı kept silent; even when they stepped down, he held his tongue. Even when they heard gunfire or flares rising in the sky, he said nothing. With a grimness that seemed to be part of the jeep itself, he did exactly as Ziya said. So that was why, as they were creeping slowly towards Mezartepe through a black night that was thick with the scent of grass, Ziya couldn’t bear it any more, and asked him why he never spoke.

‘I’m preparing myself to die at any moment,’ said Ahmet.

His voice was as grim as his face.

‘I can understand that,’ said Ziya. ‘But there’s not even a skirmish going on right now.’

‘You don’t understand at all,’ said Ahmet, his voice quivering, and almost crying. ‘I’m not talking about a skirmish. That’s just a possibility. If that’s the fate that’s written on my forehead, then so be it. I’d die a martyr. But I’m not talking about something that might or might not happen. I’m talking about something that definitely will happen. I’m talking about something that is right in front of us, shouting in our face.’

Instead of asking Ahmet what he meant, Ziya looked at him.

‘There isn’t a soldier in this place the commander hasn’t crushed, as you know full well,’ Ahmet continued, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Everyone bears a grudge against him. They’re all waiting for their moment. And that’s why any of them could blow their top at any minute and pepper this jeep with their bullets. I’ll die at the hand of a soldier, that’s what I think. Wait and see. They’ll fire at the commander and they’ll end up shooting me with him, and for what?’

‘No! Impossible!’ said Ziya. The jeep was bobbing around so much that his voice sounded strangely thin. ‘Nothing like that’s going to happen. Don’t worry.’

Ahmet swung around to fix him with a stare.

‘You’re very naïve,’ he said then. ‘The commander’s sending you out in the jeep so that they kill you thinking it’s him. You haven’t joined up the dots yet, I see.’

‘The truth is, it never even occurred to me,’ Ziya murmured.

And as he did so, he shrank shivering into his seat. He was just straightening his rifle, which had slipped between his legs, when a gunshot rang through the night. First they couldn’t figure out what direction it was coming from. Stopping in the middle of the road, and turning off the searchlight and the headlights, they peered out into the night. When two flares went up near Boztepe Outpost, they turned around promptly. They barrelled down the road, passing the stations one by one, but there were no more gunshots, just a few faint whoops that made the black night blacker. Ahmet’s face was as rigid as if he were racing into the arms of death; he was pressing down on the accelerator as if to say, whatever shall be, shall be, but get it over with. As he drove he kept glancing with fearful eyes at the guards coming up to the side of the road. As they were racing past Ege Outpost in the direction of Boztepe, five panicky soldiers raised their arms in the air to get them to stop. With one voice they cried, Feyzullah has shot himself! Feyzullah has shot himself! And they raced towards the jeep, trailing their long shadows behind them. They followed them back to their post, of course, and there they found Feyzullah of Niğde, whose left arm had leaned on his gun fifteen minutes earlier and set off the trigger. Now he was lying dazed in a pool of blood. The hole in his arm was horribly large, and they had packed it with the lining from a parka, and to stop the bleeding they had tied his arm tightly with a strip of gauze, just above his elbow. Then they picked up Feyzullah and held him in their arms; and even though he protested, saying leave me here, I want to die, in a quivering little moan, they put him into the jeep and then they sent him on to Urfa. A week later, Mustafa of Yozgat, serving at Yıldıran Outpost, shot himself in the foot. They picked him up out of the grass and carried him weeping tears the size of chickpeas, and sent him off to Urfa, too. Reports were made of both incidents, of course, and statements taken from both men, after which Feyzullah of Niğde and Mustafa of Yozgat were both charged with acting in a manner unfit for the army.

After seeing what happened to those two soldiers, Ziya gave himself over heart and soul to his poison. It was no longer enough just to drink in the canteen: he’d have Resul prepare him another bottle, which he would hide inside his parka and take out with him on night patrol. Because he expected to die at any minute and did not wish to arrive in the next world drunk, Ahmet of Polatlı refused to touch the stuff. He spent his nights with his fearful eyes on those guards who stood like ghosts on the roadside, with their rifles slung over their shoulders, and he spent his days circling the water pump, staring at the ground and speaking to no one. And every so often he would get into the jeep that stood next to the flagpole and just sit there, for hours on end. But all the while, he would keep glancing left and right, grimacing as anxiously as if he were on night patrol already, while bullets rained down on him. Whenever Ziya looked up from his typewriter, he would see him in that jeep. So when the day came that he did not see him there, he waited at first, thinking he might have gone to the toilet, and then he got up from his desk a few times to lean out the window and look around. And then Resul came rushing into the office. Twice he lunged forward, as if he was trying to ram a door, as in a panicked voice he cried, ‘Ahmet’s crossed over. By God, he’s crossed over!’

‘What do you mean, he’s crossed over?’

‘Crossed over to Syria! I saw it with my own eyes!’

‘We can’t let the commander find out,’ said Ziya, jumping up. ‘Come on now. Come with me.’ By the time he and Resul had gone through the barbed-wire fence, and crossed the tracks, and passed the well and come to the end of the mud-brick houses, they looked across the ploughed fields spraying gold dust in the midday sun and saw Ahmet racing into the depths of Syria. They caught up with him, breathless, at the entrance to a little treeless village. ‘We beg you,’ they implored. ‘Don’t fail your military service!’ Taking him by the arm, they dragged him back. Creeping silently around the rear of the company building to keep the commander from seeing, they took him into the office, but Ahmet was still struggling to free himself from their grasp. That was why, after they’d put him into a chair, they sat down next to him, one on each side, and tried to console him, as well as calm him down. ‘Would you like a little poison?’ they asked. ‘Shall we bring some up?’ But Ahmet wouldn’t answer this question; for five minutes, he remained silent, head bowed, and then he took a very deep breath and broke into sobs.