Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Thirst

SOMEWHERE, ON SOME SPOT here on planet Earth, a shell is discharged from the muzzle of a gun. No, let me rephrase that … Somewhere, on some spot on planet Earth, a leaden shell, heavy and destructive, is fired from the long, wide barrel of a heavy mortar. We can’t be more precise than that, unless we know how much explosive material is contained in that almost cone-shaped shell. But we don’t, and perhaps the person who orders the firing button to be pressed doesn’t know either. But why am I imagining a finger pressing a button at all? Maybe it’s a switch that is flicked instead. Up or down? How should I know? What difference does it make, and why should the components of a killing machine be important when they make such a fearsome unified whole? So, let’s just say a shell was fired in order to drop from the sky somewhere on this Earth — after following a trajectory that in my mind’s eye, seems long — to explode, destroy and ignite a whole area and send a cloud of smoke billowing into the air.

Without doubt, whenever a shell is fired, it must have an intended target. If possible a specific one and if not a non-specific one. But on the particular scrap of land where our tale will unfold, the target happens to be both specific and non-specific. Specific because the setting is a battleground, and non-specific because someone far away, out of sight, has surmised that this area is a centre for resistance in the form of guerrilla warfare. And so, on the basis of this assumption, a bombardment began at sundown, starting at an inconspicuous location and eventually surrounding the young men of this story; and since it is nighttime and therefore impossible to show any flame or light, it is not clear how many from that small group survived. An order to retreat has been given, but no-one can tell whether anyone has escaped from the circle of fire in time, or whether they are lying on the ground at a distance, half-alive. Likewise, it’s unclear whether anyone has remained in position, dead, alive or wounded. Even if anyone should utter a sound, the din caused by the hail of bullets doesn’t allow the soldiers to hear each other’s voices. The person who is moaning and calling for water must be quite close, in any event. But close to whom? Perhaps to those who are still alive and well.

Any number of shells have rained down. But that water tank still remains standing in one of the valleys between the hills up ahead. In all likelihood, it has shuddered several times from near misses, causing the water inside to spill over and run down the outside of the tank, but it’s still standing in the same gulley, seemingly immune to all gunfire. The tank should be safe for the time being, as it’s not in the enemy’s direct line of sight; unless, that is, their troops crawl out of their trenches, charge down the hill and happen upon it. But it seems that they have not yet been given the order to do so; if they did advance down the hill, they might find themselves trapped in the same gulley as the water tank, in plain sight and within range. Which would mean that anyone who opened fire could kill as many of them as he had bullets. So the hope is that, at least until this intense bombardment is over, the water tank will remain unscathed, while those soldiers who have fallen on the path leading from the tank to the trenches will also stay where they are, dead or alive. In the distance, between the brow of the hill and the water tank, some enemy soldiers have fallen dead or dropped to the ground: some of them before reaching the tank and some on their way back with full water bottles, some of which may still be intact, dangling from their necks and shoulders. But we can also assume that many of those flasks will be mangled and riddled with bullet holes. Now anyone who tries to fetch water will first have the difficult task of finding and quickly gathering up any empty, intact flasks before dashing down to the tank to get water.

But what if all the flasks are full of holes?

‘Al-atash, atash … atashaan.’ *

It’s the captive enemy who has piped up. ‘Shut him up!’ one of the men responds. ‘Perhaps,’ he continues, ‘the hail of fire might cease if the enemy realises that we’ve taken one of their number prisoner.’ Another says with a bitter smirk: ‘Yeah, right, like they’re capable of showing pity!’

‘What are we to do then?’

‘Good question, what are we to do! It’s not like it’s our decision to make.’

‘How many of us are left?’

‘Only you, as far as I know. Until the sun rises a bit higher we can’t tally up the survivors.’

‘We mustn’t raise our voices.’

‘Atash … atash … atash! Ah … ah … jor’a …’ †

‘He’s getting restless. And my wrist feels like it’s about to snap; he keeps tugging on the rope. I think he must be dehydrated; what should we do with him?’

‘Whatever’s best for us. If you know his language, tell him there’ll be no water until the shooting stops. How many men should we martyr for some water? He saw what happened with his own eyes! Tend to his wound again. If the bleeding stops, he’ll survive.’

‘Let’s radio for help again. The radio telephone is still working.’

‘When the order to retreat arrives, then we’ll retreat. But right now, in this situation … we can’t.’

‘So what do we do? What should we do?’

‘Exactly what we’re doing now. Just keep your voice down. Now tell me what else is on your mind.’

‘I’m just thirsty, so thirsty.’

‘Me too … who isn’t, if they’re still alive?’

‘After sending in those RPG rounds they must reckon there’s no one left.’

‘Let’s hope to God that they make that mistake. That’s why we must remain silent. Stop that young man’s mouth with a rag. Thirst is driving him mad and might make him scream all of a sudden. Do it now, gag him, will you?’

‘His injuries are fatal, though. Why don’t we at least untie his wrist from mine?’

‘It’s a leg wound. His hands are fine.’

‘That’s what I’m saying. He can’t escape!’

‘Maybe not escape, but he could stick a bayonet in one of our backs when we’re not looking. It’s his duty as a soldier — and he’s crazy now, as well.’

‘So let me tie his hands together.’

‘What if he unties them? Then you’ll be the first to get a bayonet in the back; he’s your prisoner.’

‘What can I do then? I’m his captive too, as it stands; why don’t I just put him out of his misery?’

‘No need. His comrades might well see to that.’

‘How long do you think we’ll survive?’

‘Till we shrivel up and die from lack of water.’

‘When will it end?’

‘What?’

‘The night!’

‘I’m worried about the other trenches. Stay where you are, don’t move! The other trenches aren’t stirring either; I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. When the day finally dawns properly, we’ll know for sure, as long as …’

‘As long as they don’t just start bombing us again?’

‘Would you like me to write them a pleading letter?’

‘You think now is a good time to joke …?’

‘What then? You want me to reprimand you instead?’

‘No! I’ve got an idea … Let’s exchange the captive for water!’

‘Huh?’

‘Our prisoner … for water. How about it?’

‘How do you know what’s going on over there? Maybe they’ve taken one of our men prisoner too.’

Yes, maybe. Looking across to that hill, the far hill, the foot of the hill, the meadow, with metal shrapnel, spent shells, armoured personnel carriers, fire and suffocating smoke that keeps billowing up, ever higher into the sky … and then more meadows and mountain passes and ditches and trenches and troop units, personnel carriers, comings and goings, trampled ditches — all half-burnt.