Prince of Afghanistan Read online

  He turns away on noticing something out in the glare. Two scorpions, their barbed tails raised in readiness, are stalking a brown lizard sunning itself on a rock. One jumps at the lizard and stings it, while the other does the same. The lizard shivers and goes still. The scorpions turn on each other, quarrelling over the dead lizard. They’ll keep on fighting, even if that means they both die. The way Prince is staring at them it seems that he too understands that they’re in a dance of death. I know, I say to him, it’s pointless, like this war. If the Taliban aren’t fighting us, they’re killing fellow Afghans. To survive here, you have to kill; to fight is to survive. It’s as basic and primitive as those two scorpions, old boy.

  I laugh as Prince frowns at me, as if he’s puzzling over this too. I didn’t understand how Casey could talk to his dog as if it were a human, but now I know. It’s as if he feels what I am saying. As Casey used to say, The great thing about dogs is that they don’t answer back, so you can talk to them to your heart’s content.

  The rusting artillery shells shine in the glare. It’s a reminder that the Russians couldn’t win here and neither will we. Soon the desert will claim even the ruins and they’ll disappear into the baking earth as if they had never existed.

  The sun is setting. I find myself smiling at Prince, who is looking worried, as if concerned by my brooding. What are your deep thoughts about the matter, my black prince? He tilts his head as if trying to figure out what I’m yabbering on about. Some insects have settled on his flank, attracted to the raw wound. I wipe them away and then scratch his throat. His eyes close in bliss. He doesn’t complain, he’s brave, stoic and loyal and yet has no idea that he’s in a war.

  It reminds me that those back at the base will think Prince is also dead. I remember when an army dog died in an explosion and at the memorial service his food bowl was placed upside-down next to his kennel. It was the symbol that a dog had been killed. The sight of the upturned bowl was too much for the handler, who moved away to sit by himself at the end of the compound, among the truck parts and boxes, where he wept like a baby. Now I understand his grief. We’re going to get back together, I say as he licks my hand, wanting me to continue scratching his throat. We’re a team, OK?

  Shadows, which as usual seem darker and deeper than those in Australia, are beginning to creep across the ruins as the sun sinks quickly. I stand up and as I prepare, I notice that the two scorpions are dead, the lizard not far from them, stiff and shrunken to a tiny piece of meat in the heat.

  The farmers have returned to their village as we make our way down to the stream, passing through a field of poppies. It’s colder now. The moon is rising and the light shines on some strange lumps scattered on the ground. I bend over them and realise I’m standing in a watermelon patch. I cut off a hunk of watermelon and eat it. How delicious it is; fresh and filled with sugary water, it soothes my dry mouth and lips and stops my stomach from rumbling. We’ll have to find water and some real food soon, though, or we won’t have the energy for the trek.

  The next stop will be to get some water and then we’ll head south, bypassing a village. Prince trots ahead of me. That’s what I like about him – his independence and his sense that he is any man’s equal. As we move through long grass and stunted trees, I notice him sniffing the ground with increasing urgency. Then he breaks into a run. Prince, stop! I call, but he’s unable to hear me. He changes direction and I see he is chasing after something. He breaks free of the grass and closes in on a small animal, like a hare. They cross the stubble of a harvested maize field and I can see their two silhouettes as Prince gains on his prey. Unlike a lot of other dogs, Prince never barks when hunting. There’s no tell-tale sign of excitement: his is a relentless and silent pursuit.

  There’s a movement to my right. For a moment I think it’s a scarecrow quivering in the night wind, then I realise it’s a man. He pauses on spotting me and then sets off at high speed. I can’t raise my voice or shoot him because I don’t want to wake the village but I have to stop him before he can warn anyone. I chase after him, slowly gaining but he’s too far ahead for me to catch him. My army boots make running across the fields hard going, it’s as if they’re made of concrete. I glance over my left shoulder to see where Prince is. He’s rounding in on the animal, causing it to double back in fear. In turning to bring it down, Prince sees me chasing after the Afghan and stops in his tracks.

  He pauses as if deciding between the prey and me and, sizing up the situation, changes direction and starts to chase after the man. He passes me in that effortless lope of his and silently gains on the Afghan, who spins around, only to see Prince leaping at him. The man yelps in shock and stumbles to the ground. Prince clamps his jaw on the man’s arm to stop him from getting away. Terrified, he pleads in a wild babble, trying to back away on his bum from the dog. Stop, Prince. No more, I order when I catch up to him, but he can’t hear so I have to tap him on the neck and motion him to let go of the arm which he does and obediently sits down not far away, his attention focused on the man, whose eyes, caught in the moonlight, are sparkling with fear.

  I mime to him to put his hands behind his head, which he does. His eyes switch back and forth between the rifle barrel pointing down at him and the dog. He doesn’t look like a Taliban soldier; his straggly beard, creased face and rough clothes mean he’s probably a farmer. But why was he was out in the fields at this time? I know Afghans don’t like the night. Maybe he’s been out hunting? But he has no weapon. I have a few basic words of Pashto and use some on him, telling him not to move or I’ll kill him. He doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying to him, either because he’s so frightened or because he’s from another ethnic group that speaks a different language. There’s no way I can kill an unarmed citizen. The problem is that if I free him, it’s certain he’ll raise the alarm about us.

  His head swivels towards the river. Prince has seen something too and jumps up, staring in the same direction. I see a figure running along the river’s edge, heading towards the village. He’s wearing only a light white shift and is barefoot. When he passes from the shadows into the moonlight I notice he’s only a boy, maybe a teenager. Prince glances at up at me, ready to obey an order to chase after him but there’s no point. I have little idea of what to do with the man at my feet, let alone two captives. What’s certain is that it won’t be long before the youngster wakes up the village. My heart’s racing; my mind is a blur – I have to make a decision as soon as possible.

  I motion the Afghan to lie face down in the stubble. He obediently rolls onto his stomach. I yank off his trousers and use them to tie his hands behind his back. Then I press the rifle barrel against his neck, telling him to stay still and be quiet until we’ve gone. He may not know any English but the threat of being shot is a universal language and he’ll heed my warning – at least for a while.

  There’s nothing I can do about the boy. Soon the village will be out searching for an enemy soldier and his dog, so it’s crucial we put as much distance as possible between us and them.

  Prince looks up at me as if wanting to know what will happen next. The sweat of effort and fear drips into my eyes. I hear the boy yelling out as he approaches the village. Some lights go on.

  6

  It’s best to return to the observation post rather than risking being seen out in the open. The moonlight is as bright as a searchlight. By the time we reach the ruins, my uniform is heavy with sweat and I’m panting with effort. Prince seems to know the dangerous situation we’re in. The way he’s sticking close and sometimes looking up at me with that familiar frown of his, it’s as if he senses my urgency.

  It takes me some time to recover. I sit on a pile of rocks that was once a wall and gaze down on the barren hills that lead up to the observation post. It’s the best position from which to see if anyone is following us. Thin white lines move around in the darkness below. It takes me some time to realise that they are torchlights – it must be the villagers looking for us. Prince sits a fe
w metres from me, looking in the same direction. I feel an intense respect for him. The way he helped me out without me even ordering him to was extraordinary. I don’t know if he’s forgotten Casey, but he seems to have decided that we’re a team.

  We’ll have to stay in the ruins, then set out tomorrow night and try to catch up on the time we’ve lost. I pick up my canteen and take a sip, only to realise there’s no water left. I didn’t have time to fill it up. It’s going to be difficult to sit out the heat of the day unless we can find some. Prince needs it more than I do; dogs suffer more from the heat than humans. I learned on patrol that the sniffer dogs can only work for about twenty minutes without rest and water.

  I try not to doze off. Because the Taliban wear black it’ll be easy for them to avoid being seen once the moon drops behind the mountains. Casey said the Russians called their Afghan enemy dukhi or ghosts, and I can understand that. On patrol I’ve spotted Taliban soldiers only to have them vanish in front of me as if they never existed.

  Towards dawn I wake up in the middle of a nightmare of the Taliban chasing Prince and me across boiling earth so hot that it burns through my boots and sears his paws. The morning sun is beginning to pour down on the outpost. I stand up and stretch my limbs only to realise that I’m alone. Prince has gone. I call out his name, then remember he is deaf. A terrible dread possesses me. I run through the ruins of the fort. Then, just when I think he may have wandered off into the desert to look for Casey, I see him standing in the shadow of an overhanging rock at the rear of the fort. He’s staring intently at some object. I run to him and he glances up at me with a frown of concentration and then back at a piece of rusted tin about two metres square on the ground weighed down by large rocks. What is it, Prince? His stumpy tail wiggles with excitement. I pull him back, afraid there may be snakes or scorpions under the tin sheet. After removing the rocks, I carefully lift up the piece of tin with the barrel of my rifle. There’s a round hole about a metre across. I peer into it and hear Prince next to me sniffing loudly. The inside lining of the hole is reinforced with bricks. I can make out nothing in the pitch blackness. I drop a stone into it and after a second or two I hear a faint splash. Prince, you’re brilliant! I cry out in relief and laugh as he prances around the hole, eager to get at the water.

  It’s impossible to reach to touch the water, so I grab the helmet and search for string or a rope, but there’s nothing. I take off my shirt and tie one sleeve to the chinstrap and, holding on to the other sleeve, lower the helmet into the well. Just when I think the sleeves aren’t long enough, I hear a hard splash as it hits the water. I spend an agonising time trying to tilt the helmet enough so that water will flow into it. Once I’ve done that I carefully lift it up out of the well. Prince steps forward to drink but I push him away. He seems annoyed and his body goes rigid, as if wanting to fight me for it. I motion him to be calm. It’s OK, boy, I just want to make sure.

  I put some of the water on my dry lips. It’s cool and slightly brackish, but seems good enough to drink. Prince trembles with impatience, he’s even more thirsty than I thought. Convinced it’s fine to drink, I place the helmet on the ground in front of him and he laps up the water greedily. I pat him as he drinks, telling him over and over, Good boy, good boy … who’s the clever devil now? I dip the helmet into the well several more times until the both of us have drunk our fill. I put my soaking wet shirt back on. The damp coolness is a relief. The shirt dries in a few minutes but I feel refreshed. You’ve saved my bacon again, I say to Prince. He seems to shrug away my praise and heads off, sniffing his way through the ruins. I started out fearing he would be a burden and now I don’t think I could make it back without him.

  I walk to the remains of the stone fence and perch where I have a one-eighty-degree view. I scan the slopes and escarpments for signs of life. But there are none. I’m relieved and not a little puzzled; perhaps the village hasn’t reported our presence to the Taliban, or maybe it doesn’t consider us important enough to chase. I watch the tiny people in the valley, toiling under the harsh sun. In a nearby paddock, two dozen or so small figures run back and forth in a helter-skelter fashion. Their movements don’t make sense – and then I figure it out; they’re playing soccer.

  I’m about to return to the shade when I glimpse a movement to my far right. Three armed men in black are advancing quickly and with purpose towards the fort. There’s no doubt they’re after us. We don’t have much time. I grab Prince and motion him to follow me out of the ruins.

  7

  There’s nowhere to hide. The air is thin and hot and my lips are cracked. I have to keep careful watch on Prince in this furnace. He keeps pace with me and I take frequent rests. Even so, he’s walking more slowly and his tongue hangs out. I get him to sit, and pour water from my canteen down his throat. Then he lies on the dirt and licks his paws. I’m horrified by how blistered they are from the hot stones and earth.

  It only gets worse when I notice three black dots following us across the ridges. Prince is breathing heavily. I have to find shelter soon or he’ll die. I brush my hand back and forth across his back, calming him. There’s no way he can survive several more hours in these terrible conditions. All we can do is to keep moving in the hope we’ll find a hiding place soon.

  I take a sip of the warm water and steel myself for the next section. Prince sets off with me, but walking slowly and gingerly, as if his paws hurt each step. I want to hurry but I have to keep to his pace. I wish he could hear, so I could urge him on. I keep patting him, hoping my touch is reassuring him.

  Climbing a hill is painful – we’re both gutted with the heat and effort. At the top I look at what is in store for us. It’s a wasteland. I’m feeling dizzy from the searing heat and the glare. Prince stops and licks one of his damaged paws. I’m wondering if we should somehow double back and return to the fort again, just to seek shade, when I see a cluster of large rocks at the foot of a hill. It’s just after midday and the sun is travelling west; perhaps we can find some shade on the eastern side of the rocks.

  We have to stop frequently for Prince to gather his strength. His eyes are glazed with the heat and pain and I don’t think we’ll make it, but after an hour or so we finally reach the shelter of the rocks. The main one is the size of a door, and it casts a hard black shadow on the cracked earth. The shade is a relief. Prince lies on his stomach, his body heaving as he recovers from the ordeal. The temperature may still be high but resting here is much safer than being exposed, and my eyes no longer have to deal with the intense white glare that bounces off the earth and stones. I give Prince more water, leaving a couple of sips for myself. The water is as hot as a cup of tea but I don’t care. I’m grateful to Prince for having found the well because we surely would have died from thirst without it. I keep watch over him, feeling helpless – there’s very little more I can do. Gradually his breathing becomes regular and he’s relaxed enough to doze. My face is hot and flushed and I feel blisters on my unshaven cheeks. We’ll wait until dusk before setting off again. In the meantime I keep an eye open for the Taliban and study my map. We’ve been going south-west, but it’s time to head south-east.

  I’m working out how long it will take us to reach the river when I hear voices. I drop the map and peek around the rock. The three Taliban are moving around the side of a hill, heading towards us. I hear Prince sniffing the air. He’s smelt them and the hair stands up along his spine. He growls softly. I touch his head to quieten him and make him sit, then I loosen the safety catch on my rifle. The voices become louder as though they are having a conversation. I realise I am not breathing and tell myself to breathe in and out to calm myself. My heart is beating hard. I’ll have to shoot them first before they spot us. I don’t dare look out to see where they are until I am ready to fire. I can hear their voices clearly now. They seem to be chatting about something that amuses them, because one of them laughs. They sound as though they’re only ten metres from me. A two-way radio crackles into life. Out of the corner o
f my eye I see Prince stand, and as his nose sniffs, his lips quiver and his tongue flicks in and out as if he is tasting the very air itself. I know this sign, I’ve seen it on patrol. He’s about to attack. As he steps forward, I grab his collar. He whips around, ready to turn on me. I motion him to sit. He stares at me as if irritated that I am stopping him.

  One of the men answers the call and he sounds angry. Not even knowing the language, I can tell he’s swearing. Then there’s silence. I strain to hear if they’re moving. They talk as if debating among themselves what to do about the call. My hands are so slippery with sweat that I have to rub them dry on my trousers. I hear them set off again and I hold my finger against the trigger, deciding to take the middle Taliban first. It will confuse the other two for a moment and I’ll be able to get more shots in. Instead of coming closer, their voices fade away. I peer around the rock and see them trudging back up the hill. Relief floods through me and the tension drains away. That was close, eh, Prince? He stares at me, frowning, as if to say, What was that all about? I could have taken them myself.

  The shadows grow longer and as the sun sets I take another look at Prince. He trembles when I touch his sore feet. At least the earth will be cool when we finally move out. We seem to have shaken off the Taliban for the time being. Perhaps they were ordered on another mission. The bright orange sun drops below the horizon with a suddenness that is peculiar to this country, and the moon, like a gigantic white hole tunnelling into the inky blackness, looms up from behind the distant mountains. It’s time to go. The moon’s silver light will make it easy for us to find our way along the contours of the slopes.

  Nearing the river, we find ourselves in an orchard of trees twisted into weird shapes. I recognise the fruit as pomegranates. I pluck three, the size of apples, while Prince hurries to the river and jumps into it, standing in the water up to his chest; no doubt the water eases the pain of his sore pads. I fill my canteen and almost drink it dry before filling it up again. I sit down on the bank and cut open the pomegranates with my knife, removing the pulp and enjoying the tart juice and sugary seeds. The moon is huge, as if it were close enough to touch. Everything seems peaceful. I eat the pomegranates but know that what we need is meat. Prince can’t make it back home without protein, and the fruit won’t be enough for me either. If we can’t find meat in the next day or so, then we’ll have to risk stealing a village sheep or goat.