each passing minute after the teenager’s father rang the town bell. Aquil-eh retold the story of the violence at Yagulung to the small group of men. He was interrupted only by a small, stooped elderly woman who brought him a mug of scalding hot chai.
“We have a radio,” said one of the men, the owner of the general store. “We can call the Indian base at Pullu. Northern Command is there.”
He ran to the store and opened the door. Inside, he found the dust-covered satellite radio in a drawer near the back of the room. The man flipped the switch, then adjusted the dial.
“Pullu,” he barked as he depressed the sidebar to the handset. “This is Mar Ah’glon in the village of Hunder. Do you hear me? Pullu, do you hear me?”
After several tries, a scratchy response finally came back.
“Roger, Hunder,” the voice said, “this is Northern Command. What is it?”
“Yagulung,” the shopkeeper said, speaking loudly into the handset. “Near the Line of Control.”
“What about Yagulung?” said the voice.
“The Pakistani Army has been there. They’ve killed a man, a farmer. There are two dead Pakistani soldiers. The Pakistani Army will be coming for their dead.”
* * *
In Yagulung, the two Pakistani soldiers walked up the gravel path toward the small town square, mortar and wood shacks were visible through the night vision goggles. They walked side by side now, Kalashnikovs at the ready.
The soldiers walked cautiously into the square. A light was visible; a small kerosene fire that burned in a low steel can near one of the huts. Next to the flames, a man sat, head against the wall. He was barefoot, with white hair, a farmer. He had a small wool blanket across his shoulders. The soldiers moved in silence toward the man, until they stood just above him. One soldier glanced at his watch. It was 3:08 A.M. The soldier kicked a small stone at the man, which struck him in the hand sharply, awakening him abruptly.
The villager looked up, startled. He saw the two Pakistani soldiers, their eyes masked behind bulky black goggles. The nozzles of two Kalashnikovs stared menacingly down at him, less than two feet away from his head.
“Where are our soldiers?” asked the soldier whose rifle was closest to the villager’s head. “Our soldiers, old man. Where are they?”
“It was an accident,” said the Yagulung farmer. “We’ve been waiting for you. We’re only farmers and herders. We are sorry. It was an accident.”
The Pakistani soldiers glanced at each other. The one doing the talking took a step back. “Are you saying they’re here?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said the farmer, his voice inflecting in nervous fear as he stared at the rifle. “We want to return them to you for a proper burial. They raped a woman and killed a man. We don’t want any trouble, Officers.”
The other soldier took several steps away from the scene, picked up the handset at his waist and clicked the sidebar three times.
“This is field unit two,” he said. “We’re in Yagulung. We found the patrol. Both soldiers are apparently dead.”
“Copy unit two,” a voice returned. “What happened?”
“We’re finding out right now. I’ll report back. Over.”
“Where are the bodies?” asked the soldier holding the rifle.
The villager stood up. He pointed across the dirt square. In front of another building, two simple wooden coffins were lying next to each other on the ground.
Other villagers soon began to appear, awakened by the harsh voices of the Pakistani soldiers. The small square filled with other men, as well as a few women and children. The villager who had been waiting next to the kerosene fire was joined by more than a dozen of his family and friends.
One of the soldiers walked toward the coffins. The other kept the Kalashnikov speared toward the growing throng. He took a step back, rifle aimed at the growing crowd.
The soldier flipped on his headlamp, then lifted the wood from one of the
“We have a radio,” said one of the men, the owner of the general store. “We can call the Indian base at Pullu. Northern Command is there.”
He ran to the store and opened the door. Inside, he found the dust-covered satellite radio in a drawer near the back of the room. The man flipped the switch, then adjusted the dial.
“Pullu,” he barked as he depressed the sidebar to the handset. “This is Mar Ah’glon in the village of Hunder. Do you hear me? Pullu, do you hear me?”
After several tries, a scratchy response finally came back.
“Roger, Hunder,” the voice said, “this is Northern Command. What is it?”
“Yagulung,” the shopkeeper said, speaking loudly into the handset. “Near the Line of Control.”
“What about Yagulung?” said the voice.
“The Pakistani Army has been there. They’ve killed a man, a farmer. There are two dead Pakistani soldiers. The Pakistani Army will be coming for their dead.”
* * *
In Yagulung, the two Pakistani soldiers walked up the gravel path toward the small town square, mortar and wood shacks were visible through the night vision goggles. They walked side by side now, Kalashnikovs at the ready.
The soldiers walked cautiously into the square. A light was visible; a small kerosene fire that burned in a low steel can near one of the huts. Next to the flames, a man sat, head against the wall. He was barefoot, with white hair, a farmer. He had a small wool blanket across his shoulders. The soldiers moved in silence toward the man, until they stood just above him. One soldier glanced at his watch. It was 3:08 A.M. The soldier kicked a small stone at the man, which struck him in the hand sharply, awakening him abruptly.
The villager looked up, startled. He saw the two Pakistani soldiers, their eyes masked behind bulky black goggles. The nozzles of two Kalashnikovs stared menacingly down at him, less than two feet away from his head.
“Where are our soldiers?” asked the soldier whose rifle was closest to the villager’s head. “Our soldiers, old man. Where are they?”
“It was an accident,” said the Yagulung farmer. “We’ve been waiting for you. We’re only farmers and herders. We are sorry. It was an accident.”
The Pakistani soldiers glanced at each other. The one doing the talking took a step back. “Are you saying they’re here?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said the farmer, his voice inflecting in nervous fear as he stared at the rifle. “We want to return them to you for a proper burial. They raped a woman and killed a man. We don’t want any trouble, Officers.”
The other soldier took several steps away from the scene, picked up the handset at his waist and clicked the sidebar three times.
“This is field unit two,” he said. “We’re in Yagulung. We found the patrol. Both soldiers are apparently dead.”
“Copy unit two,” a voice returned. “What happened?”
“We’re finding out right now. I’ll report back. Over.”
“Where are the bodies?” asked the soldier holding the rifle.
The villager stood up. He pointed across the dirt square. In front of another building, two simple wooden coffins were lying next to each other on the ground.
Other villagers soon began to appear, awakened by the harsh voices of the Pakistani soldiers. The small square filled with other men, as well as a few women and children. The villager who had been waiting next to the kerosene fire was joined by more than a dozen of his family and friends.
One of the soldiers walked toward the coffins. The other kept the Kalashnikov speared toward the growing throng. He took a step back, rifle aimed at the growing crowd.
The soldier flipped on his headlamp, then lifted the wood from one of the
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