Read Online Green on Blue by Elliot Ackerman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elliot Ackerman
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pot’s spout. Tawas poured me a cup of the milk tea. He brought it and a stick of his gum to the HiLux’s bed, where I stood behind the machine gun. He and I chewed our gum, drank from our mugs, and looked out to the dark compound walls.
He spoke softly: Gomal reminds me of the village where Qiam and I lived as boys.
My mind wandered back to Sperkai and that morning years ago, when I’d last seen my mother and father. I thought of Ali, how he’d held me up in the tree when I’d tried to climb down. I looked to the ridgelines that surrounded us. Surely someone was up there, hiding and watching. Perhaps it was Gazan and his fighters, or perhaps some frightened boys wondering what we’d do to their homes.
This seems a tough place to live, I said to Tawas.
He folded his arms and hung them over the side of the bed. These people have nothing, he said. They are ignorant even of their suffering. This is the worst poverty.
Mortaza leaned against the hood of the HiLux, also sipping his milk tea. Down a dark street, a pair of ragged boys, one a little older than the other, watched him. He watched them too. They crept closer, begging for food, cupping air from their empty hands to their mouths. Mortaza flung the tea from his mug at them. They ran around the mud wall of the nearest house, peeking back at Mortaza while he refilled his mug. Tawas called out after the boys, holding up two sticks of his gum. The boys stuck their heads around the wall. Slowly they crept closer. Tawas held up a third stick, tossed the foil wrapper into the dirt, and chewed it. The two boys, understanding what was being offered, ran up to Tawas and snatched the gum from his hand. They scrambled back toward the mud wall. After only a few steps the littlest boy turned around. He ran back and scooped up the piece of foil Tawas had thrown into the dirt.
Mortaza snorted at Tawas: Why should you feel pity for them?
Because they are like me, he said.
They are not like you. You’ve done something to lift yourself up. These people do nothing.
Who are you to make that judgment? asked Tawas.
Judgment? This is no judgment. Open your eyes. Their indifferencestares back at you. It is in their mud houses, overfilled sewers, and dirt-faced children who are stupid and unknowing.
It is only right to help them escape that, I said.
Yes, help them, he replied, but not with charity. Those boys will spend this whole day watching you, hoping for another stick of gum, instead of working for the meal that could fill their stomachs.
You didn’t come from a village like this, said Tawas. That’s why you say such things.
I have known death and loss just as you, Mortaza said. I have suffered. Those boys need an example of strength. The promise of charity has paralyzed them. Our charity, the Americans’ charity—I pray God delivers them from charity.
Mortaza threw the rest of his milk tea into the dirt. He walked around the front of our HiLux and sat alone in the driver’s seat. Soon morning light brushed the ridges. At the peaks the rock yielded its shadow to color, but in the heights the sky remained black and for a time the stars could be seen along with the first of the sun. The three of us watched the sky, but also the rooftops as the dark silhouettes of the villagers gathered to look down on us.
Yar returned with fresh orders. Mortaza, Aziz, he said, come, there’s work to do. We assembled around him, and he told us: You two wake the spingaris , elders, of each house. Let them know that in an hour they are to be in the bazaar for the shura.
I jumped down from the bed and grabbed my rifle. Mortaza fastened the chin strap on his helmet. Tawas interrupted our departure. This is not how a meelma , a guest, behaves, he told Yar.
This is how a soldier behaves, Yar answered back. He turned to Mortaza and me. Go! he snapped.
Not wishing to wake anyone, we first went to the homes where smoke already curled up from the chimneys. Still, a scowl met us atevery door.
He spoke softly: Gomal reminds me of the village where Qiam and I lived as boys.
My mind wandered back to Sperkai and that morning years ago, when I’d last seen my mother and father. I thought of Ali, how he’d held me up in the tree when I’d tried to climb down. I looked to the ridgelines that surrounded us. Surely someone was up there, hiding and watching. Perhaps it was Gazan and his fighters, or perhaps some frightened boys wondering what we’d do to their homes.
This seems a tough place to live, I said to Tawas.
He folded his arms and hung them over the side of the bed. These people have nothing, he said. They are ignorant even of their suffering. This is the worst poverty.
Mortaza leaned against the hood of the HiLux, also sipping his milk tea. Down a dark street, a pair of ragged boys, one a little older than the other, watched him. He watched them too. They crept closer, begging for food, cupping air from their empty hands to their mouths. Mortaza flung the tea from his mug at them. They ran around the mud wall of the nearest house, peeking back at Mortaza while he refilled his mug. Tawas called out after the boys, holding up two sticks of his gum. The boys stuck their heads around the wall. Slowly they crept closer. Tawas held up a third stick, tossed the foil wrapper into the dirt, and chewed it. The two boys, understanding what was being offered, ran up to Tawas and snatched the gum from his hand. They scrambled back toward the mud wall. After only a few steps the littlest boy turned around. He ran back and scooped up the piece of foil Tawas had thrown into the dirt.
Mortaza snorted at Tawas: Why should you feel pity for them?
Because they are like me, he said.
They are not like you. You’ve done something to lift yourself up. These people do nothing.
Who are you to make that judgment? asked Tawas.
Judgment? This is no judgment. Open your eyes. Their indifferencestares back at you. It is in their mud houses, overfilled sewers, and dirt-faced children who are stupid and unknowing.
It is only right to help them escape that, I said.
Yes, help them, he replied, but not with charity. Those boys will spend this whole day watching you, hoping for another stick of gum, instead of working for the meal that could fill their stomachs.
You didn’t come from a village like this, said Tawas. That’s why you say such things.
I have known death and loss just as you, Mortaza said. I have suffered. Those boys need an example of strength. The promise of charity has paralyzed them. Our charity, the Americans’ charity—I pray God delivers them from charity.
Mortaza threw the rest of his milk tea into the dirt. He walked around the front of our HiLux and sat alone in the driver’s seat. Soon morning light brushed the ridges. At the peaks the rock yielded its shadow to color, but in the heights the sky remained black and for a time the stars could be seen along with the first of the sun. The three of us watched the sky, but also the rooftops as the dark silhouettes of the villagers gathered to look down on us.
Yar returned with fresh orders. Mortaza, Aziz, he said, come, there’s work to do. We assembled around him, and he told us: You two wake the spingaris , elders, of each house. Let them know that in an hour they are to be in the bazaar for the shura.
I jumped down from the bed and grabbed my rifle. Mortaza fastened the chin strap on his helmet. Tawas interrupted our departure. This is not how a meelma , a guest, behaves, he told Yar.
This is how a soldier behaves, Yar answered back. He turned to Mortaza and me. Go! he snapped.
Not wishing to wake anyone, we first went to the homes where smoke already curled up from the chimneys. Still, a scowl met us atevery door.
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