Read Online The Girl in Green by Derek B. Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Derek B. Miller
Ads: Link
likely the only one in the APC who knew who Colonel Sanders was. âWhat is wrong with you?â Herb asked. âYou got PTSD or something?â
âWell, thereâs a phrase. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I wouldnât call it post-traumatic, no,â he said, as three men about twenty metres away grabbed a chicken from a woman who was standing with two small children, and then pushed her to the ground as she tried to resist. âI admit Iâve been wondering for the last few days about why I canât sleep, and when I do, I dream of strangling dinosaurs with piano wire. I donât think itâs because of something I did. I think itâs something I didnât do. I think I have pre-traumatic stress disorder. I think Iâm stressed out from not being able to do the right thing. And then, to top it off, the army has decided that my inaction wasnât inactive enough, and by not doing even less I was doing too much. And so Iâm getting bad paper when Iâm done. Iâm not convinced my brain is working on the same frequency as the world around me. I mean, look out the window. How can I be the only one who finds this hilarious?â he asked. He did not laugh, though.
Arwoodâs voice no longer sounded sarcastic. It sounded farther off, as though he were speaking from the far end of an accident. Then he snorted. â Refoulement ,â he said.
Märta looked to Benton as Arwoodâs keeper. As Arwood spoke, though, Thomas Benton turned away and said nothing.
The day wasnât over.
7
It was a child. That much was certain. Maybe eight or nine years old, judging by the size of the empty shoes.
Everyone had thought it was over. Arwood, Benton, Märta, Herb, and the Frenchman whom Herb called Tigger had all stepped out of the armoured personnel carrier once the aerial bombardment of frozen chickens was over, and the mobs and riots had subsided. After an hour, the explosions had stopped, the panic had relented, and the chorus of normal human misery had resumed its dull lament.
From the APC theyâd walked to a small ridge that overlooked a wide and flat area. Only a few people were wandering around there. Most of the fighting had stopped. The women had all lost in their melees with the men to collect food, and the medics were already attending to the wounded, beaten, and stabbed.
The child had been below them in the wide-open gully. There was a ridge above it where people had started to gather. It was hard to know why that child might have been there. That didnât matter much now, because whatever heâd stepped on had blown him into a thousand mismatching pieces. What did matter was the other child â the one still in the minefield, metres away from the empty shoes, and paralysed with fear.
All eyes were on the boy. The American soldiers, whoâd arrived the day before, were all shouting to the boy not to move, as they too were not moving.
The American soldiers yelled in English.
It was unlikely that the nine-year-old boy understood English.
And even if the boy didnât move, what then?
Nothing about this was productive, and it was Märta who sized up the situation and exerted some leadership.
âYou,â said Märta to a man near her, who looked slightly better dressed than some. âDo you speak English?â
âYes, OK, OK,â said the man in penny loafers and grey trousers.
âYou speak what he speaks?â she asked, pointing to the boy.
The man shouted something in Kurdish, which Märta didnât speak. The boy turned around at the sound of the manâs voice, which Märta took as an affirmation in response to her question, and immediately told the man to tell the boy not to move. From here on he became Märtaâs voice, and, like every other Westerner trying to change the world through a translator, Märta had no idea what he was actually saying.
While Märta tried to calm the child down by
âWell, thereâs a phrase. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I wouldnât call it post-traumatic, no,â he said, as three men about twenty metres away grabbed a chicken from a woman who was standing with two small children, and then pushed her to the ground as she tried to resist. âI admit Iâve been wondering for the last few days about why I canât sleep, and when I do, I dream of strangling dinosaurs with piano wire. I donât think itâs because of something I did. I think itâs something I didnât do. I think I have pre-traumatic stress disorder. I think Iâm stressed out from not being able to do the right thing. And then, to top it off, the army has decided that my inaction wasnât inactive enough, and by not doing even less I was doing too much. And so Iâm getting bad paper when Iâm done. Iâm not convinced my brain is working on the same frequency as the world around me. I mean, look out the window. How can I be the only one who finds this hilarious?â he asked. He did not laugh, though.
Arwoodâs voice no longer sounded sarcastic. It sounded farther off, as though he were speaking from the far end of an accident. Then he snorted. â Refoulement ,â he said.
Märta looked to Benton as Arwoodâs keeper. As Arwood spoke, though, Thomas Benton turned away and said nothing.
The day wasnât over.
7
It was a child. That much was certain. Maybe eight or nine years old, judging by the size of the empty shoes.
Everyone had thought it was over. Arwood, Benton, Märta, Herb, and the Frenchman whom Herb called Tigger had all stepped out of the armoured personnel carrier once the aerial bombardment of frozen chickens was over, and the mobs and riots had subsided. After an hour, the explosions had stopped, the panic had relented, and the chorus of normal human misery had resumed its dull lament.
From the APC theyâd walked to a small ridge that overlooked a wide and flat area. Only a few people were wandering around there. Most of the fighting had stopped. The women had all lost in their melees with the men to collect food, and the medics were already attending to the wounded, beaten, and stabbed.
The child had been below them in the wide-open gully. There was a ridge above it where people had started to gather. It was hard to know why that child might have been there. That didnât matter much now, because whatever heâd stepped on had blown him into a thousand mismatching pieces. What did matter was the other child â the one still in the minefield, metres away from the empty shoes, and paralysed with fear.
All eyes were on the boy. The American soldiers, whoâd arrived the day before, were all shouting to the boy not to move, as they too were not moving.
The American soldiers yelled in English.
It was unlikely that the nine-year-old boy understood English.
And even if the boy didnât move, what then?
Nothing about this was productive, and it was Märta who sized up the situation and exerted some leadership.
âYou,â said Märta to a man near her, who looked slightly better dressed than some. âDo you speak English?â
âYes, OK, OK,â said the man in penny loafers and grey trousers.
âYou speak what he speaks?â she asked, pointing to the boy.
The man shouted something in Kurdish, which Märta didnât speak. The boy turned around at the sound of the manâs voice, which Märta took as an affirmation in response to her question, and immediately told the man to tell the boy not to move. From here on he became Märtaâs voice, and, like every other Westerner trying to change the world through a translator, Märta had no idea what he was actually saying.
While Märta tried to calm the child down by
Similar Books
