soldiers have no water. For six days the helicopters havenât flown over the area because of the haze. Any longer and the soldiers will be forced to eat K rations. Fortunately, the meteorological situation has improved in the past few hours, the sky is once again a blazing blue and the guys from Charlie are grouped on the flat open space in front of the base, waiting for an airdrop.
The helicopter appears in the notch between the hill and the mountain, silent and tiny as an insect. The guysâ eyes, all shielded by reflective lenses, turn toward the little black dot, but no one takes a step forward or unfolds his crossed arms. The aircraft descends and they can now make out the incorporeal circles described by the whirling rotor blades. No matter how many times youâve seen a C-130 approach with its rear cargo hatch open, no matter how many bone-stiffening hours youâve spent traveling in it, you canât help thinking how much it resembles a bird with its ass wide open.
The pallets are dropped in rapid succession; the cords of the parachutesâabout a dozen in allâgrow taut in the air and the white nylon canopies bloom against the cobalt sky. The aircraft makes a turn and disappears in a few seconds. The parachuted containers dangle in the air like abnormal jellyfish. Something goes wrong, though. A burst of wind slams into a parachute, which tilts over and nudges the cord of the one beside it, as if looking for company. It wraps itself around it and the beleaguered cord in turn goes into a spin. The spiral they form picks up speed, and the cords get snarled up all the way to the top, strangling the canopies. The Siamese parachutes knock into two of the ones below them, and together they form a tangled knot.
The soldiers hold their breath, some instinctively cover their face with their hands, while the cargo containers, intertwined and now lacking air support, plummet to the ground in free fall, the unprecedented speed dragging the heavy load down.
The crash raises a cloud of dust that takes several seconds to clear. The guys arenât sure what to do. They step forward a few at a time, their keffiyehs pressed against their noses.
âWhat a fucking mess,â Torsu says.
âAll because of those air force dickheads,â Simoncelli says.
They surround the crater carved out by the cargo pallets.
Food, thatâs what was in them. About a hundred boxes of canned tomatoes have exploded, spraying red liquid all around, but there are also crushed packages of frozen turkey meatâpinkish shreds scattered in the sand, shimmering in the sunâcanned mashed potatoes, and milk streaming out of plastic containers in several places.
Di Salvo picks up a handful of crumbled cookies. âBreakfast anyone? You can even dunk the cookies in the milk.â
âWhat a fucking mess,â Torsu says again.
âYeah, a big fucking mess,â Mitrano repeats.
The pool of milk spreads around the pile, skims the soldiersâ boots, and mingles with the tomato purée. The birds of prey, which have already started wheeling about in ever tighter circles, mistake it for an inviting puddle of blood. The parched soil quenches its thirst by quickly soaking up the red liquid; it stays dark for a few seconds, then forgets it was ever moist.
Very little of the meat supply is salvageable. The slices of turkey recovered from the dust are barely enough for a quarter of the men and the cooks refuse to cut them into smaller pieces because theyâd end up with childrenâs portions. What with delays and glitches, the soldiers havenât eaten meat in over a week, and when they see trays of pasta with vegetable oil again, a riot almost breaks out in the mess hall. To calm things down (and because he himself has a great desire for steak), Colonel Ballesio agrees to the first breach of regulations, authorizing an expedition of two vehicles to go to the village bazaar and buy meat from the
The helicopter appears in the notch between the hill and the mountain, silent and tiny as an insect. The guysâ eyes, all shielded by reflective lenses, turn toward the little black dot, but no one takes a step forward or unfolds his crossed arms. The aircraft descends and they can now make out the incorporeal circles described by the whirling rotor blades. No matter how many times youâve seen a C-130 approach with its rear cargo hatch open, no matter how many bone-stiffening hours youâve spent traveling in it, you canât help thinking how much it resembles a bird with its ass wide open.
The pallets are dropped in rapid succession; the cords of the parachutesâabout a dozen in allâgrow taut in the air and the white nylon canopies bloom against the cobalt sky. The aircraft makes a turn and disappears in a few seconds. The parachuted containers dangle in the air like abnormal jellyfish. Something goes wrong, though. A burst of wind slams into a parachute, which tilts over and nudges the cord of the one beside it, as if looking for company. It wraps itself around it and the beleaguered cord in turn goes into a spin. The spiral they form picks up speed, and the cords get snarled up all the way to the top, strangling the canopies. The Siamese parachutes knock into two of the ones below them, and together they form a tangled knot.
The soldiers hold their breath, some instinctively cover their face with their hands, while the cargo containers, intertwined and now lacking air support, plummet to the ground in free fall, the unprecedented speed dragging the heavy load down.
The crash raises a cloud of dust that takes several seconds to clear. The guys arenât sure what to do. They step forward a few at a time, their keffiyehs pressed against their noses.
âWhat a fucking mess,â Torsu says.
âAll because of those air force dickheads,â Simoncelli says.
They surround the crater carved out by the cargo pallets.
Food, thatâs what was in them. About a hundred boxes of canned tomatoes have exploded, spraying red liquid all around, but there are also crushed packages of frozen turkey meatâpinkish shreds scattered in the sand, shimmering in the sunâcanned mashed potatoes, and milk streaming out of plastic containers in several places.
Di Salvo picks up a handful of crumbled cookies. âBreakfast anyone? You can even dunk the cookies in the milk.â
âWhat a fucking mess,â Torsu says again.
âYeah, a big fucking mess,â Mitrano repeats.
The pool of milk spreads around the pile, skims the soldiersâ boots, and mingles with the tomato purée. The birds of prey, which have already started wheeling about in ever tighter circles, mistake it for an inviting puddle of blood. The parched soil quenches its thirst by quickly soaking up the red liquid; it stays dark for a few seconds, then forgets it was ever moist.
Very little of the meat supply is salvageable. The slices of turkey recovered from the dust are barely enough for a quarter of the men and the cooks refuse to cut them into smaller pieces because theyâd end up with childrenâs portions. What with delays and glitches, the soldiers havenât eaten meat in over a week, and when they see trays of pasta with vegetable oil again, a riot almost breaks out in the mess hall. To calm things down (and because he himself has a great desire for steak), Colonel Ballesio agrees to the first breach of regulations, authorizing an expedition of two vehicles to go to the village bazaar and buy meat from the
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