Read Online THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER by Gerald Seymour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerald Seymour
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ran on sand and shingle, then fell back.
Fast, they had him by the shoulders and arms and propelled him towards the launch's side. Not only was he no sailor, he had never swum. He did not resist.
They had had time to learn every contour of his face. They could have described the shape of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the colour of his eyes.
He could have told them the fate of four men who trafficked opium who, also, had seen his face.
They lifted him up, his stomach scraping on the launch's side.
He told them nothing.
Had they stopped, pulled back his head by the hair at the last moment and looked into his face in the dying light they would have seen the harshness of his features - but they did not.
Caleb was pitched over the side. He saw the twin grinning faces, and then he went under. The shock of the water forced air from his lungs. He went down, into blackness. He was scrambling with his feet, kicking, and the salt water was in his mouth, his nostrils, and the pressure on his chest was leaden. His feet flailed into the sea bed.
When he broke the surface, gasping and coughing, the launch was already under full power, arrowing away from the beach. The limit of his memory was the few days in Landi Khotal and the wedding party - before that there was nothing, the same blackness as when he had gone under the water, and after that there were memories of Afghanistan and more memories of the camps at Guantanamo Bay.
Nothing in that cut-short memory told Caleb how to swim. He was a man who could fight with skill, with resolve, a man who could trek and endure the confines of a prison cage constructed to destroy a prisoner's soul, but he had never swum. He lashed at the water. The thrashes of his legs and arms, and the power of the waves, pushed him towards the beach. He felt no guilt that he had not told them of their fate. His mind was as cold as his body in the water. His feet hit the bottom. His sandals had stayed on. He stood at his full height and the waves broke against his back. He waded towards the shore.
When he was clear of the water, Caleb sank down on his haunches, then rolled on to his back and little pebbles pressed into his spine.
Above him, a low shaft of moonlight came off the water and covered him.
His life, as he knew it, had begun at a wedding party on the outskirts of the town of Landi Khotal and before that there was the same darkness as when he had gone down into the water off the launch.
He had no wish to clear the darkness because older memories threatened him. On his back, looking up at the stars, he saw the man with the eyepatch and the chrome claw, always watching him. He had felt then that the one eye was never off him. The party had drifted on and food had been eaten, and when the evening had come, the man with the eyepatch and the claw had sat beside him. Lit by hurricane lamps in which moths danced, he had seen the scars spreading out from under the eyepatch and up the wrist to which the claw was strapped.
It had been the start of the journey of Caleb's life.
A light flashed in the trees, winked at him.
His sandals slithered in the sand. He went towards it. For a whole minute the flashes guided him but when he reached the debris left by the tide's highest point the light was killed. He blundered forward in darkness and wove between tree-trunks. Thorns caught at his robe.
His clothes were sodden and the cold of the coming night swaddled him .. . Caleb was not ashamed of fear. Since the wedding, he had been afraid many times. The Chechen had said that fear was unimportant, that the control of fear was the talent of a fighter . . . If he was to return to his family, he must take every step on trust.
He trudged through the trees. He pulled the robe clear when it snagged.
Caleb had control of the fear because the camps at Guantanamo had hardened him. He was a survivor .. . He passed a palm tree's trunk. His arm was grabbed and the light fell on the plastic bracelet on his right wrist.
Fast, they had him by the shoulders and arms and propelled him towards the launch's side. Not only was he no sailor, he had never swum. He did not resist.
They had had time to learn every contour of his face. They could have described the shape of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the colour of his eyes.
He could have told them the fate of four men who trafficked opium who, also, had seen his face.
They lifted him up, his stomach scraping on the launch's side.
He told them nothing.
Had they stopped, pulled back his head by the hair at the last moment and looked into his face in the dying light they would have seen the harshness of his features - but they did not.
Caleb was pitched over the side. He saw the twin grinning faces, and then he went under. The shock of the water forced air from his lungs. He went down, into blackness. He was scrambling with his feet, kicking, and the salt water was in his mouth, his nostrils, and the pressure on his chest was leaden. His feet flailed into the sea bed.
When he broke the surface, gasping and coughing, the launch was already under full power, arrowing away from the beach. The limit of his memory was the few days in Landi Khotal and the wedding party - before that there was nothing, the same blackness as when he had gone under the water, and after that there were memories of Afghanistan and more memories of the camps at Guantanamo Bay.
Nothing in that cut-short memory told Caleb how to swim. He was a man who could fight with skill, with resolve, a man who could trek and endure the confines of a prison cage constructed to destroy a prisoner's soul, but he had never swum. He lashed at the water. The thrashes of his legs and arms, and the power of the waves, pushed him towards the beach. He felt no guilt that he had not told them of their fate. His mind was as cold as his body in the water. His feet hit the bottom. His sandals had stayed on. He stood at his full height and the waves broke against his back. He waded towards the shore.
When he was clear of the water, Caleb sank down on his haunches, then rolled on to his back and little pebbles pressed into his spine.
Above him, a low shaft of moonlight came off the water and covered him.
His life, as he knew it, had begun at a wedding party on the outskirts of the town of Landi Khotal and before that there was the same darkness as when he had gone down into the water off the launch.
He had no wish to clear the darkness because older memories threatened him. On his back, looking up at the stars, he saw the man with the eyepatch and the chrome claw, always watching him. He had felt then that the one eye was never off him. The party had drifted on and food had been eaten, and when the evening had come, the man with the eyepatch and the claw had sat beside him. Lit by hurricane lamps in which moths danced, he had seen the scars spreading out from under the eyepatch and up the wrist to which the claw was strapped.
It had been the start of the journey of Caleb's life.
A light flashed in the trees, winked at him.
His sandals slithered in the sand. He went towards it. For a whole minute the flashes guided him but when he reached the debris left by the tide's highest point the light was killed. He blundered forward in darkness and wove between tree-trunks. Thorns caught at his robe.
His clothes were sodden and the cold of the coming night swaddled him .. . Caleb was not ashamed of fear. Since the wedding, he had been afraid many times. The Chechen had said that fear was unimportant, that the control of fear was the talent of a fighter . . . If he was to return to his family, he must take every step on trust.
He trudged through the trees. He pulled the robe clear when it snagged.
Caleb had control of the fear because the camps at Guantanamo had hardened him. He was a survivor .. . He passed a palm tree's trunk. His arm was grabbed and the light fell on the plastic bracelet on his right wrist.
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