The First Stone Page 6

  Suddenly she stops and starts laughing. “Do you know what I mean?” The instant she asks the question, she can hear how dumb it sounds. It’s so ridiculously private that Adam has no chance in hell of understanding it. There are certain things you should just keep to yourself if you don’t want to sound too crazy.

  “Yes, I understand,” says Adam.

  There’s an implacable calm about him as he speaks those words. She realizes that it doesn’t matter if he’s telling the truth. He sat there. He listened. And at no point did he start going on about himself or get up to leave.

  8

  “I was thinking—” he starts. “Yeah, so—”

  Sidekick hesitates slightly as he sits down across from Schrøder. At 168 centimeters tall, he’s one of the smallest men in the squad at Camp Price; he has a small head and dull hair that looks like a dead mouse sitting on his pointy forehead. He’s always clean-shaven, probably because he can’t grow a real beard. He doesn’t have much muscle, either, no bulging biceps or massive chest to draw anyone’s attention when he’s in the shower. But he has something between his legs, a heavy, hanging member that seems to have ambitions of being a third leg. The size of his penis is a well-known secret that leaves his comrades wondering how to tease him. Sidekick has the platoon’s largest wang—but it has chosen a fairly unworthy residence. An elephant’s cock on the body of a mosquito. The thought that this munchkin outshines all of them when it comes to what really matters is unbearable.

  “You should donate that thing to science when you die,” says Mads. “Put it in alcohol—it’s the only thing it’s ever going into anyway. We’ll have to send you home in two coffins. One to the cemetery and the other to Panum Institute. You should be walking around with a case for that thing.”

  Mads has christened Andreas “Sidekick.” At first they called him Licorice Stick because of all the candy he receives from home. But Sidekick won out. They all know what Mads means. The protagonist is in Andreas’s pants; the rest of him is merely an appendage.

  Sidekick, who’s obsessed with cameras and thinks life has no meaning until you see it through a lens or on a screen, brought a whole battery of cameras with him to Helmand. He also thinks the helmet camera is the military’s greatest invention. There’s only one problem: he can’t film himself with it. So this little man—who can barely handle the thirty to forty kilos they’re forced to carry—lugs around extra camera equipment on every patrol. He fiddles with the self-timer more often than he’ll ever pull a trigger. They all know how he’ll behave the day the shit really hits the fan: staring into a video camera while everyone else is trapped in a life-or-death situation that, for him, is nothing more than another event to be documented.

  Sidekick takes his Sony Handycam with him into the showers. He puts it on a shelf under the mirror while he washes his hands or brushes his teeth. “Do you take that thing into the john with you, too?” asks Mads. The others wish he hadn’t. “No way,” they all say as Sidekick nods affirmatively. “Tell me you’re not filming yourself in glorious HD while you’re wiping your ass.”

  Because there isn’t enough room on his laptop, Sidekick has a whole stack of external hard drives. Every evening he sits there editing. “How long is a film about a day in your life?” asks Mads. “Twenty-four hours? What are you going to do with that?”

  “Put it on the internet.”

  “Do you honestly believe someone wants to watch you brushing your teeth on Boring.dk?”

  “That’s not why. Once it’s on the web, it can never disappear. I’m a LifeLogger. The net is my memory.”

  Back home, Sidekick is hooked up to what he calls a “quantified self.” He knows how many steps he takes each day, how many kilometers he cycles, how many calories he ingests, how quickly his heart beats—but it means he has to be connected to the internet twenty-four hours a day. Out here he can’t do that. He’s detached from his lifeline with an unregistered body, and military discipline is no substitute. The camera is, but not completely. Sidekick doesn’t feel like a whole person. He’s disconnected.

  Now he’s sitting across from Schrøder. “I was thinking . . . I was wondering . . . wouldn’t it be a good idea if . . .”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down on his scrawny chicken neck. His Adam’s apple is the only part of him as prominent as that unwieldy thingamajig residing in his underwear. At this moment he’s nervous, so it might just be his heartbeat that’s making his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  “Yes, what is it?” asks Schrøder.

  “I want to create a monument. About us. On the internet. Have you ever seen the Vietnam Memorial in Washington?”

  Schrøder nods. “Yes, it’s a long wall with the names of all those who died. Fifty-eight thousand. The Americans were divided in their feelings about the war. Some were for it, others against it. The memorial honors those who died. Not the war. So, it’s a kind of compromise.”

  “Yes,” says Sidekick, “but it doesn’t say anything about the fallen, other than the fact that they died. It’s the same with the memorial at Kastellet in Copenhagen. Dead soldiers, dates, names. That’s it. What about the memorial to the Battle of Iwo Jima—do you know that one?” Sidekick doesn’t wait for an answer from Schrøder. “A handful of soldiers struggle to plant the American flag on a mountaintop. It tells you something about the war, but it says nothing about the soldiers. We don’t know a damn thing about them.”

  “Clint Eastwood made a film about them.”

  “Two. He made two films.” Sidekick seems to be talking to himself. “But what about all the others, the tens of thousands who fought in the battle—the thousands who died? Where are they? What do we know about them? Nothing. What about us? Who’s going to know shit about what happened here? A date on a memorial only says when you died. What was your contribution? You drove over a roadside bomb or you stepped on one. Is that your contribution to the victory in Afghanistan, to establishing a democracy, the liberation of women, the education of children, all the progress we’re here to create? You stepped on a roadside bomb? That’s the memorial we get as thanks for giving our lives—a reminder that we put our foot down in the wrong spot?”

  “So, is it a documentary you want to film?”

  “Don’t you get what I’m saying? Everything has to be documented, every single one of our actions. A memorial should be like a memory, not just a name and date chiseled into polished stone or another stupid symbol some half-baked sculptor came up with that nobody understands. You know Halo? At its peak, they had fifteen million players—and their website contains every single game those players ever participated in. Players can go in and watch every single move they ever made. It’s all there. You can rewatch it, analyze it, learn from it. You fight in a magnificent war, and every soldier has his own completely personal space, preserving every movement he’s ever made. And you know what they call their site? The Museum of Humanity. That’s what I want to create. It’s the only way to really honor our soldiers. You know how many bytes there are in this online museum? Several quadrillion. And you know how many quadrillion bytes all of humanity’s written creations fill? Fifty quadrillion. Halo’s site alone may actually end up being more. The internet is humanity’s memory now. And it will last forever, at least as long as there’s electricity.”

  Sidekick finally stops talking. He’s pale, and his Adam’s apple has disappeared, as if he finally swallowed it. He looks down at his hands. It could be an embarrassing moment; instead, it’s a solemn one. That’s what their silence signifies.

  “I thought you were a fool,” says Schrøder finally. “I was wrong.”

  9

  This is the day when it all goes to hell. Sooner or later, it had to. Everyone knows that. It’s the very definition of war. Man plans and God laughs. You have to improvise.

  But can you improvise your way out of dying? Can you run around it, dig a tunnel beneath it, jump across it?

  You have to try, at the very least.

  The bri
efing, like almost everything else in camp, takes place in a tent. Standing in a semicircle around the table, they stare at a three-dimensional map of the terrain they’re about to enter. Schrøder identifies the route, the ridge where they’ll get out, and the road snaking between the dense, walled-in farms. They’ll be on foot patrol about six kilometers from camp. The last time they were in that area, they were fired on, but the shooting stopped abruptly before they could pinpoint it. No one was hit, but they had been challenged. Now they have to let them know who’s calling the shots—a show of force, though, like so many of their encounters, a symbolic one. Who’s the strongest on the runway? They’re armed models, showing off the latest in technologically superior weapons.

  “Once we show up in this area they consider theirs, it’s no longer theirs,” says Schrøder. “It’s ours.”

  “Then shouldn’t we be patrolling that area every day? Or living there?” Adam leans in over the table.

  “Tell that to the politicians. But then we’d need three thousand Danes in Camp Price instead of three hundred.” Schrøder looks around. “Are we ready?”

  They’re all standing there: Schrøder, Viktor, Adam, Hannah, Simon, Michael, Jakob, Sidekick, Mads, Iraq Robert, Lasse, Troels, Daniel, Clement, Årslev, Sørensen, Sylvester, Nikolaj, Joakim, Dennis, Jannick, Jonas, Tobias, Gustav, Mathias, Sebastian. Wounded Aske has come back to camp; he was in rehab at Rigshospitalet. The entry wound is small, a dark-red scar the size of a nickel, but the exit wound has left a deep depression in the flesh. A solid chunk that no surgery can replace.

  It’s mid-October. They’ve been here for almost two months. The heat has subsided, but the temperatures are still higher than even the warmest day of the year back home. They all have dark complexions, darker than any Danish summer could have caused.

  Hannah follows Jakob out of the dark-green tent. She looks at him. “Everything under control?”

  She wonders why everyone behaves like Jakob’s parent when they’re around him. Everyone except Mads, that is, who volleys one verbal attack after another at Jakob, as if he were a stray dog who needs to be put down at the nearest kennel.

  “Yes,” says Jakob with feigned courtesy. “Yes, Wall-Flip Girl, I have everything under control.”

  Hannah looks at him. “What did you say?”

  “Come on, everyone knows that’s what they call you.”

  They’re on their way to the APCs—the armored personal carriers parked on the gravel in the middle of camp. The gunners are already in place, sharp silhouettes against the brilliant-blue sky, their hands resting on their 12.7s.

  “Everyone who? Not me. I don’t know.” She knows full well what he’s talking about, though she’s never heard that nickname before.

  They reach the armored vehicle and have to stoop as they walk up the ramp into the back. Jakob sits down next to her. “Aalborg,” he says. “One of the autumn competitions in the skate park out on Øster Sundby Vej. There were two hundred boys. You were the only girl. You’re famous.”

  “So what?”

  “I saw you do it outside the building. You ran up the end wall—fucking high—and then you did a backflip.” Jakob laughs and gives her a thumbs-up. “Wall-Flip Girl. Wow! And then you did it on the ramp, too. With those heavy skates on. You were amazing!”

  He moves closer to her. Is he flirting? No, there’s too much admiration in his eyes. He’s too naïve to flirt. He’s just a boy. That’s clear.

  She gives him a high five. “Can I hear the ABC’s of survival?” she asks.

  Jakob looks at her proudly. He yells so she can hear him above the din from the diesel engine. “Airways, breathing, circulation.” He rattles off the list from their first aid course without hesitation. “See to it that there’s unimpeded access to the airways, no tongue thrashing around the throat and blocking the trachea. Check to see if the lungs are perforated and about to collapse. If they are, in my bag I have an airtight dressing I can attach to the chest.”

  “I’m impressed,” she says. “And what’s the C stand for in CABC?”

  “Catastrophic hemorrhage.” Jakob laughs. His face is all red. “Major blood loss will kill the wounded before airway obstruction, so apply a tourniquet to the affected limb.” They high-five again. He looks excited. Christ, he’s sweet.

  They park the three APCs on a ridge overlooking the river and fields. As sergeant, Viktor stays behind with the three gunners and the drivers. One of the gunners is Dennis, and on the way down the hillside, they can hear him start one of his ritual arguments with Viktor. Dennis, who has acquired a newer-model Kevlar helmet, is telling the sergeant why it’s far superior to those the army supplies.

  The walled-in farms are nearby. Although the cornfields aren’t high enough for someone to hide in, there are ditches, irrigation canals, and windbreaks of poplar trees, along with a thick undergrowth of bushes. The area is well suited as a battlefield any time of year.

  There’s something reassuring about the view. They know they’re vulnerable the very moment they move into the low-lying terrain along the river. They just hope that any enemy fire will be persistent enough so they can localize it. They don’t say it aloud, but they’re all thinking it. If resistance is strong enough, they’ll get the green light to request air support. And then the world will be rid of a few more Tali-bobs.

  The rugged rice fields closer to the river are devoid of any human life. Shouldn’t farmers be out here sowing seeds, fertilizing, or whatever the hell it is farmers do this time of year? Or some lonely little shepherd girl in a brightly colored dress with her flock of bleating goats? Something human they can relate to, some little elf they can give jump ropes or pencils to—what Schrøder calls the “civilized version of lead”—before they pound the fucking Tali-bobs with a less civilized form of it. They don’t know a damn thing about life in this area, so they aren’t adept at reading the signs in the green landscape. Still, the absence of any people is disturbing—that much they know. And right now the area is empty. Which is just how a battlefield looks before armies move in.

  The morning light is still soft, merging with the last red rays of the rising sun. In a few hours the rapidly rising sun will peak in a white-hot glow. The lazy flowing river glimmers silver in the light. The water looks inviting: they could go down, jump in, and then get mowed down on the shore. They look at each other. Schrøder waves them on. Let’s get going.

  They got up at 03:30. They took a shower. Some smeared on body lotion; others applied foot balm to their chapped heels. Everyone uses deodorant, everyone brushes their teeth, some shave, and others sport a “Talibaner” on their jawline. They’ve eaten eggs and bacon, toast with orange marmalade, milk with cornflakes or yogurt with muesli, and fresh fruit, and they’ve drunk Nescafé or Lipton tea. They’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—and ready to kill.

  I wonder what time the Taliban gets up, Simon asks himself. And what do they eat for breakfast? They probably start the day with a prayer. And then what do they do? Do they get their weapons ready? Or do they go out and take care of the cows?

  He knows nothing about those he’s about to meet in battle. Or maybe he knows too much, and what he knows doesn’t make sense. Previous squads were told that the Taliban were foreign fighters—Pakistanis, Chechens, and Saudi Arabians—feared and loathed by the locals. Then they were told that the Taliban were Afghans from other provinces, foreigners in the eyes of the locals, and that the locals were bribed into fighting for them with money, which the poor farmers couldn’t refuse. They call them the Ten-Dollar Taliban.

  Simon wonders how much a Taliban fighter weighs. He knows what he himself weighs—around eighty kilos. When he’s carrying all his equipment, as he is now, he’s closer to one hundred and twenty kilos.

  No statistics detail the average weight of the Taliban. Simon doesn’t know if he has ever seen a Taliban fighter, or whatever they’re officially called now. But if local farmers are also part-time members of the Taliban, he assumes that they weigh about s
ixty kilos, because they’re usually lanky, with pencil-thin limbs. A Kalashnikov weighs a good four kilos. Add on a few magazines. The sandals and the sewn-together sheets they call shalwar kameez can’t weigh that much. So every Danish soldier weighs about twice as much as his opponent. His calculations make Simon think of David and Goliath—and he suddenly realizes he’s on the wrong side.

  It’s starting to get really hot now; their every step raises small clouds of dust. They’re walking in the middle of a gravel road heading toward the river. They can’t see too far ahead, only ditches, irrigation canals, and bushes everywhere. Sørensen and Sylvester, the sweepers, lead the way with their mine-detection dogs. Michael, following behind them, sprays blue onto their tracks, so that the others will know where to walk, leaving a secure path in the middle of uncertainty. A long line of armed men moves along the fields. They’re on alert, as they should be. Are their hearts racing? Of course—but their heart rate doesn’t indicate fear or panic. Instead, it tells them they are ready for battle. Simon tries not to think about it. He pictures the screen in a video game. The red semicircle in the right corner indicates that he’s fully alive. He has the weapons he’ll need. He’s ready. If this were Call of Duty, the counter would start and the number on display would get larger or smaller.

  Suddenly there’s a shot. They’ve been expecting it all along. Now it starts. They can’t stay in the middle of the road. They have to seek cover in one of the ditches. “Down, down!” yells Schrøder, pointing to the ditch to their right. An explosion rolls across the fields. Later several of them would claim that, in the metallic ring of detonation, they could hear Michael’s bones and flesh being ripped apart.

  The few who actually see him step on the roadside bomb notice something else. Later, they’re all able to watch it on Sidekick’s video. Michael is still holding the spray can in his hand when he is hurled into the air, and with a muscle spasm triggered by the violent changes his body suffers at that moment, he pushes the nozzle. Along with the dark-red spray of blood, a navy-blue mist streams out of him, as if his body were releasing other, totally different fluids. His lifeless arms swing wildly. He manages to draw a large blue semicircle around his fallen body before his fingers finally let go.