The First Stone Read online

  They belong to the American Special Forces residing behind the fence in the middle of Camp Price. They come and go in their own unpredictable rhythm, and there’s rarely any contact between them and the Danes and Brits. They never coordinate their missions with the rest of the NATO forces; most people think that has something to do with the Americans’ so-called kill-or-capture policy. Tipped off about the Taliban in local villages throughout the area, they slip in mostly at night and take prisoners. No one ever sees any of those prisoners.

  “We left kind of quickly,” says the guy with the bandana, as if apologizing for his attire. He speaks with a thick Southern drawl. “We could hear the shooting from camp, and when we asked, no one had their shit together to come to your rescue. So we asked if they had any problem with us doing their job for them, and they said that was okay—so here we are. It’s about knowing who your friends are. What about it, boys? Had a good time pounding Mr. T?”

  “Not really,” says Schrøder. “We stepped right into an ambush. Two men down.”

  “Sorry for your loss, man, that sucks.” The American runs his fingers through his hair regretfully. “We’ll go kick some ass for ya.” He raises one hand and makes a V sign. Then he’s back in his Humvee, hitting the gas in a cloud of dust.

  That afternoon they are debriefed around the table with the topography map. They’re really feeling the loss of the two men now. Shaky and silent, they slump on the folding chairs. They don’t want to speak, but they have to. Michael? Could it have gone any differently? Were there any rules they failed to follow? He could have put his foot down somewhere else, but he put it in the worst possible place. There’s nothing they could have done better. No procedure, no training, could have saved him from taking that one step too far. That’s the kind of war they’re in, and the sooner they realize it, the better. None of them has any reason to blame themselves. No guilty feelings. He’s gone.

  “You mean it could have happened to any of us?” asks Adam.

  Schrøder nods. “Yes, but the most important thing is that it doesn’t happen to all of us. It will only happen to a few. Maybe there won’t be any more casualties in this squad. You have to believe that—every single one of you. If you start thinking that at any moment it’s your turn, you’ll never make it. You have to think it will never happen to you.”

  Is that all there is to say?

  A good friend? Of course. “We’re proud to have fought alongside him,” says Schrøder. They nod. The words sound somewhat official, as if they necessitate a nod, but the words also ring hollow. Is there a better way to say it? That they were happy to be with him—with or without a uniform and a rifle? Or is this something they’ll have to discuss individually with the chaplain?

  Of course the chaplain wants to give a eulogy. They’ll make a film for the surviving relatives and another version for themselves. That’s where they’ll find some meaning in all of it. Sidekick filmed Jakob’s final minutes. Should they erase his countdown to death? Or is the camera their memory, an indifferent power that records everything, one they can’t argue with?

  Jakob broke all the rules. He serves as a warning. The area isn’t secured. It’s full of roadside bombs. They’re under heavy fire, and he heads right into the center of it because he can’t endure the thought that his friend is dying out there alone. This is how Schrøder formulates it, his voice sober. They have to learn from what happened.

  “He just wanted to help,” says Hannah.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not Jakob was a good person. We all know he was a good person. But he was a damn bad soldier at that moment. He put his life at risk—and for nothing. What could he have done for Michael?”

  Schrøder turns to Simon, who shakes his head ruefully.

  “Nothing. He couldn’t have done a fucking thing.” Simon looks around the circle. “There’s a reason you have a medic with you. That’s my job—and I couldn’t have done anything. He was already dead. But it’s my job to ascertain that. I have to decide what should be done. Suppose Michael wasn’t dead, just badly wounded. Jakob could have held his hand. But not any fucking thing else. I might have been able to stabilize him.”

  “Maybe he needed to have his hand held,” says Hannah.

  “I think what he really needed was a good shot of morphine.”

  “Maybe it was Jakob who needed to hold Michael’s hand,” interrupts Schrøder. “You know how they were with each other. Little brother, big brother, all of that. And that’s all good and well. It’s important we’re there for each other. We’ve talked about this before.”

  Someone sobs. It’s Sørensen, who led the way with his mine dog. “I feel so guilty,” he says. He looks around apologetically. His chubby face is bright red. “If I had just done my job . . .”

  Schrøder waves his hand dismissively. “No one is guilty here. We were under fire. When Michael sought cover, he stepped to the side of the path you had swept.”

  Sørensen, the platoon’s oldest, went into the army long before the war in Afghanistan began. He’s here only because he knew it would end his career if he didn’t take a deployment. He has two sons at home, Frederik, who’s nine, and Anton, who’s thirteen. Sylvester leans in and speaks softly to him. Surely he’s repeating Schrøder’s point.

  “It’s just so unfair,” says Hannah, her voice thick with stifled tears. Mads places a hand on her shoulder. His eyes are also filled with tears; he was always bullying Jakob.

  Ignoring Hannah, Schrøder looks at Simon. “If I’m not mistaken, this is one of the things they teach during your medical training. A wounded hero is only in the way. A dead hero is of no use to anyone. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Simon nods.

  “So, can we let that be the end of it? All of us want to go home again. We take care of each other—but we also have to take care of ourselves. What do you most want—to hold a dead comrade’s hand one last time or to come home and place flowers on his grave? Hopefully none of you has any doubts. Be heroes who come home alive—that’s your mission.”

  He looks over at Sidekick. “Your memorial is a nice idea. Michael and Jakob will leave a legacy, and we can visit them on the net as often as we want to. But right now”—he shrugs regretfully—“right now we have to be honest with each other. Right now it doesn’t help much. Right now they’re just dead. Plain and simple. And their death has left a hole in all of our hearts.”

  Sidekick stares straight ahead, as if he isn’t listening. “You forgot something,” he says. “We aren’t the only ones who can visit them. The whole world can see them. And everyone in the future. Always. Forever.” His voice is calm. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to convince them about anything. He’s merely saying what needs to be said. He’s reminding them of what really matters.

  “Where was our backup?” Adam’s voice is angry. “Something went totally wrong here. Surely we aren’t supposed to handle that kind of action without any air support?”

  “They said the airspace was too crowded. Artillery had other priorities. We were unlucky—we were ambushed on a busy day. But quick-reaction forces should have shown up. They couldn’t get their act together. It’s bullshit. I’ll be speaking to management about it.”

  “You knew they weren’t coming, didn’t you?” says Simon.

  “Yes, I did. But I had to keep it to myself. How do you think you would have felt if—under the most intense gunfire—I had told you you’d have to handle it alone?”

  “What about the recordings? Have you all had time to look at your helmet cameras?” asks Sidekick.

  Schrøder waves him off. “Not now, Andreas. We’re not ready for that right now. Later. Okay?”

  12

  They gather again in the mess tent. Schrøder has sent a report to Steffensen. There will be more official inquiries, forms to be filled out, signatures on the dotted lines—all the bureaucracy that death carries with it. They’ll hold a memorial ceremony by the flagpole. Burial in Denmark. Some of th
em will be pallbearers. No one has called home yet. “Operation Minimize.” All communication with the outside world is closed. Relatives must be notified first.

  They’ve all showered and had dinner. No one has much of an appetite. Exhausted, they sit around drinking water.

  “Hey, guys!” They look up. It’s one of the Americans they met that morning, his clothes covered in dust, with bright stripes of sweat running down the dirt on his sunbaked face. The damp bandana clings to his forehead. There’s a strange expression in his eyes; they can’t tell whether he’s in a state of ecstasy or one of shock. He has large dark-red stains on his flak jacket, and there are dried flakes of red on his hands and in the hairs on one arm.

  “Are you wounded?” asks Simon.

  “No, no. It’s not my blood. We lost a guy.” His expression is at once both empty and intense. “Died in my arms, man. Right in my arms! I can’t believe it!”

  “Christ, what a day! So sorry, man,” says Schrøder.

  “It’s just so fucking unfair,” says the American. “They’re the world’s worst marksmen. And yet one of the ragheads gets a shot in. Right here.” He points to a spot on his neck, just above his flak jacket. “Right in the carotid artery. I couldn’t believe it! I sat with my arms around him. We tried to stop the bleeding . . . and then he was gone. I never even got to say goodbye to the poor bastard.” His voice is emotionless, as if he’s reading an official document. He looks down at himself, suddenly realizing what state he’s in. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says. “See you guys around.”

  “We heard explosions.”

  The American turns back around. “Yeah, we had air support. They went at it. Leveled several compounds. But when you’ve just lost a man, there’s nothing to celebrate.” His massive shoulders hang, as if an enormous fatigue has suddenly caught up with him.

  “One more. That makes three today.” Simon lifts three fingers.

  Schrøder looks at them. “There’s always one more. That’s war. We might as well get used to it.”

  13

  Someone is shaking Simon. It’s still dark. Shoving the arm away, he turns over and tries to bury himself deeper into the thin mattress. But the hand has a tight grasp on his shoulder and won’t let go. He fights back sluggishly, fumbling to hold on to the sheets so he can fall back to sleep. The last thing he wants to do is leave the shelter of his comforter. He mumbles in protest. Finally he opens his eyes. A face he doesn’t recognize is bending over him.

  “Medic, we need your help.”

  He has no idea how many hours he’s slept. Few, he would guess. Maybe only one. He lay awake all night thinking. Not about Michael and Jakob but about his time as a butcher’s apprentice. Simon’s father is a butcher; he used to help in their shop in Vejle, until his father had to close down and take a job at the large slaughterhouse in town. After that, Simon trained at a smaller slaughterhouse on Sjælland. He’s good with animals, which sounds strange to others when he says it. Their objection is always the same: “But you’re the one who kills them.”

  Yes, he’s the one who’s fired bolt guns into the foreheads of large, massive steers, their dark eyes peering around unsuspectingly. One moment he’s standing next to a living, trusting creature. The next it’s lying in front of him on the concrete floor in its death throes. The animals always seem colossal when they collapse—and they are colossal. They weigh about eight times as much as he does. A mountain of life that tumbles over.

  He feels totally calm, both when he pulls the trigger and in the moments right before, leading the steer along the floor, stroking its smooth fur, and feeling the warmth from its breathing body. It’s not only about having a steady hand; it’s also about being in the right frame of mind when the time comes. He accepts it, and the harmony he feels he borrows from the creature he is about to kill—although he never thinks of it as his victim.

  “Some say that what separates people from animals is that people know they’re going to die,” said the master butcher on Simon’s first day. “But if you’ve ever seen a sounder of pigs herded into a large slaughterhouse, you know that’s not true. They know full well they’re going to die. They’re stressed out, and afterward you can taste it in the meat. The meat’s ruined by their fear of death. A really fine piece of meat testifies to an animal unburdened by our knowledge that death waits at the end of the corridor.”

  In his head, Simon hears Jakob counting down to his own death. He listens to his heart beating in the darkness and then thinks again about the animals’ fear of death and the quality of their meat.

  Simon sits up in bed. “What’s happening?” The soldier in him is awake, but he can’t associate the word “medic” with anything at this moment.

  “An emergency.”

  “Are we under attack?”

  Looking around, he can’t understand why the others in his tent haven’t been awakened. They’re all still sleeping on their cots. Involuntarily, he lowers his voice.

  “Wounded,” says the soldier.

  “Ours?”

  The soldier shakes his head. “Afghans. Civilians—lots of them. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He gets ready to leave. “Meet you in the clinic.”

  Simon dresses quickly. The clinic on the edge of camp is located in a whitewashed house with a covered waiting area where benches have been built into the walls. Disney figures painted on a white background spread their arms out welcomingly. The clinic is part of the Hearts and Minds Project, created to make the locals feel more receptive to the troops. It’s open two times a week, every Tuesday and Thursday morning.

  As he approaches, he can see the area teeming with medics beneath the floodlights. There are also a few doctors and nurses. Stretchers are everywhere, and orders are being yelled in English and Danish. Three trucks and seven or eight four-wheel-drive pickups are parked outside the clinic. The floor of the waiting area is covered with people lying everywhere. A man leaning against the wall is bleeding all over Donald Duck. Women are immediately taken behind the clinic’s doors. There are also many children but only a few men, all of whom are old.

  These aren’t the minor injuries or common illnesses usually brought into the clinic when it’s open. Even from a distance, Simon can see how much dried blood there is in the folds of the Afghans’ clothes. Many, unable to move by themselves, are hanging on to their relatives’ arms or lying motionless on the ground or in the back of the trucks and pickups, where they still haven’t been moved.

  What happened? He thinks back on yesterday’s explosions and the American describing how the air bombardment must have hammered the locals. When their own platoon entered the area where they were ambushed, they had assumed that none of the farms’ inhabitants were left behind the walls. But there must have been a lot of people—and now they’re here with the all-too-clear signs of having been in the middle of the gunfire.

  He has to focus. It’s going to be tough. There’s an overwhelming number of people, at least thirty or forty. Somebody on duty has screwed up. Normally, so many relatives aren’t allowed to accompany the wounded. He walks over and reports to one of the military doctors yelling in an attempt to bring order to the chaotic scene in front of the clinic. The sight that greets him as he slowly cuts open robes and pants is a textbook example of war wounds: open abdominal cavities, burn wounds, and extremities in such bad shape that amputation is unavoidable. A girl who has already passed out from blood loss has had her leg blown off just below the knee. Simon guesses she is about five. A boy who looks around ten is missing three fingers on his right hand. The shoulder joint is shattered on one old man, the back muscles exposed on another. There’s a half-burned face where the heat has singed away the skin and only gray ashes remain of the hair. Many are bleeding from their ears. Simon has to sort out the hopeless cases, where treatment would be a waste of time and resources, identify those who are already dead, administer morphine by auto-injection to those near death, and call for help for any who stand a chance. He’s a gatekeeper.<
br />
  All of them are quiet. There’s plenty of yelling, though none of it is coming from the wounded, at least not the adults. Some of the children are whimpering, but they seem to be trying to control themselves. When he first notices their silence, it sends a shiver through him. He can’t help but think that only some unnatural willpower prevents massive cries of pain from all these mutilated people. One of his instructors during his medical training told him about it. “Not a sound,” he said. “They have wounds that would have made me scream like a baby. Yet they don’t make a sound.” Everything is easier when the wounded don’t scream and thrash about—yet those reactions also make them human. It’s as if all these wounded refuse to reveal their humanity, or maybe they’re just not used to being cared for or bandaged. Or maybe their silence is accusatory: Look at what you’ve done to us.

  Simon is no expert in war wounds, but even he can tell that these injuries weren’t caused by a roadside bomb or a Taliban attack. There are too many of them, and he dare not think about how many dead must be lying in the Green Zone. That’s the way it looks after an effective air attack. Yes, it was payback time yesterday.

  Scream! yells a voice inside him. Cry! Be human beings! He can’t endure their silence. All this repressed pain. Where will it finally come out? When? How? He has no idea what their silence says, but it’s saying something. Too much, really. It’s like watching the surf silently pound the coast, or a seabed exposed for inexplicable reasons, perhaps to warn of an impending tsunami. That’s Afghanistan—an exposed seabed of wounded bodies—a country stretching in all directions like an endless plain of suffering.

  In the hard glare of the floodlights, all color dissipates. Everything turns into shadows or blinding-white surfaces, faces reduced to dark spots. Simon glances at his watch. It’s almost dawn.