“I don’t know why the Commandant wants to involve ISI in this,” I say. “Because, sir, you know that Obaid is my friend and I want to find out as much as you do where he went and why,” I say, trampling over everything Sun Tzu has taught us trainee warriors.
“Shut your trap,” he barks. “I am not interested in your sentiments.”
He goes out and has a go at the cadets in white.
“You are turning God’s house into a bloody gambling den…”
One good thing about visiting the mosque is that sometimes it can calm even sinners like me. It is in His hands now, Colonel Shigri used to say in his spiritual phase.
Second night in the cell and I am already feeling at home. Dinner is served. I slip the first-termer a five-rupee note and busy myself with chicken curry, rice and cucumber salad. By the time I finish, the duty cadet is back with a bottle of Coke and two Gold Leaf cigarettes. I finish the bottle in two long gulps and light a Gold Leaf, saving the other one for later.
“You got any magazines?” I ask the duty cadet.
He disappears and returns with a year-old copy of Reader’s Digest. I was hoping he’d bring something less intellectual. But then prisoners can’t choose their own entertainment. The duty cadet leaves with the dinner tray, forgetting to take the matchbox from me.
One day this asshole is going to be court-martialled.
Stubbing out the Gold Leaf, I take off my shoes and belt and shirt and settle in for the night. I read ‘Humour in Uniform’ first. Nothing very funny. The only female pictures are in a black-and-white photo feature about Nancy and Ronald Reagan entitled ‘When They Were Young’. Even at twenty-eight she had the face of an old cat’s arse. The Academy censors have done a good job of obliterating her non-existent breasts with a black marker. Even in times as desperate as these I skip the photos and start reading the condensed version of Escape from Colditz.
I leave it halfway through and compare my situation with Lieutenant Anthony Rolt’s. It’s obvious to me that I am worse off. Even if I do make a hang-glider out of this foam mattress and some matchsticks, where the hell am I going to jump from?
I flick the pages in a last attempt to find inspiration. In ‘Life is Like That’ there is a five-line anecdote about someone called Sherry Sullivan who washed her car wearing an overall and her neighbour mistook her for her husband. The name does something and my armies are suddenly on the march. I avoid the hole in the mattress. These holes are like highway whores, filthy and tired.
My encounter with Sherry Sullivan ends in such violent throes of passion that the second Gold Leaf is forgotten and I enter a sleep so blissful that in my technicolour dreams the 2nd OIC is shining my boots and the Commandant is polishing my sword with the tip of his tongue. Captain Rolt’s hang-glider lands safely in Trafalgar Square.
The morning is even more glorious. I am woken by a waft of Old Spice. Loot Bannon is standing at the door. “Wakey-wakey, dear inmate.”
There are about one thousand and fifty things that I need to ask him. But he is in too cheerful a mood.
“Nice pad you got here,” he says.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say. “You found yourself a new Silent Drill Commander?” My attempt at sarcasm is ignored. I light up my second Gold Leaf.
“I see your supply lines are secure.” His turn to be witty.
“Did Obaid tell you anything?” I ask. My matter-of-fact voice surprises me. Gold Leaf on an empty stomach always turns me into a detached thinker.
I know what they call me and Obaid behind our backs.
Fort Bragg bitches.
Just because we are chummy with Bannon. Although Bannon is merely a drill instructor from Fort Bragg—only a lowly lieutenant—in the Academy’s food chain he is somewhere between a shark and a spotted leopard.
“Baby O is on the lam,” he says as if it’s breaking bloody news.
I take a last long puff from the cigarette, inhale a smouldering filter and break into a cough.
“I’m meeting El Comandante for my routine this afternoon. I should have some top info for you by then.” He is suddenly his distant Yankee self.
“And by the way, the Commandant wants you to carry on the good work with the Silent Drill Squad,” he says.
In my relief I decide to stick to philosophy.
“You know what Sun Tzu said? Wait your enemy out and you have won half the battle.”
“Did that old Chink really say that?”
“If he had spent a night in this cell jerking off to Reader’s Digest he would have reached the same conclusion.”
As I come down the stairs from the guardroom, surveying the world like only a paroled prisoner can, I confront the limits of my freedom. A middle-aged military police chap carrying an ancient Enfield 303 rifle is waiting for me.
“I have orders to keep you under close guard,” he says. I should have expected it; they are not going to let me roam freely. The only surprise is that Bannon conveniently forgot to tell me about this arrangement. Bannon’s memory has more holes than an overused short-range shooting target.
Let’s see how fast my guard can run.
There is enough time to get to the parade square. I can probably funeral-march to my dorm, have a leisurely bath and still make it in time for the parade, but I feel a sudden burst of energy and start moving at the double, my guard and his 303 rifle trying hard to keep pace with me. The morning breeze welcomes me and I am suddenly flying. The distance between me and my guard keeps increasing. A formation of new recruits passes me and they greet me at strength 5, with the enthusiasm of those starting a new life. “Buck up, boys. The country needs you,” I shout back.
I whistle at a pair of crows kissing on the telephone pole. Our old washerman carrying our laundry on his donkey cart is startled out of his slumber by my loud greeting: “Good morning, Uncle Starchy, go easy on the white stuff.”
In my squadron, the boys are already lined up for the morning dress inspection. Eighty-six yawning faces are spooked to see me running so early in the morning. They come to attention like the creaking wheels of a plane forgotten on the tarmac for too long.
I stand in front of the formation and start jumping on the spot.
“Come on. Wake up,” I shout. “I disappear for a day and you turn into sissies. Where is the Fury Squadron spirit?”
Without any further command they join me, at first reluctantly, and then catching my rhythm they all start running on the spot. I go through the rows, keeping my hand level with their chests, and soon everyone is bringing their knees to touch my hand.
They are happy to have me back.
As if the buggers have a choice.
The police guard stands in a corner, still breathless from running and quite baffled at this enthusiastic reception for his prisoner.
“Right turn. Quick march,” I order. “See you on the square, boys.”
I run towards my dorm not looking back at the police guard. I want to see if he is as meek as he looks. What exactly does he want to guard me from anyway?
He follows me. The bugger follows me all the way into the room and stands close to the door, quite alert by now. I open my cupboard and glance towards Obaid’s bed from the corner of my eye. A crisp white sheet is folded over a grey blanket. It looks like a Hindu widow in mourning. I take a deep breath and survey my cupboard. Here’s all my life folded up, in neat little piles: uniform shirts on the left, trousers on the right, my Under Officer’s golden epaulettes at a right angle to the peaked cap, toothbrush in line with toothpaste tube and shaving cream balanced on its cap and parallel to shaving brush; all the exhibits of my everyday life are displayed according to the standard cupboard manual. I open the drawer to check what I already know. They have been through it. I glance at the sword hanging on the inside of the cupboard door. A green silk thread from its tasselled hilt is casually tied around the top of the scabbard; exactly the way I left it. I think about going towards Obaid’s bed. My guard looks at the bed too. I start to u
ndress.
My hands move down the front of my shirt, opening the buttons while I quickly go through my options. I throw my shirt over my shoulder without looking back and pull the vest out of my trousers. The guard shuffles his feet, his fingers fidget around the ancient muzzle of his rifle. The bugger has no plans to move. Turning to him I yank down the zip on my fly, then move towards him with my fingers pulling down the waistband on my underwear.
“Uncle 303, you really want to see?”
He beats an embarrassed retreat out of the room, walking backwards.
I bolt the door and lunge towards Obaid’s bed. No point looking in the side table. They have taken everything. I turn the mattress around. They have obviously not thought that there can be other places in the mattress besides the obligatory hole. There is a zip on the side, I open it, slip my hand in. My fingers go back and forth, exploring the dead spongy surface of the foam mattress. I find an opening and slip my hand into the foam tunnel. My fingers touch a smooth piece of silk cloth and I pull it out.
Obaid’s hankie, rose-patterned. It smells of Poison and Obaid and there is a five-digit number on it. Obaid’s handwriting, all elegant dashes and curves.
As if they are going to let me near a phone. The only phone from where you can dial outside the Academy is in the sickbay. And my guard is knocking impatiently on the door.
Obaid had arrived two days after our training had commenced and always maintained that air of someone who is just a step behind in life. When I first saw him he was wearing fake Levi’s, a very shiny pair of oxford shoes and a black silk shirt with a logo on its pocket that read ‘Avanti’. His blow-dried, jet-black hair covered his ears. And if his city-boy civilian dress wasn’t enough to make him stand out amid a formation of khaki-clad jarheads, he was also wearing a rose-patterned handkerchief carefully folded and tucked under his collar. He removed the hankie from time to time to absorb the invisible droplets of sweat from his forehead. He stood with all his weight on one leg, right thumb tucked in his jeans pocket, left arm hanging aimlessly, ass cocked, and stared into the distance over the trees, as if expecting to see an aircraft taking off.
He should have kept his eyes on the door, from where soon-to-be-drummed-out Sir Tony emerged for our dress inspection. His starched khaki shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, his hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. As he approached I thought he was buckling it, but he yanked it out and shouted, “ATTENTION.” I put my heels together, puffed my chest out, pulled my shoulders back, locked my arms at my sides and glanced towards Obaid. He shifted his weight onto his right foot and tucked his left thumb into his jeans pocket too, as if posing for a Levi’s ad. Sir Tony was the kind of sir who believed that authority was all about half-finished sentences and chewed-up words.
“Shun, bastards, shun,” he barked, charging at the squadron.
My spine stiffened even more. His belt whiplashed in front of my eyes, making me blink. I heard it strike Obaid’s cocked ass. So unexpected was the attack that Obaid could only whimper. His knees buckled and he fell on the ground, one hand taking the fall, the other trying feebly to protect his behind from further assault. It didn’t come.
Sir Tony gave him a full dress inspection. The rose-patterned hankie was the first item of clothing to come off. Sir Tony rolled it around his finger and smelled it. “Fake fucking Poison,” he said, showing off his knowledge of the perfume trade. Sir Tony shoved the hankie in Obaid’s mouth, extended his right leg and waved his shoe in Obaid’s face. Obaid understood the meaning of this gesture, but obviously the symbolism was lost on him.
He went down on his knees, took the hankie out of his mouth and tried to wipe Sir Tony’s right shoe, which was now level with his nose. Sir Tony stood with his hands on his hips looking around at the rest of us. We had already been at the mercy of his whims for two days and we knew that anyone who tried to glance towards him would be the next victim, so we stood and stared, stared and stood. Sir Tony gave him a slight kick in the chin and Obaid got the message. He put the hankie back in his mouth and started polishing the shoe, his face making little circles around the toe.
Both shoes polished to his satisfaction, Sir Tony busied himself with the rest of Obaid’s outfit. He spent a considerable time struggling to tear the pocket with the Avanti logo from Obaid’s shirt. It was silk; it wouldn’t come off. He ripped off all the buttons and removed the shirt. Obaid wasn’t wearing anything under it. Obaid hesitated when Sir Tony pointed towards his trousers but Sir Tony started fidgeting with his belt buckle and within seconds Obaid was standing there in only his briefs and white socks and shiny oxford shoes, the rose-patterned hankie still in his mouth. Sir Tony pulled the hankie out of his mouth and with a certain tenderness tied it around Obaid’s neck. Obaid was at attention now, trembling slightly, but he stood straight and stiff, his arms locked to his sides.
“Take charge.” Sir Tony patted Obaid’s cheek and walked off, tightening his belt. We fell in behind him and Obaid marched us back to our dorm. It was only when he was in front of us, naked except for his briefs and oxfords, leading us into our dorm for his first night in the squadron, that I noticed that his briefs were also silk, too small and too tight, with little embroidered hearts on the waistband.
“Nice jeans,” I whispered from my bed after the lights-out bell on his first night in the dorm. Obaid was in the bed next to mine, his blanket was aglow as a tiny torch moved under it. I couldn’t decide if he was reading a book or inspecting his privates for any damage.
“My father makes them.” He switched off the torch and removed the blanket from his head. The way he uttered my father told me that he didn’t like him much.
“Your father owns Levi’s?”
“No, he just owns a factory. Exports. Hong Kong. Bangkok.”
“Must make a lot of money. Why didn’t you go into the family business?”
“I wanted to follow my dreams.”
Hell. Not one of those crazy civilians looking for martyrdom in all the wrong places?
“What dreams? Licking other people’s boots?”
“I want to fly.”
The boy had obviously spent too much time around his father’s warehouses spellchecking fake labels. I stayed silent for a while. Someone in the neighbouring dorm was sobbing, probably not getting used to all the F-words being poured into his ear about his mother whom he was definitely still missing.
Me? Spent my sixth birthday in a dorm like this one. Never had that problem.
“What does your dad do?” He turned his torch on and pointed it at me.
“Turn that thing off. You’ll get us into trouble,” I said. “He was in the army.”
“Retired?”
“No. He died.”
Obaid sat up in his bed and clutched his blanket to his chest.
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“He was on a mission. Classified.”
Obaid was silent for a moment.
“Your father was a shaheed then. It’s an honour to be your roommate.”
I wondered whether I would prefer to have a father who was alive and manufacturing fake American brands or a legend hanging from a ceiling fan.
“And did you really dream about joining the armed forces?”
“No. Books. I like reading.”
“Does your father make books too?”
“No. He hates books. But it’s my hobby.”
The sobbing in the next dorm settled into a low whimper.
“Do you have a hobby?”
“I didn’t join the armed forces to collect stamps,” I said, pulling the blanket over my head.
I unlace my boots, roll off my socks, take a starched pair of khaki cotton trousers and a shirt from the hanger. My trousers stick to themselves like two pieces of cardboard glued together and make tearing sounds as my legs part them. I tuck my stiff shirt in with one hand and open the door with the other.
“Congratulations, Uncle 303, your prisoner hasn’t escaped.”
I look
in the mirror. Three days without a shave and there are just a few scattered hairs on my chin. Like cactus thorns, Obaid used to say, sparse but prickly.
I take the razor from the drawer. A few dry strokes get rid of the thorns.
I never saw a hair on Colonel Shigri’s face. He was freshly shaved when they took him down from the ceiling fan.
I can see in the mirror that my guard, standing behind me, is smiling.
My Silent Drill Squad comes to attention as I arrive in the parade square. Bannon is not there. I can tell he is in his cool-dude phase, which normally entails lighting up a joint with his first cup of Nescafe Instant. I don’t have to wait for him. My boys are standing in three rows, eighteen of them, their right hands resting on the muzzles of their 03 rifles, bayonets naked and pointing towards the sky.
I start the dress inspection, a leisurely slow march, my left hand on the sword hilt, my distorted face reflected in the toes of their shoes. They are eighteen of the best: a smudged shoe or a crooked crease or a loose belt is not expected from this bunch, but you can’t really complete the inspection without picking on someone. As I approach the second to last person in the third row I mark my victim. I draw the sword with my right hand, turn round and before the guy can blink put the tip just above his belt, on his tummy, which had relaxed after my approving nod. The tummy is sucked in.
Not just by the boy at the tip of my sword—but there is an inaudible sucking-in of tummies all around; spines, already straight, stretch to their full potential. My sword makes an arch in the air, the tip finds the mouth of its scabbard and is pushed into its velvet interior. I start my march as the sword’s hilt clicks with the top of the scabbard. Not a word is exchanged. My eyes go on roving along the lines of still, stern faces and unblinking eyes.
Good boys, they are.
We can begin.
All the bullshit about the sound of silence is just that, bullshit. Silence is silence and our Silent Drill Squad has learned that by now. We have done this for one hundred and ten days, seven days a week. The ones with malfunctioning internal clocks, those in the habit of glancing sideways to get their cues, those counting silently to coordinate their manoeuvres and those twiddling their toes in their shoes to keep their blood circulation going, have all been eliminated.
2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes Page 5
