Love Patterns

by Michael B. Malone

  Warid dropped his rifle and wrapped his arms around Alan, feeling the thinness. “What happened Alan?” he asked. “We’ve been looking, for you why did you leave?” Alan pushed himself back and spoke also to Ajram who was now standing close.

  “I dishonoured Shatha,” he confessed, waiting…

  Warid looked puzzled. “But …”, he began, then continued incredulously. “So that’s what all this is about.” He wrapped his arms around Alan again. “You, stupid bugger!”

  Alan couldn’t believe it. He saw Warid and Ajram smile at each other. He felt deflated, like an actor who’d rehearsed his death scene, then found it had been cut from the play. As Warid brought tea and food from the boat and lit a fire, Ajram explained, while he examined the insect bites covering Alan’s body.

  “Our laws are not so inflexible as outsiders think. For wives and unmarried women, the laws are strict. For widows they are more relaxed.” He paused, as he squeezed and extracted a particularly nasty burrowing insect from beneath the skin of Alan’s leg.

  He walked to the boat and came back with a jar of salve, applying it liberally to Alan’s skin, then continued. “They have their needs and as long as they are discreet …”, he gave a shrug. “You can’t have secrets in a small community like ours, but as far as we know Shatha was nursing you. As for anything else …”. He gave a huge grin with amusement dancing in his eyes, “… We can only speculate.” Alan smiled back. feeling the strangeness of using those muscles of his face. He felt foolish, but happy they were still his friends. Gladness swelled inside him, he loved them both.

  They sat by the fire, talking until the tea was ready. While Alan wolfed down the bread and dried fish and drank the sweet scalding tea. They told him what had been happening in the village and of the preparations for war in Kuwait. They packed up and paddled back to the village where Warid’s mother and Shatha greeted him with smiles. For the first time it really sank home to Alan that he was part of their family. Operation “Desert Storm” began with stealth bombers aiming laser-guided bombs at key targets in Baghdad.

  Kirsty, who was now back at university, woke to screaming headlines in the papers, television pictures of non-stop waves of bombers and fighters departing for Kuwait and Iraq, and ships in the gulf firing Tomahawk missiles. The next day the news was that the bombing was continuing, but Iraq was firing Scud missiles into Tel Aviv and Saudi Arabia. Israel was threatening to join the war, and Iran was threatening to side with Iraq if Israel attacked. She watched vivid pictures of Patriot missiles streaking upwards into the darkness to intercept and destroy the incoming Scuds, and pictures of Baghdad with the sky alight with tracer anti-aircraft fire. Captured Allied airmen were paraded on Iraqi television, looking battered and drugged. There were cries of outrage from the media and politicians.

  All this time the bombing was being stepped up with fantastic pictures of Smart bombs being guided down chimneys and ventilator shafts, guided bombs with cameras in their noses, demolishing bridges and Cruise missiles finding their way along the streets of Baghdad and even seeming to pause at crossroads to get their bearings. The marsh dwellers in the village knew that the war had started before most of the rest of Iraq as the marshes lay in a direct line between the Gulf and Baghdad. They heard the first planes far overhead, disturbing the quiet of the marshlands late at night.

  The next day Baghdad radio reported scores of civilians killed and dozens of allied planes shot down, but from the discussions of the villagers, Alan gathered that they expected propaganda like this and took the figures with a large pinch of salt. He was glad no animosity was shown towards him, as the villagers looked on the war as a conflict between Saddam and Kuwait with its allies, and nothing to do with them. Spotting the tiny sinister specks far overhead, which were cruise missiles, became one of the favourite pastimes of the villagers.

  Basra and the bridges and roads round it became a target after a few days, and the explosions, which Alan estimated must be forty miles away, could be heard in the village.

  Alan recovered his health and immersed himself in the life of the Madan, helping them fish and cut reeds, and milk the buffalos in the mornings, which he’d been surprised to learn was traditionally a man’s task. He helped collect the buffalo dung which was hardened into small thin pats laced with reeds and made excellent fuel. In the wild pig hunts, he excelled, for although he was usually beaten in target shooting, when it came to shooting from the hip, as was necessary when wild pigs suddenly burst from cover, there was something about his brain, body coordination that made his shots almost invariably get close enough to his quarry, without him aiming properly.

  He grew a moustache to be like all Iraqi men, and tried to grow a beard to mask his appearance, but found it unbearably itchy in the heat, so every two or three days he shaved the stubble from his face. Some tribes among the Madan wore blue checked headcloths (Kefiyahs) and others black, and in Baghdad and Basra he’d noticed Arabs with red checked ones. He’d tried to find out the significance of the different colours without success. The dish towel he still wore as a headcloth had purple checks, and although he’d been offered a blue one like the rest of the tribe, some perversity in him made him stick to his towel. He found himself in Ajram’s house more and more often in the evening. Shatha would sit beside him and they would both join in the discussion of village business. He loved the music of her voice, as if she was reciting poetry, rather than speaking. Occasionally, their fingers would touch, then she would turn her dark eyes on him and his heart would skip a beat. He shook his head. He felt free from the strong tie to Kirsty, but it disturbed him, as if part of him was missing. He tried to picture her, but it was like trying to recall a distant dream. He could remember her eyes or her hair or her lips or the way her nose crinkled but when he tried to combine the features into a face they distorted, and rippled out of focus.

  As the air war dragged on, Kirsty noted the main events in her diary. Iraqi aircraft fleeing to Iran, war damage causing a huge oil spill in the gulf and pictures of dying birds covered in oil; experts predicting an environmental catastrophe, and grave worries about the oil reaching the Saudi desalination plants.

  On the twenty-fourth of February, the ground war, code named “Desert Sabre” began and the media had a field day, showing diagrams of flanking attacks, pincer movements and helicopters blowing up tanks. Kirsty was horrified at the pictures of mile upon mile of burnt out vehicles of all kinds, blocking the whole width of the six-lane highway out of Kuwait. But she was relieved that the huge columns of starving and demoralized Iraqi soldiers who had surrendered seemed to be treated humanely, and relatively kindly. The offensive was suspended four days later, with the Iraqis acceding to all the U.N. demands. Kirsty began to hope that Alan would at last come home.

  Alan heard on his transistor radio that the ground war had started, Iraq had suffered a disastrous defeat and the army were in retreat, with many thousands captured and killed. Hostilities ceased soon afterwards and revolts against Saddam Hussein began in many small towns in Southern Iraq, led by extreme Shia groups and army deserters. The news reached them that a helicopter gunship had shot up a neighbouring village and had killed several villagers and a few buffalo. Visitors had word of mouth reports of other villages further north being attacked, presumably as a warning to the marsh dwellers, not to join the revolt. Many boats laden with tribes-people asking for shelter, came from the neighbouring village complaining they’d been attacked again. They were distributed around the houses with Alan giving up his own small hut to a family. The young men and youths of the village were furious and wanted revenge but there was no way that they could hit back at the helicopters and most of the still existing army posts were in the north. There was an air of tension in the village. A few fights broke out among the youths, which had to be settled by stern warnings from their elders. Warid and Ali departed for Basra in their mashhufs; Warid to find out what was happening at the university, now that the fighting was over, and Ali to look round Basra for
supplies. Alan woke the next morning to a hurried scurrying. He found that a band of youths were preparing to attack the fort where he’d been held prisoner; it being the only army post within reach. With the intention of trying to keep them out of trouble, he collected his rifle and ammunition, and a bag of bread rolls, and set out with them. They travelled until late into the night, then camped on a raised hillock amid a patch of reeds. The youths, as Alan had expected, had brought no food with them, so he distributed the bread and bedded down, leaving them discussing grandiose plans for what they would do when they reached the fort.

  They set off the next morning as soon as they awoke. And came in sight of the fort in the early afternoon. Keeping their heads down, they watched as a few khaki clad figures transferred supplies from an army truck to their barracks, which was still the wooden hut. They waited until the soldiers had finished and disappeared inside the hut, then keeping low, they circled to come in at the jetty, hidden from the soldiers by the fort. The young Madan warriors were creeping, belly down towards the barracks, when a soldier appeared carrying a crate into the truck. One of the younger youths, too excited to wait any longer, let fly with a burst from his automatic, followed by one or two others, but the range was greater than they were used to, and the soldier dived back into the barracks apparently unscathed. Firing started to come from the windows of the barracks and the youths found themselves pinned down, cursing at the member who’d let off the first shot.

  Alan, who was well to the rear, not having any inclination to shoot anyone, retreated to the jetty where he’d noticed machine guns were fixed to one of the launches. He was out of sight of the barracks, so he clambered into the launch to examine the machine guns. They were fixed to both sides and secured by steel supports, but there was no sign of any ammunition. He wondered where it might be stored. They would hardly keep it in the barracks. He thought. The fort was the most likely place but how could he get in with the entrance in full view of the soldiers? He looked at the walls again. They were only ten feet high. He dragged three of the mashhufs to the wall, one by one and piled them up on top of each other. Clambering onto them he found that he could grip the top of the wall and pull himself over. On the other side he lowered himself until he was hanging by his fingertips, then let himself drop to land on his feet in the yard where he jumped in fright as a duck squawked then scuttled away. Feeling vulnerable as he’d left his rifle behind, he tried to reassure himself that anyone in the fort would have made their presence known by now. He sprinted over to the main building where after a search he found boxes of ammunition in the room they’d previously used as a meeting place, some for the machine-guns and some for the smaller calibre rifles, and to his surprise boxes of hand grenades. He changed his plan which had been to scare the soldiers out of their barracks using the machine guns and instead he decided to try to do the same with the grenades. He opened the gate and peeped around it to the surprise of the village youths who were in plain sight and who’d thought he’d deserted them. He jumped again, as the duck he’d disturbed earlier squawked past him, wings outstretched and followed by seven little bundles of fluff. Taking advantage of the open gate. She led her charges across the field of fire towards the water with an occasional squawk, hurrying laggards along with her wings. The firing slowed and stopped. He held his breath until the duck slid down the bank into the water followed by her ducklings. A simultaneous cheer went up from the hut and the Madan youths. Seemingly reluctantly the firing started again but now he suspected it was more out of duty. He took careful note of the position of the barracks hut then walked back until he estimated that he was opposite it, and lobbed a grenade over the wall trying not to get it too near to the hut. He rushed back to the gate to peer out, in time to see a spout of earth erupt from a position near the hut. He waited for a while but the firing from the hut continued. He returned to the point opposite the wall and lobbed a grenade a little nearer the hut, then rushed back to the gate and watched in satisfaction as the wooden wall near the middle of the hut was partly demolished. There were shouts from the soldiers inside. Alan heard the lorry starting up and looked out to see khaki clad figures run crouching towards it. The Madan sent a few volleys after it, their Kalashnikovs pointing suspiciously high, until it disappeared around a bend in the road.

  The cheering youths scrambled to their feet and charged towards the hut with Alan following behind, praying he wouldn’t find Alwan dead with photographs of his wife and children clutched in his hand. Pushing past the cheering youths and looking around, he found a soldier he didn’t know, dead from a wound in his throat. He’d never seen a dead body before and forced himself to look, making his eyes drink in every detail. He took in the stubble on the chin, the hairs protruding from the nose, the white wax-like look of the skin, as if the colour had left with the personality that had once inhabited it. He observed the flies clustered at the throat and the wetness around the soldier’s legs and groin. He smelled the rank odour of urine and felt a weary sadness. There was no glory in death. only sordidness.

  The Madan boys, still laughing and whooping, jostled him as they darted into the barracks and out again carrying any booty they could find. Alan came to his senses, and checked among the youths for any injuries. It was noticed that two were missing. They hunted among the tall weeds where they’d hidden, and found two bodies, both shot through the head.

  The youths gathered around the bodies, suddenly quiet. As if realising for the first time they were not playing a game, and that Hajii and Idan would not magically come to life for the next episode. Surveying the sad faces which had never learned to hide emotion Alan saw in some the end of childhood and was saddened. Posting a lookout on the top floor of the fort to watch for any enemy activity, he directed a group to load the bodies into the launch, then he went back to the fort where he personally loaded the boxes of grenades. He sent some youths to recover the rest of the ammunition and another band to search the fort, where they found several full jerry cans of petrol and a supply of food in the kitchens.

  Alan looked around the fort and his former living quarters, remembering Dot and Andrew. He gazed into the distance trying to picture Kirsty. For an instant he almost succeeded but the picture fragmented. He pulled himself together and collected the youths, to share out the captured food, then told them they’d better start for home before any more soldiers arrived and that he would follow in the launch. They set off, after agreeing to meet him at the stopping place of the night before.

  He waited until they were well away then he turned his attention to the machine-guns. Poking around, trying to figure out how to operate them, he eventually discovered how to load the ammunition belt, found what he took to be the safety catch and moved it to off. He cocked it and pressed the trigger, and was taken by surprise at the ear-splitting noise, as large calibre bullets demolished part of the fort wall. He realised the weapon must be one of the rapid-fire machine guns he’d heard about, usually used in helicopter gunships. Wondering if it was wise to let such destructive weapons get into the hands of the Madan, he decided he’d better start after them. Suddenly horrified, he realised that he hadn’t tried the launch’s engine. Cursing his stupidity, he pressed the starting button, feeling a wave of relief when it roared into life at the third attempt. Still pondering what to do with the weapons, he set off after the others with the three empty mashhufs tied to the back of the boat, and trying not to think of the bodies covered by a blanket. When he came to deep water he tossed the boxes of grenades overboard. He was tempted to do the same with the boxes of ammunition for the machine-guns but thought they might be useful if the village was attacked by helicopters. He caught up with the others and continued to the stopping place. After hiding the launch as well as he could, he joined them as the sun was setting. They stuffed themselves with the provisions taken from the fort, then Alan settled down to get what sleep he could, leaving the youths whispering quietly among themselves.

  They arrived back at the village in the late afternoon a
nd Alan moored the launch at Ajram’s house. Two youths, relatives of the two dead boys, collected the bodies and took them back to their homes. All that night Alan heard the wailing of the female relatives. He searched his memory for anything he could have done but consoled himself with the thought that his actions had probably stopped the mourning scenes from being enacted in a few more homes.

  The next day he hid the launch in a dense patch of reeds and bull-rushes. Oiled the machine-guns then covered them with plastic sheets, after making them as safe as he could from prying fingers. Two mornings later Ali arrived back in the village looking half drowned, describing how he’d come across the Hour al Hamar, an inland lake, to the south of the marshes, and had been caught in a storm. His news caused the atmosphere in the village to turn electric. A band of looters had been terrorising parts of Basra and had decided to make the university, which was being used as a refugee centre, their headquarters. When Professor Suleman and the aid workers helping him, including Warid had objected, they’d been beaten and were now being held prisoner. Immediately the young warriors started clamouring for a rescue mission. After some hurried debate, the elders, and men agreed. The ammunition captured in the raid on the fort was shared out and Alan was delegated to take the launch and carry Ali and two of the elders too old to paddle. Two to a mashhuf; the entire male population of the village older than twelve, set off in a flotilla accompanied by the ululating yells of the females encouraging their men to battle. On the way, while Ali steered, Alan showed the two oldsters how to operate the machine-guns.

  They reached Basra in the late afternoon. Ali guided them along canals until they were near the rear of the university, where they moored the boats. They left the two old men in the launch manning the machine guns, and two youngsters with automatic rifles hiding in the landing area. Making sure that their weapons were at the ready they marched in a body to the university entrance. They surprised two scruffy looking guards who threw down their rifles as soon as they saw the size of the force. Under questioning by Ajram the two guards who couldn’t take their eyes off the knife he was waving nonchalantly near their throats told him there were about twenty men in the building guarding it. Most of them were in what used to be the staff rest room while the rest were guarding the captured staff in one of the lecture theatres.