Love Patterns

by Michael B. Malone

  The early dawn light crept into the hut, disturbing Alan who was reliving his long-forgotten memories. He considered what he would need for his journey, then rummaged through his belongings, being quite ruthless about discarding any items not strictly necessary. When the crowing of roosters and the barking of the dogs, signalled the start of the day he made breakfast, stuffing, himself as full as he could, realizing that he might not have time for meals during the next day or two. After waiting until he felt he could decently intrude, he made the rounds of his friends and adopted family telling them his fiancé was calling him home They accepted his explanation without surprise, as if it was an everyday occurrence. Shatha smiled and wished him well but retired quickly to the women’s quarters. He discussed his plan with Warid, who expressed doubts about Alan navigating the Shatt al Arab and offered to come with him. Alan wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I will be very careful, and once past Basra, it should only be a four or five-hour journey,” he reassured Warid. “What could happen? even if the boat sank, I could swim to the shore and walk.” Warid didn’t seem convinced.

  He secured his kitbag and supplies inside the mashhuf in waterproof bags, in case of accidents and returned the few items of furniture he possessed to the original owners, then gave his Kalashnikov to Warid, to be kept until Bani was old enough to use it. He said his goodbyes with many a hug and firm handclasp and promised to return when he could. He set off in the early afternoon, accompanied by a convoy of young men in their mashhufs and a cacophony of ululating yells of goodbye from the females, many of whom were in tears. He picked out Shatha standing still like a statue, her head held proudly but with her eyes following him.

  The others dropped away, one by one, with shouted goodbyes, until only Warid and himself remained. In the evening, as the reeds began to thin out Warid suggested that they stop and continue later when it was dark. They moored their boats on a reed island, then sat swapping stories and discussing their plans. As the light faded, Alan decided to move on, and after thanking Warid for all his help, they clasped hands and hugged each other. Warid insisted on going with him as far as Basra, as he knew the route, and Alan didn’t feel able to deny his friend, although he was afraid that there might be some danger. But they met no other craft, saw no sign of the military, and after a handclasp, and a quiet goodbye, with a last look back, he pushed out into the Shatt al Arab waterway, leaving Warid shaking his head at his folly.

  He had no time to think, for all his concentration was focused on keeping the mashhuf upright, and even if it never got completely dark, more a kind of twilight, he had to remain constantly alert in case a ship or smaller craft appeared out of the gloom. He gradually navigated to the far side of the river, to be as far from any observers as possible. He made good time, despite having to steer past the wrecks of sunken ships. He began to get the knack of keeping the boat upright in the rapidly flowing river, by tensing the muscles of his buttocks, with his arms resting on the sides, paddle at the ready in case it was needed. He was well past Basra when, in the gloom the superstructure of a sunken ship loomed ahead. He steered what he thought was a safe distance round it, but it was much longer than he’d imagined. Because some part of it which must have been just below the waterline smashed into the prow of the mashhuf staving in the front and left side and stopping the boat with a jerk. As he slithered forward on his bottom a huge splinter of wood from the smashed side, pierced deeply into his thigh like a spear and pinned him to the boat. Crying in agony, he still managed to paddle the rapidly filling craft, which had spun around and drifted free of the obstacle, nearer to the shore but he was still in deep turbulent water when the boat turned turtle trapping him underneath.

  The air bubbled from his mouth and his desperate struggles grew feeble. The bitter thought flashed through his mind that now that he was trying to get back to Kirsty he was going to die, yet when he hadn’t wanted to return to her and had tried to get killed. He hadn’t succeeded.

  Kirsty struggled awake gasping for breath. “Alan!” she screamed in panic. David in the cot next to her started crying.

  Kirsty’s cry cut through Alan’s sluggish thoughts like a knife. Strength came from somewhere. A grim determination filled him. He was going to get back to her whatever the cost. Groaning with pain, he twisted around and got his head above water to grab a lungful of air, then he felt from his thigh along the stave of wood which impaled him, to where it was still joined to the boat. With the strength of desperation, he snapped the wooden spear from the side, shrieking in agony as it tore the muscles of his leg. Freed, he surfaced to gasp in lungful after lungful of beautiful life-giving air. Still clinging to the half-submerged craft as it carried him rapidly downstream, he cursed. He was on the Iranian side of the river. With all the bridges down, he had no way of crossing back to Iraq. As he gradually drifted out to the middle of the river, he cursed anew. How was he going to get to shore? His arms were tiring. He felt himself weakening from the loss of blood, and the cold was seeping into his bones. He knew he couldn’t swim far with a huge spear sticking into his thigh. He felt his numbed fingers slip off the smooth hull of the mashhuf and scramble frantically until he found another handhold. Feeling he’d failed her when she needed him, he tried to picture Kirsty, but his mind focused on her hair.

  His sad thought was a silent prayer. “I would give my life gladly, if only one could bury my face in it one last time.”

  Chapter 47

  In the dim light Warid searched the waters carefully Alan seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He gave a cry as he spotted the upturned Mashhuf with Alan clinging to its side. He skimmed over, grinning at the relief on his friend’s face.

  “I knew you couldn’t do it. You, clumsy bugger.”

  “I’ve got a wooden spear in my leg and I’m half drowned, could you pull me to the shore instead of grinning like a monkey,” Alan shouted.

  Warid, paddling furiously, gradually pulled Alan to the shore, who held onto Warid’s boat and his own with hope and renewed strength. Warid jumped out, quickly beached the mashhufs and helped the exhausted Alan stagger onto the sandy shore, where he collapsed on his right side. He examined Alan’s injury, while he lay shivering in the cooling effect of the evaporating wetness of his shift. With an injury like this, he would normally have left the stave in the leg, to staunch the flow of blood until he could get the victim to a doctor. But there was no available medical help, and he knew the combination of dirty wood and pitch would quickly infect a wound. He decided that he would have to get the stave out. He unloaded Alan’s equipment from the wreck of his boat, thankful that Alan had the foresight to strap them down and wrap them in waterproof bags. He found Alan’s kitbag, rummaged through it and discovered a torch. On Alan’s directions he emptied the pockets holding the medical supplies, finding bandages and disinfectant. Smearing disinfectant over the sharp end of the huge splinter of wood Warid stopped to think. The easiest way would be to give a quick jerk to pull the stave out, but he was worried about leaving splinters in the wound. He stuffed the sole of his sandal into Alan’s mouth and started to work the stave of wood free, gently twisting and pulling and feeling with his fingers while holding the torch in his mouth to see what he was doing. He felt Alan tensing and arching his back while giving strangled moans of pain from between his clenched teeth. At last, with a final tug. the wood came free with a gush of blood and a cry of agony from Alan as he fainted. Ignoring the blood pouring from the wound Warid probed with his finger deep inside each end of the hole, scraping with his nails at anything that felt like a splinter until he was satisfied that the wound was clean. Pouring a capful of disinfectant into the water in Alan’s water bottle, he turned Alan onto his side and thankful that he was unconscious, slowly dripped the contents through the bloody hole until the bottle was nearly empty. He made two pads by tearing Alan’s spare shirt in half, then after sterilizing them plugged each end of the wound and secured them in place with bandages. Leaving his patient for the moment, Warid c
hecked the smashed mashhuf, shaking his head at the broken stave of wood, and marvelling, how Alan could have snapped it with his leg impaled. The wound was a worry. He’d seen infections before, usually in the hand caused by small splinters which could turn very serious, as something in the pitch or the dirty wood was very virulent and resistant to antibiotics. The usual procedure with a splinter was to be quite ruthless and cut it out, but this wasn’t possible in Alan’s case. He would have to get Alan to the U.S. forces with their superb medical facilities. He decided to start right away, and get Alan well past the oil refinery at Abadan in darkness, then after that, when they were in sparsely populated countryside, he could stop and think of what to do next. He rerolled Alan’s kitbag, replaced it in its plastic waterproof cover, then together with the rest of Alan’s supplies, secured them inside his boat. Lifting the still unconscious Alan into his mashhuf he positioned him so that his head was resting on his kitbag at the front of the boat, then satisfied that he had made him as comfortable as possible, he pushed the craft out into the river and set off, keeping a sharp look out for obstacles.

  After paddling for a while down the swiftly flowing river, the huge Iranian industrial complex of Abadan loomed up in the gloom. Although there were not many lights showing, probably because of the Iran/Iraq war in which it had been heavily shelled and bombed, Warid still felt it advisable to steer back to the Iraqi side of the river and let the boat drift silently. It was only when he was out in the open countryside again that he started paddling. Alan woke up groaning.

  He cursed in fluent Arabic. “I bet you enjoyed that you lump of buffalo dung.”

  Warid grinned. “And I thought the brave Scotsman could stand pain. I was just getting into my stride when you fainted.”

  Alan retorted. “You think I fainted from the pain? Well you’re wrong, it was the disgusting taste of your sandal. I’m going to have to have my mouth fumigated.”

  Warid burst into delighted laughter. “We’ll stop for a rest soon.” He watched Alan sit up carefully so as not to unbalance the boat, giving a grimace of pain.

  He sniffed and made a disgusted face. “Is your sandal still near me?”

  Warid grinned. “We’re getting nearer to Kuwait it will be the burning oil wells.” He had a good look around and then he continued. “We might as well stop for a while, it’s getting darker and we don’t want any more accidents.” He added with a smile. “Your slave could also do with something to eat.”

  He steered the boat nearer to the shore. using the paddle to slow the boat down as he peered through the murk. After a while he spotted a landing place and drove the mashhuf up onto a sloping sandy bank, jumping out near the shore to balance the boat, then he helped Alan out. Using the torch, he climbed the bank to collect a few handfuls of dried grass then searched along the shore for pieces of dry driftwood. He started a fire. He then fed larger and larger pieces driftwood to the flames until he had a good going blaze. Rummaging about in the boat for his baler, which was a battered enamel mug, he filled it with water from the river then balanced it among the flames. Taking some of the slightly damp bread rolls from Alan’s provisions, he set them near the fire to warm, found Alan’s coffee and sugar, and ladled generous amounts of both into the mug. While they waited, they chatted and insulted each other good naturedly until the aroma of coffee and warm bread signalled that their repast was ready. They divided the rolls and shared the thick, syrupy coffee passing the mug back and forth, with a piece of rag wrapped round the hot handle. While they were passing the cup for a second time they decided to rest, wait for dawn then start downstream when it was light.

  When Claire, Isobel and David visited Kirsty they found her rested, and the baby sleeping peacefully. His tiny fingers peeping out of his blanket.

  “I want to hold him all the time, it’s a pity he has to sleep,” said Kirsty wistfully.

  “You’ll soon get over that, make the most of his sleeping times,” advised Isobel. “You will soon be glad of them.”

  Later, Marylin and Dorothy arrived and were entranced with David, touching his tiny hands and laughing at the way his lips puckered and moved as he slept. They were intensely inquisitive about the birth. Kirsty answered their questions honestly, admitting that she’d never felt such pain in her life, but that it was all worthwhile when she saw her baby and held him in her arms. David started his hungry cry, so the two girls were ushered away by a nurse after promising to visit again.

  Alan and Warid were awakened by the rumble of passing lorries on the highway, which at this point was very close to the river. On peeping cautiously over the bank, Warid saw what seemed to be an Iraqi army heading North towards Basra in lorries, buses and an assortment of military vehicles. He helped Alan limp to the bank to have a look and then they took to the boat again, the bank hiding them from the passing vehicles. The rumble of vehicles ceased after a while and Warid beached the mashhuf for a look, finding that but for the odd straggler, the army had gone by. After another hour’s paddling they heard the rumble of tanks and lorries again and the occasional helicopter whirling far above their heads. When Warid beached the boat once more and climbed the bank to look, he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the American markings. He shouted to Alan, helped him struggle to the bank to look, then when his observation was confirmed, he jumped up onto the bank and dragged Alan with him. They staggered to the edge of the road waving and shouting, but the stream of vehicles swept past, blind and deaf to their presence. They got an occasional wave, but no-one looked as if they were the slightest bit interested in stopping. Warid signalled that they should get back in the boat. When he was able to make himself heard above the noise. He suggested that they continue their journey downstream until they found an army base or someplace where they could find out what was happening.

  They continued downstream until they came to a tiny fishing hamlet where Warid tied up and on searching the houses found the population in the largest building listening to a radio. When Warid asked what was going on, a jabber of voices told him that the Americans had invaded Iraq and had declared a fifty kilometre protection zone. He could get no information about any army bases or troop movements, so they decided to carry on downriver until they came to a camp or army base where they could ask for help, and if they didn’t find one, they could keep to their original plan and get to Fao in a couple of hours. As it happened, after about another half hour of paddling they spotted a group of lorries and some large tents set up just off the road. Warid beached the canoe and with the kitbag over one shoulder, helped Alan hobble the few hundred yards to the camp. They were stopped well short of the camp by a couple of tough looking privates, who’d been eyeing them suspiciously since they came into view. The soldiers told them in pidgin Arabic and gestures to move on, at the same time pointing their automatic weapons in their direction. When Alan told them, he was British and an escaped hostage, their expressions changed and one of them set off at a run to get the officer in charge. The officer, strolled up unhurriedly, looked them over and ordered them to be searched. When no weapons were found, and Alan produced his passport from his kitbag, the major’s attitude changed. He invited them both into his tent and over coffee listened to their story. When he heard that Alan had been injured, he had a look at the wound, and saw the red streaks of infection already spreading up the thigh. He listened to Warid’s concern about the wound being infected and decided to contact his superiors by radio who took the decision to fly Alan out by helicopter to one of their casualty posts.

  Alan, concerned about Warid getting back, asked if there was any chance of giving Warid a lift part of the way back.

  The major assured him. “That’s the least we can do, after the way he helped you. This camp is a spares unit for the vehicles heading up the highway, there will be trucks travelling back and forth all the time. We’ll take him and his boat most of the way back, and drop him near the river.”

  The major asked questions about the rebellion in Basra and seemed surprised to
learn there hadn’t been any real rebellion, just looting, revenge killings, and rioting by extreme Shia groups aided by Iranian infiltrators.

  They heard the throb of a helicopter approaching.

  “You’d better say your goodbyes,” warned the Major.

  He left them alone for a few moments. Alan and Warid looked at each other, then fell tearfully into each other’s arms.

  “You risked your life for me,” Alan said hoarsely.

  “You did the same for me,” replied Warid softly.

  The major returned, with two orderlies carrying a stretcher. Alan self-consciously lowered himself onto it.

  “You will soon be in good hands,” the Major assured him heartily. He noticed Alan’s concerned look at Warid.

  “Don’t you worry,” he promised. “I will personally make sure he gets back as near to the marshes as possible.”

  Alan thanked him and with a last handclasp from Warid he was carried off in the stretcher which was fitted into the helicopter. Warid watched the helicopter until it was a speck in the distance.

  “Goodbye brother,” he whispered.

  Alan was taken to a casualty post near the Saudi border where his wound was examined and on seeing the spread of the infection he was given massive doses of antibiotics. The military police came to question him, searching his kitbag and taking his passport. They forwarded his details to their British counterparts, who in turn, got in touch with the foreign office. They informed Alan’s parents that he’d turned up injured in Saudi Arabia. Isobel and David wanted to fly immediately to Saudi Arabia to see Alan but there were no commercial flights operating and since the whole of that part of the country was a giant army base, they were told civilians would not be welcome. David did what he could but got nowhere, because Alan was in an American hospital and so was officially out of British jurisdiction.