Reckless

by Hasan Ali Toptas

  But there were times when even this routine did not bring him peace of mind. And then he would inspect the cartridge belts and cartridge pouches, the canteens and the combat boots, and everywhere he looked, he found more faults. Then he would punish the whole company with hours of press-ups, and send them all on a low crawl from one end of that dusty field to the other, and if that wasn’t enough, he would cry, ‘March! March!’ And send them running up the Koçaş mountains. And the whole company would leave the training field holding their rifles crosswise and climb up to the middle of those grey-blue cliffs, and as they jumped like goats from rock to rock they kept looking over their shoulders, kept listening for the next instruction, but the lieutenant would just stand there, refusing to give the order to stop. And so the company would keep climbing up those burning rocks, following in the footsteps of the great mountain bandits, maybe, and when they were high enough up to be sure they were out of earshot, they sent a shower of curses raining down on that lieutenant. Donkey, son of a donkey, some said. Asshole, said others. Lowlife. Prick. And some lowed like cows, almost, letting out a string of curses, the veins in their neck bulging until they were thick as rolling pins. And sometime after all that, the lieutenant would give the order to stop, but, knowing that his voice would not carry that far up, he would have to face the cliff and flap his arms. And then the men would stop short, every one of them. As if they had actually heard him bark, ‘About turn! March!’ And down they would go, jumping from rock to rock as fast as their legs could carry them. As he watched them coming down, their bodies spent and steaming, their great tongues hanging, and their faces almost lost inside the clouds of their own breath, the lieutenant would permit himself a happy smile. And then he would resume his stroll around the edges of the training ground, nodding now and again in agreement with his invisible companion, stopping here and there to kick a few soldiers. But not because they’d done anything wrong. It was almost as if he kicked them so as to understand why he did so.

  Once, while attacking an imaginary target with his bayonet, Ziya let his eyes slide away from it, and for this the lieutenant punched him. This happened on the seventh day of training, and they were lined up across the field, and thrusting their bayonets into the gut of the body they had been instructed to see in the emptiness before them, and when they jumped back, they made sure to twist their weapons in that gut, as they had been taught to do, to ensure that the wound was deadly. The lieutenant was far away just then, a lofty ghost, lost to his own thoughts. But then, it was like he’d been teleported. Suddenly he was there, next to Ziya, to punch him. ‘Look the enemy in the face, you stupid ox!’ he screamed. ‘Look the enemy in the face!’ When he was gone, the stub-nosed sergeant came over and in a gentle voice, he tried to comfort him. ‘Let it go, Baba,’ he said. ‘Grit your teeth and let it go.’ But his words were no comfort. For the rest of the day, Ziya hung his head, disgraced. He couldn’t even look at Kenan. When they spoke, he averted his eyes. It was as if he could still hear the punch ringing in his ears. All day long, they burned. The sergeant must have been watching him from a distance, because after supper, when Ziya was sitting under the almond trees, he came to talk to him again. Crouching down, and putting a gentle, brotherly hand on his shoulder, he tried to comfort him again. ‘You’re not still thinking about that business, are you? Let it go, my boy. Put it out of your mind.’

  He was an interesting man, this sergeant – everything he did was exactly as the regulations stipulated, but he never got mixed up in any of those stupid games. If they were on the training ground, advancing with the bayonets, on an army of imaginary enemies, and he saw the men were tired, for example, he would cry out, ‘Air raid! Air raid! Down!’ And at once the men would throw themselves on to the ground, face down. And as he went around doing his inspection, the sergeant would whisper to the men on the ground. ‘Go on then,’ he would say, in a voice full of kindness. ‘Get some rest while the lieutenant’s back is turned.’ And then he would continue on his way, making as if to check each and every one of them, but actually telling them a few dirty jokes, and after that he would say, ‘And let this be a lesson to you, when you’re breaking a rule, and you want to make sure no one notices, there is no better way than this. And that’s my advice to you. Wherever you go in life, make sure to lie low, because if you don’t, that fat-assed, many-headed jailer we call society will burn you good.’ And sometimes, when he made the whole company sit down, while one of their number read from the United Infantry Manual, known to them as the ST 7-10B, he would suddenly lift up his hand to silence him, and, looking dreamily into the distance, this sergeant would mumble, ‘Did you know you had an aunt, waiting for me to return to Izmir Karşıyaka?’ And then he would nod at the rifle sitting next to him, and say, ‘As soon as I’m rid of this murderous thingumajig they call the G-3 infantry rifle, I’m going to marry that aunt of yours.’ And then he’d take a long, deep breath.

  And that breath of his was so deep that it almost seemed to pull the sea itself away from Izmir Karşıyaka, and with the sea, the seagulls’ cries. And then, at the foot of the Koçaş mountains, they would see sparkling blue white-tipped waves, and passing over these waves they would see vessels of all colours, chugging happily back and forth. And then, they would see her, see her so very clearly. Waiting beneath the palm trees, stepping away from the crowd on the pier, or sitting at the back of a hooded horse carriage, looking at the flowers. What a beauty she was, this girl. She would lean forward, to look out over the Silvan training ground, but the sergeant was the only one who saw her. He would breathe in deep again, at the sight of her, and then he would begin to speak, tripping over his words as if that might make his military service end sooner. ‘We’re a rocket-launcher company, my friends. So let’s see who can tell me what a rocket launcher launches.’

  And with one voice, the company would say, ‘A rocket launcher launches rockets!’

  And then the sergeant would frown and say, ‘So there you are! That’s how serious this fucking military service of yours is!’

  And everyone would look as if they knew what he was saying.

  Then they’d go back to the ST 7-10B, and before they had a chance to remember how bored they were, sitting on that dusty field, and hearing the same lesson, over and over, they recited it yet again. And now the lieutenant was back, nodding as he walked around them, his hands on his hips. He raised his knees so high sometimes that he looked like a horse, pawing the earth. Pressing his head to his chest, he would stare down at the tips of his toes, and when he lifted up his head again, he’d look as if he was about to rear up on his hind legs and whinny. But then he’d go into one of his moods again, and run back over to beat up a few soldiers.

  A week later, on his fourteenth day, Ziya got another beating, but this time the lieutenant had nothing to do with it. It was their turn for mess duty, and so they’d gone down to the mess hall at the crack of dawn, when everyone else was still snoring in bed. There were twenty-five or thirty soldiers peeling piles of onions and potatoes and about the same number emptying the vegetables from their buckets and washing them. Another group cleaned the hall and threw away the rubbish, and a larger group chopped up meat, while others with some small aptitude for this sort of work assisted the so-called cooks as they peered into the pots and stirred. But amongst them were a number of others who had been given no job: they had scattered through the hall. Not knowing what to do, they were just standing there gaping. Until finally, the mess sergeant noticed them. ‘You!’ he said, jabbing the air. ‘And you! And you!’ When he had gathered them all up, he took them down to a dark cellar that stank of onions and oil. At the sergeant’s command, they picked up the huge vats by their handles and carted them outside, where they lined them up in the sun. Looking as tired as if he’d carted them up himself, the sergeant put his hands on his hips and said, ‘These are going to be sent out to be tinned. Scrub them thoroughly with wet sand.’ Then he bellowed, ‘And don’t forget! I’m watching. Any slackers and I’
ll kill them. With pleasure. I swear to God!’

  And so they picked up their pads and began to scrub those huge vats with sand and water.

  The sergeant stood in the shade of the wall, watching them closely. He seemed transfixed, but his hazel eyes shone like ice, signifying nothing. His thoughts seemed to have taken him far, far away. Then suddenly he came back to himself. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a cigarette. He lit up and exhaled, and then, in a peeved voice, he said, ‘No! That’s not how you do it. You’re not caressing a baby there. No! Get into those vats now and scrub them with your feet!’

  So they got into the vats, and began to scrub them most ferociously with their feet.

  There was a silence.

  Ziya lifted his head, to see what was going on. He found himself eye to eye with a swarthy commander he’d never seen before. He had two stars on each shoulder, this commander. His features were as hard as steel and the fire in his eyes was real. Lunging forwards, and puffing up his cheeks, he yelled, ‘What are you doing inside that vat, you animal?’ And then, without waiting for an answer, he set about beating Ziya as if all the enemies he had ever imagined were lodged inside his body. And Ziya watched the grey building slam to the ground, taking the trees with it, as the sky went black. As he swayed in the blackness, now this way and now that, Ziya wondered why this commander was beating him. When he felt the man’s fists on his face, he recoiled, but at the same time, and in a way he could not begin to fathom, he felt a strange sort of intimacy. As if, even if they never saw each other again, there would always be a bond between them that neither could deny. He even felt as if he and this commander now knew each other intimately, and understood each other perfectly. When this thought came to him, he wanted to shout, ‘I got into that vat because the sergeant ordered me to!’ but he couldn’t get his tongue to work. His mouth was brimming with blood, that’s why. His lips were so swollen he couldn’t even feel them. Then suddenly the ground itself seemed to rise, and it crashed mightily into his face. It did not stop there: it slipped out from underneath him like a sheet, this ground, and as it slipped, Ziya tried to stand at attention, but because his knees buckled, he couldn’t quite manage it. The commander was in such a rage he didn’t notice, though. Teeth gritted, he kept on punching with all his might, and once he had knocked Ziya down, there was no knowing where the next kick might land. Now it was his side, now it was his groin, now his face. And then, after twenty-five minutes or maybe half an hour, he ran out of energy. As his hands fell to his sides, he looked at them, this commander, as if he were seeing them for the first time. It was as if he did not even own these fists that had just pummelled Ziya, as if he hated them for their stupidity. And then he walked away, towards headquarters, and soon he and his stars were lost amongst the trees.

  Ziya was still lying on the ground, moaning helplessly and reaching out for something to hold on to, while he pulled himself up. Kenan and a few others ran out to help him at that point, but when they stretched out their arms, he pushed them away with a sudden burst of anger. Then slowly he straightened up. He turned his bloody face this way and that, as if to figure out where he was; he picked up his cap and put it back on, and hobbled off towards headquarters. When he finally reached it, he tried to go inside, but, seeing his condition, the guard wouldn’t let him pass. When he heard that Ziya wished to see the battalion commander, he even lost his temper. Lowering his voice, he told Ziya that unless he wanted to ruin his military service by kicking up another fuss, he’d better leave quietly, and without anyone seeing him. His face streaked with blood and tears, Ziya continued to insist on being let in. And soon it turned into an argument, of course, and as they talked over each other, their voices reached as far as the office at the front of the corridor. Out of this room came a tall officer with a fat, round sergeant. They came together to the doorway, as if by common agreement, and there they stood, staring silently at Ziya. Then the officer gave the signal, and the sergeant took Ziya by the arm and led him quickly down the corridor, to a little room at the end that had frosted glass on two sides. He sat Ziya down on a chair, and said in a voice thick with compassion, ‘What happened to you? Please tell me.’ Ziya wanted to tell him the whole story, but he couldn’t speak, he just looked around him, and then, when he couldn’t bear it any more, he let out a little cry that sounded to him like a cat’s meow. It was such a weak little cry that it sounded like it was coming from the tears streaming down his face. Seeing those tears, the sergeant did not know what to do; turning his head, he wrinkled his forehead and stared at the medicines in the cabinets. Then he made a decision; he put his hand on Ziya’s knee, and in a voice that strained to make his feigned compassion sound genuine, he said, ‘All right, all right, just try to calm down.’ This went on until the sergeant could no longer hold himself back. He asked what had happened. Ziya took a deep breath, and then, in a trembling voice, he told him what had happened, and when he was finished, he said that he wanted to make a complaint to the battalion commander about having been beaten for no reason.

  And this was when the officer who had come to the door with the fat, round sergeant came into the room. Ignoring Ziya, he turned to the sergeant and in an icy voice, he said, ‘Tell this dog that he can’t just go barging into the commander’s office any time of night or day.’ Then he added, ‘If he wants to make a complaint, then take him to the clerks so that they can take down his statement.’

  The sergeant, who was standing at attention, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  When the officer had left the room, the sergeant turned back to Ziya. Leaning slightly to look him in the eye, in a concerned voice he said, ‘You heard that, did you?’

  ‘I did,’ Ziya said.

  The sergeant said nothing. Straightening himself up, he began to pace the room, back and forth between the frosted glass and the blue curtains, leaving a cold silence in his wake. Then once again he planted himself in front of Ziya. Leaning on the steel table, he told him about other incidents he’d seen of this sort in this battalion, and what had become of the parties involved; for a time he spoke of the crude machinery of military courts, and of the endless string of hearings. Then he moved on to legal petitions, and the municipal police, and the various different types of documents, and their details. Then he spoke of their commander’s character, and his habits, and his love of discipline, and the legal rights of those above and below him. As he spoke, he waved his hands about, his fingers spreading like tongues of fire, and from time to time those flames would flare out at Ziya to burn his skin. They would reach forward, these fingers, and then pull back. And every time they pulled back, his eyes would grow larger.

  In the end, Ziya could make neither head nor tail of what the sergeant was saying to him; not knowing what to do, he begged him with his eyes.

  ‘Look,’ the sergeant said then. ‘I can’t know if what you told me is true, but the decision to make a complaint or not is yours. I am not going to make that decision for you. But at the present moment, we cannot know how the commander against whom you will be making your complaint will defend himself, or how he’ll tell the story. Do you see my point? When he’s asked why he beat this soldier, well, who knows what he might say? So let’s see. He could say: I gave him an order and instead of obeying it, he let loose a string of curses, and why would I beat someone for no reason? Or he could say: your honour, I heard him taking the name of our glorious armed services in vain, he said each and every member of it was the son of a whore, and in the face of such insults, I couldn’t restrain myself. Who knows, he could even say he caught you red-handed when you were trying to steal something. We cannot know whom the judges will choose to believe – a commander with a clean record and many years of service to the army, or a new recruit like you, with only two weeks of training under his belt. And even if we found eyewitnesses, we could not be sure how many of them would have the balls to tell the truth about what they saw. Over and above all that, we cannot know how many stages the case might have to go through, an
d sadly, we cannot foretell the outcome, either. Who knows, it could tie itself up in new and unexpected knots, and with every hearing, the plot could thicken, and the whole thing could drag on for four or five years. So when the happy day arrived when you got your discharge, there would be years of hearings still ahead. There are even those who are found guilty and have to leave their families and jobs behind to do a few more months of military service. So this is what you can expect, my ram. Time to get up. If you want to make a complaint, let’s get you to the clerks so that they can take down your statement.’

  Ziya had no idea what to do.

  ‘So you are making a complaint, or not?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘No,’ said Ziya. He paused to swallow. ‘No, I’m not.’

  Then he stood up and washed his hands and face in the sink that the sergeant indicated and went outside.

  That evening, while sitting under the almond trees, eating the boiled eggs and green onions that he’d bought from the children of Silvan, Ziya turned to Kenan and whispered, ‘Do you see how it is, then? They beat us in broad daylight, and we can’t do a thing.’

  ‘If you ask me, that sergeant used all his wiles to talk you out of it,’ said Kenan, quickly swallowing his food. ‘Who knows? Maybe it wouldn’t have turned out like he said.’

  ‘I have no way of knowing,’ said Ziya. ‘Really I don’t. All I know is this: if I’d complained, that commander would have given me no peace. And anyway, the case would have gone on for years, and as that sergeant at headquarters said, there’s no way of knowing how it would have turned out. So in one way, at least, it’s good that it ended like this. Let’s just get through our military service as quickly as we can and then get out. I don’t know if you noticed, but the lieutenant called me an ox, and the commander who beat me up today called me an animal. The officer at headquarters called me a dog. That is not just an insult to humanity, but to animals.’