by Martin Hand
‘Snakes? Who said anything about snakes?’ Jake asked.
‘I might be needing those feckin’ tablets for myself yet,’ said Taylor.
When the story of the sick child filtered through the troops, there was a feel-good atmosphere among them. They were part of making a difference instead of just feeling like green donkeys.
But Sergeant O’Brien warned the lads: ‘There is a distinct possibility that the little girl might be gone in the morning.’
‘Gone where?’ asked Jake.
‘Dead,’ was the sombre reply.
That soured the atmosphere a bit. Still, people were feeling a bit more relaxed as they got their bedding ready and looked forward to a tinned meal heated by the fire.
‘Do you think they’ll be looking for us back at camp?’ asked Jake, probably trying to supress a bit of homesickness.
‘Lads, this is an acclimatisation hike. If we can’t manage this, it won’t be looking good when we land in Palestine,’ the sergeant answered. ‘We’ve no radio set-up, but I’ll text our situation in to Sergeant Doyle. He’ll get it eventually if the signal gets strong during the night. Besides, now that we have a quiet moment, we might return to your adventures in Wicklow that time. You know the rangers reported hearing a detonation from the far side of their position on the mountain at 4.56 p.m.? These things don’t go unnoticed.’
Pete quickly intervened before one of the youngsters had a chance to land them in it. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that, Sarge.’
Taylor piped up next, either to further distract the direction of the conversation or maybe because he wasn’t following the storyline. ‘Isn’t that some class of sky up there, way better than you would see at home? Jeepers look at the speed of that thing there.’ He was pointing at a moving object in the clearest view of the Milky Way any of them had ever had.
‘Wow! If that was the star the wise men followed, their bleedin’ camels must have been turbo charged.’
‘That’s the space station, my friend. I don’t think it was around two thousand years ago,’ replied the sergeant.
They bantered away talking about everything except Wicklow while they munched through their rations. Some of the lads eventually started to drift off to sleep to the noise of what sounded like prayer coming from the tent.
The night passed uneventfully. The sentries kept themselves awake by keeping the small fire going and drinking coffee heated from the meagre flames. They availed themselves of a turf-like material that had been lying beside the Bedouin fire. It was in fact dried camel dung if truth be told. The coffee did take on a peculiar odour.
The next morning in the desert was nearly as crisply chilly as the one two weeks previously in the Wicklow hills, but perfectly dry. The lads were only coming around when the Arab woman emerged from the tent and approached Fionn’s sleeping bag. She was carrying a hot drink, judging by the rising steam, and she knelt down to hand it to him. She was calmer than the previous day and in control of her emotions, or at least not crying.
‘Inshallah,’ she said and touched Fionn’s hand.
The man then emerged from the dwelling. He was carrying the still-naked child, whose eyes were now open and looking around, albeit weakly.
‘Inshallah,’ he said in a tone that seemed to be by way of thanks.
Fionn took in the moment and sipped his jasmine tea.
‘They say that word a lot, don’t you think? Inshallah,’ said Taylor.
‘No different from what our grandparents used to say,’ Fionn replied. ‘God willing.’
The rest of the camp came to life in order to decamp within twenty minutes. The lads left the Bedouin couple in their tent to do what they must, tend to their child. The troops got a further gee up as they approached their own camp some three hours later. The Jordanian guards all applauded the returning platoon. There was no reason to assume that this was to signal anything other than a well done. Perhaps for having the cojones to spend their very first night in the desert, in the desert.
The guys got plenty more exposure to the desert in the following weeks. The platoon went out on acclimatisation hikes every second day. They were tough going but boring to the extent that nothing much, other than foot blisters, happened.
Sergeant Doyle, Martha and Paul had missed out on that first overnight adventure. Maybe, in the storytelling of the future, they would solve that by reinventing a narrative that included them.
Doyle later led the platoon on a hike to the exact coordinates of the Bedouin tent. Nothing remained. The shifting sands had covered everything. The story that the lads discussed around the barracks fire that night had two trains of thought. The pessimistic one was that they were at the wrong location and there was no way the sand could have covered over an encampment.
‘Sure, wouldn’t there be camel dung all over the place?’
The optimists were happy that it must have been a good ending and that the family had packed up the encampment and moved on.
The Jordanian soldiers who occupied the barracks were, in the words of the Irish, no craic. The green platoon had arrived thinking that they were landing in the Lebanon. There were a lot of tall tales about previous tours in the Leb. There, at least, you could get a bit of downtime in some taverna or other. The Irish were always looking for a drink. In Jordan there was no place to go. Just miles and miles of bleakness, it seemed.
The sergeants held a few mission-briefing sessions with the team and Captain Almadi. But there wasn’t a lot of information to be gleaned from them. It had been a novelty to hear that the platoon’s destination was Bethlehem. What the Irish soldiers knew about the town was from old Bible stories and new Christmas cards. The task there was described as being to observe and report back. The youngsters didn’t quite know what that entailed but it didn’t sound too difficult. All the trekking and acclimatisation hikes would have led anyone to believe that the plan was to walk into Bethlehem. It wasn’t, but if that’s what it came down to, then the boys sure were ready for it. There wasn’t any room left on their feet for new blisters to form.
Pete had wanted to use a bit of the downtime to get more out of Fionn about Wicklow. But Fionn always deflected the conversation by saying that the agreement had been to stay shtum about the incident. Walls had ears and all that.
At the very end of their stay in Jordan, there was something of a stir in the barracks when a sizeable caravan of tribal Arabs was sighted approaching the army camp from the north. They were greeted at the gate by the Jordanian sentries, who seemed to be able to manage a discourse well enough. Ultimately the exchange ended with several skins of offering being unloaded at the gate. Sergeant Doyle was summoned by a sentry. He approached Captain Almadi en route.
‘Sergeant, what is it your men get up to in this desert of ours? Highly unusual to be offered alms by the Bedouins. Normally they are trying to relieve you of something. Food and drink as an offering of thanks. I’m told that Bedouin fare is very good, but I myself have never tasted it.’
‘Well, now is your chance,’ the sergeant replied.
‘I think not. A gift offered should be for the recipient only. Enjoy and goodbye. Also, good luck with your departure tomorrow.’
There must have been some sort of bad blood between official Jordan and the tribesmen. There was no question of them being allowed onto the military base to deliver their gift. However, the considerable consignment of food and drink would only be handed over when they were allowed meet the ‘pale greens’ and the ‘holy man’.
Captain Almadi was happy enough to allow the meeting to take place at the front entrance to the garrison compound. When the ‘green men’ emerged, they were reverentially greeted by the group of three riders who had ridden out with the gifts from a bigger group.
Fionn and Sergeant O’Brien were interested to see if they recognised the Bedouin man from that strange night in the desert. It was a joyou
s occasion in the sense that the visit now confirmed that the sick child of three weeks previously must now be well. They did not see the man, however, and O’Brien wasn’t sure he would even recognise him.
The strangeness of the encounter was emphasised when the delegation all bowed to Fionn in unison and then knelt before him to touch his hand. The rest of the Irish lads didn’t know what to make of it, and the Jordanians were aghast.
Fionn looked embarrassed and tried, through hand gestures, to transfer whatever credit was due onto Sergeant O’Brien. The Irish boys, always thinking of their bellies, were meanwhile getting a sniff of the aromatic fare. The excuse for a party looked like it would make up for some of the boring nights spent in a barren military outpost.
Larry, Michael and Paul made a fire outdoors for effect. Meals like these were meant to be consumed under the sky. The Jordanians paid no mind to the goings on of the ‘mad Irish’. What group of soldiers would be allowed go on the lash the night before a mission?
The Irish sergeants could sense a bit of antipathy from Captain Almadi and his subordinates. They weren’t going to buckle and give in to the censure. Instead there was a little bit of payback in their attitude.
‘We’ll say what our boys and girl are allowed do and we won’t be told otherwise.’ That included the awkwardness of consuming alcohol in a Muslim country. ‘But, sure, how were we to know what was in those skins?’
Spicy, minty meat dishes were wrapped in succulent green leaves, ‘and the drink would blow the skull off ye,’ Taylor said appreciatively.
It tasted for all the world like a cross between wine and sherry, but not unpleasant.
‘Now, lads, eat up,’ Sergeant O’Brien said. ‘This is the best return ever for a packet of out-of-date antibiotics. More to the point, that lamb will give you an iron stomach for the crossing tomorrow.’
‘Fionn, can I ask ye what do you think we should expect when we make the crossing?’ asked a serious Jake. The alcohol was making him more uptight, not less.
‘The crossing will be smooth. There won’t be even a ripple on that patch of water in this good brisk weather,’ Fionn replied. ‘I’ll say this about the Bethlehem we will find: I don’t think it’s what Jesus would have expected two thousand years on.’
‘Oh, oh, I think we’re in for another lecture,’ said Taylor.
‘No, no,’ Fionn said. ‘I just think what we’ll see in Bethlehem might be a poorer version of what we see at home, as we approach Christmas.’
‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that? We all get presents, like,’ said Taylor.
‘Sure, sounds good,’ replied Fionn. ‘But the volume, the values, the pressure, the anticipation, the stress, the build-up. I don’t think this is what makes for a celebration of Jesus, to be honest.’
‘Ah bah humbug to ye,’ replied Taylor, getting more jovial by the sip.
‘At least you can’t knock those Bedouin guys,’ said Paul, getting into the conversation.
‘No, you’re right. They have a code that’s brilliantly built into their DNA. You reward the kindness and the efforts of strangers,’ said Fionn.
‘This lamb is lovely,’ said Jake, inadvertently changing the subject.
‘Ah, all this Christmas talk has you thinking of shepherds and sheep in this part of the world. The Bedouins are goat herders and I’m betting that’s what you’re eating,’ said Fionn.
‘Nice anyway, whatever it is,’ said Jake.
‘Yeah, just like Ma used to make … not. This meal is tasty,’ said Taylor.
‘No slagging your ma,’ said Joe. ‘Remember, her tablets were the reason we got this feast.’
Larry got Paul going about his army background. ‘Sarges, did you know our Paul knows a lot about the army from his old man and he told us a bit about the Congo.’
‘What or where is the Congo?’ asked Taylor.
‘I think it’s called Democratic Republic of Congo these days, in central Africa.’
‘The Congo is way back, Paul. Your dad wouldn’t be that old?’ said Sergeant O’Brien.
‘No, Sarge, it was the granda who saw the Congo. Me dad got to make sergeant and did his UN stint in the seventies, in Cyprus of all places. The Turks and the Greeks were replaying ancient history and had their own private war there. That had its excitement, but his old man, my grandfather – another Paul, surprise, surprise – had an even better collection of stories to tell about his time in Africa.’
‘Jeepers, quite the military family you guys are,’ said Sergeant Doyle.
‘The three Pauls. You’ve a lot to live up to,’ said Sergeant O’Brien.
‘The grandad, he’s dead a good few years now, was in the famous 1950s Battle of the Tunnel. It’s famous for a few things. Firstly, it’s the only example of a military engagement that the Irish Army won. They lost a few in the Congo as well.’
‘What, battles?’ asked Michael.
‘Battles and men, unfortunately,’ answered Paul.
‘That’s the second thing the battle was famous for: two Irish guys were killed, including a lieutenant. The grandad was really proud of playing his part and was forever showing his pewter mug with a bullet hole in it. Like he said – life-and-death soldiering.’
‘Look, lads, you’ll have your own service stories in short enough time. Let’s make sure we work together so that all the tales we get to tell in the future end happily,’ said Sergeant Doyle.
When Larry saw the sergeants head off to presumably take a wee, he lowered his voice. It was still only just a month since Imaal. ‘Paul, are you fully the better of your exploits in Wicklow?’
‘Jesus, yeah, even more so because Martha and Fionn got the brunt of it, and by the look of them, they’re well ready for tomorrow,’ replied Paul.
‘What would your old man make of it all?’ asked Michael.
‘You mean if I ever tell him,’ replied Paul. ‘I really don’t know what he’d say, apart from commenting on my own stupidity. But the rest of it … could we ever tell anyone? Unbelievable stuff, isn’t it?’
‘Could Martha have imagined it? It was, when you think of it, hugely stressful. I mean … on your knees with a feckin’ bomb staring you in the face.’
‘I’d say unbelievable is the word for it, all right,’ said Larry.
The sergeants came back, keeping their usual distance from the boys but listening in all the same.
‘I can’t help thinking it was more than the tablets though,’ O’Brien said to Doyle. ‘We thought Fionn was doing something clever, but the Bedouin couple thought something else was going on.’
‘Well, not to worry, if it was divine intervention they were looking for and they feel they got it, what harm?’ said Doyle.
‘Fair enough, but you did your medical training, would you have come up with a better solution?’ asked O’Brien.
Doyle thought about his answer for a second. ‘No, I guess if I had been the medic there, the poor child would have died. Look, I’m being a bit flippant. Maybe this drop of drink is stronger than ye think. Fionn is a class act as a young soldier and I’m glad to have him in the boat tomorrow. I just don’t want to get carried away with strange ideas, especially on the night before the mission.’
‘But we should acknowledge the reverence the young man was shown by a tribe of hardened Arabs,’ O’Brien said.
‘For sure, and he has influence over our older privates as well. I’m suspicious that something happened on their last training sortie in Wicklow.’
‘If you’re referring to the reported detonation then you have to give them credit for keeping their mouths shut. The young and the old. I asked them when we were out in the desert, the first night, but I got no change.’
‘I think the older guys are realising that Fionn is more likely to get corporal stripes out of this than they are,’ said Sergeant Doyle.
‘Yeah, b
ut Peter and Seamus are taking it better than Mark. Funny how people create their own reality. Mark is the least likely of the trio to ever get rewarded,’ said O’Brien.
‘Yeah, for sure. You can be a pain in the arse but convince yourself otherwise. That’s the way the world works, I guess,’ said Doyle.
‘Anyway, give them another half hour and then bed. We’re leaving the dorms at 3 a.m.’
‘Best of luck tomorrow, Sergeant.’
‘Same to you, Sergeant.’
‘We’re kind of playing in the big league now, trying to sneak by the Israelis,’ said O’Brien.
‘We’ll do it, I’m sure of it,’ was Sergeant Doyle’s confident reply.
‘What we do in Bethlehem and whether it provokes an Israeli response remains to be seen,’ said O’Brien.
‘Maybe that’s the whole idea – provoke a response on the West Bank before Gaza ceases to be a viable place to live,’ said Doyle.
‘Jesus, when you say it like that I’m left wondering about our poor little undersized platoon,’ said O’Brien.
‘When I say it like that, I wonder why there isn’t an Irish commissioned officer in sight.’
Chapter Six
The United Nations observer mission began for real at 3 a.m. Friday morning. This was the first time the platoon had been entitled to don their bright blue berets. They split up into two boats, with a sergeant in each – standard Navy protocol. Simply stated, if one boat gets holed, you still have a fifty percent chance of success. There was an expected touch of nervousness; after all, this was the dead of night. The boats maintained a blackout stance, with low running speed to avoid noise. This was going to be a long, dark night slowly crossing the Dead Sea.
The crews, when they got underway, were nearly arranged according to boundary lines. Most of the Dubs were together, either by accident or design. In the boat with Fionn were the senior Privates Mark and Seamus and the juniors Taylor, Jake and Joe, under Sergeant Doyle. The sergeant wanted the lads chatting quietly, even though the pilot had insisted on silence. Doyle knew a little bit of constructive chat would calm their nerves.
