A Persian Requiem

  The tribesmen crawled and slid down the mountainside. They took up positions behind the brick wall of a garden about a hundred and fifty metres from our trenches. We in turn opened fire as soon as they came within range. One Turkoman sergeant who drove the first truck volunteered to take a short-cut up to the top of the mountain and check out the enemy’s situation. I refused permission because it was too light. It must have been seven, seven-thirty in the morning.

  From the top of the mountain came the sound of about sixty or seventy of them whooping and chanting: “Army men, weapons down! Hands up! Army men, weapons down, hands up!”

  “They can go to the devil!” I said. “We will not surrender.” By around nine-thirty, twelve of our men had been wounded. We heard the shrill cries again, followed by “Attack!” and then they swarmed down the mountain. We jumped into our trucks, and two of the drivers desperately tried to turn round. There was no other choice. The tank had to be abandoned so we could at least try to save the trucks carrying fuel and weapons. I’m ashamed to say that we had to leave the wounded behind, even though some of them were crying out …

  They charged. There were about a thousand, maybe more, of them. The Turkoman driver managed to slip out from behind the steering wheel in the nick of time, but the driver of the truck in front was shot so our way was blocked. We were forced to get out then. The tribesmen were crawling forwards on their bellies, firing away all the time. I had only one bullet left. Now they were just ten steps away. Rezvani-Nejad raised his head to shoot, and fell. He cried out, “Khandan!” as he rolled to the ground. I imagine it was his child’s name. The poor man had fourteen mouths to feed. The bullet had blown his brains out—I saw the white of his brain with my own eyes. His brother ran to help him, but they shot him too. The bullets seemed to nail the two brothers together. I kneeled and aimed with my one remaining bullet at the man who had killed them. I got him in the middle of the chest. His friend ran to him, wailing, “Did he hurt you, Zargham?”

  I crawled underneath the weapons truck, and gradually managed to pull myself into one of the trenches. The sergeant inside the trench was dead. I stretched myself out on top of the dead man like another bloodied corpse. The Boyer Ahmadis were coming at us at a gallop, and once or twice they jumped over my head, covering me with dust. Then the looting began. First they took our weapons, and then I could hear their women ululating and repeating the shrill war-cry. I heard that chant so many times, I learned it by heart:

  “Up the pass, down the pass, there’s a camp, Sohrab Khan, look ahead, look ahead, how many thousand are there?”

  And:

  “Drunken drunken through and through

  I hold the army in my hand.

  Drunken drunken through and through

  I hold a rifle in my hand.”

  A Qashqai loomed over my head and dug his heel into my shoulder. “You dog, you’re alive! Get up, I saw you lie down. Give us the new gun, get up, get up!” A short, dark Boyer Ahmadi arrived just then. As I handed my gun to the Qashqai, the two men began to fight each other for it until the Boyer Ahmadi killed the Qashqai and grabbed the gun. Again I stretched out on top of the dead man in the trench, close to passing out from thirst and fatigue, and trembling with anger. By this time the Qashqai and Boyer Ahmadi women had arrived and were throwing out the sacks of provisions from the trucks. They tore them open and poured the tea, sugar and rice, beans and peas into their own sacks. I saw a Boyer Ahmadi take the gun belonging to the third-lieutenant, the one who had just graduated from the academy, and make him undress. Stark naked. The boy grabbed a piece of canvas to cover his genitals, but one of the women immediately snatched the rag from him and used it to collect some onions. Finally the women and children of the nearby village arrived on donkeys and filled their saddlebags with whatever remained.

  We had left three wounded sergeants in the ambulance which was clearly marked with the lion and sun emblem. But they didn’t realize, and set the ambulance on fire. You could smell the burnt flesh for a long time. And then they set the fuel truck on fire.

  Again a Qashqai came along to where I was lying and kicked me in the shoulder, saying, “Get up! Take off your jacket!” I gathered all my strength and threw him bodily on to the burning fuel truck. But almost immediately another rider came towards me. He was a thin, dark man, carrying a baton spiked with a knife. His gun was fastened to his belt. He too, wanted my uniform. He said he wouldn’t kill me so the clothes wouldn’t be bloodied. He took my uniform and gold medals and army boots. Then he ripped off my watch with his knife, and with the same knife cut loose the revolver at my waist. Finally, the tribesmen drove away in the two undamaged trucks which contained military uniforms and ammunition. Later I heard they used those uniforms as disguise for a surprise attack on the Semirom garrison.

  I ran off in the direction of the mountains. On the way, I heard a moaning in the distance. I decided I’d find the person and steal his clothes. It turned out to be one of our own sergeant-drivers. He was spattered with blood. I asked if he was shot, and he said he’d managed to escape in time by giving up his gun. “Get up and come with me, then,” I told him. He pleaded, “Captain, I beg you, my suitcase, my souvenirs from Shiraz …” I interrupted him, “From now on, we’re equals.” And we started up the mountain. We passed the tribesmen’s entrenchments, made of white stone and each taking four people, but now littered with empty cartridge shells.

  We were heading towards Abadeh by way of a side-track, and we had just passed the mountain ridge when we noticed a Qashqai rider approaching us at a gallop. We threw ourselves on the ground beneath a bush. Before long he was standing over our heads and saying, “Hey you army dogs! Get up! I saw you.” Eyeing the sergeant he said, “Is it you, Mirza Hassan, you bastard? Where’s your gun?” The sergeant sat up, and started to undress of his own accord. Standing in nothing but his underwear, he took off his army boots and handed everything in a neat bundle to the Qashqai.

  “How fat you’ve become, Mirza Hassan, you bastard!” said the Qashqai.

  “You’ll be wasting two bullets if you kill us,” I told him. “Don’t shoot us. On the other side of the mountain they’re looting truck-loads of goods—rice, chick peas, beans, lump sugar, tea, onions, oil, military uniforms, ammunition and guns. If you hurry you’ll get there in time.”

  “Is he telling the truth, Mirza Hassan?” he asked the sergeant.

  “Yes, brother.”

  The Qashqai took out a pair of delicate women’s slippers from his saddlebag and said, “This piece of softskin is for you, Mirza Hassan.”

  “Keep them, I can’t use them. Give them to Sister Golabtoon and greet her for me.”

  “I’m taking a flowery tunic for Golabtoon. And a gold necklace and mirrors, I don’t need these.”

  “Then hurry so you can take her some provisions too,” I said to the tribesman.

  When he had left, I asked the sergeant, “Are you related?”

  “Yes, we’re cousins. But my name isn’t Mirza Hassan. That’s the name they give to thieves.”

  By then I think it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. A government airplane buzzed over our heads and circled around the remains of the convoy. There were a few retaliating shots from the Qashqais and Boyer Ahmadis, and then it roared away again. So much for aerial military reinforcement!

  Now the two of us were left thirsty, hungry and barefoot, wearing nothing but underwear, and holding on to a pair of women’s delicate sandals which didn’t fit either of us. We made our way down the ridge of the mountain until we reached the valley where we found a spring and washed our faces in its muddy water. The sergeant announced that he couldn’t go on anymore and lay down wearily right there. “As you like,” I told him. “I’m carrying on without you.” But I walked on very slowly. I hadn’t gone a hundred metres before I heard him call me. “Captain,” he said, as he caught up with me, “I wanted to go to sister Golabtoon’s tent. It isn’t too far from here. But to tell you the truth I felt too asham
ed.” I didn’t say a word. Soon we had left the valley and we could see several villages ahead of us, with crowds of people milling about.

  We caught up with an old man, a pedlar, following a child riding a donkey. He had a small piece of bread, and gave us half of it, but no water. We said we were truck drivers, that bandits had raided us and had set our trucks on fire. He told us that the river was only a kilometre away but that we should be careful because the Qashqais and Boyer Ahmadis had taken to the mountains, and had been fighting government men on the other side.

  It was early evening when we reached the river and drank some water. I told the sergeant not to drink too much because he would get bloated. We rested for about ten minutes, and then waded across the river. On the other bank we saw two Boyer Ahmadis sitting around a fire, having some tea. They asked us who we were and where we were going. We told them the Qashqais had robbed us and that we were truck drivers. The sergeant asked one of them who was smoking a pipe to give him a puff. When we gave the pipe back to him there was nothing left in it, and the man dumped it on the ground. He gave us a drink from his water-skin, and then sent us on our way.

  We joined a few peasants headed towards the village. Again, we were asked who we were, and again we told them we were truck drivers. After a long trek, we finally reached Abadeh at eight o’clock in the evening. We found the police-sergeant who’d been left in charge of the garrison. He told us the deputy chief was at the teahouse, but the garrison chief himself had gone to Shiraz. We were taken to the deputy chief at the teahouse, and I told him how they had set up a fine trap for us—looting, killing and burning as they went. We had some sweetened tea before going to the garrison. There the deputy chief called his assistant and said, “This is the lieutenant. Come and listen to what he has to say. It’s not as simple as we were told—it was worse than Judgement Day! Their soldiers didn’t even know how to shoot, and they were crying from fear in front of their lieutenant.” Then turning to me, he said, “When your convoy left Abadeh I was relieved, thinking that the poor colonel at Semirom won’t be begging for help behind his wireless anymore. You’d be taking them reinforcements. But now … God help them!”

  He instructed his assistant to bolt the tower door, issued orders for protective measures, and went behind the wireless himself to report the situation to the gendarmerie and ask for help. He was quite sure they would be attacked that night. They did their best to find some us clothes from here and there, and then scraped together some money to give us. Those old clothes and shoes felt like a great blessing to us. The deputy chief said, “Wash yourselves and then go to the village headman’s house for the night, but whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re officers. If they find out, they’ll kill you before morning.” A gendarme accompanied us, past the local sheep-fold, to the headman’s house. The headman, who had a red beard, came out of his room and led us to a bare, mud-built room. He took two old quilts from the top of a wooden chest in the corner of the room and spread them on the floor. He asked us if we’d eaten and we said no. So his daughter brought us some dirty-looking milk in a black bowl, and two loaves of brown bread which she took out from the wooden chest that was kept under lock and key. We slept like logs till the morning. They never found out we were officers. In the morning they gave us more brown bread and hot tea before sending us back to the deputy chief at the garrison. He was even kinder than the night before, allowing us to wait around until noon while he tried to get me permission to go back to Tehran. By then, five more people, wounded and half-naked, had straggled into the garrison at Abadeh with the aid of some peasants. They were patrols from the Semirom garrison. They told us that the real battle had begun only yesterday evening.

  Finally the deputy chief managed to contact the gendarmerie. He was instructed to help us out, but we were all to return immediately to Shiraz. The deputy chief agreed to find us two or three donkeys so we could head off to Deh Bid, hitching a ride as soon as we found a car that would take us. We treated the wounds of the injured as much as we could, and the deputy chief found some civilian clothes for us to wear. He also gave me eighty tomans. Meanwhile our Turkoman driver showed up, riding a Qashqai mare. He was the only one to have escaped safe and sound. Apparently a Qashqai had taken his gun, then left his horse in his care to go off looting. As soon as the Qashqai’s back was turned, the driver had jumped on the mare and galloped straight to Abadeh. He had spent the night in a safe place, and been given rice and stew and a yoghurt drink. He’d even gone to the baths in the morning and been regaled with a massage and refreshments.

  The injured rode on the donkeys while we followed on foot, taking turns on the Qashqai mare which the Turkoman driver had brought us like an unexpected blessing. We had some bread and cheese and a jug of water with us, and managed to reach Deh Bid by ten o’clock that night. At the town gate, we came across an officer with a riding crop and high boots. I looked him over and told him I was an officer too. His crop, shiny boots and officer’s uniform were all brand new. I told him briefly what had happened to us and asked him for a car to take us to Shiraz. He said, “The whole area has been taken over by bandits. No cars can pass through.” He took us to the gendarmerie, where their chief welcomed us and said he’d been expecting us since he’d had news from Abadeh. They served us roast chicken, yoghurt with cucumber, and spirits to drink. We had just sat down to our meal, and the chief had gone to use the wireless, when the tribesmen arrived. But this time they weren’t Qashqais or Boyer Ahmadis, they were Doshman Ziaris. The chief was shot right there behind his wireless. If looting and raiding was profitable for two tribes, why not for a third too?

  I haven’t seen the others since then. I managed to escape on my own from the back of the garrison tower, running down the mountainside until I reached an open field. After a while I came to a walnut tree, and I wanted to lie down right there to sleep, but it was cold and dark, and I could hear shooting going on all around me, so I decided to pace about or jog to keep awake. There was no moonlight, no stars, no lamp. I didn’t have any matches, but I had the eighty tomans that the deputy chief had given me. If I’d had matches, I would have made a fire with the bills and gone to sleep next to it.

  In the morning two shepherds came along with their flock. I greeted them and told them I was a truck driver, I’d been robbed and I was hungry. The shepherds made a fire and one of them milked a sheep and gave me the milk in a dirty bowl. His son, a seven-or eight-year-old, showed up just then holding a loaf of bread. He told his father, “I ran all the way. It’s still piping hot!” He was right, the brown bread was still warm. Suddenly we heard shots being fired and a bullet pierced the milk bowl. It was the tribesmen from the night before. Some of them went for the sheep which they herded off, shooting the two sheep dogs on their way down the mountain. A few others came towards us and tied us up, though they left the child alone. They made us walk ahead of them all the way to their tents. The tribal chief was sitting on a chair in front of his tent.

  On the way, I had whispered to the shepherd boy to throw himself, on our arrival, at the chieftain’s feet and beg him on the life of his children to spare his father and uncles. I told him I’d give him a reward when they freed us. The boy did as he was told, and the tribesmen spared our lives, but we were held for six days and then they stripped us naked before letting us go. They had taken my eighty tomans the very first day, and again I found myself trudging along, on and on, until I managed to reach Zarqan, where you found me.

  Just imagine what happened to those poor bastards in Semirom! That’s where the real massacre took place—at the garrison and on the Semirom plain. Those patrol soldiers whom we bandaged at Abadeh, told us that they’d had only one day’s ration for four days. I knew they weren’t equipped to put up any kind of resistance for long. They had guns, but no bullets. And of course we never managed to get any to them. The same officer at the Deh Bid gate with the riding crop and the boots, told me that the Boyer Ahmadis and the Qashqais had sent a letter to the colonel at Semiro
m saying he’d been sentenced to death and that he should surrender. The colonel had written back that he would sooner die than do such a thing. The poor colonel had given up on the Isfahan division, and had resorted to the Abadeh garrison. Now the Semirom wireless was dead.

  One of the fellows from Semirom, whose arm injury I treated myself, told me on the way to Deh Bid that they’d seen the approach of the tribesmen through their binoculars, spotting three mules carrying machine guns. I asked him whether he’d seen the military tank they’d stolen from us. He said, “They’d set the tank on fire, and we could see it burning as we ran away. We warned our poor colonel of their approach. He first made us pitch tents on four sides of the stream, so we wouldn’t be hard up for water. Then we dug trenches all around the tents. He’d planned a circular defence, you see. The poor man kept urging us to resist. He believed we could mow them down with the crack of our machine-gun fire. He was certain help was on its way since the Abadeh wireless had said that the convoy had set off in our direction. To those of us on patrol, he promised a good reward for sighting the first vehicles of the convoy. He said to us, These people have no heavy arms and their firing range isn’t more than four hundred metres.’ When we told him the tribesmen were advancing with three machine guns on their mules, he paled. He realized then that the reinforcement convoy had been attacked. As soon as he lost all hope of your arrival, he was forced to change his defence tactics. Guessing that they would probably approach by way of a back-road following the Khorus Galoo Pass, he ordered combat formation, with the soldiers taking up positions on top of two high promontories on either side of the back-road. But those poor soldiers only had one bullet each. On the promontories there was a half-decayed brush made up of thorn-bushes, almond and lotus trees. The soldiers lay in ambush under this shelter. At the foot of the hills, we rapidly set up first-aid and food tents. But what food and what first aid! One day’s ration for four!”