The Ageless

scenery now shimmering. It would be another hot day. He occasionally looked at the others in the helicopter, the soldiers and the few other diplomats. Some seemed weary from battle. Others were likely just plain weary.

  So you’ll all go home and they’ll congratulate you back in Washington and your family will tell you what a wonderful thing you’ve done. But you and I will both know that you haven’t done a single goddamn thing worth praise. Shut up, he said harshly. Shut up! I’m doing what I can. Sure you are. Let’s see what doing what you can do will bring everyone in the end.

  Under the parka he was shivering now and pulled it tighter. The pilot announced they were approaching L-G and they landed within a half hour. On the ground, he saw the vehicles to make up the convoy. There were some Stryker vehicles and many humvees, some with the big fifty-caliber gun on top and others without it. He hoped he would be in one with it. It was always better to have one over you if gunfire started. One of his old friends would add, “But it’s even better to have someone who knows how the hell to use it!” And that was true. Better to not have it all than to have it, and someone who can’t figure the damn thing out.

  That day was a prep day. The soldiers made their rifles ready, took the clips out and emptied them. They checked each bullet and felt them and wiped them clean and loaded the clips again. The clicking of rifle bolts and the stomping and scraping of boots against the dusty ground was strange to the American. It was supposed to be foreign at this point, years later. But still it was a part of the everyday. And that bothered him. Along with so much else. He spent most of his time alone outside near the soldiers. His mind wandered and he thought over and over about the backgammon game he had played. If only they had come later. Damn them for coming too soon and keeping me from finishing it up. He detected something important in finishing it up. It was like a father watching his son unwrap a present, then suddenly stopping him before the gift was revealed and taking it away. No, the American thought. It wasn’t like that at all. That was too simple. It was more like a scientist crafting a formula on a chalkboard and then the inept janitor comes in and washes the whole goddamn thing down. Yeah, that’s what it’s like. There was one meeting that day and he went but said nothing.

  They left the following evening, driving south across the wide earth. There was no road and the humvees moved smoothly over open ground, taking unobstructed paths learned of years earlier. Once full on night came, it was very dark and cold and barren and the American could see nothing from the window of his back seat. He knew there were few mountains in the south. He knew beneath was the same speeding, slashing cut of rock and gravel and dirt but he didn’t care to look out. Next to him was the Afghan. They were silent the first fifteen minutes.

  The Afghan looks out the window and says, “Very quiet here, at night. Night here is always too quiet.”

  As the convoy turns, the American can see the string of humvees ahead. He counts seven or eight and sees them by the lights on the outside that illuminate ten feet around the vehicles. Ahead of them is only blackness. They might be driving into a tunnel for all anyone knows. A dead-end tunnel. Or a big circle. And eventually, they’ll be back where they started.

  “Is it always this quiet?”

  “Always.”

  “And when you sleep? Is it easy to sleep?”

  “Yes. Always easy to sleep.”

  “What do you think of this?”

  It is dark and the American can only see the Afghan’s silhouette against the window. He knows the man is staring out but cannot see his expression.

  “It will end, no? It always is ending.”

  “You think we’ll be successful in this? In the taking of the town?”

  “In this taking?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “You think we won’t get it?”

  He sees the black silhouette-head nod. “Yes, they will take it. But it won’t last.”

  The American nods. “Not forever, no.”

  “No. Not even for many months.” The Afghan adds, “Not long.”

  The American looks out the window. The ground is still black but now they must have turned because he sees the moon in his peripheral vision. He looks up at it. It’s a white crescent. It has a martial appearance and he thinks of how ancient warlords and tribal chiefs might have marched on horseback under this same crescent, destined for a battle. Maybe destined to not return from it. Surrounding the moon is a magnificent collection of stars. There’s no light from the moon and all of them, even those distant and dim, are visible.

  “A long history.”

  The American turns to the Afghan. He now looks forward, towards the rear of the seat in front where two soldiers are, one driving, the other sleeping with the slight rocking of the humvee over the ground. The Afghan continues, “We have long history, no? Many years. Many, many years of history.”

  The American feels his flak jacket. It is heavy and stiff and weighs heavily on his chest. He has a hard time breathing under its weight. “And here we are.”

  The Afghan says, “Yes. You are here. And they are here.”

  His voice is melancholy and distant. The American imagines the Afghan is at a funeral, delivering final words over the body of a brother.

  “But because they are here. Won’t be long. Is too difficult.”

  “Yes. War is too difficult.”

  The Afghan turns to him. “Yes. For some.”

  From the strange angle of moon, the American sees only the distant white light on the Afghan’s eyes. They look feral and cat-like, or maybe as if he has cataracts. They are both silent for a long time. Only the sound of the drive, the squeaking, easing of struts over rocks, the smoky, exhaustive noise of the diesel motor. The radio in front crackles occasionally but nobody speaks over it.

  “All men suffer from this, from this death.”

  The American looks down at his hands. It’s too dark to see them and he can only make out the ugly shapes. He says, “But some men bring it with them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And some wonder what is worth death.”

  The Afghan’s hand grips the American on his shoulder and the American turns to face him. “Some wonder many things. Little is worth death. But what is worth this death, is worth much.” His hand lets go.

  In the darkness, the American can only think how death is the great equalizer. It’s true, isn’t it? All the great kings and popes and presidents have shared in the joy of death. Soldiers and billionaires shared in it, too. We all share in it, the American thought. We can all die and some of us even look forward to it. Maybe even you do. No, he thought. No, I don’t. But some things, he knew, were worth death. Maybe not this, but some things. He could die for some things. He thought that if necessary, he could die for his country. But that’s the catch, isn’t it? That’s the goddamn catch. If necessary. He could die for his honor, or what he knew of it. He often thought, when alone at home with only music in the background, that he could probably die for a woman. Yes, he thought. That’s probably the best time to give sacrifice. For a good woman. For a woman that you love and that’s worth keeping alive. There are really very few times when it’s worth dying for something. The minute you’re born, you’re dying. Someone had said that, right? He can’t remember who but it’s a common thought so it doesn’t matter.

  The remainder of the ride is quiet and they approach the north of the town still in the dark. Near several buildings, the humvee stops. The driver turns to him.

  “Sir, we’ll be holding out here. They expect some heavy fighting work farther up ahead. This area’s been secured already so if you want, you can get out. Just don’t go far.”

  “Okay.”

  Outside it is cold and dry and the American keeps his parka pulled close to his chest as he and the Afghan stand behind the humvee. Several other humvees are parked nearby and a handful of soldiers stand around. He says to one nearby, “How long you been in?”

  “Two years, sir.”


  The American cocks his head. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Shamrock, Texas, sir. ‘Bout four hours north of Dallas.” The soldier has a bit of chew and spits on the ground. The American can’t see it but imagines it bubbling on the earth, dark and harsh. “You ever been to Shamrock, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Texas?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, yer missin’ out on Texas. Shamrock’s a shit hole, though.”

  “How long do you think the fighting will go?”

  “No tellin’, sir. If they don’t have a lot and they’re not dug in too deep, should be clear by sunrise. Think the point is to fix the town up, right?”

  “Yes, that’s the point.”

  The soldier spits again and turns towards the central part of the town. “What the hell’s that?”

  Then the American hears the horrible rattling, chain-stringing, mechanized, coughing, kicking machine gun fire. He turns towards where the soldier is looking. There is the flash of fire, distant and muffled. Then a man screams to his left. The soldier with the chew falls and the others scatter.

  The Afghan runs up and grabs him and says, “Come! Here!” They run behind the humvee and drop to the ground. The American is on his knees. He feels the dirt and rock dig into his knees and smells the exhaust leaking from the muffler of the humvee. The machine gun fire hisses past them. The ting-ting-ting of the bullets hitting the humvee armor and the occasional plunk-ting-ting-plunk as they penetrate the