‘There was a roar of applause from the assembled chiefs, and Karmal, nonplussed, declared the meeting closed. That evening, everyone in Kabul knew the story. Before curfew time, the shabnamas, night papers, passed from hand to hand and printed by the Resistance, said, “Karmal is a puppet king, and his Red Afghanistan is a hermaphrodite. Pass it on. Signed: The Fisherman.”
‘There have been no more meetings of Pashtun clan chiefs in Kabul since that day. This may have been because of the hostility which Pashtuns always feel towards the hirelings of foreign powers. It may have been due to the story of the hermaphrodite fish, told by the kitchen-boy from the borderland. Or, it may, indeed, have been because those chiefs suspected of sympathy with Karmal were found dead, shot or stabbed, in their homes, within weeks of that conference.
‘So, Maryam,’ Fazli Rabbi concluded, ‘you will now better understand the kind of people in whose land we are, and whose chiefs we are about to meet. These tales are recited, from village to village, by the travelling bards. They call them “Tidings of the Folk”.’
It was ten days before Maryam saw, against the deep blue sky, through the heat-haze, the imposing outline of the Pashtun castle which was their goal.
It was battlemented and built of the same kind of boulders which littered the terrain, cemented together. Its walls, all of twenty feet thick, were patterned with loopholes. Parts of the walls had been chipped by the heavy artillery shells used against it in one or other of the campaigns – against the men of the Free Land. It had never been conquered: even when forty thousand British troops had been thrown into battle against a single clan, the Yusufzais, a century ago.
Three massively-built Pashtun warriors, their hair in ringlets and turbans worn askew, with that air of insolence which appeals to some and infuriates others, came striding down the road which led to the main keep.
‘Peace!’
‘Peace.’
‘I am Fazli Rabbi, nephew!’
‘May God give you salvation! You are one of our own.’
‘Is there permission to enter?’
‘Honour us!’
The great wooden doors swung open and a group of men who had been sitting around in the courtyard beyond, rose to their feet and formed a double row in honour of the visitors.
A tall, thin man, with bushy beard and long robe, came out from the cool darkness of the inner colonnades, and embraced Fazli Rabbi Khan, amid the ritual shouting and noisy exchange of compliments which makes so many strangers think that Pashtuns, when they meet, are about to start a fight.
He was about thirty, Maryam guessed. His clothes were costly, the robe of brocade, with gold-embroidered slippers on his feet.
‘Maryam Jan, this is Daud Khan, son of the Chief of the Yusufzai, our host, the Lion of the Frontier!’
The Lion turned to her, and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Pa khair raghle, you come with happiness! Transport your honourable self in this direction!’ He spoke courtly Pashtu, of an archaic kind, and used the language gracefully.
They went into a long, high diwan, reception hall, inside the castle, carpeted with precious rugs, hung with valuable ancient Bokharan tapestries.
Seated on bolsters, before mounds of spiced rice and chicken, Daud explained that his father was away, but that he was anxious to be of any possible help to his new guests.
He had business with Fazli Rabbi, too. Crate upon crate of shiny new machine-guns littered the hall, their tops open, the stencilling which might have shown their origin covered with daubs of black paint.
Daud gestured towards them. ‘As you see, my Khan, we are ready to speak with you.’
Maryam offered to leave the two men alone to discuss business, but Daud said, ‘Maryam Jan: the British, in their time, used to drop leaflets over here, saying that they had an empire with six hundred million people in it. I gather that the Russians only have two hundred million or so. Goyim barkapiran – filth upon the infidels! We shall manage them, so we don’t waste time here with what some call “security”.’
That was that.
Maryam gathered that Daud Khan was some kind of agent for a Pashtun called ‘Painda-Gul’, Everlasting Flower, who had consigned the arms to him. Fazli Rabbi was to arrange their transfer to guerrillas operating in the Kunar Valley area, and Daud would pay for transport.
She was intrigued to learn that this Painda-Gul, from England, was spending his entire fortune, earned during a lifetime in commerce, on weapons for the guerrillas.
The two men included her in their conversation. They took Painda-Gul’s contribution so much for granted that she found herself saying, ‘But isn’t this a rather extravagant gesture? What is he going to live on, after this?’
They both laughed. Then Fazli Rabbi said, ‘Daud Jan, I promised the old man, Miskin Khan, at Alucha, that I would let Maryam hear the famous tale of the Pashtun and his horse. So far, I haven’t told it to her. Perhaps you’d like to do so, then she’d understand what our people are really like.’
‘Certainly,’ said Daud. He made a sign to the various fighters, courtiers and others in the hall to gather round. All of them, including servants, formed a ring on the floor. When water-pipes had been brought, he began.
‘There was once, among the Suleman people, a tribesman who always adhered to the principles of hospitality and honour, to Pashtunwali. He owned a beautiful horse, of high pedigree, worth a great deal of money.
‘But he fell upon evil days, and lost all his money. He still refused to sell his horse, which he managed to feed and keep fit, the last vestige of his opulent past.
‘A man who had long coveted this animal decided that the time was ripe to try to buy it from this man, Ismail Khan, and he went to his house to open negotiations. When Ismail Khan saw him coming, he arranged for his wife to prepare a meal for the guest.
‘The other man arrived at the door, and as is the usual way among us, the two of them talked for a long time about generalities, and then they ate.
‘When the meal was over, the would-be buyer asked Ismail Khan whether it would be possible to buy his horse, and that he would give him a huge price for it.
‘“My friend,” said Ismail, “you are too late. That stew which you just ate was made from the flesh of that very same horse.”
‘You see, he had nothing else to give his guest.’
Daud Khan pointed his finger at Maryam. ‘Sister, when there is a guest, or when someone needs help, the Pashtun will make any sacrifice. What I have just told you is a legend. But what you have heard about Painda-Gul is a fact. Do you think he cares what happens to him financially as a consequence of his sacrifice?’
The following morning Maryam descended from her cool room, lined with cedar wood, in the upper floor of the castle, to find a bulky figure, a man of fifty or more years of age, poking about in the packing cases which were still strewn about the main hall.
‘Peace,’ he said.
‘Peace.’
‘I am Painda-Gul. I arrived late last night. May thou never find adversity!’
Life was getting more and more like a fairy tale.
An hour or two later, a fusillade of shots rang out. Maryam ran to the window of the sitting-room where she was resting, to see two men entering the castle grounds. They were Muhjahidin, wearing Afghan shirts and baggy trousers, crossed bandoliers and rough wool hats. The Yusufzais embraced them like long-lost brothers; the shots which she had heard were in welcome, not hostility. David Callil and Bardolf, from The Eagle’s nest, had arrived to arrange the smuggling of their share of the weapons.
‘Welcome! Are the men strong?’
‘Strong! The Almighty be with thee!’
‘Prosper!’
‘Be blessed!’
BOOK 7
Ataka! Ataka! Ataka!
VOYNA – [WAR]. Wars may be divided into unjust (predatory) wars and just wars. Just wars are waged to protect the interests of the working class and the toiling masses, to liquidate social and national oppression, an
d to protect national sovereignty against imperialist aggression.
The Soviet Dictionary of Basic Military Terms
Moscow
1 Nanpaz the Baker
The Castle
Paghman Valley
JUNE 5
Dildar Nanpaz the baker, early each morning, drove his rickety old truck to the fort, now full of Russian troops trying to keep some sort of grip on Paghman, key to Kabul and last bastion against the Tigers of Kohidaman and the equally infuriating Margjos, ‘those who sought death’ of the Hindu Kush. Beyond that lay Panjsher, and Commander Mahsud, twenty-eight-year-old engineer and military genius, who had driven both the regular Afghan Army and the Soviet tanks out of the domain, killing the governor, forcing Kabul to withdraw its entire administration. In one battle, which lasted a month, he had destroyed thirty Russian tanks and, in hand-to-hand fighting, had shown that the Russian infantry, though better armed and highly trained, was no match for his men.
The Russians, with their own sense of humour, called the Tapa, the great castle, ‘The Kolkhoz’, the collective farm, because it was stacked with fruit and grain, vegetables and dried fruits and all kinds of delicacies from the Paghman valley beyond. The garrison seldom had to eat from cans.
Nanpaz himself was part of this local economy, for he supplied bread, as his ancestors had always done, to the people of the castle.
His own house had been destroyed three times by Russian bombardment, during the fierce battles with the partisans in the valley. Everyone had helped to rebuild it, even women and children carried the stones. His bakery, however, had always survived, and the Paghman people, including the leaders of the resistance, had insisted that he continued to supply the castle. Someone had said that they might, one day, poison the loaves; others that they wanted Nanpaz to stay in business for some other, future stratagem of an even more refined kind. Nanpaz didn’t know what, but he was glad that he could stay in business. He would have left it, of course, at once, if he had been asked. But nobody asked.
He sounded the horn as the truck came close to the main gate, and the guard, a Central Asian who was joking with his fellow, opened it and waved him through. They were getting rather slack; didn’t they wonder if he had a bunch of Muhjahidin in the back of the covered truck?
Nanpaz drove up to the cookhouse area within the great courtyard. The sergeant-cook was there, and two soldiers whose job it was to check and unload the loaves.
‘Khush amadi, welcome! Bekhair ye, – are you well?’ They always spoke in a mixture of Persian and Pashtu. Perhaps they got it from those little books they all had in their uniform pockets.
‘Thanks to God.’
The Russian held out a packet of cigarettes and he took one and lit it, politely. They tasted very nasty, like devil’s dung, he thought, and had strange cardboard holders. Perhaps they were handed out as a punishment. That could be a joke. He’d tell the lads in the bakery later. ‘I was punished with a Russian smoke today.’
‘They’re good,’ the Russian said. ‘Kazbek brand.’
‘Sar-Khubbaz-seb, Mr Chief Baker,’ they used such funny words, partly classical, would-be formal, as if they were self-educated idiots like so many of those village louts who went to Kabul and came back with odd phrases which they thought impressed people.
The Russian pointed. ‘There’s a field-kitchen over there. Get yourself a cup of tea. We haven’t got the voucher to pay you yet. I’ll go up for it while these men unload.’
‘What a great kindness, Your Hallucination.’
‘Be strong.’
The baker walked across the space and a corporal handed him a mug of good tea made from a samovar, a giant one, set on the carriage. ‘Thank you, captain-seb. Are your roots treacly, or is there a pitcher in your brain?’
‘I don’t understand Dari very well.’
Of course he didn’t. That was what it was all about. This was a joke the Afghans often played on Nikolai.
‘Oh, forgive me. I’ll teach you some. Now, repeat after me. This is a …’ He pointed to his elbow, and then said a filthy word. ‘And this means “I love you”.’ He uttered another. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
He gave the mug back to the corporal and looked around. The field-kitchen was being towed away now, out of the gate. Nobody checked it. Always useful to keep your eyes and ears open.
Then Nanpaz saw the ten-ton truck.
It was covered with tarpaulin, camouflaged in dusty green and yellow-brown, and carried a sign on the side: Khidmati Dosti Wa Hamkari – Friendship and Co-operation Service. These were the trucks which were to be seen on all the main roads now. The radio said that they carried medicines and food for the suffering masses. Peeping under the cover, the baker saw metal boxes filled with ammunition. Well, well! The Nikolais were so afraid of being ambushed that they were disguising military vehicles as welfare trucks. Quite a good sign. Must tell the Muhjahidin.
There was no driver in the cab, and the keys were in the ignition lock. A Russian soldier came up to him, sauntering, but scowling at his interest. ‘Death to America and its bastard children, the Zionist Pakistanis!’ said Nanpaz, loudly and clearly. He had heard this on the radio, and quite liked the rhythm of it. It was funnier, even, than the nonsense rhymes that people in Paghman were so fond of.
The soldier gave the clenched fist salute. The Afghan comrade must be all right, he probably thought, and turned on his heel, after warning Nanpaz: ‘Danger – miny.’ Mines.
When the Russian was inside one of the doorways within the encircling wall, Nanpaz climbed into the truck’s cab. Nice feel, quite new, bulletproof windscreen. Nice grenade, a fragmentation one, hanging easily to hand.
Start the engine, into first gear. Rev the engine, handbrake off.
In a few seconds he was driving the great ammunition-truck out of the gate and down the road; and without any reaction from the guards. Obviously, anything going out was seen as all right.
Nanpaz began to realize why he had done it. The Eagle, talking to him in his shop one day, had said, ‘Nanpaz, mines are what we need. The Russians have plenty, and we want them, to mine the highways, to keep their trucks and tanks off the roads. I wish I could steal some mines. Then we’d show them …’
And here he was, Nanpaz the baker, with a truckload of, as the soldier had so conveniently told him, mines. He’d better get the lot under cover somewhere, and tell The Eagle. He’d burned his boats now, of course …
Stealing a Russian truck – death. Stealing munitions – death. Loss of the bakery, and transportation of his wife and children, a kind of death for them, too. Niet millosti, no mercy, for anyone. Russian words. The Russians knew that he had done it: so, whether he got the load to The Eagle or not, he was now, like it or not, a guerrilla, one of the Muhjahidin. The baker laughed. And to think that he had felt so humble about the warriors for such a long time, wondered why and how they could challenge the Russians, who had such power. Now he knew. It was easy. You only had to try.
He laughed even louder when he passed a huge, if primitively drawn, poster. It showed a group of guerrillas, with the caption, a masterpiece of the Red Afghan propaganda department: ‘Sharm bar Qatilun! – Shame upon the Killers.’ He rather liked the look of them. One was almost as fierce, he thought, as his own father who’d fought in the 1919 war.
The baker was gone: the searchers found the bakery blown up. There was no sign of his family, either. Even their house had been gutted of anything portable, and his assistants were nowhere to be found. The commandant of the castle, Colonel Slavsky, had had apoplexy and recovered from that: but not from the shock. Several Russians – the sergeant, the chief of the kitchen, the main gate guards – were under arrest. Russian military punishments, in Afghanistan at any rate, were reverting to those of pre-revolutionary days: the knout. The prisoners were stripped and the torturers were called. The commandant watched as the unfortunates were pegged down to the parade ground upon the order ‘Stretch them out’. Then came the words feared by so m
any generations of malefactors and innocents alike, ‘Thrash with whips! Without mercy! Start now!’
The sight did not make the commandant feel as much better as he would have liked, even when the blood flowed and soaked the whips. Raided by a baker! He would have to answer, to Army Security, the GRU, for the lost ammunition if he did not get it back. Soon.
The fixed-wing reconnaissance craft and the helicopters were out, careering all day in the skies. The scouting parties swarmed over the countryside; informers were offered double, treble the usual money for any whisper. For three days there was no trace of the truck or its mortar bombs, essential for the defence for the castle at Paghman.
Then, as quickly as it had been lost, the truck turned up again. It was standing, only five kilometres from the castle, partly covered in straw and amateurishly half-hidden behind a loopholed breastwork. The wind seemed to have blown off some of its makeshift camouflage. Evidently the guerrillas had not yet been able to move it to a better hideout. Helicopter Pilot Leonid Federov, of Air Reconnaissance, whooped when he saw it, and called in through the radio network, direct to the castle’s command.
Colonel Slavsky was so delighted that he spoke directly to the flier, shouting into the microphone. ‘Comrade Leytenant Federov! Warmest thanks. I’ll get you a medal when there’s another engagement that’ll cover it.’ He could hardly propose an award for the finding of the truck and cargo, which would be followed by an enquiry as to how and why he had lost it in the first place.
The Russian recovery team found everything intact. Every mortar round, every road map, even the driver’s wallet stuffed with the new Afghan notes. Those terrorists really must have panicked, thought Slavsky. Of course they probably did not know that without this load there would have been no ammunition for the mortars in the castle, and only rifle-fire to defend it. And the marksmanship of the Soviet soldier was generally admitted to be poor. Each platoon shared a single sniper’s rifle. Although it was an excellent Dragunow SVD, the training in its use had not proved to be sufficiently good.