“If I go to the war zone, there won’t be anyone left in the Branch Office!”
“That’s too bad. The Army Ministry is our biggest client there. The others can wait.”
“What if I get hit and die?”
“I’ve already had a word with the President. You’ll get special danger money, don’t worry.” He sounded as if he expected me to thank him. “And if the worst should come to the worst, you’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of everything.” By which he presumably meant my wife. “In return, if you do a good job, I’ll recommend you for Head of Sales when you’re next transferred.”
I gave up. I’d only earn myself a bad name in the company if I kept complaining – especially when they were offering so much.
“The army say they’ll pay me too. What should I do?”
“Hmm. I’d just take it, if I were you. We’ll keep sending your pay every month, anyway. You’ll be getting two salaries, but, well… Considering the danger you’ll be in, it sounds fair. Of course, you’ll be under the command of the army until you get all five hundred rifles fixed, however long that takes. That’s the agreement between us and the Galibian Army Ministry. And I expect you to honour it. All right? From now on, you’re to take orders from them.” Suddenly his voice changed to one of gentle coaxing. “After all, it is for the sake of the company. OK?”
“I suppose I have no choice.” I put the phone down in resignation.
I gave Purasarto his back pay and dismissed him. Then I locked the office door. I had no way of knowing when I’d return, or indeed if I’d ever return again. My only consolation was the double salary, and the promise of promotion. But what use would they be if I died?
I returned to the Army Ministry, where I completed the procedure for signing up. I was given my outfit allowance and travel expenses, my uniform and equipment, and directions to Position 23, where I was to report the following day. It was on a hill in the suburbs of Gayan.
“There are two big bodhi trees at the bottom of the hill,” explained the issuing officer. “A hundred yards west of them, you’ll find the time recorder. Here’s your time card. Don’t lose it. Got that? Don’t be late. Otherwise you’ll be penalized. All right?”
I left the Army Ministry and took a taxi to the railway station. There, I bought a forces discount season ticket, checked the timetable, and finally went home to our apartment.
“It’s turned out just as you said this morning. I’ve got to commute to the battle zone from tomorrow onwards.”
I explained the whole story to my wife.
When she heard the details, her eyes glistened with excitement – as I’d expected. “My! You’ll get two salaries! And promotion to Head of Sales when we go home!”
“Unless I die first.”
“Of course you won’t die, honey! All you’re doing is repairing rifles, isn’t it?”
“There’ll be bullets flying all over the place.”
“So just avoid them, then!”
She was completely and utterly unconcerned. I tried to explain the awful realities of war, but soon gave up. Because I didn’t even understand them myself.
“Well, I’d better get your things ready for tomorrow,” said my wife, in exactly the same tone as when I went on a business trip. She started picking over the uniform and equipment I’d been given. “Gosh, is this your identification tag?” she mused. “Wow. And hey, what’s this?”
“Don’t touch that!” I yelled. “It’s a hand grenade!”
In her surprise and panic, she hurled the grenade to the far corner of the room, ran to the opposite corner and buried her head in her arms. After a moment, she turned around with a sheepish look. “Oh. Was it a dud?”
She obviously thought it would explode if you just threw it.
She glared at me as I laughed heartily. “Honey! How could you bring such a dangerous thing home?!”
“What can I do?! They don’t have lockers in the battle zone! I have to bring it all back with me every day. The other soldiers take their guns home, you know. Some of them even have bazookas! That’s right. The other day, a child was playing around with a machine gun her father had brought home, and ended up massacring six people!”
My wife stood speechless for a moment. Suddenly, she slapped the table with her hand. “Oh yes! You’ll need a packed lunch, won’t you.”
“Meals are supplied.”
She laughed. “What? Proper meals? I doubt it, honey!”
Of course she was right. Galibian food tastes like horse feed. One of the country’s most renowned restaurants is quite near my office. But I can never quite bring myself to eat there, and always go home for lunch instead. It stood to reason that the food dished up at the front would be even worse.
My wife pulled out a recipe feature she’d found in a woman’s magazine: “One Hundred Tasty Picnic Lunches”. “Let’s see,” she said as she leafed through it. “I’ve got some chicken. Shall I fry it?”
That night, we were due for some “marital activity”. Normally, once we start, we’re at it for about an hour and twenty minutes. But I didn’t want to tire myself out for my first duty the next day. So, as soon as we’d finished dinner, I jumped straight into bed and went to sleep. Well, after all. It would be a shame to die because I’d had too much sex the night before and couldn’t run away quickly enough.
My wife shook me awake at just past seven the next morning. “You’d better get up, honey,” she said. “You don’t want to be late at the front.”
“You’re right,” I said, hurrying out of bed.
She’d prepared a stupendous breakfast of deep-fried prawns in breadcrumbs, bacon and eggs with pancakes, vegetable juice and coffee with milk.
“It’s to give you energy,” she explained with a smile. What did she have to be so happy about? “Do your best to win that prize for fighting spirit, won’t you!” she added, as if she were sending her child off to the school sports day.
I read the morning paper over breakfast. The ‘War News’ column had taken on particular significance now – seeing as my life depended on it. Things didn’t look good. The Galibian army was in retreat. I read the ‘War Zone Weather Report’: mostly fair, with a southerly wind. ‘Yesterday’s Casualties’: 18 infantry, 1 petty officer. ‘Places To Avoid Today – Fierce Fighting Expected’: Position 16, Position 19, Position 23. I felt sick.
While I was still immersed in the newspaper, I suddenly noticed the time. The fast train would be leaving soon. I got up in a panic, hurriedly donned my uniform, and fastened my helmet onto my back.
“Don’t forget anything, honey. What about your lunch box? And your hand grenade?”
“In my bag.”
“Handkerchief? Wallet?”
“Wallet? I shouldn’t think I’ll need money. All right, I’ll take it anyway.”
“Come straight home when you’ve finished, honey. No dropping in anywhere!”
“Am I likely to?!”
I left the apartment, seen off by my wife’s smiling farewell. In the main street, now bathed in morning sunlight, Galibians were making their way towards the station in streams. They must be commuter soldiers too, I thought. I joined them as they walked along. I suddenly had the strange feeling that I’d lost my identity. All the others were carrying guns; I was the only one holding nothing. What was I doing here? Why was I going to the front? My mind started to wander. Then I came to my senses with a start.
I’d forgotten my toolbox! How could I repair those rifles without a screwdriver? I did an about-turn and started running.
“Oy! Where are you going?”
“You’ll miss the train!”
“You’ll be late!”
I ignored the warnings of the others as I passed them, and just kept running until I reached our apartment. There, I picked up my toolbox before dashing out again and re-entering the main street. The stream of commuter soldiers was now a mere trickle.
By the time I reached the station, my fast train to Gayan had alread
y left. The next departure was at 07.50. I would arrive in Gayan an hour after that. I’d have to run to Position 23 in only ten minutes to reach it by nine o’clock.
The platform was full of soldiers waiting for the next fast train. When it finally arrived, it was packed to the rafters. The doors opened and we all piled in.
“It’s the same every morning. That’s the worst thing about it,” said a little man standing by the opposite door inside the train. His face became wedged in my chest as the crowd behind me surged forwards. “We’re all exhausted by the time we get to the front. They ought to let us go flexi-time. Especially as it’s war.”
“I disagree,” said another soldier with bulbous eyes who was standing beside us. “It’s having to get there during the rush-hour that makes it like proper commuting! After all, we’re not like them namby-pamby part-timers or night workers. You should be proud of that!” A funny thing to be proud of, I thought.
“What position are you going to?” the little man asked me. “Position 23,” I answered in broken Galibian. “It’s a bit far, so I’m worried about being late.”
The little man opened his eyes wide. “You’ll never get there by nine!” he exclaimed. “That’s right on the front! Everyone on this train works at the rear!”
The man with bulbous eyes had been eyeing me suspiciously. Suddenly, he called out to the others. “Hey! This one’s not Galibian! He talks funny!”
The soldiers around us started to grow restless.
“A spy!”
“Yeah! Like that KCIA rat the other day!”
“Get him!”
“I’m not a spy! I’m Japanese!” I shouted in sheer panic.
“Why are you wearing our uniform then?”
“He must be a spy!”
“I’ve come to fix your rifles,” I explained falteringly. “I work for the company that makes your rifles!”
“Eh? So you’re the one that sold us all those duds?!”
They started getting boisterous again.
“I nearly had it yesterday!” The man with bulbous eyes lifted his rifle above his head and started badgering me. “This thing only fires once! I was nearly done for!”
“A lot of men have died!”
“What are you going to do about it?!”
“The bastard! Let’s kill him!”
“It’s not my fault! The company made a mistake!” I cried. “You’ve got to believe me!”
“Oy, you lot! Pack it in! You’re upsetting the other passengers!” yelled a man a little way down the train, craning his neck over the throng. I assumed he must be an officer. “And leave that man alone! We know all about him.”
The man with bulbous eyes reluctantly released his grip on my lapels and moved away, cursing. “All right then. Fix this rifle now!”
“I can’t do it in a moving train. And anyway, I’m not on duty yet.”
“Huh! As if it’s none of your concern!”
Having aroused so much hostility, I shrank into a corner. The train passed through some paddy fields before at last pulling into Gayan Station. On the platform was another mêlée of soldiers, evidently waiting to go home. They were squatting and sprawled all over the platform in utter exhaustion. Some were wounded.
“That’s the night shift,” explained the little man. “Actually, they get better pay. I wanted to be on the night shift, but as luck would have it, I’m night-blind.”
We parted just before the ticket gate.
“Well, let’s do our best to stay alive,” I said. “I’m not interested in the pros and cons of the war. I’m just going to look after Number One.”
“Yes. That’s the best way.”
As I left the station, I could already see the black smoke of battle rising silently behind a hill on the far side of town. Muffled sounds of gunfire and shelling could be heard in the distance. I was going to be late anyway, but I had no idea what the penalty would be. So I ran through the little town – a virtual ruin due to repeated shelling – and sped towards the hill as fast as I could.
Panting, I raced up the slope of the hill. When I reached the top, I was presented with a sight that took my breath away. The entire landscape stretched out in front of me was one vast battlefield. Virtually the whole area – from the tops of the hills in the foreground to the mountains in the middle distance – was occupied by troops of the People’s Republic of Gabat. The fighting was taking place in lowland woods and forests that spread out to right and left of the foreground. Troops from both sides were locked in battle like the teeth of two combs. Minor skirmishes here and there broke up the shape of the combs, as each side tested the other’s endurance. Both Galibia and Gabat are poor countries, and they only appeared to have two or three tanks each. What’s more, being such precious commodities, these tanks weren’t taken too far forwards, but were being kept in the rear on both sides. The offensive was being maintained by the more expendable infantry.
I tried to forget my fear as I raced down the hill, towards what I thought was Position 23. But when I got there, the time recorder was nowhere to be seen.
“Er, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to a pair of soldiers who were operating a bazooka in a crater. “Do you know a place near here where there are two big bodhi trees?”
“They were right here till a minute ago,” answered the one who had the barrel of the bazooka on his shoulder. “But they were blown up by a shell just now. This is the crater it left.”
“This area used to be the rearguard,” said the other soldier. “Now we’re retreating so fast, it’ll soon be the front line!”
I really hoped it wasn’t just because the rifles were faulty. I poked my head out of the crater and looked over to the west. A hundred yards away, I could see the burnt-out wreckage of a truck, with the time recorder in its shadow.
“There it is!”
I ran towards the truck, keeping my body low, as bullets skimmed and whizzed past my helmet from all directions.
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!…
I heard a ghastly whining sound as a shell hurtled towards me. Suddenly there was a dazzling flash of light, and a deafening roar as the shell exploded. I was thrown into the air and hurled onto the ground. When I eventually lifted my mud-caked face, I could see no trace of the wrecked truck, nor of the time recorder.
“My God! No time recorder!” If I’d arrived just moments earlier, I’d have been blown to bits along with it.
I looked at my watch. It was 09.13. There was no denying it – I was late. But now there was nothing to prove it. I felt slightly relieved. Now I could say there’d been no time recorder, and might even get away without a penalty.
That last shell had sparked off a salvo of firing, and shells were falling all around me. I ran to take shelter in a nearby wood. There, scores of soldiers were crouching amid dense undergrowth at the foot of the trees.
“Er, excuse me,” I said, approaching one who wore the stripes of a platoon leader. “Could you tell me where the Third Platoon of the Second Infantry Battalion is? I’ve been seconded to them, you see.”
“Ha! You’re late,” he replied with a smile. “We’re in the same Battalion. The Third Platoon was ordered to attack first thing this morning. They’ve just been wiped out.”
“W-wiped out?” I stood speechless for a moment. Then I quickly shook my head. “It’s not because I’m late that I survived. I’m a non-combatant. I work for a Japanese company, and I’ve just come to fix the rifles.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it? The chap who’s come to fix the rifles? In that case, you’re in the right place.” He pointed to a pile of rifles lying in the undergrowth. “They’re the ones that went wrong last night and this morning. Fix them immediately. I’m transferring you to our Platoon as from now. I’ll inform HQ of the change later.”
“All right.”
I immediately opened my toolbox and started repairing the rifles. No bullets or shells would penetrate these woods. I was safe here.
An orderly came wit
h instructions from General Staff Headquarters. The Platoon Leader and all the men were to leave the wood immediately and charge the enemy. I was left alone in the wood, where I continued my work.
Things didn’t go well. It took me the whole morning just to fix four rifles. As soon as I’d fixed one, it was immediately taken off by a soldier. Other soldiers, meanwhile, kept bringing more faulty rifles back in with them. And so, the pile of rifles next to me just kept growing higher.
Noon approached. I was beginning to feel hungry, and decided it was time to open my lunch box. Just then, a platoon of soldiers came into the wood. They passed beside me, chatting noisily. One of them, tall and bearded, followed a little behind the rest. He stopped and stood in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“What do you think? I’m having my lunch,” I replied, removing the lid from the box.
“Really. Lucky you. Bring your own lunch, do you. Looks good, that.” He swallowed with a gulp. “Army catering’s shite. We can’t fight on that. You got a fag, then?”
I took a pack of cigarettes from my top pocket and passed it to him.
“I haven’t seen this brand before,” he said. “Hold on. These are Galibian cigarettes!”
I looked up in surprise.
The bearded soldier took a step backwards. “You – you’re Galibian!”
I leapt up with a yell and started to run. I’d been so immersed in my work that I hadn’t noticed. The Galibian army had retreated and I was now surrounded by the enemy.
“Stop!” he called out behind me. “Stop, or I’ll fire!”
My legs turned to jelly. I raised my arms and turned around. The Gabati soldier had picked one of the rifles from the pile and was pointing it at me.
“Let me go. I’m a non-combatant!”
The bearded Gabati shook his head. “No. I’m going to shoot you.”
“Sh-shoot me?” I said, shaking with fear. “I don’t want to die! Can’t you just take me prisoner?”
“We’d have nothing to feed you with. There’s no food. So we’ve been ordered to take no prisoners. All Galibians are to be shot!” He checked that the rifle was loaded before aiming the barrel at me once more.