Free Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

Like a dagger slipping into its sheath, say. So if our commander was able to relieve his legs from numbness by taking just a few short, light steps, it was because his body was emaciated and he was not very tall to begin with. Even that tight ditch was a blessing for him, allowing him to take three or four steps forward and back and every now and then adjust the focus on the binoculars his trench-mate was looking through, as a pretext for keeping the young man from succumbing to sleep. For every night, no matter how interminable and uncomfortable, eventually gives way to day, when everything becomes clear. The arc of gunfire behind them had ceased for some time now. And on the other side, the flames and smoke beyond the far hill had also died down. The sound of alarms had abated as well, along with the din of ambulance sirens and armoured personnel carrier engines. Many plumes of smoke rose slowly and dispersed. The aircraft of both sides had done their job and were gone now; all that was left behind was the ambiguity surrounding both hills and the doubt of the soldiers occupying them. The distance between the two hills was not great. Barely wider than a narrow strait. Water … water was down there. A water tank nestling under the brow of the hill, behind an earthen rampart. So far, five men – yes, five – had gone to fetch water and not come back. They had crawled towards the tank as best they could, but they had been unable to make it back and each dead man was a burden of torment weighing down on the soul of this young man who did not want to retell the calamity, either to anyone else or to himself. Even his good humour, and his ordering aroundand browbeating of the young radio operator were thin dust-layers that he deliberately sprinkled on his internal scars.
    A skilled enemy sniper was lurking on the far hill. The sound of an exploding water flask was proof of his good aim. Why hadn’t I tried to dissuade the men? Of course, I couldn’t do that. Thirst had driven them mad … and exhibiting their courage and nobility was the very quest they had come to the desert to fulfil. Water-bearing was an act of heroism firmly etched on their minds. The lure of filling the flasks with water and dragging them back up the hill while at the very limit of their endurance, that was their one great desire; it helped them feel themselves worthy of the ideal they aspired to. What was I supposed to do in these circumstances? They – or at least some of them – were young volunteers and privates. ‘Volunteer by all means!’ I’d told them, but I’d been at pains to stress that it was every man’s personal decision, and warned them of the slim chances of coming back alive … what more could I have done? I suppose I could have ordered them to attempt a surprise attack by working around the flank of the hill and then storming the enemy trenches using all available means, but the enemy had the hills completely covered and within range of troops in the fields below. If the bombing had happened two nights ago and I still had all my men, maybe that might have been the only possible strategy. But the air support was two days and two nights’ late, and a person’s bodily fluids evaporate under this searing sun, which makes even snakes slide underground from thirst! And now, what can I do and what can I say?
    ‘Do you know what gangrene is, boy?’
    ‘Gangrene? Never heard of it, sir.’
    ‘Gangrene means that your bones in your limbs start rotting. Like an arm or a leg. First it’s injured, then the wound reaches the bone, the bone is infected, the infection spreads and if you can’t stop it, eventually it will kill you. That’s why they amputate a gangrenous arm or leg. I severed it. I cut away the gangrene!’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘I mean I amputated the entire twenty-seven years of my life.’
    ‘I don’t understand, sir!’
    ‘Forget it; see if you can spot any movement on that damned hill.’
    ‘I don’t see