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Scifi Weekday’s presents “God is with us in the foxhole
I was blown headfirst out of the fox hole. I stumbled, my numb feet dangling on the threshold, and pinwheeled madly into the dark. I found a small opening with my face. The firefight continued well into the night. I looked around no one in sight. Heck I was just a news reporter, I decided to take my chances and run. The felujah night was alight in flames, I had no idea which way the British unit went, so I decided to trek north, suddenly a group of insurgents, perhaps sunni, perhaps shiite or Baaths’ spotted me, I had no where to run, I knelt on the ground, my hands in the air. I was hit on the head…..
When I woke, I was in the chair. They kept me there for days and when they were finished they threw me in this foxhole. Me, a pencil pushing fat assed second rate reporter.
Wood on wood followed by the sliding sound of metal on metal and a ringing clink as the bolt was thrown home. The floor was cold dirt, partly covered by a gritty layer of fine gravel. Several of the sharper pieces had penetrated the skin and I felt fresh trickles of blood on my sore face. My legs were still twisted under me but I made no move to rise, lying motionless instead in the complete blackness that had accompanied the closing of the door. I felt tension start to drain from me, the pent-up fury of the mistreated body. It was strangely relaxing to be alone with the pain.
Until this moment I had been more concerned with fresh pain- the moment to moment terror of waiting for a new caress. How many ways, in how many soft places can they touch you? Waiting for the pliers to come again, to pinch some small patch of white skin until the blood burst from under the rusty jaws in pulpy streams. How long can you sit silent, waiting for a new set of nerves to start their screaming burn towards overload?
The dull throbbing of abused flesh seemed a familiar, almost normal feeling now, much preferable to the hyper fear of fresh damage. I let the pain go, let it flow from me with my still running blood, flow into the packed dirt. I traded the warmth of my body to the floor, and let the floor give me support in return. The floor was there, real, pressing into my face. I lapped out my tongue and dragged it once across the dirt, tasting the earth and stone, the copper tang of my own blood.
The floor stayed firm under me. I sat up in the dark. As soon as I sat up the feeling began to return to my legs in burning waves. With every labored pump of my heart boiling fire and ice surged. My legs shivered in convulsive shakes. Silently I let the circulation return until the pain had reduced to a throb on a level with the other pains in my body. No more solos, all choral agony. As long as they were all singing the same tune I could cope. I began crawling, dragging my rear end and my useless legs, pushing my self along backwards on my hands. Sharp rocks bit lightly into my palms, nibbled at my fingers. I was searching for the wall. I found it by cracking the back of my skull into unyielding stone
. The cell lit up with flashing streaks of white light that illuminated nothing. I groaned, then cursed “God damn it!”.
“Pray to Allah for salvation, not damnation.” Spoke a quiet accented voice from the black. I started, pushed back hard against the wall. I had thought I was alone in this black pit.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
“A prisoner, like yourself.”
The disembodied voice spoke a local dialect of harsh Chechen. I could understand it, barely, and I answered in the same language.
“Do you have a name, prisoner like myself?”
It occurred to me that I had cursed in English. How did this ‘prisoner’ understand me? Was he a plant, put here to befriend me and weasel secrets from me? Under cover of my own voice I began to try and stand, pushing hard against the wall for support.
“Do not fear me prisoner, I mean you no harm.” Indeed, the voice had not moved from it’s original location, somewhere low against the far wall.
“That remains to be seen. If it’s true it will be a first for this God forsaken country.”
By now I had managed to stand, though I had an idea that my legs wouldn’t support me long. I began to slip along the wall sideways.
“Allah has not forsaken this country, prisoner. Some men have forsaken their God here, and embraced a physical world full of evil. The American Devil walks the earth and brings down fire on the heads of true followers of Mohammed. His sadistic minions do his evil bidding, killing the faithful in their beds, hunting us in the woods, torturing us in this hole. But Allah still watches for the faithful. A better world than this awaits us, and we must stand ready to go there when He calls us.”
His voice was calm, even. He believed every word he was saying. I was near him now, no more than two feet away, invisible in the dark. His voice rolled out solemnly in front of him towards where I had been.
“We must prove to Allah that we are worthy of entrance into the promised Heaven. We suffer now so that we may appreciate that which comes after. Do not fear suffering, prisoner, it marks you with Allah’s favor.”
I held my breath. I could feel him there, near me. If I wanted I could reach out, grab him, grab for his legs. He would thrash, maybe make some small noise. Pin him, shove his back, his neck against the wall, break it, kill him.
“It is I, Mohamed Attah, and you know me.” “Mohamed Attah!
But…”
“Yes it is me, and I have been here for I don’t know how long.” “I thought you were dead.”
“Yes you did, a good reporter always tells the good story” referring to my article on Attah’s demise. This made him pause, but not for long.
“You lied!”
“I wrote the article based on the evidence that was given to me.”
“No! What do you mean! I was whisked away from the airport by the CIA.”
To think just a few hours before I was comfortably numb in my hotel room. Despite the occupation, you could still get liquor from the hotel bar’s discreet manager. The first bottle I opened was scotch – twelve years old. Heady stuff that burned deep long after you swallowed.
The first shot went down hard. My muscles ached with that sharp crawling pain that comes when I first drink again after a long time. I worked my way methodically through that first bottle in a matter of hours. When I’d finished it, I smashed it against the wall.
I called down for more booze before I was halfway done with the second bottle. When the room service waiter arrived with the fresh stuff, he was disturbed by all the broken glass. He didn’t want to give me any more. A folded portrait of Ben Franklin convinced him that his fears of damage to the hotel room were baseless, and he set himself quietly on his way. The second bottle went the way of the first, and then I broke it the same way. Eventually, I passed out…..
The knock on the door came before midnight. The unit was moving out and I was there to report and record their successful retake of Fellujah.
The never-ending night crawled on. Attah lay on the opposite side of the dugout hole in the ground a few feet from me. He would not stop praying. His voice whispered softly through the cave. At first his voice had been weak, still full of his pain, but as he prayed his voice gained strength, conviction. The sound of his voice was making me crazy. I could hear him praying over and over, praying to Allah.
“Shut up.”
The sound of Attah’s prayer stopped. A brief pause only, then he began again.
“Shut up, I said. Cut out that useless babble.”
He paused again, then spoke angrily in the dark. “They kill my people to make us forsake Allah. They have tortured me to make me forsake my God. They have taken my fingers! Yet I will not forsake Allah, for you or any other man. I will pray, as it pleases Allah and it pleases me.” “There is no God, no one is listening to your prayers.” You’re going to die in this foxhole. “Ah, but you are so wrong my friend. Allah is here with us now, as we speak.”
“Allah is here now?”
“Yes. I believe he is with us always.”
“So he was with you in this hell?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he let them torture you? Why did Allah watch your suffering and do nothing? Why did he let them take your fingers?”. Silence from the other side of the cave. Was I actually causing him to question his faith? I pressed on.
“If Allah loves you so, why does he make you suffer? Why did he allow this war to happen at all? I admit this war was made by men, but does Allah care so little for his creations that he can stand idly by and watch them die? Those that shun God have died, but many have died with his name on their lips, and for what? They still die.”
“Of course we must die, but do not shun Allah because you fear death. Allah sees all that happens here in this world, and only he may decide our reward or punishment in the next world. Those that do evil shall feel his wrath in the next world. We who have loved him throughout the worst shall sit by his side as angels.”
“You suffer for nothing. God does not see your pain. In the whims and twists of a random world suffering touches everyone, priest, president, beggar, thief, we all know pain. And from whore to pope, we all find joy! Any man can know all things, given time. All suffering and all joy belong to man alone. Don’t pray to God because no one is listening! And for nothing, you’re keeping me awake!”
“I will pray for you, lost soul prisoner. I will pray to Allah to have pity on you tomorrow when your time comes. I will pray for my own safe deliverance and for the salvation of my country from the American henchmen. I will pray that my brothers smash these demons and free me from this place. But for the sake of your peace may I silently pray.”
“For cryin’ out loud,” I muttered to myself, then said, “don’t pray for me! If your ‘brothers’ come around with some tanks any time soon I’ll be more than happy to make a jail break with you, but don’t pray for my soul! I’m doing my damnedest to get out of this mess. There’s no way I’m going to just roll over and die. You only go around once, make the most of it!”
“Do not be ‘cryin’ lost soul prisoner. A ‘jailbreak’ as you say would be very fine now, yes. I will pray for this jailbreak.”
“Man! I didn’t say ‘I’m crying’, I said… Oh, never mind! Just shut up!”
The sound of a drop falling into a standing puddle echoed into the stony silence. As much as I lusted for escape, I needed rest. I was beaten, literally. Attah didn’t seem like much of a threat any more. If they were going to go back to work on me tomorrow I needed soothing sleep. I stretched out on the hard floor, pillowing my head on my arms. Pain called for attention, ministration, from multiple insults. The darkness all around reached in and took me.
The door slammed open and all the light in the world that had been pressing in all around us, blind rats trapped in the dark, exploded into the cave. My eyes burned with white fire and I screamed. I held my arms in front of me to block the light. Two huge black silhouettes with assault rifles entered the cave, clattering their hard soled boots on the threshold. They paused, looked at me, then at Attah holding out his mangled hands to ward off the light.
They moved past me and grabbed him, one on each arm. Attah did not protest, going limp in their fierce clasp. They dragged him towards the door, his feet trailing, banging his toes hard on that treacherous threshold. He continued praying however, as they carried him away. In the moment before the door closed I looked past it to the other side of the foxhole.
An old man sat, dressed in gray tattered rags, pressing his back hard against the cave wall. He looked at least eighty, wrinkled face and hands, Dirty blue print turban, ringed with a fringe of fluffy white hair. We locked gazes. His eyes were the same gray as his ragged shirt. He smiled gently. The door slammed shut and stole away all the light again, forever. I had no idea how long it had been since they took Attah. In point of fact I had no idea how long I had been asleep before they came for Attah. A few hours? An hour? Fifteen minutes? Now I was awake. Wide awake. I had been wide awake since they dragged poor Attah off to his second rendezvous with the wire cutters. Mohamed Attah was not foremost on my mind however, despite that I could hear his screams from somewhere nearby. Through the thick stone walls his high shrill cries of anguish carried with surprising ease. I had decided that the wet work room must be close by. No matter.
My interest was closer to home. Who was the old man? I had seen him clearly. I saw every detail of him in those brief seconds. His shadow close around him in the foxhole. His stocking clad feet, socks holed beyond all hope of repair, toes with scraggly yellow nails staring out, curled into the rocky dust. It had been certainly an hour since the screaming began and the old man had not spoken a word of greeting. Had I not seen him in that instant I would not now have realized that he was in the foxhole with me.
Why was the old man here? What crime had he committed to end up here as a prisoner of this backwater war? What crime had any of us committed though, really. By the whim of some capricious fate he came to be here in this black cell with me. So why not speak, and ease some of the pain of solitude with conversation? Perhaps he waited for me to speak first. What should I have said? What I did say was, “Have you got a cigarette?” Silence. He must have heard me, but he didn’t respond. He could at least say “No”, and leave it at that. Speak, I silently implored. When the guards had come in they had looked first at me, then at Attah. They had not even glanced at the old man, even though they had passed within inches of him. And what about that? He had been standing right next to the door. Weren’t they afraid he would try to escape? Speak! Was the old man really there? Was he just a figment of my over stressed mind? Did I make him up to keep me company in the long night? Why couldn’t I have thought up something female and willing? And a bed, or at least a soft mattress?
Damn your eyes, Speak!
Then he said, “Tobacco I have, and a few matches, but for smoking I have neither paper nor pipe.” His voice passed through me like a sigh.
The smooth French accent that has made women swoon for centuries. He was really there. And he had tobacco! I could have kissed him. Instead, I fumbled in my trousers pocket for paper of any kind. Just when I was sure I had nothing to offer, my hand closed on the crumpled scrap of what I knew instantly to be a receipt, the remnant of another life.
“I have some paper. It’s my dry cleaning ticket. I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”
He chuckled, pleased. “You speak French! Americans have become so much more civilized since my day!”
He padded over to me and sat down, leaning his back against the wall. There had been no hesitation in his step, he seemed very sure of where the boundaries of the room were, even in total darkness.
“Have you been here long?” I asked.
“Yes.” He sighed slowly. “A very long time. I’m a leftover from a long ago war. Let me have your paper.”
I handed it to him. Our fingers never touched, the paper seemed to float out of my fingers. The thick brown odor of tobacco filled my nostrils with breezy fields and clear sunny blue skies. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly that I was riding down the highway in a sleek powerful automobile, window down at 90 miles per hour. I could feel the thrum of the car under me as the wheels hummed over the hot tarmac. I sat silent while he rolled the cigarette. I felt totally at peace, yet I felt an other worldy exhilaration.
He asked me, “What’s your name?”
I laughed. “American Spy Lost Soul Prisoner. What’s yours?”
“Emmanuel. Shield your eyes, American spy. I am lighting the cigarette.”
I put my hand flat over my eyes. The match flared, hot and bright in the black. I peered over the top of my hand to see his illuminated face. I asked him, “How do you know so well where the wall is?” The flame sucked into the neatly rolled tobacco with dark yellow power. Crackling, the ashen paper peeling away from the hot ember. His gaunt cheeks drawn taut, thin hard lips pursed tightly as he drew on the cigarette. His slitted eyes were on the ember, hooded and deep. The match flickered, faded, died. His hands moved just enough to pull the smoke from his mouth. A slight tight smile lit red by the glowing cherry, then smoke rolling out nose and mouth in delicious streams.
He offered it to me, butt end first.
“The wall. The wall and I are old friends. I have seen too much of it, in too many wars. I have pressed my back against it countless times for an eternity, felt every mortared seam, every crack. I know it too well. You also must know it now. I heard what you said to our friend Attah. To yourself now you must listen. You also know the end. You’re back is against the wall.”
I hadn’t had a single taste of tobacco in eight years. I had quit in a sincere effort to get back into shape after one particularly well fed holiday season. I hadn’t had one, but I had wanted one every day for eight years. I took the proffered smoke, put it to my lips with fiendish joy, and inhaled deeply. I held the smoke down in my lungs until it scratched hard as a trapped cat to get out, then blew it out in a glorious rush. I felt my heart speed right up, thump, Thump, THUMP!
Then the flush of the nicotine rush came right on. I felt my face glow.
I laughed, short, ha, ah, cough, grin, cough, cough, cough.
“I don’t want to know the wall that well. Unless this place really picks up soon… I mean, I don’t see any appetizers on the menu. I can’t even see the menu! and where are the dancing girls? and we know we aren’t going to get any alcoholic beverages here…This place, I mean, it would have to really pick up…you know?
I mean… I don’t want to be here that long!” I laughed. My eyes stung from the smoke. I blinked hard, trying to make my eyes water. Blink. I rubbed hard, but no tears would come. We both watched the ember, mesmerized by the glowing circular trails as we passing the cigarette back and forth. He drew lightly, sipping the smoke, then easing it out in short puffs. I sucked at the hot damp paper hungrily, holding every puff deep, feeling my blood pressure go up, up.
When the butt was less than an inch long he gave it to me with a flick of his fingers. I grasped at it hungrily, pinching it between two fingers, sucking at it until I could feel the heat of the burning ember through my fingernails.
“Why suck at it so?” he asked me. “Let it die. Have some dignity.”
“Why?” I finally dropped the last scrap of paper. The last small spark winked out before the thing ever hit the floor.
“It just might be my last.”
“Roll another one.” I said. I stood up. My vision had a red tint to it now. Still couldn’t see, but ghost images on a red field now instead of black. I took a step forward. Nothing around me. I spread my arms, swung around, back and forth a little, felt the air rush by my outstretched hands, cooling the sweat on my palms. Swung my arms back and forth, back and forth. A match flared behind me with no warning. I spun towards the light, starving for it, but he flicked it out. A white afterglow, a corona on the red black field. Another hot ember flared bright. My eyes locked on it.
“Give it to me.” I tapped my foot.
“Here, take it.”
I smoked in a giddy rush, standing up. My head reeled with the strong unfiltered smoke.
“Take it easy,” he said, terse.
“Are you annoyed with me Manny? Why?” I laughed, giddy, flushed. The cigarette definitely helped. I could see ! “Who do I hurt?”
“Maybe yourself.”
“Maybe! or maybe not!” I could see the door and I turned towards it. I looked over my shoulder at the old man.
“I’m getting the hell out of here.” I stated. “Enough of this shit. Someone should have been here by now to get me out!” I could see the door clearly and I headed towards it with legs that felt strong and sure.
“Maybe this is all for naught.” I heard Emmanuel mutter to himself.
I whirled back to face him. “Listen, buddy! Who are you trying to impress? You try to play it cool, but who are you playing for? Laugh, dammit!” I spun away again.
The door. Find a way to open the door. “Let me out! Let me outta here!” I kicked the door. Screamed. “Guards! Guards! Get me out of here right now! Guards!” I pounded on the door. Splinters drove into my clenched fists. I slumped against the door. Behind me, dimly, as consciousness began to fade yet again, I heard the old man,
“Go on, boy, go on, rage against the night.” I pounded until I had exhausted myself, I couldn’t make the effort to move…falling asleep in the fetal position, dreaming of the safety of my mother’s arms…
I woke to the sounds of keys. I was lying directly in front of the door as the keys rattled in the lock. The door was going to hit me when it opened. Harsh words spoken angrily, a kick of the door. The door pushed at me, rolled me over, light flooding into the foxhole from behind my head. I could see the whole cave lit up clearly. A curse, a kick in my back, hard. I moved my head so I could see the far corner. Both guards kicking at me now, my shoulders, the back of my head. I could see the whole cell. It was empty. The old man was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the old man?” I asked, my mouth dry, my voice a croak.
They grabbed me by the arms and pulled me from the cell. My feet dragged across the threshold. I started to struggle to free myself.
“Where’s the old man? Where is he? What did you do to him, you bastards!”
I squirmed, but I couldn’t get my feet under me. I fought, but it was nothing to them. They dragged me along, boots clattering and banging a merry tune on the floor. They dragged me into the room with the chair. The chair’s loose straps were dangling like tired hands on limp wrists, waiting. Dark brown stains covered the floor. They threw me into the chair. I twisted, shouted.
“Oh no. No more. Not again. Where’s the old man? Where’s Emmanuel? Stop!” They lashed my arms down tight. “Where is he? Where is he? Where is he now when I need him?!”
They lashed my legs to the chair. They stood back to survey their work. One had a long scar down the back of his hand. I saw it when he reached out to hold my face. He asked me, “What old man are you talking about, American spy?”
“The old man that was in that black hole with me…
What did you do with him.??” The masked men stared at me hard. One pulled out wire cutters…
the other slapped my face, “”what old man?” I stared back just as hard, “God was with me……”
About the Author
author and artist with online gallery at donna.mosaicglobe.com
read my scifi sundays with the hipriestess at http://hipriestess.comblog
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