Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1986 Chapter XIV Special Forces—Enemy Mine 

December 1985, Afghanistan 

 

Almost six months in those goddamned mountains, and as much as Dan 

had become a part of their vast majesty, that half year of living constantly on the 

edge had taken its toll on him. Physically and psychologically worn down to the 

bones, he’d lost weight and was constantly exhausted. He’d never had to work on 

his own for quite so long, and no relief was in sight, nor the chance to ever let on 

how drained he really was. Always another path, a new group, and yet more ‘what 

do you have us do, Daan. How do we operate next?’ 

He felt almost sorry for the Soviets who had been fighting this war since 

1980, trying to develop a strategy to win this godforsaken squabble that cost them 

thousands of lives and millions of roubles. There could never be a strategy, 

fighting against at least six major Mujahideen groups, with several smaller ones 

that Dan knew of, and an uncountable number of minor private armies, there was 

no coordination of operations of any kind. No system to battle against, no 

intelligence to garner. 

And in the middle of it all, him. Working on organising sabotage that was 

too alien to the Afghan fighters and had to be left to the Western soldier and his 

ever-changing troop of men that he kept training and re-training and mostly utterly 

despairing over. 

They had been walking for hours, keeping close to a pass but always in 

cover after an ambush the night before, where they had lost two of their men. They 

had delivered the third one, who had been wounded, to one of the camps on route 

and left to be treated. To live or probably die, who knew in these conditions where 

gangrene was the cruellest killer—right after the Mudjas’ own sense of revenge. 

Dan was wary, despite the exhaustion that caused his senses to blunt ,and a 

light-headedness from lack of food, he still had an unnerving sense of foreboding. 

Trudging along, despite his worries they were making good progress down the 

track, since the weather was for once playing its part. Concentrating on map and 

compass, to get them as quick as he could do the next camp while avoiding any 

more unpleasant surprises, Dan stopped dead when he spotted boot tracks. Could 

be some of the Mujahideen, but unlikely. 

Heavy treads, and a whole group of them, he was betting on a Soviet patrol.  

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Calling the leader of his troop, they discussed their options, deciding to 

divert their path and to make their way to a close by camp instead. Intending to 

wait out the next day, and whatever the Soviets might have planned since the latest 

offensives. Widespread, and solely aimed against the insurgents.  

They carried on for a few more hours, the day turning into afternoon, 

remaining as quiet and devoid of any enemy as Dan could have wished. Nothing, 

except for some signs of boot treads and the occasional disturbance of the ground. 

They were getting close to the camp when the sound of rotor blades came into 

earshot. Dan hissed in anger, it seemed that every bloody thing that could go wrong 

was going up shit creek without a paddle, and they dove into cover. Staying hidden 

for at least twenty minutes, and well until after the helicopter had taken off again, 

directly overhead but without detecting the concealed insurgents. It became so 

quiet Dan was wondering if they shouldn’t start up a brew when his fellow men 

asked if they could pray. It seemed safe enough, and he moved slightly away to 

allow them some privacy, while he chucked a handful of tea leaves in his mess tin, 

boiling water behind a larger piece of rock. 

Dusk began to surround them, and after they’d shared some of the meagre 

provision of naan bread and dried fruit, washed down with tea, they set off once 

more, this time walking into the moon rise. Steel blue light soon gave the 

mountains the eerie vision of a deserted moon crater, yet Dan knew they were 

finally close to the camp, where they could replenish their depleted stocks. 

No luck, though. They’d only managed to march for another half hour 

when Dan heard the sound of movements, rocks tumbling below. “Holy fucking 

mother of god,” Dan muttered under his breath, too late to find any other shelter 

than some more of those goddamned rocks that would dig into ribs and freeze their 

bollocks off during the night. No choice, the Soviet patrol came closer with no 

intention to walk past, setting up camp in earshot. One wrong step, and one small 

stone to crumble, and Dan’s Mudjas would be minced meat. Communicating with 

his men by sign language, Dan got them to understand they had to stay where they 

were overnight, and they wrapped themselves into blankets. No longer than a 

couple of seconds and even the two that were meant to stay awake and share 

stakeout had fallen asleep, dead to the world despite Dan’s attempts to shake those 

bastards out of their exhausted sleep. Keeping guard on his own. It wasn’t the first 

goddamned time and it would be the last one. 

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It was well past midnight, after hours of silence, when Dan managed to 

wake the leader of his troop to get him to take over the watch. He didn’t care for 

the silent squabble that went on between the others when they detected that none 

had stayed awake with him. Before his head had even hit his arm, curled up on the 

side with his rifle clutched in cold fingers, Dan was asleep. 

He was woken far too soon, felt woozy and as if he could sleep for a 

lifetime longer, but the ice cold air revived him sufficiently to get going once more. 

Increasingly desperate for a cigarette, but the Soviets would catch a whiff and that 

would be the end of them. The patrol close by was breaking their camp as well, 

leaving into the opposite direction, which caused Dan to mutter a relieved “thank 

fuck”. They waited, hidden behind the rocks, until the soldiers were long out of 

sight and the road was clear. Setting off slowly along the trail, Dan reckoned it 

would take them another hour before they reached the camp, if that. 

He was concerned about being so far behind schedule, but it couldn’t be 

helped and speeding up, now that the men were cold and starving, was not going to 

get them anywhere, except into a state of carelessness. Dan’s feet felt dreadful, he 

couldn’t even remember when last he’d got his boots off, let alone given the rest of 

his body a clean. It was like walking in a swamp of discomfort, but he couldn’t 

have dared to dry feet, socks, and boots the night before. One thing to get caught 

out and having to fight and run for their lives, another to be barefoot. 

They reached the entrance to the camp that was shielded by several large 

boulders in good time, but Dan frowned at the silence, and so did the leader. Not a 

sound nor anyone coming to greet or challenge them. Worse, there was a smell 

about the place that made Dan’s stomach churn, reminding him of a nightmare 

he’d been trying to forget since it happened. No guards that they could make out, 

and a stench that increased with every step. 

Keeping his eyes out for tripwires or signs of butterfly mines and other 

booby traps, Dan picked his way inside, despite the urgent sense that kept telling 

him to turn the fuck back and get away from the smell that became overpowering. 

The leader and everyone close behind him, Dan could hardly hold back the 

retching, hearing telltale sounds in his back, even before they reached the position 

where the guard should have been. He’d expected the sight, but when the heap of 

torn rags, smashed bones and putrefying flesh came into view, torn into shreds by 

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scavengers, it still hit him with the full force of horror. Bodies, dead, rotting, the 

memory was hard to fight. 

Forcing himself to go further, Dan was the first one to come across the 

small opening, where over a dozen of bodies were lying, rotting in a pile. Men, 

women, ripped apart by carrions from sky and land that had searched for food. 

Each corpse had been killed close to where they were lying, then left to rot. Dan 

felt bile in the back of his throat, wanted to vomit, but he forced himself to hold it 

together. Wouldn’t do to show the Mudjas what they’d perceive as weakness. 

Checking the area and the opening of the cave, it soon turned out that all 

the supplies were gone. Nor could they dare to drink the water, possibly poisoned 

by the Soviets who’d wiped out the camp. When Dan took a closer look at the 

corpses, even though he wanted nothing but run away, it became obvious they had 

been rounded up and massacred. Shot at close range, a mass execution and war 

crime like victorious soldiers, guerrillas and any kind of fighters had been 

committing since time began. Dan frowned, but knew their worst concern was the 

lack of provisions for the living. The dead were gone, nothing anyone could do for 

them anymore. 

Dan was still looking around for shells, with the other men back out of the 

enclave of rotting stench, when he suddenly heard shooting and the far too familiar 

sound of Kalashnikovs firing their rounds. “Shit!” He ducked, ran as fast as he 

could, his SA-80 ready. The sight that was greeting him was a mess: his Mudjas 

and a small patrol of Soviet soldiers firing wildly. Some of his men had already 

fallen, but the patrol was at a disadvantage, without the shelter of the rocks. 

He took cover where he could, bent on organising his men while shooting 

at the soldiers, when he felt himself under attack. Throwing himself to the side and 

behind a boulder, Dan yelled in pain when he hit the ground. Heart racing, the 

heated metal of his rifle against his skin and his knee in so much goddamned agony, 

he had to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming. As if hitting that bloody rock 

was his biggest problem. 

He was counting the seconds, on the ground and too close to the butchered 

cam, barely able to bear the stench, but even worse were the screams that started 

the moment the fire exchange quietened. Fuck! He was pulling himself onto his 

knees when the shooting had stopped, the pain bringing water to his eyes. Crawling 

forward, he peered across the low rocks onto the carnage. 

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“Fuck!” Again, this time hissed between his teeth. Mudjas, Soviets, dead 

and dying, but when he stopped, his weight off the right knee, leg trembling and 

his rifle at the ready, he could see the bunch of survivors coming out from behind 

their rocks. Crying “Allah-u Akhbar” God is greater and all that shit. Dan saw 

uniforms on the ground, Soviet special forces and their light, sand-coloured camo 

turning into rusty dark as blood drenched the cloth. Pulling himself up to stand, 

still favouring the left while cursing the goddamned umpteenth time he had 

smashed onto that particular knee, he immediately searched the corpses. Some of 

them still wearing those odd bush hats with upturned side that reminded him of 

Australian troops. Probably not even Russians, but those hapless men from Poland, 

East Germany and Czechoslovakia, that had been drawn into this godforsaken war 

by their Big Brother. Dan searched swiftly amongst the bodies for the telltale sight 

that he dreaded unlike anything else: blond hair, tall man, broad shoulders, eyes 

that would be closed never to open again, and body, hands, smell, and...no. He 

remembered to breathe when none of them was the one sight he had feared to 

encounter for more years than he dared to remember. No Vadim. Dan counted the 

corpses. Five...six...no, seven. Seven in all and he frowned.  

Odd number. 

The surviving insurgents were swarming over the soldiers’ corpses like big-

arsed flies that hung like grapes on legs of mutton, down in Kabul, and before Dan 

could hobble closer, an onslaught of fresh blood hit his senses. Hearing angry cries 

and torn-out words that he hardly understood in their rapid succession, he made out 

‘revenge’ and ‘enemies’, but when he got close enough he recoiled at the sight. 

Nothing had prepared him for that, not in all those years, and he should have 

known better. Knives tearing into uniforms, slashing bellies open so that hands 

dove into blood to tear out the guts, while others gauged out the eyes of the dead. 

Not his world. No, fuck, no! Not his goddamned world and not his men and neither 

his culture and least of all his religion. No gods, no beliefs, and Allah is greater, 

let’s rip open some Soviet corpses, scattering their remains in revenge, to obliterate 

their existence. 

“Shit,” Dan muttered, what the fuck was he going to do, try and stop these 

frenzied guys? He could understand their hatred, caused by the equivalent of his 

mates rotting away in a heap, but fuck, he wouldn’t have torn out the guts of those 

who’d shot them. Did that make him any better? Probably just...different. Fuck. 

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Limping along, clenching his teeth and avoiding the sight, Dan spotted an arm, 

lying closer to an outcrop of rocks furthest away from the frenzy. The eighth one? 

He’d better check, could be a trap, and he ignored the agony in his knee, crouching 

to move closer, rifle at the ready. 

The moment Dan reached the soldier he knew the guy was not dead. Eyes 

twitching, moaning, blood on the uniform and the arm at an unnatural angle where 

the bullet had shattered bones. “Oh fuck.” Dan groaned, getting himself down to 

the ground, kneeling beside the guy and patting him down. Weapons out of reach, 

he took the chin and turned the face towards him. A kid. No more. Cursing this 

fucking war and its hapless conscripts.  

The wounded arm twitched, fingers moving without intention, as the 

patting down registered, and the good hand reached for the ground, touching dust 

and stone, seemingly looking for the rifle. A cough awoke the soldier further, tore 

him back to the surface as the cough became dry and painful. Eyes opened, a light, 

indefinite colour like a greyish green, blood shot and reddened from too much dust 

and wind. 

“Shit.” Dan murmured, glanced backwards to where the cries of revenge 

were ringing across the mountain and into the sky. “Why the fuck aren’t you 

dead.” In Russian. 

The coughing didn’t stop, and with superior effort, the young man turned 

onto his side to spit dust out, reaching for the canteen at his belt, then paused. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Dan murmured, a litany of desperate swear words, 

glancing backwards again. They hadn’t been detected yet, his bulk shielding the 

kid soldier from what was going on with the corpses of his comrades.  

The soldier’s eyes returned to Dan’s frame, travelled up to his eyes, not 

comprehending. Then widened as some kind of realization hit him. He looked 

towards the canteen, but didn’t move a muscle, trying hard to suppress the 

coughing reflex, as if the slightest sound, the slightest movement could kill him. 

That look of realisation was all Dan needed, it told him that if the kid 

survived he’d be fucked and the Soviets would have their proof that a Brit was 

operating in the region: training and guiding the insurgents. If the kid lived…but 

there was no other choice. Was there? “Wait,” Dan continued to speak Russian, 

went for the canteen on the belt, rifle across his protesting knees, unscrewed the 

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bottle to let water pour past the chapped lips. That arm looked nasty, but nothing a 

fairly healthy young man couldn’t survive. Survive. Live.  

Fuck. 

“Why the hell did you lot come back here?” 

The young soldier forced himself up on an elbow as he drank the water, 

reaching for the canteen to hold it himself, drank, deeply, and only stopped to fight 

that cough. Another twitch of the wounded arm, and the soldier looked at it, only 

now realizing that, indeed, he was wounded. He dropped on the ground again, hand 

going towards his pockets to find bandages. Well-drilled responses, and paused 

again, looking at Dan, checking his hands for weapons, then decided that Dan 

didn’t mean to cut his throat right away. “I need to cover that wound.” The Adam’s 

apple jumped with a forced swallow. The Russian was accented. 

Dan nodded, acted on instinct, but fuck, where was the point. What was he 

going to do with him? Reaching into the pockets he pulled out a bandage, applying 

the shell dressing as fast and efficiently as any medic would. At first, the Soviet 

soldier watched, then he relaxed and turned his eyes back on Dan’s face, like the 

patient reading the diagnosis from his doctor’s eyes. 

“Thank you.” A faint smile, common courtesy for basic help. “Where’s my 

unit?” 

Dan hadn’t quite finished yet when one of the Mudjas, hands dripping in 

blood, came up behind him, staring wild-eyed and in the fury of bloodied 

aggression down at the Soviet soldier, whose head jerked up, eyes widened at the 

sudden appearance. The Mudjas shouted to the others in Pashto that there was 

another one, a last one, and the final one to become nothing but dust. On instinct, 

the Soviet soldier reached for the AK that was too far away to reach.  

“Oh scheisse.” 

“No!” Dan had just about finished off the bandage and raised his arm to 

shield the kid. “He’s alive.” As if that mattered, fuck! As if, indeed. He’d be better 

off dead. 

“Not dead yet.” The man growled, and others of Dan’s small surviving 

group of insurgents came up behind him. “Dead soon. Go out of way, Daan. Is 

ours.” 

“No fucking way.” Snarling, Dan reached for his rifle, knew damn well that 

threatening all of them would just end in blood—his own one, but he drew his 

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upper body up and his shoulders back, to be as imposing as possible. He’d worked 

with a few of them for a while, but most of the guys were new and he hadn’t 

connected yet, his position of authority still shaky. “What the fuck do you want 

him for anyway?” He knew, hell, he knew. The knives in their hands spoke 

volumes. 

“That guy’s still alive, you are not going to cut him open and gut him!” 

Dan’s left hand on the soldier’s chest, pressing down on the body, as if holding 

him back or reassuring. Dan didn’t know, because what did he reassure him of? To 

live? He couldn’t. The soldier held his hand strongly, as if to push it away or hold 

onto it, eyes on the rifle, eager to defend himself. 

“No! There is no fucking way I’ll let you do that.” Dan’s hand curled 

tightly around his SA-80. “It might be your custom but it isn’t mine and you’ll 

have to fight me for it.” 

“Wait!” Dan held up the rifle, despite the determination and glaring anger 

that stared into his face. No way he could overwhelm all of them, but he’d make a 

damn good shot of it if he had to. “He might have information. I’ll get it out of him. 

I speak the language.” 

The young soldier kept staring at his AK, as if force of will alone could 

move it. Clearly only picking up on the aggression in the air, not what was being 

said, still holding Dan’s hand. “Let me get the rifle,” he murmured, as if not 

doubting for a moment Dan didn’t mean any harm. 

Dan stared at the young man for a second, before realisation dawned on 

him that the kid believed he was there to defend him. That thought tore deeper into 

his own guts than the knives of the Mudjas could. “No.” He shook his head, then 

turned his attention back to the men who seemed to wager the chances of getting 

any information out of the soldier. 

In the end they nodded. “For now. Give you half hour, Daan, no more.”  

Dan nodded. Half an hour. What the fuck would it matter anyway, and he 

didn’t even know what he was trying to do, but he couldn’t allow the kid to be 

tortured and torn apart alive. No one deserved that, least of all a kid. 

“OK,” he returned to the soldier when the others went away to deal with the 

corpses in ways Dan didn’t want to know. “I got a reprieve.” All in Russian, before 

he raised a bow, “but you’re not Soviet.” 

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“No, no I’m not. Heavens, no.” The soldier glanced past Dan, then looked 

up to him again. “And you aren’t Pashtun.” He paused, then shook his head. “It’s 

alright. No question. I don’t want to know. Nicht wirklich. Can I have more water? 

I’m...German.” 

Dan nodded, reached for the water. What did it matter that he shouldn’t 

give him water after the blood loss. What the fuck did any of that matter? Not his 

war. Not his people. Not his problem? Still, he handed the canteen to the young 

man, the rifle all the time trained onto him. “I need information. It’s the only way.” 

He remembered some words of German, one of the many languages that floated in 

his brain. “Wichtig. Information. Muss haben. Soviet troops, where and what? I 

need to know something, you understand?” 

The soldier took the water and took another swallow, only coughing now 

and again. He seemed genuinely surprised to hear his own mother tongue, but the 

rifle brought the point home that this, after all, was not a friend, and the beginning 

smile faltered. “Yes, I understand. You are to interrogate me? What happened to 

my unit?” He took another swallow of water, eyes kept on the rifle. 

“Your unit is dead.” Dan shuffled to the side, cutting off the young man’s 

view best he could. 

 “Dead.” The soldier dropped his arm with the canteen and shook his head, 

not believing it could go that fast, last he remembered, they’d been alive. “I...will 

talk. Of course I will. I’m no hero.” 

“I need to know about plans, about landmines, troop movements. Anything 

you know.” 

“Plans...mines...” the soldier was repeating it to memorize the question, 

struggling to keep up. 

Glancing over his shoulder, what Dan saw turned his stomach, but his face 

remained expressionless. “I can’t promise you anything except the one thing, I will 

not let you fall into the Pashtun’s hands.” He wondered if the kid knew what that 

actually meant. 

“Oh Gott.” Toneless. Another, desperate glance at the rifle, as his eyes 

suddenly darkened with the realization. Interrogation, then death. “Can I have...a 

hand grenade?” Lots of Soviet troops pulled the ring on their own hand grenades to 

evade capture. He didn’t have any on his gear, obviously. “Don’t...” Stalling again, 

confused. 

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“Fuck, I’m trying to keep you from them, OK?” Dan felt a creeping 

desperation that was eating into his bones, travelling through his blood. “Forget the 

shit about hand grenades, just show me on the map.” He’d seen the glance to the 

rifle and kept it safely out of reach while fishing for the map then spreading it out. 

Trying to keep the kid from the rage of the Mujahideen, yet he couldn’t keep the 

young man from himself. He suddenly felt so goddamned tired.  

“OK. Map. Yes.” Now there was fear in the young man’s eyes, fear that 

would make him obey, and fear that chased away the pain at least for the moment. 

“I’ll show you. You don’t need to torture me, okay? I’ll tell you the truth. All I 

know. I do everything you say.” 

The soldier forced his body onto the side and stared at the map, 

concentrated, trying to find the pass, the exact location of the village. It took him a 

while, fear and blood loss and pain making an ordinary task challenging. “Give me 

a moment...it should be here somewhere.” Speaking, as if to appease Dan, to 

prevent blows or, worse, torture. “There. This is it.” A dusty finger pointed at a 

place close to the village. “This is where we were set down. And this is...” The 

finger slowly tracing a somewhat haphazard line. “...where we were going. We 

didn’t expect to encounter anybody here. We’re just a patrol. We thought you’d 

long gone. We radioed for the Hinds, but I don’t think they got a clear signal.” He 

glanced at Dan. “We were to keep taps on movement in this area, but we didn’t 

expect you to be still here. But with the Russkies, one hand doesn’t know what the 

other is doing.” Bitterness at the obvious mistake. 

Dan’s eyes narrowed at the mentioning of Hinds. If they did get a signal 

they’d be really up shit creek. This just made the situation even worse. A fucked-

up situation that was already nothing but a pile of shit. “I’m not here to torture you, 

you understand me?” The information, though, was useful. 

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Eagerness to appease the captor, definitely not going 

to protest or give as much as a word of protest. 

“I’m trying to...” fuck, what? “do something. I’m not your friend, hell no, 

but I’m not one of them either.” He glanced back at the Mudjas who had dragged 

the disembowelled corpses onto a pile, and he smelled the first signs of burning. 

Smoke beginning to curl up above the all empowering stench of blood. 

“Okay. Whatever you say. I’m just...rattled.” In the same tone as if he’d say 

‘don’t worry, I’ll be alright.’ Justifying, apologizing. 

 489 

“Oh shit.” Dan murmured to himself. Shit and derision. That kid was going 

to get tortured and killed just like all of the Soviet POWs, and there was nothing he 

could do about it, and since when did he even want to do something about it? He’d 

been dragged in far deeper than he ever wanted to be. Six years and he just 

couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“Listen to me, whatever happens, you stay dead quiet.” Pushing the 

soldier’s body back down. “Verstanden? Only chance to play dead.” 

“Ja, verstanden.” The body protesting the push, but then he lay down, still 

looking at Dan, now with a hopeful expression. Forced his body to relax, and kept 

his eyes open, not trusting enough. 

“Hey!” Dan called over in Pashto, the corpses burning, catching onto the 

flames. “We have to get going, I found out they signalled the Hinds and your 

damned fire is going to show them exactly where we are.” Dan didn’t blink, hoping 

they’d swallow his bluff. “Get your stuff together, we have to get moving, there’s 

nothing left here. The soldier’s dead.” 

They were looking up, a couple coming closer and all Dan could do was 

turn his head and hiss to the enemy soldier, “I try to leave you here. I try. Trust me. 

I won’t let them get you.” Whatever happens, and he’d promised it before. Almost 

six years ago, to a man he’d tortured and who had been running for his life. 

“What’s...your name? Won’t tell. I won’t.” Another long glance, but the 

soldier was young enough to trust, and his words were just a toneless whisper. 

Dan shook his head, “No. Can’t.” No way, no names, and thus no meaning. 

If he gave his name things would become too real. 

“Then let us have the body.” The Mudjas protested. Their hatred had not 

abated, not even with the corpses alit, but Dan shook his head, answering in rapid 

Pashto, “There is no time. No need. Come.” He stood up, wanted to scream when 

his knee protested, instead picked up map, rifle and the soldier’s AK. “We have to 

get going. Come!” Standing in front of the kid, shielding best he could. This was 

insane and he knew. If the Soviets had proof that all they’d ever guessed was 

nothing but the truth, he’d be hunted like a rabid dog. But Dan was exhausted and 

so goddamned motherfucking tired of all of this shit, the only thing that suddenly 

seemed to matter was to save one measly life amongst the hundreds that had died 

around him. 

 490 

“No.” They refused to agree, and Dan drew himself up even taller, standing 

with shoulders squared, towering over most of the other men. But he was hungry, 

just like them, and he’d lost too much of his bulk. Weary and his bravado worn 

thin. 

“Do you want to be gunned down by Hinds? Don’t be stupid.” Gesturing to 

the pile of burning corpses. “You got what you wanted: revenge.” 

Nothing could sway them, their comrades had died, turned into festering 

corpses in the camp nearby. All of Dan’s remaining men were standing in front of 

him and he could feel their anger. One false move and it was him who’d have a 

knife through his bowels. 

“Will you get the fuck going, now?” Angry, scowling at them and taking a 

couple of threatening steps forward. “If not, you can do what you want and I’ll 

leave on my own. I don’t give a fuck if you survive.” 

“We don’t need you, Daan. Not anymore.” The first one tried to push Dan 

away, but he stood, legs braced, and despite the knee his balance was solid. 

“Don’t be stupid. Leave the soldier’s corpse alone. You’ve had enough 

blood, haven’t you?” He barely finished his words when another man shouted, 

“Death to the infidels!” 

No one had listened to a word Dan said, pushing against him, too many of 

them, and they forced him out of the way. Short of starting to shoot, Dan didn’t 

have a chance. He stumbled and despite shouldering into a couple of the Mudjas, 

they barged past, and he crashed into the rocks, cursing loudly. 

He saw knives flicking, blades catching a glimpse of light, and hands 

tearing at the soldier’s blood drenched uniform. 

“No!” Dan shouted. 

The soldier fought, one handed, kicking where he could, kicking with all 

the strength he had left, fighting like an animal, biting, the pure stress of combat 

and the pain wiping the fear away, wiping everything away until he was only 

struggling flesh, breath going ragged, and fast, fighting on his back for all he was 

worth, not even cursing, not screaming. 

“Fuck you!” Dan yelled, “fuck you and your fucking world!” His rifle butt 

came crashing down on the first man, then a second, in rapid succession, knocking 

them out of the way to make himself a clear space within the ring of rags. Drab 

coloured deadly carrion, tearing at their prize, devouring the still-living flesh. 

 491 

He heard a scream, the flurry of motion, saw one of the knives flashing 

downwards and towards the soldier’s guts. Before the blade entered, Dan had his 

pistol out of the holster and in his hand, aiming at the kid’s head. “I’m sorry.” In 

Russian, and he caught a glance from those panicking eyes, pulling the trigger. 

Once. Twice, and a third time. Three clean shots where one would have been 

sufficient, straight through the skull, smashing the young face with hardly any 

beard yet, and splattering the brains the moment the blade sliced into flesh. Too 

late for pain. The soldier was dead. 

Dan stood for no more than a second. Shocked to the core and unable to 

understand why the fuck this one life and death had rattled him, but he had no 

more time to dwell when the angry cries turned against him. Fists pummelled into 

his body, face, and blades flew towards him. Heartbeats before his training kicked 

in, defending the attack. Felt knives cut in his back, warmth and pain on his arm, 

and he fought and kicked, punched, until he managed to get his rifle back up. 

Shooting into the air, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “You want to fight for Allah 

or die for him? You choose!” 

They stopped. Thank fuck they had enough sense to stop trying to tear him 

apart, and Dan managed to get out of there and away. Unhindered, as if something 

had suddenly turned them back towards the corpse itself, and like hyenas they tore 

into the young man’s body. Dan turned, couldn’t watch, felt sick and didn’t 

understand why. He’d seen worse, done much worse, oh yes, much worse, but that 

kid’s face, the greed to survive, and the sheer insanity of it all, it was getting to him. 

Just like the stench of burning flesh curled into his nostrils. 

He went back to his bergan, fairly safe in the knowledge they were not 

going to attack him again. Yet the atmosphere had changed and they wouldn’t trust 

‘Daan’ like they used to. Finding the bandages, Dan wrapped himself up best he 

could. Crouching far away from corpses and Mudjas, one hand pressed against his 

knee and another holding his face. His head felt heavy and just as weary as the 

tiredness that had crept into the rest of his body and finally into his mind. 

Six months, and how much longer before he could get back to wherever he 

could remember who and what and why, and… 

He’d forgotten. 

 

 

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