Short Story: Basra Incident

Short Story: Basra Incident

True Brit

It might have been different if I’d delayed another second. I might not have been writing this now. I had been lying in the shade of a half-dead palm. It too had suffered, though an innocent witness to the conflict. Half its fronds were snapped and hung down at an unnatural angle, but it still afforded me cover from the blistering sun. I’d been observing a group of shell-shattered buildings about two hundred yards away and my eyes were beginning to play tricks.

As the fire-laden breeze picked up and seared my face I thought I saw movement at the side of a house. Looking down the sight of my weapon I squeezed off a round. There was no further movement. A bead of sweat rolled down my nose, dropped on the cuff of my combat jacket and evaporated. My mind began to wander. Funny how the sun made me sweat and then gobbled it up as if it needed refreshment. The buildings seemed to be waving surrender in this stinking heat. A scorpion scurried past in search of shade and raised a feeler as if in salute. It reminded me of the Iraqi Police Inspector of Basra district, except he didn’t scurry. It would take a bomb to shift him; so his job was safe as bombs were reserved for us.

Later that day as the sun began to dip, my platoon moved forward to take up a new position and I came across Abdul for the second time. He lay pointing his R.P.G. towards me, a neat hole in the centre of his forehead, his brains spilling out the back. Strangely, he was smiling, as if he was relishing the thought of blowing me to kingdom come with his grenade. I took a kick at him. That’s for making me kill you, you bastard. I was sweating again, but not from the heat. I knew that the roles could so easily have been reversed, but I wouldn’t have been smiling.

Honour

My name is Elud Abdullah Majidh. I am lying in the shadow of a bomb-blasted school. I have orders to fire on sight of the enemy. The enemy – who is the enemy? We have had so many enemies in recent years – Iran, the Kurds, Saddam himself, now the Americans and British. At least they are easy to identify in their uniforms. They fight fair. It is still hard to think of them as the enemy for I had planned to continue my education in England. That all changed when America unleashed their ‘Shock and Awe’ campaign. My uncle’s house was one of the first to be blasted to hell. I lost my father, mother and sister that night. My little brother, Yusef, lost both his arms at the elbow and was lucky to survive. I don’t think Yusef considers himself lucky. We had travelled to Baghdad to attend my cousin’s wedding and they were staying at uncle Tikram’s house. There wasn’t any room for me so I stayed with a family friend. I lived to fight another day. Now here I am, fighting, not just for myself but also for my family. I hate it, but I must do it for the honour of my family.

Abdul

We were glad when Saddam was captured. We sang and danced in the streets. We thought our troubles were over. Now we are not so sure. We do not sing anymore, but we still dance, to dodge the bullets.

I used to work a smallholding where we had goats and chickens, now I am a fighter with the Mudjahaddin. Our leader is Moqtadr Al Sadr. He says we have to drive the British from our land. So here I am, crawling about in the dust, lugging my RPG, like an ant carrying a leaf. I am a Shia and I do not like what is happening in the north. Both Sunni and Shia are being targeted. Could this be Saddam’s plan B? Could it be that some of the members of the deposed Baath Party have melted into the background to orchestrate the mass killings in the Baghdad area and northern towns?

Suddenly I am brought back to the present with the scampering of feet close by. Two of my group rush past and take up their positions, whipping up a cloud of dust in their haste. I cough and splutter and feel more like an insect than ever.

Moments earlier I had been given the order to fire at the British position, some two hundred metres ahead. Just as I lined up my grenade launcher I got the most terrible pain in my head. I did not know it then, but I had been fatally wounded. From that moment on, time seemed to stand still. My heart was thumping like a drum, something warm and sticky was running down my back and I could hear voices of enquiry. I did not answer. How rude of me. Then I smiled at the absurdity of it all; my body convulsed. I lay still after that and watched the sun go down. Someone switched off the light at this point and I was suddenly bathed in cool, restful darkness.