He stepped out of the vehicle and made sure that his paraphernalia was hung on, buckled, strapped, pushed, pulled and in the right places. A nervous tug to the helmet strap, shrugging his shoulders and taking a deep breath to set his bullet proof vest sit more comfortably. He adjusted his groin; made sure the safety catch was on and took his first step on the Wednesday morning’s foot patrol in the crowded streets in the market place of the city. He could hear the rasp of the voices coming from the radio carried by the radioman behind him and he could already see the necks of his friends in front, craning around, tensing up, as they moved out of the illusory cover of the vehicle door.

He noticed the small dark oil patch on the ammunition pouch on the belt of the soldier in front. He wondered why his sight had suddenly become so bright, so focused, homing into the inoffensive dark oil patch. An errant thought came to his mind, his wife shaking her head at the thought of scrubbing that belt to get rid of that oil patch, muttering about how difficult it was to get rid of those stains from a tough hard grainy canvas belt. He shook his head to get the images out of it and put his worn comfortable boots on the ground and heard his sergeant speak in a normal but tense voice, “take position on the right side of the street”.

He moved out of the door and immediately craned his neck to look at the verticals and horizontals. The skyline, doorways and alleyways. The second sweep took in the shop fronts and a far more deliberate look at the shadowed interiors of the shops as if enticing them to reveal their secrets. The third sweep was for the pedestrian’s and shoppers, the labourers, and the shopkeepers, watching their eyes, searching for a flinch or the fixed stare of the terrorist. His neck tensed up. He knew that he would end up with a throbbing headache before the hour was up. Then he looked down the long street, about 800 meters in length, seeing the haphazardly parked cars, each a potential car bomb, the scooters juxtaposed between the cars and bicycles, the packages and bags hanging from them, all potential grenade holders. The long robes, capable of hiding a semi automatic, folding stock rifle, capable of squirting out its entire magazine in less time than it would take him to take a deep breath and bellow a warning.

He crossed the street in a rush, eager to get to the transient safety of a wall, happy that at least one side is covered till he checked out the height of the wall and nervously scrunched his helmet till it touched the back of his armour jacket. Just a few weeks back, somebody had lobbed a fragmentation grenade over just this type of wall. He could still hear the deep grunts and rasping breath of his friend, whose left leg and left arm had taken the full brunt of the screaming fragments. They had been talking about the price of gas cookers and how they would purchase one each to take back to their homes on their next leave. No more cooking on wood burning stoves for their wives, no more red eyes and no more foraging for firewood. He had nudged his friend and said, “Ah! Ha! More time to rest and relax, eh?” He grimaced at the thought, with one arm amputated and the leg shattered beyond repair, rest and relaxation is perhaps the only thing he can do now. No gas cooker either.

Walking slowly, head revolving at regular intervals, sweeping the vista in front of him, every 5 or 6 steps, turning around and walking backwards for one and a half steps and then back again. The crowded pavement was like rapids down a fast flowing river, the soldiers were the rocks and pedestrians like the river, bouncing and talking, but flowing around and giving a wide berth to the soldiers. It was almost like the soldiers were walking down the street, each in his own zone of silence, broken only by the tinny sounds of the radio. The shoppers weary, knowing that the soldiers were targets and the terrorists do not care how many of the innocent get killed. In any case, a grenade is an equal opportunity killer. In those crowded streets, a grenade with a blast radius of 20 odd feet will scythe through soldier and civilian equally. He sneered at the terrorists; they will never learn how to play cricket, those monsters, they cant throw grenades properly, forget about throwing balls at a wicket.

He remembered the time when he joined up, his aged father looking at him with pride while sitting under the banyan tree in the village square. His mother’s weeping while his wife watching him catch the bus with dry cried-out eyes. The flickering TV images of films and half forgotten stories of heroes from his basic schooling, all gave him a vague sense of honour, fighting for his country, family pride and perhaps most understated, a good job with a good salary. Away from his village with the mango trees, the fields of mustard, the long lazy days listening to the cow bells and swimming in the river with his friends. And here he was, now, dressed up in armour with enough destructive power to demolish a fairly big house.

He walked past a little girl in pigtails, about 4 years old, wearing a faded but clean blue and pink frock, her thumb in her mouth, looking up at this huge bulky man, covered in strange bulges wearing a funny hat. Wondering why he didn’t smile at her. Wondering why her mother suddenly caught hold of her arm and dragged her back unceremoniously. He looked down at the little girl sucking her thumb and his eyes soften momentarily, he thought of the letter in his breast pocket. Where his brother had written about the happenings back at the farm and the fact that his daughter was now 8 months old, crawling around everywhere. His mouth curved up in a slight smile when he read about how his daughter crawled into the cow shed and caused the entire family to panic, when she was found playing with the cowbell of one of the cows lying down. His hand twitched, as if to reassure the mother that he meant her daughter no harm but he walked on, neck swivelling, ready for danger.

He heard a not so distant crump, an RPG has landed somewhere and muted bellows and shouts were heard. Suddenly, instantly, the entire street changed character. The shopkeepers looked around nervously, a hand on their shutters and another on the moneybox. The shoppers looked around bewildered and anxious. The radio chattered angrily and spat out orders, reports, updates and responses in a bewildering cacophony. The order went out to take the safeties off and the tension rose palpably. The patrol closed up even more, from the regulation distance of 15 feet to 10 feet. Far enough not to get caught by a grenade blast, but close enough to provide support if required. His feet were cold, despite of the thick socks and the even thicker combat leather boots.

His rifle, old and heavy, he muttered a curse against his superiors for giving him a rifle, which was, at least, one generation behind what the terrorists used. He frowns crossly, mumbling to himself “this flak jacket couldn’t stop a bread roll, useless, but orders are orders. Who cared if a soldier died?” The politicians living in the capital whom he sees on the TV, talking about the integrity of the country and the security of the nation. He dimly tried to reconcile what he was doing with the security and integrity of the country, but failed. He used to listen to the radio about how the ordinary people go about their jobs, blithely unconcerned about him and his ilk. How the corruption in the upper echelons reached the military and how politicians made his life hell by giving him substandard equipment. Those high sounding ideological debates between the left and the right, the atheists/secularists and the religious leaders, they are meaningless to him, its not they who have a migraine from fear. They are sitting comfortably in their drawing rooms and lecture halls, while it was him pounding the street. If he had to decide, he was doing it for his country and more importantly, his sergeant. He shrugged mentally; he was not paid to worry about those things, such has been the destiny of all soldiers since time immemorial.

He bowed his head while passing the small lime washed structure on the side of the road. Even in these tense times where one moment of hesitation or inattention could be deadly, he took time off to murmur a small prayer to God. Praying for his family, his brothers, his friends and himself. He felt rejuvenated; it was as if God had infused him with his love, warmth and protection. He was reaching the end of the street and there was a cross-road in front of him. He could see the other soldiers side tracking and giving cover as each of them crossed the very dangerous corner into the open. For the first time in an hour, an entirely new quadrant had opened up with its dangers. An order passed up from behind, “take up positions around the cross-road, as the terrorists who used the RPG nearby may be escaping in your direction.” He looked around for a safe place to observe and take position. He noticed a small tea stall on the side of the open road, a little boy wearing a dirty vest, frantically pumping the kerosene cooker, noxious fumes of burnt kerosene permeated the air. He got another whiff of powdered ginger from the shop to his right while his ears caught the flat high pitched crack of a Dragunov. The last thought he had was a feeling of regret that he was not able to buy a gas cooker for his wife.

=============
The above is describing an unknown soldier. While some artistic licence was taken with the background details, the street could be in Sierra Leone, Jaffna, Afghanistan, Tikrit, Baghdad, Lebanon, Liberia, Kashmir, Jerusalem or even Belfast. The feeling of fear is to be experienced to be believed, the almost casual throwing away of these young men’s lives and limbs on the altars of ideology is reprehensible, but not understood by the powers that be, the general populace, the politicians and the intellectuals. Countries should repay the heavy debt to these men, every corruption scandal, every ideological fight, every tax dollar evaded, every insult at these poor men, and the debt increases even more. The sad part is, the debt will not be repaid. Even worse, they cannot or will not fight back against you and I, but will shed blood with another soldier who is driven by another you and I, only on the other side.

J’accuse us

All this to be taken with a grain of salt.