STORIES FOR THE PEOPLE

They were tired, hungry and cold. The three Pakistani soldiers made their way downhill between the icy peaks of the mighty Himalayan mountains, the crunch of their boots and the clatter of their gear echoing across the landscape. It was barren; a monotony of grey rock stared up at them and but for the shadow of an eagle slowly circling overhead, they were utterly alone. 

Usman, in the lead, checked the thermometer on his watch: -18C, 5 degrees lower than an hour ago. His gloves were freezing to his rifle and his skin was numb; this was getting dangerously cold, he thought, and to make matters worse, dark clouds were amassing in the valley below, rumbling as they rose toward them. He stepped up the pace down the steep slope, zig-zagging between the great, glacial boulders, his keen eyes watching for danger. Behind him, Hassan and Sakib, the new, young recruits, struggled to keep pace, slipping and panting. Before long, the slope levelled out to a small plateau which led eventually to a sharp, final descent into the valley below, marked by colourful prayer flags, fluttering in the wind. “Good, we should make camp by sunset”, thought Usman. He turned to the other two: “We’ll break here. 10 minutes”.

The two recruits immediately slung off their packs and slumped to the ground. Hassan took a long draught of water “bring me that hot shower”, he grumbled “I’m frozen through!” Sakib grunted his assent, rubbing and thumping his chest, “yeah, it’s the wind that’ll kill you up here, not Indian guns. You know, when we were all the way up there, I thought everything was going to freeze and fall off, my fingers, my toes, even my-” he was stopped short by a pebble striking his shoulder. The thrower, Usman was by the cliff-edge, his right hand raised in a fist and his left index finger over his lips to quiet them. He slowly pointed over the cliff. They crept up to him and peered down.

Ten dark figures sat by the stream below. Hassan pulled out his binoculars and surveyed them for a moment. He nodded grimly. Indian soldiers. Thankfully, they were unaware of the trio watching them, but in these borderlands, if they were spotted, it could quickly turn into a lethal game of cat and mouse. Usman was thinking quickly, with new recruits on a scouting mission, engaging in a firefight was the last thing he wanted, besides, there were far too many. Too cold to go back up, and with that storm coming in, too dangerous to stay put. They were stuck.

“Let’s go around!” whispered Sakib, pointing to a faint route tailing off the path, high along the valley side. Hassan shook his head, “that’s a goat track, not a path. Look at that drop, we’ll fall for sure. Besides, we’d be in plain sight”. But Usman was thinking about those thunderheads rising towards them: thick, dark cloud that would shroud them from view. “Get some rest” he said, “you have an hour, then we move”.

***

The storm tore at them like a ferocious wildcat, ripping at their clothes and sinking its ice-cold claws into their cheeks. When they had started, wispy clouds had sheltered them from view and the three had moved swiftly along the track, glad of the cover of the fog. But now they were in the storm’s belly: hail pummeled them from all sides, thunder split the air with terrific crashes, the very ground was sliding beneath their feet and they struggled to discern their direction or move forward at all.

“Sir! We have to turn back!” yelled Hassan.

“No!” Usman yelled back, “we have to get to camp, we have to keep moving! ” He glanced over his shoulder; in the whirling fog he could just make out Sakib, staggering along far behind Hassan, clearly exhausted. “Sakib!” he bellowed, “Step it up, faster!” He turned and marched on – he was getting worried, these were extreme conditions.  

Suddenly, he was torn from his thoughts by a huge crash of thunder that smashed the air. But this thunder didn’t stop and the rumbling was reverberating through his core. He knew this sound, and he turned to stare in horror as a huge mass of ice and mud swept out of the fog. It slammed into Sakib, and, in an instant, he was dashed down the mountain.

Momentarily the remaining two soldiers were rooted to the spot, frozen with fear. A second later, Usman grabbed Hassan by the collar and started dragging him, slipping and sliding down the slope as fast as he could go. He has only witnessed a land slide once before, but he knew that with the ground as loose as it was, many more could soon follow.

“Here!” he shouted. In the side of the slope, just visible through the lashing hail, was the dark mouth of a cave: he tossed Hassan in “crawl to the back” he commanded. 

The stormed raged with the ferocity of a mad demon through the night. In the calm of the cave, Usman and Hassan, sodden and freezing, huddled together, listening to the shrieking wind outside.  Time seemed to melt into nothingness and Usman was not sure whether it had been a hours or days when the wind eventually began to subside and the rattling of the hail gave way to a gentle patter of rain. He peered out of the cave to find himself just below the level of a low, grey blanket of cloud that smothered the sky, looking down on the valley where streams and rivers were swollen with water.

Hassan was frozen, but as Usman pulled him up and they began the slow descent, weaving between the network of new streams and patches of loose rock. Eventually, they found their way to the valley floor, and stopped. “It’s an hour from here” muttered Usman. “Ok, gimme 10 minutes break” wheezed Hassan, before flopping down against a rock.

Usman nodded and slung off his sack. He’d seen a small spring bubbling up in a crevice and filled his bottle with the cool, fresh water. He took a swig and passed it to Hassan, who drank greedily. Usman, hands on his hips, gazed out at the wild mountains from whence they had come, settling his eyes on the sharp peaks that cut the sky like spears, in wistful reflection.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Hassan was looking up at him with concern, “it’s not your fault”.

“It is” he replied, “you were in my care, I should have seen the risk much earlier. I was tired and hungry and it got the better of me”.

Hassan didn’t reply, but looked down at his feet with a tired expression. “Look, Hassan” started Usman, “we’re in the mountains, and up here…” he was cut off as Hassan jolted up and in a lifted his rifle, pointing it just past Usman. Whirling around, Usman saw a man walking toward them, tall and broad-chested, staring right at them. Quickly glancing around, he saw on each side of them upon the rocks more men with rifles. He looked again at the man, he was in uniform, Indian uniform.

“Put it down Hassan”, he said, “there’s too many”. His rifle was already by his pack, but he slowly removed his handgun from his belt and put it on the floor, then walked towards the man who now stood, his arms folded on his chest.

The Indian glowered at him menacingly. In fluent Urdu he spoke: “Well, you lasted the storm, well done. But still, you both look like shit”.

Usman didn’t reply. The Indian smirked, “what were you doing in our territory anyway?”

Our territory, thought Usman, though he didn’t speak it. “I’m just taking this one for his first mountain patrol, our path was blocked so we had to find another way back and we got lost”.

The Indian laughed. “You’re a mountain solider, I can see that. There’s no way you got lost, you intended to be here”. Usman didn’t reply. The Indian looked at Hassan, “well, you’ve almost killed him, well done. At least he looks better than the other one”.

Usman tensed. Was this Indian just trying to  get inside his head, or did he know about Sakib?

“The… other one?” He asked.

“Sure” said the Indian, smiling,  “We picked him up about half a mile back, half-buried in rubble. He was as good as dead. Sakib I think his name is no?”

Usman was focussing on his breath, trying to calm his beating heart. “He’s… alive?”

“Just about. Lucky for you we found him or he wouldn’t be now.” The Indian whistled loudly, and from behind a large boulder two more soldiers appeared, supporting a haggered-looking Sakib, head drooping, feet dragging, but nevertheless alive.

Usman felt a rush of relief. But the danger wasn’t passed yet; surely it was an Indian prison for them at best, at worst, they were about to get shot. “Ok so you have got us, you won. Now, what do you want?” the fear made his voice quiver.

The Indian laughed again, loudly, a full-bellied laugh. “What do I want? An end to the war? To go home to my wife and kids? To stop being lied to by the politicians?” He studied Usman for some time then said, “You think I’m going to kill you. Let me tell you this: my boys and I, we’ve had enough. You have him, we’ll give you some food and you get back to your camp. Just remember for next time you’re looking at one of us down the barrel of your gun – what would you do if you were one of us?”

He turned and nodded at his two soldiers who rested Sakib against the rock and dropped a supply pack next to him. Like ghosts, the soldiers on the rocks had disappeared. The Indian marched off. The cloud was lifting, skudding away on the breeze and the sun was warming Usman’s skin. He crouched face in his hands breathing slowly collecting his energy. Time to get these two to safety, he thought, and by god time to quit this job and go home.