I, Who Did Not Die Read online

  Then just after midnight, Cobra helicopters roared out of the sky, firing down on us with three-barreled rotating cannons. The Iranian pilots launched missiles that hit with incredible precision, turning our armored trucks and buildings into balls of flame. Our men haphazardly fired back at any light in the sky, trying their best to hit something, but it was a rout as the Iranians circled mercilessly, aided by height and the cover of darkness. I could hear panic over the radio as the call came down from headquarters to move the tanks forward, three at a time, behind one of the massive fortified dirt mounds we’d constructed to camouflage heavy artillery. My hands were sweating as I moved the steering laterals, trying to avoid driving into the deep pits made by mortar blasts. The enemy was coming at us harder than I think anyone expected. Infantrymen were dropping all around us as we got into position behind the berm.

  The commander’s voice was shaky as it crackled through our headsets: “Tank. Range sixteen hundred. Twelve o’clock.”

  The gunner looked through the telescope and rotated the range button, looking for the enemy’s convoy. “Identified,” he said.

  The loader shifted the cannon safety switch to the “fire” position. “Up!” he called.

  “Ready,” the gunner responded.

  The commander’s voice boomed, “Fire!” and the gunner reached for his left handgrip and pressed the trigger button. The sound was like a thunderclap inside the tank, and the force of it shook the walls and knocked me off my seat. We had forty rounds, and the commander instructed us to fire them all. The whole area was raging now, so loud we had to shout to be heard. The gunner lifted his hatch and swung the machine gun turret in a complete circle, firing two thousand rounds like a man possessed.

  “They’re shooting from behind us!” he screamed, as I fumbled with the radio, trying to contact anyone at our base. But all I got was static, then some faint mumbling and what sounded like people dropping things. Our communication network was severed.

  “Radio’s out—they must’ve been hit!” I shrieked, banging the receiver on the wall of the tank. I looked through the infrared periscope and saw our men fleeing their tanks.

  “Are we surrendering? What the hell is going on?”

  “Keep firing,” the commander said. “The captain is in a convoy behind us. I’ll run out and ask him what to do.”

  He’s a dead man, I thought, as I watched our leader sprint into the bedlam. And we’re going to just sit here like a bull’s-eye and wait to be annihilated. Out of ammunition now, the gunner, the loader, and I fell silent as we waited for our verdict, listening to the sonic symphony of war, the deep bass of the bombs dancing with the staccato snap of bullets and arias of ambulance sirens. My hands trembled and I wished with every fiber of my being that a cigarette would magically appear between my fingers. Then our radio picked up voices. We jammed our headsets back on and realized we’d somehow picked up an Iranian frequency. Between the three of us, we could make out the important Farsi words: “enemy,” “surrendering.”

  “Are we the only assholes still out here?” the loader asked.

  His question hung in the air. The gunner had his nose buried in his pocket Koran, mumbling recitations while chewing on his fingernails.

  “We can’t be,” I said, not very reassuringly.

  The commander returned, with big circles of sweat under his arms, and we had to wait for him to catch his breath. His hair, normally slicked back perfectly, looked like it had been through a tornado.

  “Uh, Captain doesn’t know what’s happening,” he finally managed to say. The commander then straightened his spine, trying his best to compose himself. “He says to keep resisting until reinforcements arrive.”

  “What reinforcements?” I heard myself ask. We’d been fighting for three hours now. If there were reinforcements, they should have showed up already.

  The gunner cuffed me on the ear with his Koran. “Shuddup, Aboud.”

  I looked through the periscope again and saw men drop as they ran from their posts, shot down by helicopters or snipers. The air was filled with last screams—in both Arabic and Farsi. I was weighing the options of hiding in the tank or making a run for it—wondering how many days we could last on the food rations we had with us—when a voice cut through the din over a loudspeaker. The voice spoke in Arabic, but with a Persian accent: “Your army has retreated! Khorramshahr is being recaptured. Surrender now. Whoever plants thorns cannot reap grapes!”

  Our thorny sin was taking Khorramshahr, and now we were paying for it. But the warning could be a trick to make us think we had given up—calling victory before it was true as a tactic to clear out the last of our fighters.

  “I’m going out there just to see what’s going on,” I announced.

  “Too dangerous,” the commander said.

  I ignored him and started lifting the floor hatch, so I could exit underneath the tank. “I’m going with you,” the loader said.

  “Shit!” the commander said, climbing out of his seat. “Wait here,” he told the gunner as he followed us outside. We crawled on our bellies, like three lizards, coughing and trying to decipher landmarks through the smoke. We’d only made it a few hundred yards when out of the corner of my eye, I saw our tank turn and drive toward Iraq, trying to escape. Motherfucker.

  “He’s abandoning us!” I screamed.

  The gunner was insane. If he wasn’t killed by the Iranians, he’d be killed when Saddam hanged him in the public square with the other deserters. The commander and the loader turned to look, and that’s when I felt the ground shudder beneath my belly. Then a massive boom, and I was airborne. Grains of sand needled into my pores, and for the briefest moment, I was suspended above the battlefield. All sound stopped, all the shelling, all the screaming for Allah, all of it silenced, and the orange flashes of mortar fire looked almost pretty in the darkness. Like candles flickering above the desert.

  When I crashed back to earth, I had no more faith in anything. I didn’t believe in God, in humanity, or in Saddam’s war. There was no time for such devotions, as blood seeped from my forehead and chest, and all around me soldiers were being executed as they begged for their lives.

  I couldn’t feel one of my arms. I ran my other hand over my body, and inventoried the working parts. Legs—still there. Stomach—gaping wound. Head—intact, but blood was running down my forehead. Odd. I didn’t feel any pain. Could I stand? I rolled onto all fours and tried to push myself up onto my feet, but the earth spun and I toppled over. I brushed the sand and blood out of my eyes and saw the commander and the loader were rolling on the ground as well. Our tank was listing to one side, and flames were shooting from the auxiliary gas barrels on the back. If I couldn’t stand, I could still crawl. I used my good arm and pulled myself to the commander, who was trying to say something through bubbles of blood. I dragged him to a nearby trench and rolled him into it. Then I went back for the loader, and together we stumbled on our knees to the trench while he leaned into me and cried out his mother’s name.

  “Brother! Help me! Over here!” A third Iraqi soldier called to me in the darkness, and though I knew I was badly wounded, I felt superhuman, as if I were impervious to pain, to danger. It was my duty, so I went to the third man and dragged him off the battlefield, too. When all three men were in the trench, I lowered myself on top of them to protect them, even though I had no idea if they were still alive. Then I heard our tanks being blown up, one by one, rocking the earth and sending small avalanches of dirt onto us. Once the massive explosions subsided, I heard voices—Iranians walking and talking directly above our heads.

  The loader heard them, too. He reached out and clasped my shirt, which was now soaked with blood.

  “What should we do?” he asked.

  I scanned the trench until my gaze settled on a doorway leading to a bunker.

  “There.” I pointed. “That will be our grave. Let’s die in there.”

  Once I started crawling toward the doorway, I could sense pain. It felt l
ike my intestines had turned to lava, and they were slowly melting me from the inside. I had the sensation that the heat was retreating from my extremities, pulled inward into a molten ball in my stomach, as if the last of my energy was swallowing itself until it would be no more than a tiny pinprick, then blink out forever.

  It’s true what they say about your whole life flashing by as you wait for death to come sit next to you. It happens fast, like Kodachrome slides snapping into view, all these images of yourself in moments of pure joy. I closed my eyes and saw my brothers and me climbing trees to pick dates. I felt my fingers close around the fur of our big German shepherd as we wrestled in the family courtyard, and heard my mother’s voice singing from the kitchen. I tasted the falafel that my sister and I fried in our Bruce Lee Restaurant, and I saw Alyaa’s abaya fluttering in the wind as she cradled Amjad in her arms. The last thing I saw was my family together, celebrating the thirtieth birthday I would never have.

  Then I felt a hand on my chest. I opened my eyes, but I was momentarily blinded. When I tried to reach for the hand, my limbs were numb and wouldn’t move. It’s an angel, I thought, tugging on my shirt to take me to the other world. And, like all nonbelievers who face their moment of death, I found religion instantly.

  “Dear Prophet Muhammad,” I prayed aloud, “save me.”

  My vision cleared, and I saw a child soldier pointing a rifle at my temple. He was so small that he had to roll up the sleeves and pant legs of his uniform. This Persian boy had been brainwashed to hate me. I spoke as softly as I could. “Please,” I said, “I’m a Muslim, just like you.”

  He backed up a step and cocked the rifle. He either couldn’t understand Arabic or he didn’t care to chat before pulling the trigger.

  “Muslim! Muslim!” I pleaded.

  The boy took aim.

  Carefully, I reached into my jacket pocket to show him my Koran, and the boy lunged, grabbing it from me. He rustled through the pages, stopping when he discovered the photo of Alyaa and Amjad. He studied the image, as if he recognized them. He glanced at me and back to the photo again. I think I saw him gently touch her face with his finger.

  He snapped the book shut and turned toward me with an expression of utter blankness. I silently said good-bye to everyone I loved. Then the boy slid the Koran back in my pocket. He knelt down and gave me water from his canteen. Then he leaned in close and put his finger to his lips.

  “Shhhhhh.”

  Then he smiled, and all my terror turned to mist and evaporated. We suddenly spoke the same language—the language of humans. I smiled back to let him know I understood that I was safe. I knew I could close my eyes in front of him and give in to my exhaustion. So I did.

  I had no idea how long ago that was. Now I was alone, and I could hear the maggots chittering.

  Angel, where are you now?

  SEVEN

  SAVING NAJAH

  I needed blood. The Iraqi was going to die if he didn’t get a transfusion soon. I waited until the morphine injection took effect and he slipped into a quiet sleep. I needed to keep him sedated, because if he made too much noise, someone would hear him and shoot him for sure. This Iraqi was my secret, and deciding to rescue him was like a rescue for me, too. Just knowing he was there gave me something to feel happy about. I felt less scared, because he needed me. I tiptoed out of the bunker and jogged all the way to the medical tent, where I asked for an IV and a bag of blood.

  “And more bandages,” I said.

  I stuffed it all into my medical bag and headed back. I had never given someone an IV before, but I’d watched it done so many times I was pretty sure I could find the vein myself. The Iraqi’s eyes were closed, but I think he knew I was there, because as I got near, he started moaning softly, repeating some words I was pretty sure meant “Help me.” I jammed a bayonet into a crack in the concrete wall and attached the bag of blood to it. I squeezed his arm to try to make his veins pop up, but it wasn’t working because he was too weak. I forced the needle in and put a piece of tape over it to keep it in place. Working quickly, I cleaned his wounds with water and disinfectant, then wrapped his temple, his arm, and his torso with bandages. It was all I had, but it would have to do. His whole body twitched like he was having a dream, and I put my hand on his chest to try to calm him.

  “Muslim,” I said.

  He let out a long sigh. “Amjad,” he said.

  He was delirious now, thinking I was someone else. I gave him some more water and snuck back out and continued searching for more wounded soldiers. I walked for a long time but found no one alive, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I found an abandoned foxhole and curled up to catch a few hours of sleep.

  The following day, the fighting had subsided. I went about my normal duties, trying not to draw attention to myself as I loaded corpses into ambulances and put injured Iranians on top of the dead to be taken to a temporary field hospital. So many Iraqis had surrendered that there were hundreds gathered in groups all over the place, sitting cross-legged in rows with guns pointed at them, waiting to find out their fates. Many were injured, some quite severely, but they were not getting any medical attention. I knew my patient was safer with me than if he was lingering in the hot sun with no medicine and a ticket to prison.

  The border was a mere six miles away. If only there was some way I could smuggle him to Iraq, but even if he had the strength to run for it in the middle of the night, he’d probably never make it; there were too many guards at the border. I could take him in an ambulance, hiding him under dead bodies, but I’d be heading in the wrong direction—into Iraq—and would surely be caught. But here he could be found by one of us at any moment. Even if he wasn’t discovered, he wasn’t going to survive in that bunker. I had to get him into a real hospital.

  I waited until there was a lull in the day and then slipped away. The Iraqi was awake, and despite the overpowering stench, he smiled at me as if I came bearing roses. I smiled back, feeling mighty proud of my doctoring skills, until I noticed his arm had swollen to twice the normal size because I hadn’t done the needle right. I cursed under my breath and took the IV out and covered the spot where the needle had been with tape. It must have hurt, but the Iraqi didn’t even flinch; he just kept smiling at me like he didn’t have a care in the world. I gave him some sedative pills to make sure he stayed happy and quiet, and he swallowed them, keeping his gaze fixed on me as I gave him more water. He rested his head back on the ground, then pointed at the IV and then at me. I nodded, to say “Yes, I put that there.” I pointed at my chest and then opened my medical bag to show him I was a medic. He didn’t respond, so I pointed to the red cross on my sleeve and made hand motions like I was turning a steering wheel, so maybe he’d understand I was with an ambulance. He put his hand over his heart, kind of like he was saying thank you. I did the same.

  I was able to get another bag of blood for the Iraqi, and this time I did a better job of getting the needle in his other arm. He seemed to be stabilizing, but if I kept taking bags of blood to the same location, eventually the other medics would notice. Already one of them asked me why I kept going back and forth to the same area, and I wouldn’t be able to dodge the questions much longer. I needed a helper.

  I found Omid guarding the officers’ quarters. He saw me coming toward him and his tough-guy face dissolved.

  “Donkey!” he shouted. “How are you?”

  “Still alive. You?”

  “Alive, too.”

  We embraced.

  “Listen, I need a favor,” I said.

  I explained that I had a patient and that I needed help taking care of him, and then at the end of my plea I tacked on the fact that he was an Iraqi. Omid stepped back from me, as if I was contagious.

  “Are you fucking with me? They’ll take you to court and hang you for treason.”

  “Only if I get caught.”

  “You will get caught. I don’t want to be there when you do.”

  Of all the people I thought would
understand, it was him, but I’d forgotten one basic thing about Omid—that deep down he was, and always would be, a mama’s boy. He could stand there with a gun and play the part of a guard, but the truth was, he was too much of a scaredy-cat to guard anything, much less a big secret like this.

  “You’re right. I should’ve known you couldn’t handle it.”

  Omid glowered at me and spoke through gritted teeth.

  “You’re insane; get away from me.”

  “OK, look, I shouldn’t have said that. You are not a coward, and I shouldn’t have put this big secret in your hands. You just have to swear on the Koran that you won’t tell anybody, all right?”

  “Fine. I swear. But tell me one thing. Why are you doing this?”

  I thought for a second, though I could barely make sense of it myself. “Because he needs help. He’s just a regular guy, like you and me,” I answered.

  Omid rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand you. Don’t you have enough problems in your life? Why do you always have to go looking for more? You don’t know the first thing about that Iraqi.”

  How could I explain that I had learned everything I needed to know about him by one quick glance at a photograph? Even I realized that sounded crazy. Maybe Omid wasn’t that far off; I could be losing my mind.

  “I just know,” I said weakly.

  Omid took hold of my elbow and steered me to a narrow space between two supply trucks, where no one could see us.

  “You are a pain in the ass, but you’re still my friend,” he whispered. “I will help you get blood, but I won’t go in that bunker.”

  I grabbed his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. “This is between you, me, and God.”