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Order this writing in the collection book Life on the Edge this huge volume is available for only $2395 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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DIRTY WAR
A. McIntyre
War’s been going on a long time now. How long? Sometimes I can’t remember. Three years. Five years. Twenty years. No-one seems to know when it started. You ask around and everyone’s got a different idea of when it began. Maybe it’s been going on forever. We don’t talk about it anymore. Johnny and me that is. Johnny Scotland.
We kicked them out of Kabul. That was the easy part. We had them surrounded in the end, carpet bombed them, annihilated them, there was nothing left. Then we moved into Kabul. That’s it, we all thought, It’s over. They’re gone. For a few days there was a party. We clean the city, get a garrison going, clean uniforms, airlifts, medical supplies, the whole bureaucracy of victory. The general makes an inspection, the journalists drink their scotch in the afternoon. Then one morning, we’re sitting down to breakfast and KABOOOOM KABOOOOM KABOOOOM we’re cowering under the table. I thought it was exercises but it was too damn close, and then a building explodes across the street. The war had started again before it had even ended. But who’s shooting?
When we find out what’s going on no-one can believe it. The guys we had surrounded, the guys we annihilated, now they’ve got us surrounded. All the roles reversed. We besieged them now they’re besieging us. Act Two. Kabul’s ringed by mountains you see. Control the mountains and you control the city. Infantry 101. The high ground. Remember the song, Take the high ground and hold it . . . Who the hell ever decided to build the capital in such a crummy location? Ought to be put up against a wall and shot. Sarajevo the same, I was there too a while back. Fat cities stuck in a valley. Makes no sense. But the capital’s the capital, and it’s gotta be controlled. That’s all there is to it. So here we are and here we will remain because at the moment all the roads are held by the rebels and there’s no way out or in. All our supplies come from the air. We’re Up the Khyber, as the Brits used to say except no-one wants to remember what happened to them back in the 1840s. Maybe we’ll have to walk to Jalalabad in the middle of winter.
So it’s the same old thing. We bomb them, they bomb us, they show pictures of dead children to the newspapers, we do the same, they grab some of our boys, we grab some of theirs. We torture each other trying to break through, but nothing is happening. It goes on and on, no end in sight, no solution forthcoming. I work for the STD, Special Tactics Department that is. Getting guys in, getting them out. We take prisoners and then we try to break them so they’ll tell us their positions. Problem is we often wind up killing them before they tell us anything. Hard boys these fundamentalists. Mental, and no fun. There’s just so much the human body can take. Usually they die. The only thing they’ve ever told us over and over is God is Great. You’ve gotta admire them. The harder we hit them the harder they fight, the harder they get, like tempered steel. We’ve done everything. Dental stuff, no man can take. Electrics all over the body. I’ve hammered toes flat with a sledge, hung weights from their balls, used piano wire, torn out fingernails, toenails, tongues, you name it. I’ve shoved tubes down their dicks, tubes up their butts, poked out eyes, blown away knees with a small caliber weapon. Most of it useless. No results and it goes on for a long time. Inevitably they wind up dying, shock, loss of blood. And there’s nothing we can do. There’s just so much we know. I’m limited by my education, after all. Torture is open to research just like any other discipline.
So one day I’m sitting in The Room, with Johnny Scotland, having a coffee break because we’ve been working on one of these boys for two days and he’s about to go. A big bearded thug, muscled like a Bulgar. We haven’t gained an iota of information. We’ve tried the usual and he just spits blood at us when he gets a chance and yells incomprehensible oaths that the translator can’t follow, and I’ve hit him so hard out of sheer frustration that my fist has started to swell. The whole fucking thing’s absurd, and we’re just going through the motions. Gotta write something in the log book, We did this, we did that etc. but information was not forthcoming. End of story. Tomorrow he’ll be thrown into the incinerator just like the last two hundred and seventy three, although Johnny swears we’ve already made three hundred.
Hard case, I say. Yeah, says Johnny, What’s new? We smoke our cigarettes in silence. Your fist’s swelling, he adds. Looks that way, I say taking a drag. Johnny Scotland. We joined together long ago. Marines, Special Operations. We went to Granada, Panama, Lebanon, me and Johnny. We saw the end of Nam. Then they moved us up into the STD. We’ve had all kinds of guys go through The Room. The best were the Serbs. I like people to look the part. The motherfucking Serbs. These boys looked big and tough. They were big and tough, when they were shelling schoolgirls in Sarajevo from the comfort of the hills, or gunning down families in Kosovo. Big tough boys with shaven heads and lots of muscles. But give them to me and Johnny and we had them squealing for their mothers. Like stuck pigs. It was good to see, a job with a meaning. Seeing big muscled Serbs weeping and begging for mercy. After a couple of days in The Room they told us everything we wanted to know. Clipping off a Serb toe with wire cutters. Those big fucking faggot rapists. I used to look forward to it.
And Johnny Scotland. Hey, he’s a funny guy. I love it when someone asks his name and he replies, Scotland, John Scotland, and the stupid fuck who’s asked him grins and says, Your folks from Scotland? Me too. And Johnny just stares the guy down and says, My folks are not from Scotland you stupid fuck, they’re Swedish, Swedes, and he goes into this long aggravated monologue about how his name comes from the Swedish Schøttlund or Schüttlund or some such crap and how Schöttlund is a remote island off the Swedish Arctic where the Schötts lived, and the Schötts were a fierce tribe of proto-Vikings who invented violence, and apparently they ate the brains of their enemies. None of this is documented in conventional Swedish history, but Johnny says it’s true, and he says it’s just because the Swedes have turned into sappy peaceniks that they don’t want this part of their history documented. And someone in the STD once pointed out that Jeffrey Dahmer was of good Scandinavian stock and look at what he was capable of, and Johnny agreed, Yes he probably was a descendent of the Schötts, and maybe the Dharma was the way to be. And it’s unwise to argue with Johnny. I once saw him bite a guy’s nose off when we were on leave in Miami (the guy was bothering Johnny when he was trying to relax in a bar), and Johnny didn’t spit the nose out like most guys would have done. No sir, he swallowed it without even chewing it. Johnny Scotland. I’ve never stopped liking the taste of boogers, he said afterwards, when we were walking out of the bar. I’ve often wondered what Johnny talks about at his high school reunions.
So Johnny looks at me and grins. What’s bothering you? I ask. Hey, a joke, says Johnny, A joke. Let’s try something new, see what happens. Something new? I say irritated. Yeah, he replies, Listen. I’ve been thinking. Have you ever thought? Why these guys are so fucking mad. The Israelis, the mujahadeen. Not really, I say, That’s just the way they are isn’t it. I mean what else are they going to do? Exactly, says Johnny, Exactly. I mean listen to this, I was thinking. The Muslims, the Jews, they’re the same damn thing right, speak the same language almost, they’re all Semites, they’re the same fucking race for chrissake. So why the fuck are they always trying to kill each other? If they’re the same I mean. I ponder this piece of logic for a couple of moments before saying, Maybe it’s because they are the same that they hate each other. I mean if I had to live with me all the time I’d wind up killing myself. Johnny sprays coffee everywhere laughing, On the button my dear Watson, on the button, that’s exactly it. Think about it. The whole of their life they don’t get any girls, they don’t even see girls. All they see, if they’re lucky, is a walking blanket. That ain’t a fucking girl. Unless you’re into jacking off over blankets. Ever see girls knocking about the streets of Karachi when you were there? Or Jeddah? Remember? There are no fucking girls. Same for our Orthodox Jewish friends. All the women are inside. At the best of times, when they’ve really got their rocks off, most of these guys have just fucked boys up the butt, and that’s no way to live by any stretch of the imagination. So what’s your point? I ask, Where are you trying to get to with all this academic analysis? Johnny grins, taking a drag on his cigarette. That’s why they’re all so mad, he explains, smoke pouring out of his mouth, Why they’re so pissed at one another, why they’re pissed with everything and everyone. They never get any cunt. No cunt ever. And they’re all circumcised to boot. What a combination. You’d be pissed. Think about it. A man who can’t get any cunt is inevitably going to be seriously pissed, give him a gun, and instead of cunt he fills his head with religion, you’ve got a problem. These guys would do anything to get into the pants of some blonde walking the streets of LA. They see us nailing girls like that, they know they’ll never be able to do the same, so no wonder they hate us, no wonder they want to take out our society. They’re frustrated. A woman calms you down, calms all men down. Your aggression just leaks out of you between her legs. I remember reform school. Guys so mad they’d do anything, but they had us playing football and boxing, doing exercise twelve hours a day. That got rid of the anger. And anyway, we were so tired all the time we didn’t have the energy to get mad. Then we were out in the big bad world and the first thing we do is get laid. Some of us hitch up with a broad, and it all calms down. The rage. Imagine if that deprivation went on into our twenties. We’d be the ones grabbing an AK47 and yelling for the blood of societies which got laid regularly. These guys, these Holy Warrior types, they’re like bulls who can’t get at the cows. Do you go in the field and try to pet the bull when he’s got a hard on? No, of course not. You’re nuts, I say. But suddenly Johnny is starting to make sense here. I study his eyes for emotion but I see none. So what do you suggest? I ask. He grins, Let’s try something, just for interest. I’ve thought about this for a while now. Don’t tell the Colonel. Let’s try some porn on our boy downstairs before he leaves us forever. Just for fun. We’ll rest him and show him some tonight, whaddya say? A movie maybe. You crazy bastard, I say. But I’m thinking maybe Johnny’s onto something here, and we never tried it before. We’ll just call it R and R. Can’t lose. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind watching some porn. Then we’ll kill the Pathan and incinerate him in the morning. Johnny m’boy, I say patting him on the shoulder, You’re a fucking genius.
Back in The Room we see that our boy is in no state to watch a porn movie because he’s dead. He died ten minutes ago, says Aktar the guy who tends the jail. Get rid of him and bring us another, I say. Aktar yells for a lackey down the corridor and a few minutes later they wheel the dead man away. They clean the floor and bring a new man. As is our custom he is chained naked to a wheelchair. Welcome to The Room I say, and the translator translates. The man says nothing. He looks exactly like the last, huge, muscular, bearded. His eyes are slits behind bruised puffy cheeks. Welcome to America, I say as we position him in front of the 80 inch VCR screen we use for psychological interrogation. The man stares at the blank screen. Welcome to Hollywood, says Johnny, tweaking the prisoner’s cheek, slipping a video into the machine. He switches it on and we sit back to watch. We’re drinking whiskey, John Jameson and Son. A young girl, blonde, sixteen, seventeen maybe, is standing in a room. She is watching herself in the mirror. She runs her hands over her white blouse, undoing the buttons, her hands slipping under her bra. She moans and lies down pulling her shirt open while her other hand slides down her leg, then up under her short red tartan skirt. She pulls the pin away from the kilt so that her legs are free. Her fingers press over the soft material of her panties, then over the elastic rim, underneath, slipping inside. She cries out, pushing the panties down. Johnny and I are so absorbed that we forget our boy in the wheelchair for a while until we hear a roar of rage. He’s struggling, yelling, foam spraying over his vast beard. Will you look at that, say’s Johnny, sipping his whiskey. I start to laugh hysterically. The prisoner’s dick is standing upright like a guardsman, from out of a jungle of curly black hair, every blood vessel straining. I can see the tendons in his neck like ropes under the skin. His arms and legs are lined with sinews about to pop. He’s grinding his teeth, struggling so hard that he’s cutting himself on the chains. He tries to shut his eyes but the girl’s moans make him look. Her fingers are dipping in and out of her pink hole, a hint of moisture glistening. She starts to come, her cries more urgent, like the sounds of torture. I hear the prisoner grunting. Johnny and I are staring in disbelief. We’ve both got woods but nothing like this guy. Gripped by spasms the prisoner ejaculates, big gobs of spunk leaking like ectoplasm over his legs and thighs. Enough to fill up four and twenty virgins. The spasms gradually cease, his dick begins to wilt, and he slumps against the metal sides of the wheelchair. He’s given up. We’ve broken him. The girl is lying on her front now, two fingers in her vage, while another eases into her butt. I drain my whiskey. We switch the machine off and turn on the lights. The prisoner is weeping. I look at Johnny and he looks at me. I think we’re onto something here, I say. Yeah, says Johnny, Yeah. He stands in front of the prisoner and starts to laugh. Hey Aktar, I yell, Clean this mother up and put him to bed.
We try the same routine on six or seven Holy Warriors and the results are outstanding. Each time we break them, reducing them to sticky sniveling wrecks. Project XXX is born. This is the heart of counter espionage. Johnny and I clean up. We put on our best uniforms after requesting an audience with His Highness the Colonel. We type a report. The Colonel is naturally skeptical, that’s his job, but after witnessing our work in progress he becomes one of the converts. War’s a dirty business, he says sipping the JJS, It’s amazing what it reduces you too. This is why true warriors never discuss their work. Yes, Colonel, I say saluting. Johnny is standing rigidly to attention as only a long serving enlisted man can. The Colonel clears his throat, I’m very proud of you boys. You both realize that this could win us the war? We hope so, sir, I reply. He salutes us, I’ll be recommending you both for medals. That is all gentlemen. We salute, turn, and march out of the office.
Events move fast, just in time. The rebels are massing for an attack. Intelligence reports come back of thousands of troops supported by tanks and artillery. Our bombers sally forth to engage the enemy, but this time they’re not dropping bombs. Bombs have never done any good. No better than pissing on a wasps nest. Instead, the loaders stuff packages of hardcore porn into the bomb bays, Hustler, Penthouse, Knave, heavy duty unmarked Danish, Dutch, and Swedish magazines. Even a little child porn slipped in without the General’s knowledge. He’s got a political career to look forward to, and we don’t want to get him into trouble. The planes take off saluted by the Senior Staff. The Air Force’s finest mission since Hiroshima, every crew member a hero for the cause. We hear them receding into the distance. They unload their cargoes in front of the rebel lines and return after an hour with the loss of only one aircraft. The top brass watch the results through huge night glasses as the rebels emerge after dark to see what the white barbarians have dropped. Johnny and I are honored guests. The General offers us a flask of JJS. With bated breath we observe, hoping for the best. It’s our last chance.
Within minutes, fighting breaks out. A mullah is trying to stop robed troops from looking at the material but the soldiers push him over and start to fight amongst themselves even though they stand amidst thousands of porn mags. Hundreds of mujahadeen pour out of the trenches wondering what is going on. Could it be biological warfare? Have the white barbarians sent some drug that has made the Holy Ones go mad? Through the night glasses I see heaps of robes fighting for magazines. Shooting starts. From behind us I hear the moans and cries of a young girl. Phase Two of Project XXX. I turn round, pleasantly drunk from the whiskey. An enormous screen set up out of the rebels’ artillery range. A young blonde lying on a bed, hips moving slightly, her manicured fingers slipping between her legs. Her breathing and the music of her ecstasy echo across the vast bleak plain. A halfhearted burst of rocket fire approaches the city, falling short of our lines. Then silence. For the first time in many years there is no shooting. No artillery duels, no sniper fire, no rockets. Nothing. Thousands of men on both sides are watching a young girl fingering herself. Peace has come.
In the following days, our onslaught continued. The war petered out. Night time became a vast blue movie show and the day was spent recovering. The mujahadeen began to drift away from the lines in their thousands. They camped around the city in the hope of porn. Copies of Hustler became a new currency. The mullahs were all put to death. Within a couple of years, Afghanistan was fast becoming the sex capital of Central Asia. A vast dusty Amsterdam visited by British tourists and Germans, run by ex-mujahadeen dressed in expensive suits, providing the best pot on earth, beautiful women, and a meritocratic hardworking society based on the dollar.
Johnny and I were decorated for our services to freedom and democracy. But the war was over, there was no-one left to torture. Life became increasingly dull. We began to drink too much. Then one day, sitting outside a cafe in Kabul, downtown ritzy Kabul, Johnny says, Hey, listen up. How about getting into the movies? Whaddya mean ya crazy fuck? I reply. No seriously, says Johnny, Seriously, S and M, snuff movies, you know. It’s the next big thing here, they haven’t got there yet but soon they will. We can corner the market if we’re quick. I think about this for a while and then I say, Johnny m’boy you’re a fucking genius, you know that? A fucking genius, Johnny Scotland.
