The First Casualty (standard:other, 1499 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jul 15 2005	Views/Reads: 3029/2059	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The first casualty of war is innocence.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

They lied. 

The clerics had lied. 

There was no paradise.  No martyrs.  No holy-war.  No coming back.  The
dead were dead and the living were punished.  Soldiers in the night 
punishing grieving families.  Unable to believe that they had nothing 
to do with it.  That they didn't even know. 

When he first arrived at the prison they'd left him alone.  Face-down,
hooded, hands tied behind his back.  They'd just left him.  Standard 
procedure.  Let the prisoner stew, wonder what's going to happen to 
him.  They were experts and they knew that there was no torture as bad 
as your imagination could conjure.  No monster as terrible as the one 
you create yourself. 

They were wrong.  The Colonel who came to interview him was far worse
than anything he could conceive. 

“The United States does not condone torture,” he'd said.  “But we have
our methods, Abdul, we have our methods.” 

“Nasser,” he'd said.  “Not Abdul, Nasser.” 

The Colonel had looked at him like he was a peculiar species of bug he'd
like to tread on.  He produced a handkerchief and scrutinised it before 
using it to wipe the sweat from his face. 

“Speak English, eh?  Clever boy.  An educated man.” 

This was in the early days before Nasser knew not to talk back.  Before
he knew that he had no rights. 

“I went to University,” he said.  “In Baghdad.  I'm a business man now. 
There's been a mistake.” “There's been no mistake, Abdul.”  The Colonel 
walked over to him and dug deep in his shirt pocket.  He removed a 
photograph and held it up to Nasser's face.  “I suppose this isn't your 
wife.  I suppose that's a mistake too?” 

Nasser looked at it.  The picture was black and white and grainy.  It
was taken from high-up, looking down on a crowd of people, but zooming 
in on one person in particular.  Naima.  His wife. 

“Yes,” he said.  “That's my wife.  Where did you get this from?  Is she
hurt?  What's happened to my wife?” 

“I'll ask the questions, Abdul.  Where did she get the explosives from? 
Who was her handler?  Was it you Abdul?  Did you pimp her out – send 
her into town to blow-up innocent soldiers while you lay in your bed?”  
He grabbed Nasser's hair and pulled back his head.  He peered into his 
eyes, their faces inches apart.  He smelled of breath mints. 

The Colonel whispered, “I don't want you to tell me.  That would spoil
the fun, Abdul.  These are hard times, and we need all the fun we can 
get.” 

That's when it really started.  The sleep deprivation.  The withholding
of food and water.  The heavy rock music blaring into his cell, washing 
over him like the stinging blast of a tidal wave.  Weeks of this.  
Months maybe.  He had no way of knowing. 

At first he didn't care.  The knowledge that his wife had died had
numbed him.  The thought of her walking to a roadblock, strapped with 
plastic explosive and blowing herself up – it was inconceivable.  It 
was like a particularly tricky abstract thought.  Like trying to 
imagine the size of the universe or what lies beyond the atom.  He 
couldn't quite grasp it, not intellectually.  But his body knew.  He 
would tremble uncontrollably; hot one minute, cold the next.  Wracked 
with nausea, he had no energy, spending most of the time on the bed, 
staring at the walls. 

The Colonel would come, sometimes alone and sometimes with others.  They
would question him, taking it in turns to shout, cajole him, plead with 
him, threaten him. 

“You must know something.” 

“We're only trying to help you.” 

“You don't expect us to believe that?” 

“She was your wife.  You must know.” 

“Just answer the fucking question, Abdul.” 

“We know you were in on it.” 

“LYING COCKSUCER!” 

But Nasser wasn't lying.  He knew nothing. 

They hadn't been for a while.  For the longest time he'd been alone; the
bolt sliding back and the morning ration of food his only evidence that 
the outside world existed. 

He began to think clearly again.  Reasoning with himself that they had
to let him go soon.  They must have checked out his story.  Visited his 
business.  Spoken with his friends.  They had to see he was telling the 
truth.  He was innocent. 

He lay back down on the mattress and looked up at the plastic shade. 
One of the flies was still alive up there.  Every so often it would 
jump and buzz furiously.  He knew exactly how it felt. 

There was a click from the door and Nasser looked towards it.  The top
hatch had opened and someone was looking in. 

He felt panic grasp him, and he sat up, his legs tucked in front of him
in a gesture of protection. 

The Colonel entered.  He looked tired and sad, as though he were the
prisoner. 

“Pretty tough guy, eh, Abdul?  Sticking with your story to the end.”  He
looked down at his boots, the shiny leather marred by a fine bloom of 
desert dust.  “The United States does not condone torture,” he said.  
“But our friends in Egypt, Abdul.  That's a different story.” 

As they came for him, Nasser looked deep inside of himself.  He tried to
remember.  She was still dead. 

THE END 


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