🇬🇧 Anecdote 3 — “Death…”

Afghanistan, mountains of Wardak, May 2009

Lying on his back, head turned, he stared fixedly at the door. He felt nothing anymore — only a sense of emptiness, as if every emotion had left him.
A shadow passed above him. He saw a silhouette — a man dressed in black crossing the room.
The man positioned himself to the right of the doorway, then his left hand worked the handle and opened the door.
As if scanning the interior of the adjacent room, he shifted to the left side of the frame, then slipped inside.

The shadow stood in the doorway, weapon raised, firing at someone in sharp, distant-sounding cracks.
His vision darkened; the outlines dissolved into a black mist.
He saw nothing, heard nothing.
Cold crept slowly into his limbs, as if warmth were abandoning him.
He felt himself slipping away.
His story ending…

*****

He opens his eyes.
The sun is about to rise.
He already hears Khaled preparing breakfast — the clatter of pots, the metallic tapping.
Yesterday, Wali and he had gone to buy foreign rations on the black market.
He likes that French coffee. Kind of them that their food contains no pork. May Allah forgive him.
The whole group is gathered.
Azim is speaking with Wali and Farid.
The leader seems calm, eyes tired. He must have worked late into the night.

Azim is the eldest son of Hassan al-Khorasani…
Haroon thinks of Hassan, killed by the hand of the devil.
The thought still chills him. A demon such as that on earth — allied with foreigners.
May Allah help them.
Azim had a brother, Latif — killed by those Americans, may Allah curse them.
Azim is the leader. Diligent. Tireless.

Next to him, Wali. Wali Ahmad, a Pakistani doctor. Distant cousin of Azim.
He too, like many, joined the Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan after Latif’s death.
Revenge — may Allah forgive them — was the reason they had taken up arms.

Latif was a good man, according to his father, who spoke with tears in his eyes, grief gripping his chest.

Wali had arrived months earlier with his neighbour Khaled Durrani, a strong sheep herder.
Their first meeting had been chaotic: Rashid had mistaken them for informers and attacked, but before Azim could intervene, Khaled had thrown Rashid over like a sack of grain.

Farid, the imam, the chief’s lifelong friend, watches over Azim.
He serves him food, drink, checks that he eats and drinks.
Mullah Farid Gul — that is what he likes to be called.
He tries to control everyone, using religion to his ends. But he always has wise advice, and his words are fair.

Shoaib Amini and Omaid Latifi, two of the younger men, approach him.
— « Haroon! We saw vehicles down in the valley. Four American Humvees. We’re telling the chief! »
— « Go tell him! Well done, boys! »
Haroon Shirzai stands and gathers his gear and weapon.
The battle is coming.

*****

The convoy moves along the mountain road.
Haroon watches.

Azim and the troop hide behind rocks.
Zahir Qadir, phone in hand, looks at the chief. He waits for the signal to trigger the IED.
The first vehicle arrives. At the designated spot, Azim gives the sign.
Zahir presses his phone.
The bomb explodes behind the vehicle, likely because of the jammers.

In the road’s axis, Nasir Ahmad Barakzai sprays the vehicle with his PKM.
Silhouettes jump out; its turret gun responds to Nasir.

Khaled steps from cover and fires his RPG.
The rocket veers wildly and explodes ten metres beyond the vehicle.
Imitating Khaled, Rahmatullah Sadiqi aims his RPG and fires.
The rocket explodes twenty metres short of the armoured truck.
But he remains standing — then collapses.
Shoaib rushes in, lifts the body, drags him to cover, grabs the weapon.

Khaled shouts orders, guiding him.
The two men position themselves and fire.
The rockets strike the ground three metres from the American soldiers.

The remaining vehicles arrive.
The Americans dismount.
Weapons roar.

Haroon feels shrapnel slicing by.
He waits for a lull, then fires back.
He notices everyone fighting the same way.
RPGs and American AT4s trade blows — explosions punctuating the exchange.

Flanking the enemy column, Fazal Haidari sprays with his PKM.
Beside him, Haroon sees Omaid Latifi and Samiullah Darwish.
They protect and assist the machine gunner.

An American falls; another drags him to cover.
Rashid Noorzai, former ANA soldier, designates targets for the Dragunov sniper Nematullah Safi.

A second American collapses.
Panic spreads among the foreigners — but their return fire is immediate.

A cry in Arabic rings out.
Haroon turns.
Omaid is bent over Samiullah — then collapses.
Fazal leaves his firing post, pulls Omaid to safety, resumes firing.
Haroon is startled by movement — Wali runs from rock to rock, joining the pair to treat the wounded.

Gunfire weakens.
Vehicles manoeuvre to withdraw.
The valley quiets.

*****

efore the two stone graves, Farid stands, hands raised.
Behind him, the men pray in silence, facing Mecca.

Later, in the fitted-out cave, Azim gathers his troop.
— « The infidels came. They’ll return. I believe this was a reconnaissance unit — they didn’t intend to destroy us, or they would have. A bigger force will come. May Allah help us! »
Azim pauses.
— « Gather ammunition and food, and stay alert. Expect combat soon. »
The men answer Allâhu Akbar, and begin gathering their belongings.

*****

Tariq Gulzad, the group’s entertainer, tells a story to young Fazil Rahman, a 17-year-old boy:

A commander asks his men to stay silent during prayer.
But outside, a donkey keeps braying loudly.
The commander storms out, furious, shouting:
— « Be silent, cursed beast! I’m praying! »
The donkey stops…
Then the commander realises he himself has just spoken during prayer.
Tariq bursts out laughing:
— « Even donkeys know the rules better than some chiefs! »
The men laugh — even Azim smiles; he has heard this one before.

Then Tariq begins another fable — the one of a shepherd and a giant wolf.
Haroon listens; he knows it well — Tariq tells it to every new recruit.
The tale of a lone man fighting a beast with nothing but his wits.
Fazil listens, fascinated. Tariq uses gestures and voice like a stage performer.
He concludes with a broad grin:
— « And the man gave one sheep a month to the beast so it would leave his flock alone. »
Conversation resumes in the cold mountain night.

Two days later, Haroon overhears the men — Hamidullah Wardaki, Mirwais Qasemi, and Shoaib Amini — reporting back to Azim.
A shepherd told them he heard ANA soldiers at the valley market talking about a cleansing operation in the mountains — where “the insurgents” hide.
Azim listens silently.
Haroon sees his eyes and understands: after years fighting his brother’s killers, Azim has become a priority target.
The information is priceless.
There will be time to prepare.

*****

It took four full days to bring two ANA teams and their OMLT.
Haroon sees Azim’s disappointment. About fifty men — ten foreigners.
Farid, guessing the chief’s thoughts, speaks calmly:
— « It does not matter. Let’s repel them — they’ll send more. »
Azim nods and gives the battle order.

Hidden behind rocks, Haroon watches the vehicle column rush forward.
Four pickups and a HUMVEE — the Americans.
Four pickups and a VAB — the French.
They dismount.
Haroon is impressed — quick, orderly, cold.
Nothing like the chaotic ANA.

The enemy climbs the mountain flank.
Two explosions shake the valley — Zahir’s IEDs.
Seven soldiers thrown to the ground.
Azim opens fire, the others follow.

A rumble fills the sky.
From behind the ridges, an Apache helicopter appears.
Its cannon bellows — Haroon sees three of his comrades torn apart: Hamidullah Wardaki, Mirwais Qasemi, Ghulam Nabi Tokhi.
The death machine passes; Nematullah targets it, followed by Nasir with his PKM.
The helicopter smokes, pulls away — but it has enabled the ground advance.

Haroon shoots, hits an Afghan soldier. Reloads, fires again, unsure of the effect.
Blinded by dust, deafened by explosions, he does not see Omaid collapse behind him.

The clash lasts over an hour.
The ANA and their trainers eventually withdraw.
Victory? At what cost?

Six stone graves aligned:
Hamidullah Wardaki, Mirwais Qasemi, Ghulam Nabi Tokhi, Omaid Latifi…
Haroon hears the accounts of Shoaib Amini’s death — killed protecting Nasir — and Fazal Haidari, struck while his PKM was suppressing a French soldier.

Azim is heavy with sorrow. The helicopter did too much damage.
The enemy fled — narrowly.
They are thirteen remaining out of twenty-one.
One more battle like this, and it is over.

According to survivors, more than half the enemy is dead or wounded.
Two French and three Americans among them.
Haroon gazes at the graves. The wind blows.
He knows others will come.

*****

The next morning, after ablutions and breakfast, Haroon joins a small assembly.
Azim has summoned several members.
Sitting cross-legged in the chief’s room are Farid, Rashid, and Zahir.
Haroon wonders why he is needed.

Azim says:
— « Our situation is dire. We’ve lost almost half our men. If the foreigners return, they will massacre us. »
The air is heavy. The room poorly ventilated.
Farid speaks:
— « We will not surrender! These dogs must pay! They invaded us — they must be chased out. »
Rashid and Zahir echo:
— « Yes, he is right. »
Azim lowers his eyes, voice sad:
— « Fine. But then we will die. »

— « Or we can choose someone to tell our story? »
Haroon had not meant to say that.
Azim is surprised:
— « Continue, Haroon. »
— « Choose someone to go from village to village — to tell of our sacrifice. Rebuild the Battalion after our deaths. I think of Tariq — he is a performer. He knows how to speak. And he would love to dramatise it, no? »
Farid smiles:
— « A good idea. We will become martyrs in Allah’s name. Bring Tariq. »

Azim nods to Rashid. He leaves, returns with Tariq.
Azim looks at him:
— « The time is grave. We need you for a mission. Tell of our sacrifice — call the Afghan people to uprising. Carry our legacy. »

Tariq thinks. Takes his time.
Haroon imagines him doing mental calculations, pretending to be a genius.
Finally:
— « I won’t do it. If this is the end, I prefer to be part of it. If we must think of the future, send someone younger. Someone who would want to be chief. »
Azim, surprised:
— « Who? »
— « Young Fazil. Seventeen, unmarried. Entire life ahead. Brilliant, smart. It’ll be hard for him, but he is the most capable. »

The assembly breathes.
Azim calls for a vote. Unanimous. Fazil is chosen.

Haroon and Tariq walk to Fazil, near the gallery to the exit.
The boy does not understand.
Tariq sits and calmly tells him the story of the Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan — Latif, Hassan, the great battles, the dead.
Haroon listens.
At one point, Tariq embellishes his own supposed heroism, dancing between bullets like a Bollywood actor.
Fazil smiles — then tears fill his eyes.
— « Why me? I want to fight too. I don’t want to be a coward! »
Haroon:
— « A coward? You? No. You are on a mission. You will save us all. »
Fazil’s tears fall — first drops, then a torrent.
— « I want to stay with you! I don’t want to leave! »
The room fills with his sobbing.
Tariq places his left hand on Fazil’s shoulder; Haroon, his right.
— « If you stay, you die. If you leave, you live for us. And I swear… I swear we will see each other again. »

Fazil nods, defeated.
He takes the notebook Tariq hands him — on the cover, a single handwritten word: Brothers.
— « Gather your things. This notebook will remind you who we are. My memoirs. Honour them. »

Azim joins them:
— « Go! You must leave. May Allah protect and guide you! Go! »
Before noon, Fazil descends the mountain on a goat path, notebook tight to his chest.
The men watch him go — tears in their eyes, hearts broken.
The future suddenly uncertain.

*****

Night falls, icy on the mountains.
Haroon prays the moon watches over little Fazil.
He imagines him walking roads, speaking to people.
Gone is the time when young men laughed in the hall.
Now, silence rules.

Haroon stands with Nasir Ahmad Barakzai, Habib Rauf, Yama Noorzad, and Rashid Noorzai.
They keep watch.
Nasir points at a shadow moving between the stones.

A crack rings out.
Nasir falls — bullet to the head.
Rashid shouts:
— « Get inside and warn the others! Don’t look back! »
Another crack.
Yama collapses, headshot.
Haroon runs. He hears shots outside — then silence.

He stops. Turns.
A shadow detaches from the wall, faintly lit by a torch.
Haroon freezes — it is the devil.

He rushes into the hall, closes the curtain behind him.
The men overturn tables and benches, building a barricade.

Azim:
— « What’s happening? »
Haroon:
— « Shaytān! It’s the Shaytān! »
Blood runs cold.

The heavy curtain moves — as if struck by a stone.
Panic erupts.
Fireballs of muzzle flash rip through the fabric.
The curtain tears under bullets.

The shadow steps through.
Aims. Fires.

Khaled, manning the machine gun, collapses.
Azim orders retreat.
Farid withdraws first, firing at the shredded curtain.
Doctor Ahmad, performer Tariq, and engineer Zahir retreat to the back room.

A crack — Farid falls.
Azim runs to him.
Sees the hole in his head.
Cries for his childhood friend.
Another shot.
Azim collapses.

Nematullah and Haroon fall back.
The shadow fires.
Nematullah drops.
Haroon stands alone in the hall — alone before the demon.
He does not know why he recalls Tariq’s story — the shepherd and the wolf.

A blow strikes his head.
He falls.
He sees the doorway to the room where his brothers hide.
A shadow passes above him…

Nightwish

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END OF ANECDOTE 3 — “Death…”

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This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel¹ for editing, documentation, and narrative development.

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Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.

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