Erich asked himself, for perhaps the 100th time in his life, what he was doing here. ‘Here’ was a slit trench in a remote part of Yemen, about 5 kilometres from the nearest Houthi camp. He was currently engaged as an ‘adviser’ to the Saudi forces, his salary paid by the USA. Apart from the heat this was what he called a good assignment; two weeks on, two off, the best weapons and equipment. Being funded by the US had another advantage – the pay was spectacular. He wasn’t doing it just for pay, though. He had several fortunes tucked away in various places, enough to fund a lavish lifestyle for a very long time. He was doing it because he knew nothing else.
He kept fighting, for pay, in any conflict he could find. He usually had a few to choose from, and this particular phase of human development offered particularly rich pickings. For anyone with the experience he had, and was as well known to the right people as he was, life was sweet. Today, he was in charge of a platoon of Saudi commandos, or Special Forces in the current parlance. They were good lads, well trained and armed, and they followed his orders without question. Now, it was lunchtime, and he was relaxing as much as he ever did: one eye on his men and one ear listening for incoming ordnance. The Saudi field rations met with his approval; as he ate his dates he reflected on the different experiences he’d had through his career. The French Foreign Legion was probably the best. It had varied from forage – basically feeding yourself – on missions to cordon bleu back at base. And the wine… But then his sixth sense made him twist round and pick up his P90.
“Stations everyone. Here they come.” All along the trench helmets were fastened, safety catches flicked, metal clinked on metal. Within a minute, a plume of dust. Two vehicles, probably Datsuns with a gun platform bolted on the back, coming this way. Erich motioned with his right hand, palm down. Wait. They watched, silent and tense. The trucks would pass them on the road below the escarpment, about 100 metres away at its closest point. There was no cover on either side of the ribbon of broken concrete. The flat, rock-strewn wilderness disappeared into the heat haze. As the vehicles came closer they could see the gunners on the back lazily swinging the barrels of their guns from side to side. Erich smiled. The usual amateurs. 300 metres. Erich made another sign. Get ready. The two men in charge of the Javelins re-checked their charges. Erich made eye contact with the sergeant, gave him a slight nod. The two missile launchers poked over the edge of the trench, steadied, fired. Two streaks of flame and both vehicles exploded with a dull crump. When the smoke died away he saw a movement. “Hamza. First vehicle” The young man brought his rifle to bear. A single shot and the movement ceased.
After scanning the area with his field glasses for a full half hour, Erich stood. One by one, his patrol did the same. They were all taller than Erich, who was short and stocky. To a man, they looked to him for orders. His face, tanned to the colour of old leather, had a deep scar running from his left eye diagonally to his mouth, which it skipped to peter out on his chin. “Move out” he said. “Make sure we leave the trench clean.” The men scanned the ground for debris, Hamza found the single cartridge shell and tucked it in his pack. The troop formed in a line and moved out, Erich to the rear. When the bulk of the patrol was on its way down the hill towards their transport, Erich looked back. A new dust plume, bigger than the first, heading towards them, fast.
They nearly made it before the hill was raked by small arms fire. Bullets hummed like bees and kicked up earth as the men dived to safety. But not all made it. Two men dropped to the ground, unmoving. Erich risked a look over the edge of the trench. Five vehicles, with Houthi spread around them, AK47s spitting flame. “Return fire” he yelled. If they could just stop the Houthi getting their heavy guns going.. He poked his own gun over the edge, started squeezing off shots, aiming at the rear of the Houthi vehicles. He saw the gunner fall from one of the guns, just as he saw another swinging towards him. He swung his weapon towards it. Not quick enough. A flash from the gun’s muzzle and he knew no more.
Erich woke. He was staring at a cracked white ceiling. He lay still, unsure of where he was. Tentatively, he moved his arms. Some chest pain, but bearable. Left leg, ok; right leg, sluggish. He raised his right arm, ran his hand over his torso, then his head. Nothing seemed to be missing. He turned his head to the left without lifting it. Tables, with still forms laid on them. Same to the right. It had happened again. He’d been taken for dead, laid with the other corpses. He sighed softly. This had been a good gig, but now it was over. He would have to steal away, start again in some other war zone. He relaxed, enjoying the cool peacefulness, thinking about where he should go. Perhaps join the Kurds fighting ISL. Or should he have a bit of r & r? He’d been at one front line or another, with no real break, for the past five years. He was mulling this over when he heard a noise to his right. He moved his head, saw a fellow corpse, next to him, twitch. He waited. Another twitch, then an exclamation. The eyes snapped open. A gasp, then “What the fuck?” American accent.
“You ok?” At the sound of Erich’s voice, two staring eyes turned on him.
“What the fuck?”
“Relax, buddy, you’re in the morgue. They thought you were dead. You’re not.”
“Oh. Right. But really, what the fuck?”
“Can you move your arms and legs?” Silence as each of the limbs moved slightly. “Ok, I can’t see any blood on you. Can you sit up?” Slowly, Erich’s new morgue buddy moved his arms back, raised his torso slightly, winced. There was some blood on his right shoulder. “Looks like you got hit high up on your right arm. Try to sit up.” As he spoke, Erich was sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the metal shelf. His companion did likewise, and soon they were facing each other, a metre apart.
“How come you’re so cool about this? Happened to you before? I’m like, freaked.” He looked to be in his mid 20s.
Erich smiled. “Yeah, once or twice. Trick is to get out without freaking the attendants. I usually wait till it’s dark.”
“Jesus, what happened to you?” The man was staring, and Erich remembered he wasn’t wearing any shirt. The wound that had killed him must have been in his chest. That would explain why it was instant. Erich looked down at himself. Amongst the mass of scars that criss-crossed his torso, he could see the new one, pink, larger than the rest, just below his heart. No wonder they had put him in here.
“I’ve been in the wars, I guess” he said, with a wry smile. “Let me get a shirt.” He moved down the aisle, found a body about the same size and wrestled off his battle top. There was a little hole in the back, but it would do. “Ok, let’s see how you’re doing. My name’s Erich, by the way.” He examined the young man’s shoulder. The bleeding had stopped but there was a deep hole just at the top of the tricep. “You need to get that looked at. Let’s get you to the medical tent.” This was going to mess with his plan, but it couldn’t be helped. He supported the young man to the door and pounded on it. A scuffling noise from the other side, and the metal door was pulled open. They were facing a scruffy looking man who looked very scared.
“Thanks for the rest, but we’re much better now” said Erich. They pushed into the early evening heat. Open-mouthed, the attendant said nothing. As they went past he looked fearfully into the morgue, and quickly clanged the door shut. They heard the lock snapping shut as they made their way across the compound, to the medical tent. After leaving his charge with a nurse, Erich made his way to the canteen. He was glad the morgue was back at the main base; his men would still be at the forward camp. He might be able to get a quick meal without seeing anyone he knew. As always, he was ravenously hungry.
He pushed himself back from the table, relaxed and lit a cigarette. He was just starting to work out his next move when he became aware of someone staring at him. “Well hi there. They get you sorted out?”
Arm in a sling, the young American he’d rescued from the morgue sat down opposite him. “Yeah. Yeah, they did. Thanks.” He stared at Erich, apparently struck dumb.
“Had anything to eat? They do a mean curry here. Nice and hot.”
“Not hungry.” This wasn’t going to be a flowing conversation, Erich realised. He’d had many different reactions, and the young man’s was what he called number 2. So many questions, which to ask first?
“So, what are you about, man? I mean, how old are you?” Not bad, he’d managed to get two of the big questions in at the same time.
“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you. But you have to listen. No questions till the end.” Erich waited for his new friend to return with two cokes, then led him to a secluded space at the edge of the camp. They settled themselves side by side, backs resting against a rock, warm from the day’s heat, and watched the sun going down.
Erich spoke softly for almost an hour, pausing occasionally for a swig of coke. He told of his early years in Switzerland, growing up on the family farm, joining the army, his first battle, at Sempach, being carried from the battlefield by his brother almost as soon as the battle began, mortally wounded by an Austrian pike, about the doctor and his strange eastern-looking assistant, about the evil-smelling liquid they poured into his wound, and the bread, soaked in a bitter fluid, that they forced him to eat, about his miraculous recovery. About the next years and battles, always with his brother, until one day he noticed that his brother grew old while he stayed young. About the fruitless hunt for the doctor who had saved him, and about his eventual realisation that he would never grow old.
He told him about the armies he had served in, about the battles, about the peacetimes which were more difficult than any battle, about the stability and comfort he felt in the company of soldiers, who were the same all through the ages.
He told him about soldiering, how it was all he knew, all he would ever know. How he’d never rise above a non-com, because that way he would stay unnoticed, could move on without any trouble. How he was always moving on.
He told him about the people he had been close to, and the pain of leaving them when they journeyed into old age without him, and their anger at his youth.
He told him about the hell of immortality.
The men sat in silence. Erich was relaxed, waiting for his companion to catch up, process what he’d just been told. The darkness gathered around them.
“So that first battle. When was that exactly?”
“The 9th of July, 1386.”
“So you’re, like, what, 5, 600 years old?”
“650 on my next birthday.”
“Wow. You’re going to have to get a fucking big cake.”
Erich hadn’t laughed as hard, or as long, for at least 100 years. When he could speak, he put his arm around the young man beside him. “You know, you’re the 63rd person I’ve told my story to. I like your reaction best.”
Later that night, Erich stood in the darkness of a tent filled with sleeping men, looking down at the sleeping form of the 63rd person he’d entrusted with his story.
Then he shouldered his pack, ducked out of the tent, and set out on his next journey.
scrievin 