The Green Platoon Read online

  An amazingly recovered Ahmed broke his silence and spoke as they emerged into the light. ‘Al-Quds, Al-Quds.’

  There it was in all its early morning glory. The Holy City, with that characteristic golden dome visible above the pale-yellow city walls.

  ‘Jaysus, he’s a man of few words anyhow,’ said Pete.

  ‘He’s saying, “The holy”,’ said Fionn.

  ‘Yeah, what does that mean, though?’ asked Pete

  ‘It’s the Arab name for their sacred city of Jerusalem. He just got a glimpse of it through the slit.’

  There was a bit of a kerfuffle among the lads as they adjusted themselves to get a squint at their destination. It was magnificent, with signs indicating that they must be passing by the Jewish quarter.

  It was the same misty morning that the guys arriving in Bethlehem had experienced. Jerusalem was an Israeli city now. It had looked majestic in the distance and even more so when the transporter passed close enough to read a pedestrian sign for Dung Gate. The city was immaculate, ancient but maintained, loved, nourished and cherished. The shame was that what awaited the captives was interrogation and not the celebratory welcome afforded to their escaped colleagues in Bethlehem.

  Old Jerusalem is a square city of walls. Nothing in Jerusalem is expansive. Space is too important. Even the police depot they pulled into had to make do with a smallish square. The courtyard allowed the long-wheel-base vehicle to enter. But the same vehicle could only leave following a three-point turn. Four armed Israeli soldiers flanked the vehicle. O’Brien’s men seemed reasonably relaxed, possibly relieved at being over the worst of it. You can’t be captured twice, and how bad could interrogation be compared to what they had just been through?

  The sergeant was thinking that the tiredness that hits the body after an adrenalin rush was an interrogator’s friend. Ahmed stood out as being maybe frightened or agitated, and certainly alert. O’Brien, recognising his discomfort, spoke to him: ‘Ahmed, my friend, you’re under a UN banner while you’re with me. You will be treated as one of us.’

  ‘I think not, Sergeant, I am an Arab. Remember, I should already today be dead except for this Holy Man.’

  He nodded towards Fionn. The conversation ended abruptly with the back door of the vehicle being opened. Sergeant O’Brien wondered why the aggressive shouts of the Israeli soldiers were absent now. Maybe they were showing reverence to the city they were in. Ahmed wasn’t wondering.

  ‘Grenade!’ he shouted, piercing the silence as he violently lurched forward and grabbed the off-balance Israeli soldier who had semi-leaned into the vehicle through the half-open back door. Stunned silence. There was a grunt from Ahmed, born out of the physical effort of hauling a skinny soldier by the scruff of the neck and slapping his face onto the floor of the vehicle.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ screamed Ahmed.

  As Sergeant O’Brien scrambled for some kind of cover, he copped that the Arab was holding the side of the Israeli soldier’s face down on top of the canister he had tossed into the vehicle.

  The explosion was a volcano of noise, flash and smoke. Nobody could see into or out of the vehicle. The shouting from outside the vehicle revealed that the yard was now packed with an attack force.

  Sergeant O’Brien knew that whatever had just happened was now a life-or-death situation. That was a stun grenade. Would the next one be a real one? O’Brien seized the moment, clambered over the two bodies lying on the vehicle floor and grabbed at any grip he could feel on the vehicle’s back door, slamming it shut.

  Even with ears ringing, the boys could hear Ahmed. ‘I knew what was coming,’ he said. ‘Throw a stun grenade into the space and soften them up before interrogation. It is an Israeli dirty trick we know of.’

  To Sergeant O’Brien’s alarm, Ahmed removed his weight from the Israeli soldier’s torso and removed an Uzi sub-machine gun that was strapped across his shoulder.

  ‘Hold on, Ahmed,’ said Sergeant O’Brien. ‘Let’s not do anything rash.’

  Meanwhile Fionn had gathered himself and was leaning down to attend to the stricken soldier on the floor. ‘Martha, get me that green case on the wall above your head. This man needs aid.’

  ‘First aid?’ asked Pete. ‘Is he even alive?’

  ‘Yes, thank God,’ was Fionn’s simple reply.

  ‘Blinded, blinded,’ the Israeli soldier said, barely audible.

  ‘What is your name?’ Fionn asked him.

  ‘Blinded, blinded. David.’

  Fionn motioned Martha to grab the stricken David from one side under the arm, and together they lifted him into a sitting position, still on the floor.

  If David was conscious enough to know what was going on, he would have been disconcerted by the gasps from the men when they saw the side of his face through the clearing smoke. It had borne the full force of the stun grenade’s explosion. No matter. Fionn and Martha quickly and gently massaged burn ointment on to the soldier’s cheek. A semi-conscious, docile, and shocked David allowed Fionn to deal with his damaged right eye. They had found a bottle of saline solution in the first aid pack. He applied that to a clump of cotton wool and did something that only Ahmed appeared to notice – he gently spat on the cotton wool and then delicately pressed it on David’s right eye, while Martha fixed it in place with a bandage.

  Sergeant O’Brien was more tuned in to what was going on outside while the treatment was going on.

  ‘Do not be worried, Sergeant. God is with us today,’ Ahmed said.

  O’Brien was less than consoled. Militarily there were two options: a hostage and siege situation, or the van door was about to be blown off and casualties from the ensuing assault would be huge or even total. Certainly, Ahmed would not survive it. Sergeant O’Brien didn’t like the look of the situation. There was plenty of roaring and shouting outside and coughing and spluttering inside. This didn’t give his head much space for thinking. The fact that Ahmed was holding a loaded Uzi and pointing it at the back door did grab the sergeant’s attention, however.

  The chain of command had become a bit blurred between Sergeant O’Brien and Ahmed. The fact that Fionn often assumed the lead anyway muddied the waters even further. But in this case, he at least was busy dealing with the afflicted Israeli.

  The cleansing and cooling effect of the ointment seemed to comfort David. The amateur medics left him with a clean cotton dressing over his right eye and cheek bone and a matching white bandage around his head to keep the dressings in place.

  Fionn’s calmness while bathing and cleansing a Jewish soldier must have had a calming effect on the rest of the men. Now that the smoke had dissipated from the vehicle, the situation was becoming clearer. Sergeant O’Brien knew he had a bit of time. It was when the roaring and shouting outside stopped that time would run out. He assessed the situation with his military brain now fully switched on. They were in a robust bomb-proof vehicle with narrow-slit, reinforced-glass windows. They had a naval pilot, Ahmed, with an Uzi sub-machine gun trained on the only entrance to the vehicle. They had an Israeli outfit outside that seemed to be in disarray.

  Fionn, assisted by Martha, lifted David into a more comfortable position, onto one of the side benches in the vehicle. While most people had their eyes trained on the back door, Martha saw Fionn bring his mouth close to the stricken soldier’s ear.

  He whispered, ‘Your eye will see again, my friend.’

  Martha wasn’t sure if the others had heard above the din from outside.

  ‘Ahmed,’ said Fionn, ‘hand us over that auld machine gun. Sarge, I think we would be better off returning this boy to his rightful owners.’

  Sergeant O’Brien’s mouth was open.

  Uncharacteristically, the words would not come. Even more gob-smacking was the ease with which Ahmed unstrapped the weapon from his shoulder, clicked the safety catch to on and presented the weapon to Fionn.

 
‘No! Strap that over David’s shoulder,’ Fionn said.

  An Arab willingly presenting a loaded gun to an Israeli had to be a first.

  ‘Get away from the back door, Ahmed,’ Fionn continued. ‘The last thing the boys and girls outside want to see is a friendly Arab face. Sarge, permission to bring David outside?’

  The question came as a relief to Sergeant O’Brien because it meant that he could close the gaping jaw that he had only then become aware of. ‘Permission granted.’

  ‘Grand. Get the door for us, so. Come on, David, best have a doctor check out Martha’s handiwork.’

  The head-butter Private Larry marvelled at Fionn’s coolness, well, bravery really. All the lads had seen him again and again prove himself by doing strange things, and now Ahmed was calling him the Holy Man. The Holy Man in the Holy City.

  The sergeant opened the door and shouted, ‘Stand down. We are coming out unarmed.’ He didn’t expect to be obeyed but at least he got complete silence.

  Fionn emerged, back first, leading a neatly bandaged, still armed, Israeli soldier out of the vehicle. Both men gingerly placed their feet on the ground of the enclosed courtyard. Fionn was now able to gently turn forward and keep David propped up with his arm around his shoulder. He was aware of a semi-circle of some serious-looking weapons pointing at him. What he had in his favour was that the maths was simple. The vehicle passengers were unarmed and David himself was alive and had been reunited with his weapon.

  Fionn recognised the captain from the Dead Sea boarding party. They made eye contact and that was the officer’s prompt to utter a relieved sentence: ‘Out of the vehicle if you please, hands above head.’

  The lads joined Fionn and David on the ancient stone slabs, Sergeant O’Brien first and Ahmed last, Peter, Paul, Larry, Michael and Martha in between. Ahmed held his head down, maybe forlornly hoping that his exploits in the van would go unmentioned.

  As Pete was passing Fionn, he felt the need to whisper, ‘I’d say poor Ahmed is in for it when the Jew lads hear about his shenanigans in the van.’

  ‘How will they hear?’ returned Fionn.

  ‘Well, I’m sure David will tell in debriefing.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ was Fionn’s simple answer to Pete.

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  Martha, who had been listening, spoke to Pete: ‘He’s gone bleary-eyed ga-ga again.’ She didn’t seem bothered that she was talking about Fionn within his earshot. ‘You know the way he goes, tired-like, zombie-like, when he does his thing.’

  ‘Martha, he only wrapped a few bandages around the lad’s eyes.’

  ‘You think?’ replied Martha.

  ‘Quiet, and get moving,’ the Israeli captain roared.

  The eight captives were herded quickly out of the narrow courtyard. They were corralled through ancient labyrinthine passages in what could have passed for being part of the Old City. Maybe it made sense for a modern police depot to use old underground catacomb structures for jails. There were no steps but very much a sense of heading downwards. A not very pleasant smell intensified the further they went, the source of which became apparent when the passageway opened out. It revealed a large semi-circular vaulted cavern completely railed in by a row of floor-to-ceiling prison bars. Sergeant O’Brien estimated there to be about forty inmates behind the bars.

  The prisoners were all awake, although many were lying on rough bedding that was strewn about the place. This was a prison and a prison that did not appear to have a toilet, as evidenced by the buckets around the communal cell. The only saving grace to the place was that it had a large, glowing fire in a central position. The fire vented into a hole in the vaulted ceiling. This appeared to be the only source of light and heat in the place.

  The Israeli captain continued to be brief in his instructions: ‘Back!’ This was directed at the, presumably, Palestinian inmates. ‘In!’ This was directed at the newly arrived group.

  Orders are much more reliably followed when they are backed up by ten or so pointing sub-machine guns. It was a hellish place, but if you could ignore the smell, the open blazing fire gave even hell a pleasing aspect.

  Ahmed murmured to Sergeant O’Brien as they entered the vaulted cell: ‘This is more softening-up tactic, Sergeant. A few hours on your wits dealing with exhaustion and Arab criminals. But these men are not criminal. I will speak for you.’

  The barred cell door was closed and the armed guards withdrew. Cameras outside of the bars in opposite corners were clearly keeping an eye on proceedings.

  Ahmed gathered an Arab audience around him and started a conversation with a growing number of participants. He stood with his back to the fire, speaking Arabic. The Irish posse was on the other side of the fire, not talking much and not knowing what Ahmed was saying either. They could make out some of it when names were mentioned, and Ahmed would point. Clearly there was some bond between the Jordanian and the Palestinians, or at least they spoke the same language. Ahmed only broke out of his ten-minute discourse to point out to the Irish that the prisoners knew an incident was unfolding above them. The sound of the blast grenade had reached them through their chimney.

  At the end of the lecture three of the Palestinians moved around the fire to greet Sergeant O’Brien. They did this by kissing him on both checks, each in turn, and repeating the greeting ‘As-salaam alaikum.’ The kissing was a source of amusement, or at least light relief for the youngsters. The two Arabs that had already kissed O’Brien moved towards Fionn. They both in turn offered to shake hands but then took the offered hand and bowed low to kiss it, this time repeating ‘Al-Quds.’ The lads didn’t know what the words meant but they could see Fionn’s face colouring, mildly embarrassed.

  Ahmed spoke: ‘These men are political prisoners. Some higher body must think that detaining them in this hell hole will shake the politics out of them. A failed lesson miserably repeated through history.’ The three men he was referring to – the greeting party – were leaders and educated men who spoke some English.

  ‘I am Rami from Gaza,’ said the shortest of the three. ‘Our brother Jordanian tells us of your doings on our behalf and we are most honoured to be soldiers with you. Your acts of bravery will be known to many long before you meet them.’

  These kind words were addressed to Fionn, but Sergeant O’Brien felt the need to respond. ‘If I was being honest, men, I’d have to say that I’m glad we are all alive at this point. My boys and girl have had more life and near-death experiences in the last eight hours than most Irish soldiers have in a career of service.’

  ‘Regrettably, Sergeant, many of our Palestinian brothers have such experiences daily.’ This was spoken by another of the greeters, just marginally the tallest of the men.

  It was Sergeant O’Brien who was distinguishing Rami and the rest of the delegation by their physical size. To Irish eyes, he was aware that this big party of men would all look alarmingly similar. Jet black hair, no baldness, all twenty to thirty-five years old, no beards but most with heavy stubble. Good-looking men, at least if they were cleaned up.

  The three men, and indeed all the others, focused their gaze on Fionn.

  The final member of the trio addressed Fionn directly: ‘I am Elias from West Bank near here. We are sorry that your first visit to Jerusalem is to this sorry place. Our Jordanian brother tells us of your holy traits.’

  Here we go again, thought Sergeant O’Brien. But he hadn’t been in the Glen of Imaal that day. His brain was too fried to rationalise either Ahmed’s recovery or Fionn’s unexplained appearance in the boat. Maybe that belt in the spine wasn’t as severe as it had looked. Maybe the boy was a good swimmer. He was suddenly aware of the two corner cameras outside the cell retraining themselves; presumably there were hidden microphones also listening in on the conversation.

  The sergeant was pleased. The Irish usually got on with strangers and the Jews might not have been expecting t
hat. He agreed with Ahmed’s view that he and his boys were thrown in there to soften them up before interrogation, but in fact the get-together in a stinking cell was raising everyone’s spirits. O’Brien might have learnt a lesson at this point, however: when Fionn was involved, expect the unexpected.

  Martha’s emotional intelligence was telling her that whatever energy the helping of first Ahmed and then David had sucked out of Fionn, he had not recovered from it yet.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Fionn, ‘but the word holy, which I am continually hearing, here might be better used to describe a holy show, as my mother would say.’

  ‘I say again, your work against the Jews will be widely known before you meet our free Palestinian people.’

  ‘My friend, Elias, I can only say that I have no work to do against the Jews.’

  Rami was keen to speak at this point. ‘My friends, we all have work to do against the Jews, and in legion they will be repaid.’

  ‘Not by me, they won’t,’ said Fionn.

  The tallest member of the Palestinian trio, who had not introduced himself when he spoke, broke a little away from Rami and Elias. He had taken on a new role by quietly translating the English and relaying the message to the wider group of Arabs.

  ‘Jaysus, what’s he going to say next?’ said Pete.

  And by God had Fionn something to say. ‘Indeed, I have seen heinous acts committed by Jewish men even within the last day. But it cannot be disguised that a savagery has been used against them, as a race, for two thousand or more years. It always struck me’ – Fionn paused and then continued speaking a little slower than normal – ‘that anti-Semitism is about taking the best of human nature and just using it in reverse. So, you take an industrious and devout community, village, city, country, and you despise and hold these good qualities against them. Maybe simply because you don’t see these traits in yourselves. Even that guy Shakespeare got in on the act with his greasy merchant. Hating Jews might have been a pastime throughout the ages.’