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Falling Toward Forever
by Gordon Eklund
CHAPTER ONE
Despite the brutal, bristling heat that infected the savannah
from dawn to dusk, the nights often turned rapidly chilly. A cold
wind whipped gently across the flat, desolate plain, as Calvin
Waller patiently waited for the campfire to spring sufficiently to
life before joining the other men crouched around the orange
flames. Waller sat with his arms hugging his chest, trying not to
shake or shiver. The moon, a thin crescent, hung low in the sky,
while the stars burned with a splendor impossible to equal in any
of the supposedly civilized centers of the world. The nearest
significant human habitation was a hundred miles from here.
"Would you care for something more to eat?" asked the stout,
heavily muscled black man who crouched nearest to Waller. He
offered his tin plate.
"No, not me, thanks."
"The reason I ask," said the black man, "is because I wonder.
Does it affect you the same as it does me? Each time, before I
enter battle, my stomach grows very nervous, tense."
Waller did not recognize this man. He wore the tattered
combat fatigues and the high filthy boots of all of them. He could
just as easily have been another. "I'm not afraid, if that's what
you mean."
"Oh, no, not afraid. Just tension. I meant nothing else."
"I'm just not hungry"
"The colonel, once when I talked to him, he says you are never
used to it."
"He may be right."
"Especially the killing. We are never used to that, are we?"
"I don't know why not." Waller felt himself growing angry.
Why wouldn't this man shut up? "Isn't it what we're here for?
Look at that gun you're wearing. What's it for? Killing, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry if I have offended you," said the man, but he
sounded more amused than apologetic.
"I'm not offended." Waller started to turn away, but the man
came with him. His spoken English was excellent, if stilted. Most
of the guerillas spoke French, if anything.
"The reason I ask these questions is not wholly for myself.
Your presence here is an enigma to all of us."
"I'm not the only white man who's ever fought with you."
"No, but the others were here for one of two reasons. It was
either the money or it was the ideology. Tell me, then. Which is it
with you?"
"Neither."
The man smiled, his teeth made bright by the reflecting
firelight. "Then you must see why it is so difficult for us to accept
your presence."
"The colonel seems satisfied. Shouldn't he know?" The colonel,
in fact, sat among them tonight. With the other officers, he
squatted beside another, somewhat larger fire.
"The colonel is an excellent soldier."
"I never said otherwise."
"But neither have you said why you are here."
"For one reason," said Waller. "I'm a soldier. When I was
eighteen, my country sent me to fight in a war. I'm twenty-six
now but fighting is all I know. I tried other things and couldn't
do it. So I came here. It's the only war available. It keeps me
busy."
"And our beliefs—they mean nothing."
"No."
"But why choose our side? The insurgent side? Wouldn't you
be safer fighting for the government?"
"I decided a long time ago that I don't like governments."
"Not even your own? They are not supporting us, you know."
"Most especially my own." In spite of the cold, Waller stood
and backed away from the fire. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm
tired."
"Of course." By his smile the man clearly indicated he didn't
believe a word of it. "Perhaps we can talk some other time."
"I hope so." Clutching his rifle, Waller went away, stepping
cautiously across the dark land to the place where his bedroll
was waiting. A few of the other men had also retired but Waller
would have bet—considering what was to occur tomorrow—that
nobody was sleeping yet. He crawled between the blankets,
covering himself from neck to toes. The wind continued to pour
across his exposed face. He uncovered his hands and quickly lit a
cigarette. The smoke failed either to calm or warm him. Maybe
the man was right. Maybe he didn't like the fighting—or the
killing. He wasn't afraid—he had never been that—but he didn't
much like it, either. There were times when he wouldn't have
minded waking up at home in bed.
Not that he had a home. Not unless you wanted to call it
simply the United States of America and get no more specific
than that. He had been born there—years and years ago. He
remembered nothing of the place, except that it was a long way
from here. Home was a place, when they talked of Africa, you
envisioned Tarzan and his apes, a wet jungle, raging charging
lions, frenzied native dancers. It was nothing like this: a flat,
arid, bleak stretch of savannah waste. Or the dreadful dry heat
that sucked the water whole from your body. Or the tall,
handsome natives—devout Moslems, all of them. Or— a sight he
would never forget—the naked, big-bellied, starving children
standing in front of their empty, death-ridden huts. No, home
was a place where some people owned more food than any one
man could eat in a lifetime. Home was a place to be
avoided—and despised. The six months he had spent there last
year—the first such months in seven years—had been plenty
enough to last him a lifetime. He would never go back.
And if he ever did, they would surely jail him. He was a traitor
now.
And he liked it better here. The men respected him— even the
one who had questioned him tonight—and he respected them.
What else mattered?
A jagged shadow loomed over him. Instinctively, he reached
for his rifle.
"It's me!" cried a voice.
"Oh." Waller relaxed. "It's you."
"Yes." The shadow crouched down, becoming a man. "I
wished to say I regretted offending you before."
"I told you I wasn't offended."
"May I have one of your cigarettes, then?"
"Sure." Waller flipped a cigarette at the man. "By the way,
what's your name? You forgot to tell me."
"It is Ahmad. One of my grandfathers was once a king of
Songhai." He said this last as though it was a necessary part of
introducing himself.
"Then is that why you're here? You want to regain the lost
throne?"
"Oh, no," Ahmad said hastily. "My country is done with kings
for all time."
"I hope you're right."
"But that is not what I came to tell you."
"I thought you wanted to apologize."
"Yes, that—but also I wished to warn you."
"Warn me? Of what?"
"Of the fact that, tomorrow when we fight, I will be assigned
to lead my squad upon your right flank. I wanted you to know I
intend to avoid you as much as possible. If I see you coming
near, I will choose to run. If you are in trouble, I will not help."
Waller ground the smoldering stub of his cigarette against the
dry earth. "I seem to have turned you off."
"It is because I feel you are a dangerous man, Waller. If you do
not fear death, then I fear you. You are seeking death; you wish
for it to come.
"That's ridiculous. Who do you think you are?"
"I have received university training in the science of
psychology. In Paris."
"I think you ought to take some graduate studies." Waller said
weakly.
"I just wanted you to know. You are a fascinating man,
Waller, but a very dangerous man. I will see you again when we
have won the battle."
"I hope so," Waller said.
"As do I," Ahmad agreed.
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