The Watch: A Novel
Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya
Language: English
Pages: 318
ISBN: 0307955915
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Following a desperate night-long battle, a group of beleaguered soldiers in an isolated base in Kandahar are faced with a lone woman demanding the return of her brother’s body. Is she a spy, a black widow, a lunatic? Or is she what she claims to be: a grieving young sister intent on burying her brother according to local rites? Single-minded in her mission, she refuses to move from her spot on the field in full view of every soldier in the stark outpost. Her presence quickly proves dangerous as the camp’s tense, claustrophobic atmosphere comes to a boil when the men begin arguing about what to do next.
Told from various points of view, including those of the U.S. soldiers, Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya’s heartbreaking and haunting novel takes a timeless tragedy and hurls it into present-day Afghanistan. Taking its cues from the Antigone myth, Roy-Bhattacharya recreates the chaos, intensity, and immediacy of battle, and conveys the inevitable repercussions felt by the soldiers, and their families, and especially one sister. The result is the most powerful expression to date of the nature and futility of war.
Now with Extra Libris material, including a reader’s guide and bonus content
no letup from the storm these past two days. Now we’re feeling its full impact, and we’ll have to find ways to deal with the situation without letting the enemy catch us off guard. My men know it, but the ANA troops are a different story altogether. There are three of them by the Hescos and they run forward even before we reach them. I wave them back, but Fazal Ahmed, the smallest of the three, signals to his companions authoritatively, and they attempt to slip past us. I bar them with
shot, a crack poker player, and he seldom sleeps. Together, Pratt and Ramirez make an unpredictable team, and the other men give them a wide berth. The base is shaped like an oblong, and Whalen and I circle around the entire perimeter one more time, past the sandbagged mortar pits, the burn-shitters, the plywood B-huts, stopping to check each guard position until we return to where we began. And all the while, the banshee wind scourges the base. I glance back at the plastic shitter screens
in her place. Most of us, at least. It’ll be heavier still if you let your guard down and we’re attacked in the middle of the night, I respond. Remember what happened two days ago. You don’t want to end up as a casualty in a CQB you coulda prevented, soldier. I … I suppose we just have a feelin’ she’s different, Sir. How do you know that? I say sharply. Nothing tangible, Sir. Then park that feeling. Yes, Sir. We’re pretty much worn out, Sir, Pratt interjects quietly, and it’s prob’ly
field and feel a twinge of doubt. As I climb down from my perch, I think of Whalen’s words about war not making sense sometimes and wonder if he could be right in this particular instance. Then I dismiss the thought. I make a pit stop at the mess tent to get some coffee. I cradle the Styrofoam cup as I make my way between the B-huts listening to the sounds of men stirring. Somewhere, a boyish tenor begins to sing U2’s “Beautiful Day.” A flock of tiny birds dips in and out of the mist trilling in
respect her dignity and treat her with the honor she deserves. Her eyes stare watchfully at us as we advance, bulky in our body armor. I can see her bangles glinting in the sun. Our knees click like castanets as we march in unison. Scorpions scuttle out of our way. We’re almost there, when she turns suddenly and reaches for the dead lamb. Her knife flashes at the same time as I spot a movement on the slopes. Get down! I scream, even as everyone around me is hitting the ground. A cloud of