My name is Private John Harper

My name is Private John Harper, and what you are about to read now is the story of a boy who grew up in war and poverty. A life which no human being should have to endure…

I look up at the Sergeant; his clear brown eyes lock with mine, but give nothing away as he places the papers onto my lap. I look down and only the second half of the sheet holds any interest for me. It reads:
Ali Husain
Born: 18th May, 2000
Deceased: 20th September 2009
My eyes begin to fill with tears as I stare at the photo next to the writing. It shows the face of an Afghan boy, with hazel eyes. By the look of him you can clearly see that he is malnourished and unhappy.
“Yesterday” I whisper to myself, looking at the date of his death. The Sergeant, having not heard me speak, repeats what I say.
“He died yesterday after an air-raid in a residential area. His body was found amongst the debris of a fallen house. Along with the bodies of Private James Wood and Private Barry Stocker.”
My head snaps up at this new piece of information. So Stocker and Wood were with Ali before they were killed. This did not strike me as odd but nor did it strike me as good, for it meant that Ali must’ve suffered some form of pain in his last minutes, maybe even hours, before his death. Stocker and Wood, I thought with vehemence, were very bad news indeed.
I stare at the Sergeant as realisation hits me, shocked. He watches me carefully. Anger bubbles up inside me like a coiled snake ready to strike.
Who else could have sent Stocker and Wood to be with Ali, except the Sergeant?
The Sergeant knows instantly what I’m thinking and answers my unasked question. “I had to, John,” his voice was almost a plea. “Nobody else was willing to volunteer being with him. What with his vivid hallucinations…” he leaves the rest of the sentence hanging, knowing I would know what he means.
The Sergeant starts muttering under his breath, saying things like “stupid Americans” and “air-rids”. Though I hardly hear him. My mind drifts away, falling into a different time, a different place, in the memories of the deep and clear past.

It all began in January, 2009. I was walking down the type of street we soldiers consider to be “the poorest zone”. People gathered in their masses next to the street walls, leaving us a wide berth to march in. I glanced at the short, stocky man to my left. And he grins up at me.
“Wish we were this popular back home” he sniggers.
“Shut up, Wood” I snapped “They’re afraid of us.”
I signalled to all the people around us, children crying clinging onto their mothers, and people with missing limbs struggling to keep themselves upright. Young and old, every single face on that street stared at us with a mixture of fear, defiance, grief and anger. The worst part of it for me was, knowing that I was contributing towards their misery.
At the sudden sounds of screaming and crying, the Sergeant commanded us to stop.
“Prepare yourselves” he bellowed.
We all pulled out our guns, ready to obey any orders given to us. Barry Stocker, to my right, just stared at the Sergeant, his face a blank mask showing no emotion.
We continued walking and as we turned the corner it became apparent what all the commotion was about, a house: in flames. Even though I was a good 200 yards away I could still feel the intense heat. Black smoke billowed out from the roof top. There were children outside covered in black ash and coughing. People were rushing forward to help, as more children began to run out of the house. That was when I realised that this must be the house of the orphaned and homeless children.
“Never mind” said the Sergeant, “this has nothing to do with us”
“What?” I shouted at him and the rest of the soldiers looked at me with alarm, but the Sergeant said nothing to me.
“Let’s go” he commanded.
“NO! We have to help them!”
“We can’t do anything, Harper” the Sergeant started walking towards me and he grabbed me by the throat.
“Nothing” he whispered into my face, and I could tell he felt as bad about what was happening as I did, but he didn’t know of my loss, and knowing that children were dying in that house made me know something could be done. The Sergeant let go of me and continued to the front to lead us on.
“I have to do something, Sir” I said quietly, and before I knew what I was doing, I was running towards the burning building. I ran in and I was immediately engulfed in thick smoke which made my eyes water and chocked me of the fresh air. There seemed to be no fire around the bottom part of the house. I ran further into it looking for a live soul. I heard a cry of pain. I quickly located where the sound came from and rushed in through one of the doors. I found myself in a tiny wooden box which was actually a bedroom. On the ground were two little boys, one of whom was either dead or unconscious. The other was conscious, but clearly in agony, there was blood dripping down onto his clothes from a cut on his cheek and his leg seemed to be stuck under a heavy looking piece of wood. This little boy didn’t look up at me as I tried to get the wood off him. His eyes showed nothing but fear and pain as he looked at something next to him. The wall, perhaps? He was probably too frightened to look at me in the eye, I thought.
I managed to heave the wood off him and that’s when I saw there was a deep wound in his leg. I ripped off some of my clothing and rapped it tightly around the bloody injury, I tried to help him stand but it was too much of a struggle for him. I quickly checked the pulse of the other boy but there was no sign of life left in him. I put my emotions aside as I turned to the conscious boy. I lifted him into my arms and ran out of the house. Reaching the fresh air was a relief to my lungs. But my joy of saving the boy turned to trepidation as I saw the Sergeant’s face, red with anger.
“What the hell were you thinking?!” he screamed at me.
I slowly put the boy down and tried to ignore the Sergeant’s ranting.
“Thank you” said the boy in Pashtu, his voice shuddering.
“What is your name?” I asked him, also speaking in fluent Pashtu.
“Ali Husain” the boy replied, looking up to meet my eyes. And I gave an involuntary gasp. The eyes… those eyes were identical to his ones. The same shape, same hazel colour.
I tried to cover up my shock, with difficulty.
“Well, Ali… I must leave you now. You’ll be safe.” Even as I said the words, he and I both knew that they weren’t true.
“Take me with you” the boy looked up at me with those eyes, wide and shining. Only now, as I examined him properly did I notice that, apart from the recent injuries, two of his fingers were missing and there were half-healed cuts and bruises all over his body.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” I said
“Please” he begged, tears welled up in his eyes and began to pour down his cheeks.
The Sergeant had stopped with the ranting, and I realised he’d been listening to every word. And to my complete and utter surprise, he nodded once.
“He’s your responsibility, Harper,” said the Sergeant, quietly “I just hope this heroic act of yours doesn’t turn you in to a Jonah” then he abruptly marched off to speak to the rest of the troops.
Jonah? me? One thing I knew for certain: I wasn’t a soldier who brought misfortune and bad luck with him.
“Ok, you can come with us” I smiled down at Ali as I helped him to his feet.
He seemed absolutely delirious at my change of heart.
“Thank you, really” he said sincerely.
“Don’t mention it, kid” I ruffled the top of his head and in that moment, all the terribleness in my life just seemed to evaporate. I felt so content with this little boy. It was almost as if he were my own.
Throughout the next few weeks, Ali remained by my side. I wanted to protect him and in a way, I loved him as if he were my own son. He only conversed with me and the Sergeant seeing that we were the only Pashtu speaking. And all the other soldiers accepted him, which was good. However, there was of course “the twits” as I liked to call them: Stocker and Wood. They didn’t seem too happy about having him there, and often pushed him around when I wasn’t around.
They told me privately that Ali was a weird little freak.
“Face it, Harper, he’s useless to us” Wood sneered.
“Yeah, always muttering to himself like he’s got someone there with him. Well, I don’t like the little freak, he’s weird.” Stocker said viciously.
My reaction genuinely shocked me: I pulled out my gun, and I felt so angry that my whole arm was shaking and pointing the gun at Wood’s head was a task of great difficulty.
“HARPER!” shouted the Sergeant.
I slowly lowered my gun, and uttered the most vulgar words I could think of and threw them at Stocker and Wood.
“Don’t- Mess- With- Me.” I said each word distinctly, hoping they would get the point and back off.

Several days later after ‘the incident’, we found ourselves in a cave. It was cold and damp and we were all hungry. I wrapped Ali up in a blanket and pulled out some ready- made meals from my back pack. I gave him a piece of my bacon and we just sat there, chewing. I watched him carefully as he ate. He obviously didn’t realise that I was looking at him because he glanced sideways at nothing in particular, gestured with his hands as if offering some food to something I couldn’t see, then put the food in his mouth and laughed happily. I was glad that neither Wood nor Stocker were around to see this.
“Who are you speaking to, Ali?” I asked quietly so nobody else could hear us.
Ali looked up, surprised.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is do you have an imaginary friend or something?” I smiled to show that I wouldn’t laugh at him. “I used to have one when I was your age, his name was Bob” A little lie never hurt anybody; I just needed to know what was going on in his head.
Ali looked at me sharply, and then to “the thing” next to him.
“No,” he whispered “but I do speak to someone…”
“Oh yeah? Who’s that then?” I said, ruffling his hair the way I always did.
“Just a… friend.”
Looking at him, I couldn’t contain the laughter I’d been holding back anymore, and I began whooping so loud the Sergeant told me to quieten down a little. But Ali wasn’t happy
“You English have no respect for us, my parents are dead and so is my sister. In my short years of life I’ve probably lived through more pain and misery, than you will ever in a life time,” Ali got up and kicked a stone, sending it flying against the cave wall “and you know why? Because you stupid English, and not only you, but the Americans also, want oil from our country. I’ve been beaten by people and even had two of my fingers cut off for telling people what they think are lies. It is not an imaginary friend that I speak to, but a person, a ghost. You wanted to know, so I told you.”
For a few seconds, all I could do was stare at him. There was so much in Ali that reminded me of him.
“There is something that I haven’t told you yet, Ali” I said slowly “I had… I had a son” I could hardly get the words out, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes “You remind me a lot of him, especially your eyes, they are exactly the same” I put my face in my hands and cried silently. The next thing I knew, Ali had his arms around me and we were both crying.
“I am sorry for what I said before” he said “You are like a dad to me, John” he looked up at me and smiled. And in that moment I felt as if things weren’t going to be so bad after all.

I opened my eyes and I was back in the room with the Sergeant. Hardly a minute has gone by as I’ve relieved this to you.
I now find myself paralysed from the neck down, after having a grenade thrown at me. This is what I have been told but I don’t remember any of it. And I’ve wondered every day since, whether the ghost Ali told me about was real or not…

Jessica Olim López (3º B)