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THE FOURTH ANGLO-AFGHAN WAR

‘You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive’,

observed Holmes to the astounded Watson,

having noted that the doctor’s face spoke

‘of hardship and sickness’. He had seen action

in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, which,

like the First was all about The Great Game

and Russia, and both, like the Third, all

about the British Raj, that Jewel in the Crown,

and Afghan monarchs that might be cajoled

with sufficient treasure or sufficient blood,

while the true rulers, the tribal elders

of the ethnic groups, parleyed with all sides.

 

The Great Game continues, and with new players:

America, China, Iran, Pakistan,

Saudi Arabia. Are Taliban –

who, as some predicted never went away,

but fought a twenty year insurgency –

aka Mujahideen aka

‘freedom fighters’ (to quote Margaret Thatcher),

and the well-funded, so-called Islamic State –

that movable terror, that mobile nihilism –

pawns in the new game,

useful idiots in the exploitation

of the country’s many mineral fields?

 

Those who brought Enduring Freedom chose

not to eradicate polio

but supplied electricity throughout

enabling scenes of havoc and mayhem

to be broadcast on WhatsApp and Instagram.

So, record the lies about Afghanistan –

hypocritical, self-serving untruths,

which ignore the torture at Bagram Air Base,

which prioritise the lives of dogs. Record

that the liars are mostly privileged,

sanctimonious, nostalgic, white

imperialists, some moonlighting as hacks.

 

The Fourth war has masqueraded under

two different euphemisms,

Operation Herrick and then Toral,

and been fought with allies – with Nato,

and the erstwhile Afghan Army and Police –

and achieved no discernible victories,

no battle honours only body bags,

only more of the maimed and the desperate,

only incompetence and abandonment –

against lightly-armed zealots on Chinese-made

Honda motor bikes with a seemingly

endless supply of imported fuel

financed by hectares of exported drugs,

and for whom aspects of criminality,

particularly towards women and girls,

appear a brutal and sacred duty,

in a poor country corrupted with money,

a Ponzi scheme for foreign consultants.

 

Although its capital city, Kabul,

remains the only one in the world

without a railway station, the trade

in opium and hashish has blossomed,

Afghanistan becoming the world leader –

which might have rendered even Holmes speechless.

 

 

 

 

HIMALAYAN CHARNEL

Though there were rumours for a millennium

the first officially recorded sighting

of skeletons – at more than sixteen thousand feet

around the glacial, Lake Roopkund

in Uttarukhand’s Chamoli district –

was by a border guard in 1940.

The authorities thought a company

of Japanese soldiers had frozen to death

trying to invade India from the north

via Tibet but the bones were too old.

 

There were other hypotheses. A large group –

two hundred in total – of pilgrims

and their bearers, heading to the temples

in the forested valleys of the south,

were caught in a hailstorm with no shelter,

hail ‘like cricket balls’ – a simile

befitting a cricketing nation –

that clubbed to death each man, woman and child.

 

DNA tests show most of the remains

are local, but one is from the East,

possibly Java or Japan, and fourteen

from Crete and Greece  – strayed remnants maybe

from the army of Alexander the Great?

 

The place has become popular with tourist-

trekkers, so much so the authorities

have closed off the whole area. Made

wrong-headed by the altitude, perhaps,

back-packers secreted skulls as souvenirs.

 

 

 

STAPLETON COTTON 1ST VISCOUNT COMBERMERE

Stapleton Cotton 1st Viscount Combermere’s

equestrian statue, surrounded now

by traffic, would grace any capital.

For more than a hundred and fifty years

set before Chester Castle he rides south

towards Thomas Harrison’s Grosvenor Bridge

– once the longest single-span arch in the world –

opened by Princess Victoria.

The Viscount – soldier, politician,

diplomat – holds his feathered bicorne

at his side as if just removed in salute.

 

Though Combermere’s seat (once an abbey, now

a wedding venue) was a day’s ride away,

and Earl Grosvenor was the Roman city’s

capo di tutti capi, Chester’s

mercantile citizenry raised the cash

to have the statue designed and made

by Queen Victoria’s favourite sculptor,

Carlo Marochetti, whose Richard

Coeur De Lion holds his sword aloft

outside the Houses of Parliament.

 

However, like the Earl and the Viscount,

the merchants were knights of the chequered square,

and Stapleton Cotton – Valenciennes,

Salamanca, Bharatpur, c-in-c

West Indies then India – helped make

the British Empire safe for their dividends.

 

 

 

NORTH WAZIRISTAN, INDIA, 1937

As he lay in a slit trench, in the dark,

next to the howitzer – smelling the gun oil

despite the cold, shivering despite

the army issue blanket and a tribesman’s

sheepskin tunic he’d bartered for – he thought

of tomorrow’s oven heat, turned, looked up.

Before he came to India, he’d never seen

so many stars. He’d eleven months to go

before his discharge – better counted that way

than in days or weeks. But maybe he’d sign on

for another tour. There was still no work

in the cotton towns. His mam and him

had lied about his age. Better that than

hunger and the workhouse. He thought of his dad,

in the madhouse with shell shock, dying there,

gripping his hand, shouting that poem:

‘Up lad, up, ‘tis late’, his mam sobbing…

 

He thought of the Pathans. ‘Ten thousand,’

the officer had said, a moustached Colonel,

who’d cut his teeth as a subaltern

in the Amritsar massacre. ‘And lead

by the mad Fakir of Ipi. By contrast,

we are fifty thousand – British, Gurkha, Sikh.

Ten brigades, five divisions, armoured cars,

tanks and a squadron of Wapiti bombers.

We shall prevail.’ They’d hardly ever seen

the enemy – but caught the endless sniping,

the frequent roadside booby trapped bombs.

When they did get close, the treacherous,

ruthless, suicidally brave buggers

flitted over the Afghan border.

He’d vote Labour when he got home. Change things…

 

He suddenly remembered Quetta, the earthquake –

and felt the guilt like a knife. His unit

was piling corpses from the native quarter

into a two ton Bedford when one of them

moved. He knew him, Kassim, the battery’s

char wallah, a young man his age. They had talked,

laughed. ‘Please. I am not dead, sahib.’ ‘It’s Kassim,

Corp,’ he called to the NCO in charge.

‘He’s alive.’ He watched the Corporal go to the cab,

bring back a pickaxe handle and cleave

Kassim’s skull. ‘He’s dead now, son. One down.’

The Corporal grinned at him. He looked away.

No one had spoken up – one had even laughed…

 

The eastern sky was lightening. He’d sometimes dream

of Kassim, good dreams, from which he’d wake

bereft. There was no one he could tell.

He remembered the end of that poem

his dad recited again and again.

‘Up, lad: when the journey’s over There’ll

be time enough to sleep.’

HEAR THE DRUMS

This full length stage play focuses on Jamila, a sixteen year old girl of mixed Afghani and English parentage: on her struggle to determine her cultural identity, her longing for her father whom she has been brought up to believe is dead but whom she discovers, by chance, is alive and a prisoner of the Americans in Afghanistan – and her confronting the lies and misunderstandings that have had such tragic consequences for her family.

You can download the main text as a pdf:

HEAR THE DRUMS MAIN TEXT

A list of characters, information about where and when the action is set and acknowledgements are also available as a pdf:

HEAR THE DRUMS – CHARACTERS, LOCATION, ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ETC.

 

 

Note: the play was a prize winner in the Sussex Playwrights’ Club 2009 Full Length Play Competition.