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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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