being pulled away from the shore, swim parallel to the coast until you’re out of that current!’
I watch as the sea grabs him and pulls him farther away. He swims perpendicular to the current, exits it, and swims back to the beach. He huffs and empties the pebbles on my feet, then rips the second leg off the bird and takes a large bite. His hair is dripping on my pants. ‘So, what about those strokes you wanted to show me?’
‘Did I tell you to stop swimming and start eating?’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He takes an enormous bite, ripping all meat off the bone, and chewing it while he walks back into the water.
I’m having fun. He’s been such an arse these past weeks, and now I can pay him back, at least for a little while.
‘Where do you want me to swim?’ he calls from afar.
Just as I’m about to shrug, I pull myself together. I’m the teacher, he’s my pupil. I have to know my shit. ‘Pebbles back into your pockets, then swim back and forth along the beach and use the strokes I’ve shown you. I’ll call corrections.’
I watch him for about an hour, instructing him how to use his arms and legs, and how to dive under the large waves. He’s wet and tired when he returns.
We eat lunch, sitting cross-legged at the beach, his elbows and knees coated in sand, wet hair plastered to his shoulders. ‘You’re doing really well,’ I tell him. ‘A week from now, you’ll swim like a fish.’
‘We don’t have a week.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve checked the terrain,’ he says. ‘If I were to choose a camp site for the BSA, there would be access to clean water, the place would be sheltered, but with a good view of the surroundings. There aren’t many such spots left in the area Ben and Yi-Ting have yet to scan. They should return with a positive sighting within the next three days. You have goose bumps.’ He points and I touch a hand to my neck, the only bit of bare skin aside from my hands, feet, and face.
‘Until then, we’ll rest, take a few runs and swims, do a little sharp shooting. And we’ll sleep well.’
I snort. ‘Are you bullshitting me? I can see you are itching to do something. You can barely sit still.’
‘True. I’d like to dig a few holes.’
‘What holes?’
He nods to where Taiwan lies hidden far behind the waves. ‘Hideouts close to their camp. We can drive them mad by firing a few shots every day, switching locations frequently, so they never know where death can come from. The only question is — how long will it take? I’m guessing a month or two, or when they’ve lost about fifty percent of their men, maybe more. Then they’ll run.’
It’s so close now and much easier to grasp — shooting people. I’m scared to pull the trigger. Or am I scared of failing to pull the trigger? I’m not sure.
‘What does it feel like?’ I ask.
‘What does what feel like?’
‘Squeezing the trigger; seeing someone die.’
He sits up straight, his gaze intense, voice low. ‘You want to know what I feel when I shoot someone?’
I nod.
‘Close to nothing.’
I blink. Did he just tell me he’s a killer without conscience? ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m not lying. When I take aim and squeeze the trigger, I’m like a well-tuned machine. I assess windage, distance, movements of the target, movements of other targets, risks, weather and my own condition. There’s little space for emotions during these moments, and should I feel them, I control them so they can’t control me. It’s human nature to not want to kill. Training helps you overcome this reflex, and your own strong will aids you in stepping over the final line when you’re in a combat situation. But you need to know what you are fighting for.’
He looks at me as if he expects an answer. I have no idea. What would make me kill someone?
‘I want my daughter to grow up, to have children and grandchildren, and die of old age,’ he says. ‘I don’t want her to be butchered by a horde
I watch as the sea grabs him and pulls him farther away. He swims perpendicular to the current, exits it, and swims back to the beach. He huffs and empties the pebbles on my feet, then rips the second leg off the bird and takes a large bite. His hair is dripping on my pants. ‘So, what about those strokes you wanted to show me?’
‘Did I tell you to stop swimming and start eating?’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He takes an enormous bite, ripping all meat off the bone, and chewing it while he walks back into the water.
I’m having fun. He’s been such an arse these past weeks, and now I can pay him back, at least for a little while.
‘Where do you want me to swim?’ he calls from afar.
Just as I’m about to shrug, I pull myself together. I’m the teacher, he’s my pupil. I have to know my shit. ‘Pebbles back into your pockets, then swim back and forth along the beach and use the strokes I’ve shown you. I’ll call corrections.’
I watch him for about an hour, instructing him how to use his arms and legs, and how to dive under the large waves. He’s wet and tired when he returns.
We eat lunch, sitting cross-legged at the beach, his elbows and knees coated in sand, wet hair plastered to his shoulders. ‘You’re doing really well,’ I tell him. ‘A week from now, you’ll swim like a fish.’
‘We don’t have a week.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve checked the terrain,’ he says. ‘If I were to choose a camp site for the BSA, there would be access to clean water, the place would be sheltered, but with a good view of the surroundings. There aren’t many such spots left in the area Ben and Yi-Ting have yet to scan. They should return with a positive sighting within the next three days. You have goose bumps.’ He points and I touch a hand to my neck, the only bit of bare skin aside from my hands, feet, and face.
‘Until then, we’ll rest, take a few runs and swims, do a little sharp shooting. And we’ll sleep well.’
I snort. ‘Are you bullshitting me? I can see you are itching to do something. You can barely sit still.’
‘True. I’d like to dig a few holes.’
‘What holes?’
He nods to where Taiwan lies hidden far behind the waves. ‘Hideouts close to their camp. We can drive them mad by firing a few shots every day, switching locations frequently, so they never know where death can come from. The only question is — how long will it take? I’m guessing a month or two, or when they’ve lost about fifty percent of their men, maybe more. Then they’ll run.’
It’s so close now and much easier to grasp — shooting people. I’m scared to pull the trigger. Or am I scared of failing to pull the trigger? I’m not sure.
‘What does it feel like?’ I ask.
‘What does what feel like?’
‘Squeezing the trigger; seeing someone die.’
He sits up straight, his gaze intense, voice low. ‘You want to know what I feel when I shoot someone?’
I nod.
‘Close to nothing.’
I blink. Did he just tell me he’s a killer without conscience? ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m not lying. When I take aim and squeeze the trigger, I’m like a well-tuned machine. I assess windage, distance, movements of the target, movements of other targets, risks, weather and my own condition. There’s little space for emotions during these moments, and should I feel them, I control them so they can’t control me. It’s human nature to not want to kill. Training helps you overcome this reflex, and your own strong will aids you in stepping over the final line when you’re in a combat situation. But you need to know what you are fighting for.’
He looks at me as if he expects an answer. I have no idea. What would make me kill someone?
‘I want my daughter to grow up, to have children and grandchildren, and die of old age,’ he says. ‘I don’t want her to be butchered by a horde
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