The Human Body by Paolo Giordano Page B

there every day to train the Mau Maus. From the way the Afghan policemen hold their weapons, it’s clear to Cederna that they’re hopeless: he’s ready to bet that if the politicos decide to withdraw the troops and turn the war over to them, Afghanistan will fall back into the hands of the Taliban immediately. Cederna hates politicians; all they think about is lining their own pockets and that’s it.
    Once they’ve left the blockhouse the atmosphere relaxes and the patrol allows itself a walk along the road. The armored vehicles follow the soldiers, who are on foot like tame animals. From their shoddy holes-in-the-wall, the Afghans watch the soldiers parade by. Cederna frames them one at a time in the SC70/90’s sight, imagines hitting them in the head, the heart, the knees. In a specialization course he learned to breathe with his belly, so that the shoulder his rifle butt rests on remains still—it’s a technique used by commandos, just what Cederna wants to become. At the end of the mission he’ll submit his application to enter the special forces.
    For the time being his job is anything but that of assault: Captain Masiero has distributed handfuls of candy to the soldiers and children buzz around them like wasps. René tries to disperse them, flailing his arms.
    â€œDon’t worry, Marshal. They won’t hurt you, you’ll see,” Masiero makes fun of him.
    â€œWe shouldn’t let too many of them come near us at one time,” René snaps back. He’s citing the regulations.
    â€œAre you expecting a bomb on a beautiful day like this? If you act like that, I won’t allow you out anymore. You’re scaring all my little friends.” The captain bends down to one of the children and ruffles his hair. “It seems to me you still haven’t understood a thing about our mission, Marshal.”
    Cederna watches his leader take his lumps. He can’t stand Masiero either—he’d gladly knee him in the stomach. He gives René a consoling clap on the shoulder instead, and he too starts handing out candy.
    A little boy, smaller than the others and wearing a tattered smock, is about to end up crushed. Cederna lifts him up and the child lets him carry him, staring at him with wide, rheumy eyes, his nose caked with dried snot.
    â€œDoesn’t your mother ever give you a bath, kid?”
    The answer is a kind of gap-toothed smile.
    â€œYou don’t understand a word I’m saying, huh? No, you don’t understand a word. I can say whatever I want, then. That you’re lousy with fleas, for instance. Filthy. Smelly. That makes you laugh? Really? Smelly, smelly. You stink. Look at you laughing! All you want is your candy, like all the others, right? Here you are. Uh-oh, slow down. Promise me, though, that when you grow up you won’t become a Taliban, okay? Otherwise I’ll have to put a bullet from this in your little head.” He waves the rifle in front of him; the boy follows it with his eyes. “Torsu—hey, Torsu, come over here.”
    His cohort approaches at a slow jog, followed by his swarm of kids.
    â€œTake my picture. Come on.”
    With one arm Cederna holds the child—who after trying unsuccessfully to unwrap the candy has popped it into his mouth, wrapper and all—and with the other raises the rifle in the air, holding it by the stock. It’s a brazen pose, and he’ll use it to beef up his online profile.
    â€œDid I come out okay? Take another one—one more.”
    He sets the boy down on the ground, takes the last of the candy from his pocket, and tosses it far away, in the dust. “There. Go get it.”

Food Supplies
    R eplenishments come by air, without much notice or regularity. Although requests sent from the FOB are always detailed, the bureaucrats in Herat send whatever they want, taking advantage of excess inventory: toilet paper instead of ammunition, juice when the