The Island Dogs

We met each other on the football pitch, playing soccer in our rubber boots and on muddy fields. They were in one team, and we were in their opposing team: operational intelligence servicemen vs. artillery lookouts.
I saw those two every day. They came by every day in diving suits and waited for nightfall by the trenches on the Arvand Rūd banks before wandering off-shore. I could see them sometimes from top of the mast and also some other times when I was later down with the friends, sitting before the trenches and chatting.
That evening I awaited orders from headquarters to open fire and conduct a registration point shoot, but my anticipation was to no avail. I climbed down the mast sooner than usual. I then spotted them (both Gholām and Abbās) approaching the banks, attired in their diving suits and with their commander, Hāj Mohsen, by their side. We exchanged greetings and they waited for the call to prayer. They then said their prayers when it was dark and recited the suras Al-Fatiha and Al-Tawhīd in the direction of Qiblah.
Hāj Mohsen sat by the river until morning; the few times I left the trench I could see him, sometimes kneeling on the shore and sometimes pacing the bank. He looked worried.
In the morning, I climbed up the mast as usual. I adjusted my binoculars and set out to observe the field before me. Umm-ar-Rasas Island was within my field of view. There they were the trenches among the riverside reed beds, the flat area in the middle of the Island, the palm grove, and the bridge that linked the island to the other side of the River; nothing had changed; all remained to be the same as they had been the day before.
My day was filled with idle hours until noon. There were no orders for fire. At solar noon, I climbed down the mast to eat and went back up later. I waited one more hour; my wireless lay there, still silent.
I was deep in thought when a hurly burly broke out on the Island. There could be gun fires heard from everywhere, and then there were soldiers scattering across the Island. I was watching stunned. They appeared to be searching for something, pushing aside the reeds aimlessly, checking and going everywhere.
Two shadows crawled out of the reed bed and scurried towards the bare area in the middle of the Island. I traced their movements with my binoculars. Dressed in diving suits, the figures paused for a moment, exchanged words, and charged in different directions. I followed their movements with the binoculars until they disappeared into the reeds.
The Iraqi soldiers gradually organized, formed a line and not unlike the Hollywood movies set out to search, crushing the reeds under their feet, advancing foreword.
I could see dogs chasing after one another on the other side. The dogs were followed by the soldiers. Pressing their muzzle to the ground, the dogs sniffed forward.
The soldiers set fire to the thicket, and chimneys of smoke rose up to the sky. When I looked more closely, I saw that the dogs had horded around in one spot. I could make out his dark figure in the smoke; the dogs formed a circle around him.
He fell to the ground, and the dogs pounced on him.
When the soldiers reached him; they lifted him off the ground, threw him down to the ground where they began to punch and kick him, and dragged him to the riverside trenches.
I cannot tell how long it was before the noises died out. The Iraqis, still scattered on the Island, searched for the other diver. Which one of them? Ali or Abbās?
I sat down again. My wireless lay there, still silent.
Then there were gun fires again. I jumped to my feet. The Iraqis were crouching onto the river and shooting. I directed the binoculars towards the river and saw nothing. I then looked down at the lower section of the mast and saw Hāj Mohsen start the engine and set off towards Ābādān at full speed.
He returned at sunset with a frogman who claimed that he had dived into water wearing no fins, and the tides had thus taken him to Ābādān.
Operation Valfajr-8 (Operation Dawn 8) started some nights later. I never saw them again, but I can never forget the events I witnessed through my binoculars that day. (1)

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(1): Gholām Kiyānipour was martyred in Operation Karbala-5, and Ali Seifollahi returned from captivity in the prison of the enemy in 1990.

Ebrāhim Khalaj
Translated by Katayoun Davallou