The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  David turned to face the house looking for Gisela but couldn’t see her.

  ‘Look, we’ve had a bad time. Those terrs are not coming back. Mrs Mentz is a little overwrought. I’m going in. I’ll see you in the morning,’ David replied, suddenly feeling very tired and drained, conscious that he only had a towel wrapped around his waist.

  ‘I understand. I’ll keep the generator running till morning. Okay?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  The two men climbed into the pickup, which roared off into the night, leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the air.

  He returned to the house to find Gisela in the second bedroom still wrapped in the sheet, lying on the bed curled up in a fœtal position. He did not know quite how to handle the situation. She clearly was a woman of many facets and this recent display of unadulterated hatred left him with a feeling of unease. Sure, the terrs were the enemy but the hatred he had seen was an evil thing. It was not something that could ever be tempered, so intense that you could not reason with her. This is how it seemed to him.

  He sat next her on the bed. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, placing his hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from him and then rolled onto her other side leaving a space between them.

  ‘Please, leave, I need to be alone for a while, she said without looking up, her voice muffled by the sheet, which she had drawn up to her face.

  He was bewildered as this was so unlike her. He left the room. The passageway light still worked, providing sufficient light in the destroyed main bedroom enabling him to find most of his clothes and his bag. The grenade had ripped a massive hole into the wall where the window had been. Part of the wooden floor had collapsed, as had the ceiling. It was a mess. Dust covered everything.

  He retreated to the lounge, heading straight for the bar where he poured a generous shot of whisky. He swallowed it in one gulp, the raw spirit burning his throat. He followed this with another. This seemed to clear his mind. Deciding it was best to leave her alone he showered and then collapsed onto the bed in the third adjoining bedroom. It took a while before he fell asleep. The last thing he saw was that hatred-distorted look on her face as she pulled the trigger.

  He awoke to the whap-whap sound of an approaching helicopter. He quickly washed and dressed before stepping out on to the veranda. The helicopter had landed next to a few police vehicles, which had discharged a number of men, some with dogs on leashes. A BSAP police officer approached dressed in civilian clothes, followed by a black man in uniform.

  They greeted each other after which the police officer opened with a barrage of questions, making notes in a small notebook. He noticed that the others had picked up the dead houseboy’s body and rather unceremoniously loaded it into a closed van.

  The men and dogs on the lawn dispersed, all heading in a northerly direction, evident that they had picked up some sort of trail.

  ‘Good morning,’ he heard and turned to find Gisela standing behind him dressed in a pair of jeans, which reached to just below her knees, and a light khaki shirt, hanging loosely over them. She had showered and appeared have recovered from the night’s mayhem.

  They exchanged greetings. She listened to the police officer’s questions, letting David do the talking. It was only when the subject of the houseboy came up that she took part.

  ‘Jeremiah, your houseboy, how long was he with you?’ the officer asked.

  ‘About three months or so,’ she replied.

  ‘Did he come recommended?’

  ‘No, he just turned up here one day looking for work. He had a written reference from another farmer. He wanted to work nearer to his family whom, he said, lived nearby.’

  ‘Presumably you checked?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t,’ she replied, brushing a strand of her away from her face with a hand.

  The officer’s disappointment was evident. ‘We have repeatedly requested that you farmers check and check again. You realise that your houseboy probably provided them with all the intelligence they needed to carry out this raid. You make our job exceedingly difficult,’ the officer said, admonishment evident in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can’t be undone. We’ve got to apprehend them so I’m off. Just keep an eye on things. They won’t be back for a while.’

  They returned to the helicopter, which took off in a northerly direction.

  After the police’s departure and notwithstanding the damaged main bedroom, the household returned to a semblance of normality. The house staff cleared the bedroom of everything still usable, after which a gang of workers started to clear the rubble and carry out repairs. They barricaded the end of the passageway, which led to the bedroom and adjoining bathroom, preventing entry from outside.

  At about three that afternoon, two trucks and a pickup arrived. About twenty men disembarked, mostly blacks dressed in camouflage fatigues and all heavily armed. They immediately sought shade and water. A few remained with the vehicles. The police officer from the morning approached the porch where David and Gisela met him.

  ‘We were rather successful. We caught up with them a few miles from here. A firefight ensued, most of them were killed. However, I have a few wounded and two uninjured in the truck. We need you to have a look at them and see if you can identify any of them,’ he asked Gisela.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, nodding her head.

  ‘Mrs Mentz, I need to point out that this is not a pretty sight, but it’s necessary. Are you up to this?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  They walked to the high-sided truck, David next to her. They had to climb on the steel structure affixed to the back of the truck that housed the rear lights and to which a huge tow-bar was fitted. They both peered over the top.

  Gisela gasped. David winced, gritting his teeth. There were about a dozen bodies in the truck. Most appeared dead. It became clear that those who were bound were alive. They were trussed up with some sort of silver tape, their hands behind them, and their legs together. Their feet were bare. They sat with their backs against the side. They were dirty and covered in dust, their eyes mere black sockets with an occasional flash of white as they furtively looked around. Their expressions radiated abject fear, hardly aware that they were being appraised. The wounded were also bound, their white bandages stark against their black skin. The floor of the truck was smeared with blackened blood where the wounded had been dragged to the side. Attracted by the blood, the first flies buzzed around.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed, his face screwed up in a picture of momentary torment, his teeth clenched.

  She had closed her eyes and was looking away. She then faced forward and looked at the men with purpose, staring at each individually.

  He was appalled by the carnage in the vehicle. It was clear the medical attention given to the occupants had been minimal. From the manner in which some bodies lay on the truck floor, he realised that the police had callously flung or dragged the dead and living into the truck. Clearly, those alive had been subjected to clubbing and beating, their lips and cheeks swollen, some with blood in their mouths.

  ‘God, did they have to do that to the people?’ he said in total disbelief, unable to contain his emotion.

  She turned to him, he saw again the hatred in her eyes as he had that night. ‘What the hell do you expect? They are murderers – they kill children. They would’ve killed you and me. These men should have been killed, not taken prisoner. God, I could shoot them myself,’ she said, close to incoherent, her fists balled, her arms rigid and her eyes mere slits.

  This sudden intense display of hatred that seemed to consume her dismayed him. It frightened him. He had thought he knew her well. Now suddenly, she was somebody he didn’t know at all.

  Kallie Botha and his overseer had arrived in the pickup, also standing on the bumper looking into the truck.

  Unable to restrain himself, David blurted. ‘God, they didn’t have to treat them like this. We’re not bloody animals. This is th
e type of thing the Nazis did.’

  Botha stepped down from the bumper and mumbled something in Afrikaans. David understood.

  ‘Listen to me, I’m not a bloody do-gooder or a kaffir-boetie, but what I am is human and what I just saw shouldn’t be allowed to fuckin’ happen.’ David said, the corners of his mouth white with rage.

  ‘You English are all the same. You just want to kiss their fuckin’ arses.’ Botha replied, a sneer on his face, unable to hide his contempt. He uttered some expletive in Afrikaans and shook his head in resignation as if to say he thought David beyond hope. There was nothing you could do with such a man. Thereafter Botha pointedly ignored David, as did the police officer. They both walked to one side, turning their backs to the others, talking earnestly. He realised that they had categorised him: no longer was he one of them; not an enemy, but certainly not a follower of the true cause.

  Gisela had also stepped off the truck. She looked at him, shaking her head. She turned and retraced her steps to the house.

  He was confused. Things had suddenly changed. He realised he was out of step with them. He didn’t belong. Sure, he had helped but he was an outsider, not a Rhodesian, and that he would not be able to change no matter what he did. Yes, fundamentally, he thought as they did but somewhere they had crossed a line.

  Other than the houseboy, they had recognised none of the dead and injured. A short while later, the police climbed into their vehicles and drove off.

  CHAPTER 25

  The black man cowered beneath the blackened canopy of the stunted thorn bush. Around him, the ground was burnt black, still smouldering in places. Only the trees revealed any green. Their canopies were out of reach of the flames and too wet to catch fire. As the wall of flame approached, he had been able to find a piece of open ground. He had tried to protect himself, bending over and wrapping his arms around himself. Still, his hands and face were blistered where the flames had touched those parts of his skin that had not been covered.

  He still clutched his AK-47 rifle. Two taped-together magazines hung round his neck on a leather thong. Patches of his black hair were singed and a long gash on his forehead showed pink flesh, a bloodied fluid seeping from the wound. He was bewildered, terrified and witless.

  When still across the Zambezi River in Zambia at the training camp, it had all sounded so easy. The black Communist instructor, the Komissar, had been adamant that the whites were not expecting any attack. They could literally cross and walk into the country undetected.

  The black Rhodesians were relative newcomers to the emerging nationalistic movements and only recently had this begun to take on the form of an armed struggle. Military training was a new concept, the level of which was mediocre or virtually non-existent. Weapons were still difficult to come by and any training with live ammunition was not possible, as there simply was not enough ammunition to go round. Every day, they had simulated battle conditions using wooden rifles or those with rifles would do so without ammunition.

  The battle plan was ill-conceived. The whites would not be expecting an attack so near to Salisbury. The farm was not guarded at night. They had crossed the border from Zambia four days ago, moving only at night and sleeping hidden in the densest bush during the day. He, his brother and seventeen others. Some had never even fired their rifles before they set out. In Mozambique at the training camp, no more than a clearing in the bush with a few huts situated in the remotest area of the country’s western border, the Komissar had told them that this was their land, not the white man’s, and that they needed to take it back. All Africa had awoken and it was just the Boers and the Rhodesians who refused to change.

  The Komissar said that many other countries in Africa had been given back to the blacks and that most whites had left. They needed to show the Rhodesians that they could not ignore the black man and continue to treat them no better than slaves.

  Jeremiah, his youngest brother, had found a job as a houseboy on the Mentz’s farm a few months ago. Over time, he reconnoitred the area and provided them with the necessary information, which enabled them to approach the farm without detection.

  He was overcome with grief. He had now lost two brothers, both killed by the whites. His youngest, Jeremiah, had died in sight of the farmhouse, where they were forced to leave him. At the first sign of dawn the pursuit had started. Their trail was only hours old. The white man’s dogs had quickly picked up the fresh scent. The police seemed to know in which direction they were heading. Suddenly, they found their flight blocked by a wall of flame. The police had set the bush on fire, the flames driven towards them by the wind. In the ensuing panic, the police emerged from the bush and, finding them, immediately opened fire. Many of his comrades had thrown down their weapons and raised their hands. The police ignored this sign of surrender and, despite the dead on the ground, continued to shoot. He had hidden in a tangle of burnt roots and branches, the fire deadening his scent, the dogs not finding him. He still dare not move, he had to wait for darkness.

  The sun was low on the horizon by the time the police seemed to have left. Nor could he hear the helicopter.

  CHAPTER 26

  It was Sunday. Gisela had persuaded him not to return to Salisbury until Monday morning. He could take off at first light and still arrive in time at his office.

  She knew that in the last forty-eight hours their relationship had undergone a subtle change. Yes, she still loved him dearly and wished him continuously close to her but now, when she looked at him, he seemed not to be quite the man she thought she knew. She was vaguely uncomfortable. It was as if something she cherished deeply had been taken from her. The feeling frightened her. She had tried to discuss the episode with the prisoners and Botha’s vicious remarks, but he shied away. All he said was that he thought the Rhodesian outlook naïve and that events in the world would overtake them. They needed to realise that they lived in a doomed era. He said he thought it imperative that they prepare for change, in other words, prepare themselves to eventually succumb to majority rule. There was, in his opinion, no other way of putting it. History would repeat itself were his last words. She could not do that. Such a concept was unacceptable. She said so. He just shrugged his shoulders and when she tried to raise the issue of the shooting of the terrorists, he curtly demanded that she leave it alone and walked out of the house.

  Tradition had it that the farm manager and his wife joined the owner for dinner every Sunday night. Her late husband had religiously upheld the tradition and, after his death, she continued to do so.

  The evenings still warm, they decided to have the dinner at a long table on the porch.

  The Bothas arrived in their pickup at seven, He was a big man, broad-shouldered, standing a good six feet three with powerful arms. He arrived dressed in khaki shorts and bush boots, highly polished for the occasion. He was South African born and had grown up in the Western Transvaal, the most conservative of areas with strong Calvinistic traditions and beliefs. He possessed an agricultural degree from the University of Potchefstroom. His dress and attitude belied the fact that he was an intellectual, an educated man, a member of the Afrikaner elite, who had chosen Rhodesia to be his home.

  Gisela introduced Botha’s wife. Her name was Petronella. She barely spoke English, but told them in English with a strong Afrikaans accent, that she was rapidly learning. She was a beautiful woman, but this was disguised, her dress and makeup subdued as it befitted her background.

  The happenings of the previous night and day still tainted the atmosphere around the table, evident in the behaviour of the diners: there was a definite tension. Concerned by the events of the last two days, David had drunk too much and by the time he sat down at the table, he was already on his fifth Black Label and soda. The women merely sipped their wine, talking about those matters that relate mainly to women.

  Kallie had a few beers before dinner and once seated settled for a bottle of Beaujolais. The two men had pointedly ignored one another but were now seated opposite each other. Wit
h the women earnestly in conversation, they could not continue to do so without drawing attention to it.

  Kallie looked up at David.

  ‘Look, I just want to apologise for my remark on Friday. Things were a bit tense out there. I’m sorry.’

  David took the cue. ‘It’s okay. I was also a bit overwrought. Christ, one doesn’t get to see death like that. It’s a shocker’ This sadistic bastard, he thought; does the man think that this was no more than an organised hunt for vermin that plagued the farm? He was not about to forget the blood, gore and broken bodies and how they had been unceremoniously dumped on the truck.

  Kallie held up his glass.

  For a second he was at loss as to what the man was getting at. Suddenly it dawned on him what the man wanted. What could he do? He raised his, they chinking the glasses together.

  ‘Is alles reg?’ Kallie asked in Afrikaans, a questioning look on his face, clear the man wished to make peace.

  He had no alternative. He nodded in agreement. Yes, all was well. Maybe there was some good in the gesture. He felt better now that the ice had been broken. This had not gone unnoticed. Both the women saw the exchange. Gisela smiled at David, clearly happy with developments.

  ‘Do you mind talking about this?’ the Afrikaner asked.

  ‘Not at all.’ What did he want to say now?

  ‘You know I’m Afrikaans and I probably can trace my family back to near the days when Van Riebeeck landed in the Cape in the 1650s.’ He hesitated for a moment and then continued, ‘Please, I don’t want to leave you with any misconceptions. I’ve nothing against the blacks but, unlike the English, I don’t have a home other than this one and you must understand, I just cannot conceive myself just handing this over. Where do I go with my wife and children?’

  ‘You must stay. A new South Africa or Rhodesia will need people like you.’

  ‘That’s what they all say. I say, give them the country and they’ll force us out,’ Kallie replied sceptically, David’s remark just washing over him.