The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  He realised that he would never make the border in the state he was. He would need to get help or hole up for a week or two until the wound had healed and, if he could blend in with the local black population, he could still deal with the man and the Mentz woman. But for now, the top of the kopje was the best place.

  CHAPTER 67

  The first thing David did on arrival at the hospital was to check on Gisela. This was a small country hospital served by two doctors. He told the nurse at reception who he was. She was rather dubious at first, looking at him suspiciously. He was covered in blood on the one side and dirty from head to foot. She looked at the machine pistol clasped in his hand.

  ‘Is that a gunshot wound?’ she asked, not in the least surprised. Nobody went anywhere without a weapon.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.’

  ‘Please just wait here, I’ll be back in a second,’ she said and disappeared through a set of swing doors that led down a passage. He desperately needed something to alleviate the pain, all he wanted was an injection, and now he had to run into a possessive, matronly woman who, notwithstanding his appearance, blood and all, asked him to wait!

  The door swung open again and a tall elderly man with a shock of white hair and a pair of half-glasses perched on his nose strode into the reception area, followed by the nurse.

  ‘Good God, you’re a mess!’ the man exclaimed. ‘I’m Doctor Howard and I’m in charge here. What happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve been shot,’ he croaked.

  ‘That’s obvious, let me take a look.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘Get Sister Wainwright. I want this man on a gurney and brought into casualty immediately. Before I examine him, I need him cleaned up.’ The doctor walked up to him and bent down to inspect his wound. ‘Not too bad. You’ll live.’

  ‘Thanks doc, but what I’d really like to know is how is Mrs Mentz? Is she okay?’

  The doctor’s face took on a sombre expression, hesitating before replying.

  ‘Unfortunately, I have to tell you that her condition is not good at all. She’s lost a great deal of blood. We are giving her a transfusion now. Fortunately, we have all her details on file. It seems the gunshot didn’t damage any vital organs, but it did damage certain muscles and ligaments. She is also in deep shock. They got her here just in time, but it will be a while before she’ll be mobile again. The next twenty-four hours will be critical. I’ll need to operate.’

  ‘I’d like to see her,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t. Anyway, she’s unconscious and sedated,’ the doctor replied. ‘Besides, I need to attend to you.’

  He realised that the doctor’s word was final and reluctantly climbed on to the gurney they had brought and allowed them to wheel him down the passageway.

  In the casualty ward they removed his clothing. He lay stark naked on the examination table while two junior nurses washed him. They then covered him with a sheet and waited for the doctor who soon arrived.

  The doctor examined him thoroughly.

  ‘You’re bloody lucky. It’s really no more than a flesh wound. Yes, it has just nicked your kidney, but only just, and there’s no reason to put you under the knife. You’re tough. You’ll survive,’ he said, a slight smile on his face.

  ‘Doc, please do something about the fuckin’ pain!’

  ‘Of course, I’ll give you an injection now,’ he said and turned to the nurse indicating that she could proceed with the injection.

  The feeling of relief and the immediate release from pain was heaven.

  ‘You don’t want to get used to that stuff,’ the doctor warned with a chuckle. He got to work on the wound.

  David woke up in a single ward, his side bandaged and stiff. It was already past midday. He was ravenous. He rang the bell above the bed. The day nurse arrived within minutes, giving him a friendly smile. She was young with a bob of short blonde hair beneath her nurse’s cap. Her body was trim, clothed in the starched nurse’s uniform. Fortunately in the tropics they did not have to wear stockings, only the white shoes.

  ‘Good morning, I’m Sister Wiggin,’ she said giving him her best smile, white teeth flashing. Already she had the clipboard and a thermometer in hand.

  ‘All I want is breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘All in good time, but first your temperature, blood pressure and a bed-wash.’

  He groaned in despair.

  After breakfast, the doctor visited while doing his rounds. He examined him and proclaimed himself satisfied with David’s progress. He probed the doctor concerning Gisela.

  ‘The good news is that she’s out of danger. The operation was a success and she’s sleeping off the anaesthetic. She did ask about you during one of her lucid moments. I think you can go and say hello. It may be a good idea.’

  The doctor left. The nurse told him that Gisela was on the same floor in the opposite wing. It was not far as this was a small hospital. He rolled out of bed and stood next to it for a minute or so waiting for his head to stop spinning, holding onto the bed with one hand. Eventually the room righted itself and he started walking. With every step, he felt better. By the time he got to her ward all that remained of his ordeal was the stiffness. He was sure that this would also loosen up in time.

  He stood next to her bed looking down at her, deeply regretting that she had had to endure the terrifying moments they had experienced during the last two days. His heart went out to her. She was asleep, still pale. He stayed there with her for a while and then quietly left.

  During the afternoon, he heard the sound of helicopters passing overhead and, around five that evening, a warrant officer of the BSAP visited him requesting that he carefully relate the sequence of events as these had taken place from the moment of attack until his arrival at the hospital. The man confirmed the tragic news of the loss of the police officers in the landmine explosion as well as the death of Kallie Botha and his men on the pickup.

  ‘Have you been able to track the terrorists?’ David asked.

  ‘Yes, we picked up their trail and are in hot pursuit. They won’t get away,’ the warrant officer said. David believed him and was sure there weren’t going to be any survivors. It was that kind of war.

  ‘What about the survivors Mrs Mentz and I fought in the alfalfa?’

  ‘Ha! There was only one survivor. In daylight, it was easy to read what had happened. Both of you did a brilliant job. There were five, you killed four. The last was wounded. We found his track and saw the blood. He’s smart. He lost us, but don’t fear, we’ll still pick him up,’ the warrant officer replied with confidence.

  David wasn’t so sure. This one was a lot smarter than that.

  ‘Do you know where to start looking?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, they always make for the border.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about this one,’ David said.

  The warrant officer did not reply, he merely sniffed, leaving David with the impression that he thought David was wrong.

  The warrant officer bade him goodbye and left.

  Ignoring the protests of both the nurses and doctor, David discharged himself. He had phoned the farm’s office in the management compound and asked them to scrounge some clothes and fetch him.

  Before leaving Centenary, they stopped at the bank. Although the manager was sympathetic, it still took a good hour before he had gone through the process of having himself identified and verified, they phoning numerous people to confirm his bona fides, but eventually the bank released three thousand Rhodesian dollars in cash against his signature. He then entered a men’s outfitter and bought two sets of outdoor clothing and shoes. Next, he called on the cooperative and bought essentials in order to convert the laundry in the outer building into a makeshift kitchen. This included a refrigerator, a gas stove, crockery, cutlery, pots and pans. Finally, he bought foodstuffs from the supermarket. They arrived back at the farm in the early evening. Five of the black staff helped him offload and setup the kitchen.

  He felt sad and depresse
d when he drove the pickup to the management compound and stopped in front of the Botha’s house. This was large, similar to the main house, also with a veranda that stretched the length of the one side of the house. Cane chairs with cushions and tables were scattered on the veranda. Obviously, this the family’s chosen spot where they spent their leisure time in the evenings and weekends.

  Petronella, Kallie’s now-widowed wife, stepped out onto the porch from the house dressed as she normally would be on any working day on the farm except for a small triangle of black cloth pinned to her left upper arm sleeve, a sign of mourning. Yes, she looked haggard and her eyes were red, yet she still held her head high, clearly a strong woman. She was an Afrikaner, proud of her heritage and ancestors, many of whom had perished when fighting the blacks. She felt compelled to show no weakness, he thought.

  ‘Petronella,’ he said, taking hold of her hand and holding her palm in his, ‘I’m truly very sorry and my deepest sympathies.’

  She merely nodded looking him in the eye, her lower lip quivering.

  ‘It is God’s will,’ she whispered.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Are you all right? What about the children?’ he asked.

  ‘They are too young to understand. We will manage.’ Tears began to run down her cheeks.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked.

  ‘Just go, please! Leave now. We’ll be fine.’

  He left and returned to the farmstead.

  CHAPTER 68

  By the time Sizwe got to the foot of the kopje, dawn was already a smudge on the eastern horizon. As he started to climb, the light improved and he was able to pick his way through the rock outcroppings. It took him nearly an hour to reach the recess in the face not easily seen from below which they had used as a layover site. The last part of the climb was in broad daylight and he hoped nobody detected any unusual movement on the slope.

  He was utterly exhausted and slightly woozy from the blood he had lost. His ribcage burnt. He stripped off his clothes and rummaged in the packs they had hidden until he found a field first-aid kit. He cleaned the wound as best he could, applied disinfectant and then strapped his ribs up with wide adhesive bandage tape. He tore open a ration package, some goo to which you merely added water, and presto! It tasted horrible. He washed this down with a few gulps of water. He then lay down under the rock overhang. Within a minute, he lapsed into a sleep of exhaustion, oblivious of the hard ground which was his bed.

  He had planned starting that night for the border but realised he needed another day or two to recuperate. Water was a problem but it had rained the previous night. He hoped to find a rock pool amongst the outcrops. He would do so at first light the next morning. He still had sufficient water for another day.

  The next morning, still stiff and sore, he scoured the rocks and found two rock pools, the water clean and fresh. He slaked his thirst and then filled two canteens. By that afternoon, his side felt better. He decided he would be able to move out the following night and scout around. He had the names of a few Shona families who lived in this area and who were believed to be sympathetic to the cause. At the moment, the best thing to do would be to remain where he was. After a few days, he could start to try to make contact with one of those families. The search was still on. He occasionally heard the Alouette helicopters of the Special Forces.

  In one of the rucksacks left behind on the kopje, he found a shirt and shorts, which he donned. He would have to go barefoot, the combat boots he wore a definite giveaway. Many blacks in the area still went barefoot and by doing so he would not be conspicuous. They had spent no money since crossing the border from Zambia. He still had nearly two hundred dollars, considered a considerable sum amongst blacks. He descended the kopje in the dark hours of the morning and slowly made his way into town mingling with the others who walked to work.

  Once the shops opened, he entered a ‘native’ shop. This was how the whites referred to it. It was actually a general trading store frequented by blacks. He bought a pair of sandals, shirt, belt, hat and underwear. His side still ached. He could live with it, but certain movements he still had to avoid, as they were too painful. He found a deserted building with an entrance to the back. He changed his clothes and dumped his old set in a large dumpster in the alley. He now felt a lot more presentable. Near the railway station he found an African eating-house, where he ate an enormous lunch of maize meal, beef stew and a salad of chopped onions, tomatoes and chillies. It was superb, he thought. He followed this with two cups of sweetened coffee. He perked up now, feeling more confident.

  The information that he had been given for those who might help him was vague to the extreme. All he had was the man’s name and what he did for a living. Simon Thakanda owned a butchery situated near the entrance to the black township bordering Centenary. The township was fed by one single main road. He thought he would try that first; at least it indicated a place.

  The butchery wasn’t difficult to find. He was surprised how modern it was with refrigerated counters containing pre-packed meats of every description right down to cowheels, black tripe, and offal. The shop was busy, at least four people serving from behind the glass counters filled with various cuts of meat. The owner, or at least the person Sizwe presumed to be the owner, was immediately recognisable. His attire was different from the others and his appearance more that of a man serving behind the counter of an upmarket butchery in an affluent white area. He was dressed in white with a white cap and a striped blue apron. Queues had formed, each being served by one of the butchers behind the counter. He joined the queue of the flamboyantly dressed individual.

  He stepped forward when it was his turn and greeted the butcher in the traditional manner.

  ‘What will it be?’ the man behind the counter asked impatiently.

  ‘I bring greetings from Mr Nkomo. He recommends you. He says your meat is of the finest,’ Sizwe said, carefully watching the man’s face for a reaction.

  The man never batted an eyelid, but merely smiled.

  ‘Our meat is the best in Centenary,’ the man replied.

  This was the coded reply he was to expect. A thrill of apprehension ran down his spine; he had found help at last! Sizwe chose two different cuts of meat from the display, which the man wrapped in brown paper. The butcher scribbled on the paper and then handed the parcel to him telling him to pay at the cashier at the door. Once outside and seated where he was alone Sizwe inspected the parcel. On the outside, the price had been written and on the inside of the folded flap was an address, just a street and number, and a time – 7 p.m.

  He spent the rest of the day in town, remaining with the crowds, arousing no suspicion. He even found a group of young men who had lit their own private barbecue. When he asked, they let him fry his meat, which he shared as there was too much for one man.

  In the late afternoon, he entered the township and asked directions to the street. The address was easy to find. It was nearly dark when he approached the house. A pickup stood in the driveway, the butchery’s name stencilled on it. It was clear that, by African standards, the owner was a wealthy man. This also reflected in the house, larger than most with a porch and well-kept garden.

  It was now dark. He tentatively knocked on the door. It was immediately opened by the butcher, now dressed in shorts with sandals, his sport shirt hanging over his pants. The man beckoned Sizwe inside and, once the door closed, grabbed his hand.

  ‘I’m Thakanda,’ he said, ‘Please come in. It’s wonderful to meet one of you. What happened at the Mentz farm is great news to us. It’s just such a pity that you lost so many men. But we understand, you did account well for yourselves. It’s terrific news, the whites in town are worried. You can actually feel their fear. ‘

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need a place to hide and I need food. Also, I need medical attention, I’ve been wounded, not seriously, but I don’t want it to get inf
ected. Can you help?’

  The butcher’s face broke into a smile. ‘But of course. I have quarters behind the house, servants quarters actually,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You can stay there, nobody will see you. We’ll bring you food. You are not to leave the room. There are far too many informers, understand?’

  Sizwe nodded.

  ‘Medical attention could be a problem, but I’ll see what I can do. I presume your weapons are hidden?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Come, let me take you to your room straight away. I don’t want you in the house. It’s too dangerous.’

  The room was spartan but clean.

  ‘This will be fine,’ he said, ‘but before you go I want to ask whether it is possible for you to obtain information for me about the Mentz Farm. I want to know whether Mrs Mentz survived the attack and whether the man living with her is still there. I don’t know his name, but he may have been wounded in the attack.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Give me a day or two. ‘

  It took three days before Thandaka got back to him with the information he wanted. Both the whites on the farm had been wounded but Tusk and his mistress, the Mentz woman, were already up and about again. Mrs Mentz had undergone an operation and was still in the Centenary hospital but would be discharged in a few days time and would probably return to the farm.

  Sizwe would wait.

  CHAPTER 69

  After five days, the hospital discharged Gisela. She had made a remarkable recovery although her shoulder was still strapped up and virtually immobile. David collected her with the Wolseley and, as they swept into the drive towards the house, she saw the devastation and ruin. He expected a show of anguish and sorrow. That did not happen. She clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowed and she grabbed his arm with her good hand, her fingers digging into his flesh.