by Larry Johns
Behr’s method of location was simple if painstaking. He hand-picked a team of Kikuyu and Bantu soldiers and scoured, from north to south, the tract of elephant grass which divided the rain forests proper from the swamps. Knowing exactly what to look for he eventually, after no less than three complete sweeps over a period of eight days, located Zetterheim’s: “...tract of Dicindra-free clay...” Three days after that Behr stepped into The Place of Bones. What he found there, or how many men he lost along the way, is not known, for he made no notes - his clinical mind obviously on a different plain from that of an explorer, or a regular army major. At all events, Behr considered Kanyamifupa ideal for his purpose, and he immediately renamed it “Camp-One”.
Helicopters were less than useless as a mode of transport into and out of Camp-One, as the trees, though far from rain forest sized, were sufficiently tall and thick-knitted to forbid all methods of vertical approach. He was forced to truck his men and equipment down from Makanza. The huts and portacabins were barged up-river some time later; after Behr had realized that, in fact, the tract of clay stretched all the way from the elephant grass to the river, and that the area of “Kanyamifupa” was merely a widening of that tract.
Later still, after Makanza had fallen to the Simbas, he wrote a friend that he had over-flown the camp, with knowledge of its precise whereabouts, and had still been unable to see any signs of it through the foliage. Behr was killed during the raid on Basankuzu, June 3rd., 1963, and his replacement, an American called Robert McCann - “Robbie” - saw Camp-One for the first time one month later. There were no traces now of bones or cages. At least not in the camp itself. Occasionally though, in the nature of living swamp, some bones do come to the surface south of the camp. It is not known who gathered them up and buried them there. Probably Behr.
The following story is not an epitaph to The Place of Bones; it is an episode in a continuing saga. For reasons too complex to go into here, “Robbie” has been allowed to tell his own story. The others, those who could be contacted, expressed no such desire.
*
I woke up to a tinny voice informing us that we were about to land at Brazzaville International Airport and would we fasten our seatbelts and ensure that our seats were in the upright position. My head ached and my eyes were scratchy. My nerves jangled and demanded that I go back to sleep. I have never liked over-night flights. I looked out the window. The sky sat on Africa like a red-velvet cushion with blue-white trimmings. I did not say: “Hello again, Africa” or anything like that, not even in my mind. I just looked down at it.
I did what I had to do with the seat and tried to ignore the fact that I needed a smoke, despite that my mouth tasted as if I'd been eating graves. And now I felt cold. I told myself it was because of the cabin air conditioning, but was really not so sure.
The aircraft lurched and shuddered as the flaps went down. Outside the window, Africa tilted sideways. I closed my eyes and wished I was somewhere else. I thought: If wishes were horses... All in vain. Africa was all I knew. And if I was not exactly over the moon to be back in the reins, I was not, in truth, desperately unhappy either. This was me. My choice. Always had been and always would. I shook myself mentally. This was a good contract. It was a better one for the Chinese. Contracts are always better for the employer. Negative thoughts again!
I studied the scene unfolding outside my window. Down there somewhere were three hundred mercenaries; the largest clandestine force I’d had under my command for some time.
As the aircraft sank shivering out of the sky I heard “Cat”Souchet’s voice in my head: “They’re over there, Robbie. I’m sure of it.”
In my mind’s eye, we were standing on the west bank of what used to be called the Congo River - now the Zaire River - and Souchet was referring to a group of Simbas that had been after our blood for weeks.
“Over there,” I said sardonically, but knowing exactly what he meant, “are three thousand square miles of rain forest. So, yes, I guess you could say that.”
Souchet was his usual humorless self. “I mean just over there! Waiting for us to cross.”
“So what do you suggest? We don’t cross?”
Souchet sighed deeply as only a French man knows how. He sank down onto his haunches and rested his unshaven chin on the barrel of his A.K.assault rifle, his blue, sad eyes scanning the forbidding wall of trees on the far side of that swirling watercourse. “I suggest,” he said softly, “we think about it.”
I grunted. “And we all know where thought gets us.”
Which was never so true. Not then, not now, as the aircraft made messy contact with Africa and the engines screamed in reverse thrust. I did not look out of the window again. I waited until the crush of travel-weary bodies had thinned. Then I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Here we were. Then I rose up and retrieved my briefcase from the rack, sorted out my passport and papers and, since there was now a comfortable gap between the tail-end of the jumble of people and my row of seats, I stepped out into the aisle. Yes, for good or evil, I was back.
It is true that I had not expected to be back so soon but, now that the plane was on the ground, I realized, or thought I realized, that did not matter. In recent years my self-imposed spells of Rest and Recreation had proved less and less efficacious. This latest break, for example, had been an unmitigated disaster during which I had been utterly unable to rid my mind of the faces and the voices of dead men; men I had killed, men who had died alongside me, and men who apparently wanted nothing but to be left alone. It got so bad at one stage that I seriously thought about diving under the limpid waters off Crete, and staying there. I did not do that, of course. But I had seriously considered it; which speaks volumes.
At the time, I was quite pleased to have received my visitor; the “official” of the Bank of China. I remember shaking his hand warmly and saying yes to all he had to offer. The second thoughts came later. When it was too late. Which was probably just as well.
So, here I was back in the Congo. Two months before I’d planned to be. Was I glad to be there? Perversely, I thought now that I was. Certainly, I looked forward with interest to see how Camp-One had stood the test of time. I thought about that and my mind took another skip backward. Except that this time the recalled incident held no dark connotations. It was Souchet again. Why was his memory so predominant lately? He was talking to Mblindi, the Nigerian sergeant.
“It’s garbage,Mblindi.”
“Yes, bwana.”
“Where there’s garbage, there’s rats.”
“Rats do’n scare me, bwana.”
“Bien sur. But where there’s rats, there’ll be a Black Mamba nearby!”
I smiled at the mental image of this gangly sergeant chivvying a force of battle-hardened irregulars into camp-cleaning details. Then the smile faded with the memory. No amount of cleaning would ever fumigate Kanyamifupa - The Place of Bones.
I nodded at the usual platitudes of the cabin staff and stepped out into the damp warmth of the African dawn. And there it was; the smell. Africa’s Chanel No.5. And the memories threatened to flood back yet again. I pushed them aside. A woman in front of me crinkled up her nose and pulled a face at the man with her, who merely raised non-committal eyebrows. I vaguely wondered what they were doing here. Holiday, maybe. Business? Just passing through? Whatever their reason, it would not be as detrimental as my own. Or would it? Africa, after all, was there to be taken advantage of.
I had a wild thought that perhaps they ought to start again with this continent. Failing that, placing an immediate ban on people like myself would be a damned good alternative.
I descended the steps and squeezed myself aboard the airport bus. The door hissed shut behind me. I felt dirty and disheveled because I was. I ignored the other passengers and they ignored me. Which was fine. Inside the terminal building it was immediately obvious that the Brazzaville Airport Authority was conducting another of its time-consuming and annoying spot checks and body-searches; aimed at the
fortuitous apprehension of anyone from the smuggler to the insurgent. I had been involved in several of these in the past so knew what to expect and was not unduly concerned. I carried no weapons and my passport and papers were in better order than they had ever been - my sponsors, for the supposed four-day visit, being the highly esteemed Bank of China. The sponsorship forms proclaimed that I was their Middle East Investment Coordinator.
Some of the more voluble passengers were already protesting and arguing as the uniformed immigrations, customs and security people, some two dozen of them, men and women, moved amongst us, randomly selecting victims for the body searches. I looked around for a seat. I was in no desperate rush and the people waiting for me would do just that; wait.
In the event, I did not need the chair. I was among the first batch to be chosen. Which suited me fine. And I was as relaxed and at ease as was possible after a long night flight as I was directed to a door marked “Visas” by a young Congolese officer with a pock-marked face, and shown politely inside. I even thanked the man for opening the door for me.
I knew something was wrong the instant the door closed behind me. Inside were not the uniformed officials I was expecting, but three white men in civilian clothes. One of them, a thin man in a grey suit, stepped forward as one of the others, a big bull of a man in an engineer’s coverall, stepped behind me and locked the door.
“Robert McCann?” said the thin man. His tone rose to the question, but it was not a question.
My pulse rate doubled on the spot and it was a struggle to remain outwardly calm. “Yes,” I said. There seemed little point in denying the name printed in the passport I held in my hand.
The third man opened another door, one that led to the outside, through which I could see a car pulled up on the pan close to the building, its rear door open. This, suddenly, was a classic security force scenario; the dawn swoop. Then I stopped analyzing the situation as the thin man withdrew his right hand from his pocket, displaying a small automatic. “You will climb into the car, sir,” he said. “Do not attempt anything foolish - however melodramatic that may sound to you. It would achieve nothing but heartache.”
I hesitated, my mind racing again. These people were not attached to the Congolese security force. They could not be. That organization, to my certain knowledge, had purged itself of all expatriate “advisors” as long ago as the early seventies; when Congo became Zaire. But it was equally as certain that whoever they were - and the thin man had an English accent - they had to be acting with local sanction.
I said, “You went to all this trouble just for me?” It was a temporizer, and not a very original one at that.
The thin man ignored it. “The car. Now!”
I felt a none-too-gentle shove from behind. But I held my ground in an attempt to gain some thinking time. “You’re probably making a mistake. I’m here for - “
The thin man cut in. “There’s no mistake. Now, are you going to move? Or must we use force?” He shrugged minutely then, and a smile as thin as his face tugged half-heartedly at his mouth. “Your life is in no immediate danger, sir. If you’ll just do as you’re told. But do it now!” The gun came up menacingly.
It did not require a man with two brains to realize the odds. I raised my hands in a gesture of not-so-mock surrender. “Okay. But you’ve got a wire crossed somewhere.”
I was bundled out of the building and into the car, sandwiched between the two heavyweights. The thin man slipped into the front passenger seat and twisted around, the gun aimed loosely at my crotch. I said nothing but thought hard as the car sped over the pan in the direction of the new administration building.
*
“My name is Brown,” said the man behind the desk. He had eyes that reminded me of steel ball bearings and skin that might have been painted on his skull. He was casually flicking through a file in front of him. “And yours is McCann. Robert McCann.” He stopped at a particular page and scanned it briefly. “Born, Garde Valley, Oklahoma.”
I said, “That’s Garve.”
Brown looked at me. “Pardon,” he frowned.
“It’s Garve. With a V.”
He grunted something and made an alteration with what looked to be a gold Parker pencil. I knew what I was receiving. I was receiving the show-them-what-a-disadvantage-they’re-at treatment. Along with the good-guy bad-guy police interrogation method, it was one of the classics. I did not know what it was all about, but I thought the treatment was good news. It meant that they - whoever they were - were not on as solid a ground as they may have liked.
“Garve Valley, Oklahoma,” Brown went on. “June ninth, ‘forty-five...Normal high school education...Excelled in sports.”
I said, “What is it you want, Brown?” My pulse was back to normal now. In fact, I almost did feel relaxed. Strangely, I had an idea I was back amongst my own kind.
Brown ignored the interruption, and continued to read from the file. “Both parents killed in road accident, August third, ‘fifty-two...Only brother killed on active service, Korean theatre, June second, fifty-three...” His eyes flicked over a few paragraphs. “...Subject submitted false personal details, i.e., date of birth, to selection board and gained illegal entry to military service. Marine corps.” He sat back in his chair, taking the file with him.
The two other men in the room might not have been there. I sighed a deep sigh of boredom, but Brown didn’t catch it. He went on, “Service...Let’s see...Malaya; service with distinction. Purple Heart, Congressional Medal of Honor.” At this point he glanced over at me and shook his head as if it were all too much for him.
I said, “I could really use a smoke.”
Again, I was ignored. “Central America...Service with distinction...Amazing.” I tried to get a look at the file heading, but at that distance, and upside down, I didn’t stand a chance, but I was glad that my stomach had stopped churning. I glanced at the other men. Both seemed more interested in the walls. “Then Viet Nam,” continued Brown. “Involved in the Xuan Loc breakout...subsequent trek through hostile territory...promoted major.” One of his eyebrows did a dance. “Major,” he repeated thoughtfully. It was all an act. I wondered if he knew it was so obvious. “Captured in Mekong Delta...escaped...recaptured...escaped again.” This time he looked me full in the face. “You are a resourceful man, colonel.”
I said, “I’m a puzzled one.”
He hmm’d softly and returned to the damned file. “Ah! Promoted colonel, September seventh, sixty-nine.” Then, “Ah-ha! Attacks four star general Andrew Macquarter.”
I suddenly saw that bastard’s face clearly in my mind, as I do whenever someone mentions generals. He had ordered me to send my company off to fight some useless rearguard action, east of Saigon, while the rest of us “advisors” hightailed it out of that city as fast as the choppers could come get us. It was the start of the biggest double-cross in history. I had told him what he could do with his orders, then, as an afterthought more than anything else, I’d belted him. No, I had belted him because he couldn’t understand my refusal to obey. He simply couldn’t understand it! He had thought it a perfectly reasonable request: “under the circumstances.” He had ended up with a broken jaw and I had ended up under loose house arrest pending a court martial.
“From which,” Brown was saying, “he subsequently absconded...Stole military vehicles and, as far as can be ascertained, transported his former command overland to Kampuchea.”
Kampuchea had been my first paymaster as a mercenary. I had not chosen the business. It had chosen me.
Brown was smiling now. At least his mouth seemed to be. “Subject is known to have operated as a mercenary soldier in Kampuchea, then Mozambique in ‘77...For the Libyans in ‘78-’79. Then Angola...” He placed the file on the desk with exaggerated care. “And so on, and so forth”
For several seconds no-one said anything.
Then Brown went on, “An impressive record, colonel. It is a pity that you had to spoil it.”
“For whom?
” I said, adding, “May I smoke?”
I was certain now that my arrest was not strictly legal, not yet anyway. And despite the file-flourishes, it had not been instigated by the local authorities. These men were British Intelligence; S.I.S. - a dunce would have guessed it. None of which, however, altered the fact that local blessing must have been sought and granted. Brown said, “All in good time.”
I said, “Now’s a good time,” and I took out my packet, shook out a cigarette and lit up. Brown glanced up at the sign on the wall that informed the world that smoking was illegal anywhere inside the terminal building. I felt certain he would react. But he didn’t. He leant forward over the desk and studied my face minutely. Then he went on, “You were hired in Crete. By a man called Chi Luang. A sometimes, and a highly questionable, employee of the Bank of China. Your brief is simple. You are to take command of a force of mercenary soldiers, at present camped, under the guise of migrant workers, near the Zaire border, on the estate of a...a certain...” He again glanced at the file. “A certain mister Wang Cha...Cha...” He flicked a glance at one of the men. “Charma, is that? Ian, your writing is abominable. What is this name?”
“Shama, sir.”
My mind was now a jumble of stray ends, and this charade of seemingly inconsequential sidetracks was not helping. The broad reason why I had been pulled in was obvious. The niceties were the puzzle. I looked at the man whose writing Brown thought was abominable, and then at the third member. These men were the thinkers, the planners, the white collar brigade. The three who had performed the heavy work; the thin man and the two “engineers”, had escorted me to the room then left. Here were three more, of whom Brown appeared the boss. How many more were there? Did it require a minimum of six men to haul in a single mercenary? And why Brown’s heavy emphasis on the continuous tense. He had said, “You are to take command” Or was I imagining that?