by Wilbur Smith
The swells peaked up sharply as they felt the land. Their crests trembled and turned luminous green, began to dissolve in plumes of wind-blown spray, arched over and slid down upon themselves in the roar and rumble of white water.
Johnny stood on the driver’s seat of the open Landrover. He wore a sheepskin jacket against the chill of the dawn mist, but his head was bare and his dark hair fluttered nervously against his forehead in the wind.
His heavy jaw was thrust forward, and his hands in the pockets of the sheepskin jacket were balled into fists. He scowled aggressively as he measured the height and push of the surf. With his crooked nose he looked like a boxer waiting for the gong.
Suddenly with an awkward angry movement he jerked his left hand from his pocket and looked down at the dial of his wrist watch. Two hours and three minutes to low tide. He pushed his fist back into his pocket, and swivelled quickly to look at his bulldozers.
There were eleven of them, big bright yellow D.8 Caterpillars, lined up along the highwater mark. The operators sat goggled and tense in their high stem seats.
They were all watching him anxiously.
Beyond them, standing well back, were the earthloaders.
They were ungainly, pregnant-looking machines with swollen bellies, and heavily lugged tyres that stood taller than a man. When the time came they would rush in at thirty miles an hour, drop a steel blade beneath their bellies and scrape up a fifteen-ton load of sand or gravel, race back inland and drop their load, turn and rush back for another gargantuan bite out of the earth.
Johnny was steeling himself, judging the exact moment in which to hurt a quarter of a million pounds” worth of machinery into the
Atlantic Ocean, in the hope of recovering a handful of bright pebbles.
The moment came, and Johnny spent half a minute of precious time in scrutinizing his preparations before committing himself to action.
Then “GO!” he shouted into his loudhailer and windmilled his right arm in the unmistakable command to advance.
“Go!” he shouted again, but his voice was lost. Even the sound of the wild surf was lost in the bull bellow of the diesels. Lowering their massive steel blades, a chorus line of steel monsters, they crawled forward.
Now the golden sand curled before the scooped blades, like butter from the knife. It built up before the monstrous machines, becoming a pile and then a high wall. Thrusting, pulling back, butting, worrying, the bulldozers swept the wall of sand forward. The arms of the operators pumping the handles of the controls like mad harmen drawing a thousand pints of beer, the diesels roaring and muttering and roaring again.
The wall of sand met the first low push of sea water up the beach and smothered it. In seeming astonishment and uncertainty the sea pulled back, swirling and creaming before the advancing dyke of sand.
The bulldozers were performing a complicated but smoothly practised ballet now. Weaving and crossing, blades lifting and falling, backing and advancing, all under the supervision of the master choreographer, Johnny Lance.
The Land-Rover darted back and forward along the edge of the huge pit that was forming, with Johnny roaring orders and instructions through the electric loudhailer.
Gradually a sickle-shaped dyke of sand was thrown out into the sea, while behind it the bulldozer blades cut down, six, ten, fifteen feet through the loose yellow sand.
Then suddenly they hit the oyster line, that thin layer of fossilized oyster shell that so often covers the diamond gravels of South West Africa.
Johnny saw the change in the character of his pit, saw the shell curling from the blades of the bulldozers.
With half a dozen orders and hand signals he had his “dozers flatten a ramp at each end of his pit, to give the earthloaders access.
Then he ordered them away to hold the dyke against the sea.
He glanced at his watch. “One hour thirteen minutes,” he muttered. “We’re running tight!” Quickly he checked his pit. Two hundred yards long, fifteen feet deep, the overburden of sand stripped away, the oyster line showing clean and white in the sun, the bulldozers clear of the pit bottom - fighting back the sea.
“Right,” he grunted. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He turned to face the two earth movers waiting expectantly above the highwater mark.
“Go in and get it!” he shouted, and gave the windmill arm signal.
Nose to tail the earthloaders roared forward, swinging wide at the head of the pit, then swooping down the ramp and dashing along the bottom. They scooped up a load of shell and gravel without checking their speed and went bellowing up the far ramp, swinging again to race up and deposit their load below the Cliff, but above the highwater mark.
Round they went, and round again, chasing their tails, while the bulldozers held back the sea which was now becoming angry - sending its cohorts to skirmish along the dyke, seeking a weak place to attack.
Johnny glanced at his watch again.
“Three minutes to low water,” he spoke aloud, and grinned. “We’re going to make it!“He lit a cigarette, relaxing a little now.
He dropped into the driving seat and swung the Land-Rover up the beach, parking it beyond the mountain of gravel that the earthloaders were building.
He climbed out and took up a handful of the gravel.
“Lovely!” he whispered. “Oh sweet! Sweed” It was right. All the signs were good. In the single handful he identified a small garnet, and a larger lump of agate.
He scooped another handful.
“Jasper,” he gloated. “And banded ironstone!” All these stones were the team-mates of the diamond, you found them together.
The shape was right also, the stories polished round and shiny as marbles, not flattened like coins which Would mean they had washed in only one direction. Round stones meant a wave action zone - a diamond trap!
“We’ve hit a jewel box - I’ll take Lysol on that”
From thirty-seven miles of beach Johnny had picked a two-hundred-yard stretch, and hit it right on the nose. A choice not by luck, but by careful study of the configuration of the coastline, aerial photographs of the wave patterns and bottom contours of the sea, an analysis of the beach sands, and finally by that indefinable “feel” for ground that a good diamond man has.
Johnny Lance was mightily delighted with himself as he climbed back into the Land-Rover. The earthloaders had scraped the gravel down to bedrock. Their job was finished, and they pulled out of the pit and stood with panting exhausts beside the enormous pile of gravel they had recovered.
“Bottom boys!” roared Johnny, and the patient army of Ovambo tribesmen who had been squatting above the beach came swarming down into the pit. Their job was to sweep and clean the pit bottom, for a high proportion of the diamonds would have worked their way down through the gravel into the crevices and irregularities of the bedrock.
The sea changed its mood, furious at the brutal rape of its beaches it came hissing and tearing at the sand dyke.
The tide was making now, and the bulldozers had to redouble their efforts to keep it out.
In the pit the Ovarribos worked in a frenzy of activity, sparing only an occasional apprehensive glance for the wall of sand that held the Atlantic at bay.
Now Johnny was tensing up again. If he pulled them out early he would be leaving diamonds down there, if he left them in too late he might drown machinery - and men.
He cut it fine, just a fraction too fine. He pulled the bottom boys out with the sea beginning to break over the dyke, and to seep through under it.
Then he began to pull out his bulldozers, ten of them out - one still coming infinitely slowly, waddling across the wide bottom of the empty pit.
The sea broke through, it broke simultaneously in two places and came boiling into the pit in a waist-high wave.
The bulldozer operator saw it, hesitated one second, then his spirit failed him and he jumped down from his machine; abandoning it to the sea he sprinted ahead of the wave, making for the steep nearest side of the pit.
“Bastard!” swore Johnny as he watched the operator scramble to safety. “He could have made it.” But his anger was against himself also. His decision to withdraw had been too long delayed, that was
20,000 pounds worth of machinery he had sacrificed to the sea.
He slammed the Land-Rover into gear, and put her to the pit. She went off the edge like a ski jump, falling fifteen feet before she hit the bottom, but her fall was cushioned by the slope of sand and she sprang forward bravely to meet the rush of sea water.
It broke over the bonnet, slewing the vehicle viciously, but Johnny fought her head round and kept her going towards the stranded bulldozer.
The engine of the Land-Rover had been sealed and water-proofed against just such an emergency, and now she ploughed forward throwing a sheet of water to each side.
But her forward rush faltered as the green water poured over her.
Now suddenly the entire sand dyke collapsed under the white surf and the Atlantic took control. The tall wave of green water that raced across the pit hit the Land-Rover, upending her, throwing Johnny into the jubilant frothing water, while the Land-Rover rolled over on her back, pointing all four wheels to the sky in surrender.
Johnny went under but came up immediately. Half swimming, half wading, battered by the boisterous sea he struggled on towards the yellow island of steel.
The sea struck him down, and he went under again.
Found his feet for a moment, then had them cut from under him once more.
Then suddenly he had reached the bulldozer and was dragging himself up over the tracks to the driver’s seat. He was coughing and vomiting sea water, as he reached the controls.
The bulldozer seat immovable, held down by her own twenty-six tons of dead weight on to the hard bedrock of the pit. Although the sea burst over her, and swirled through her tracks, it could not move her.
Through eyes bluffed and swimming with salt water and his own tears, Johnny briefly checked the gauges on the instrument panels. She had oil pressure and engine revs, and high above his head the exhaust pipe chugged blue smoke.
Johnny coughed again. Vomit and sea water shot up his throat in a scalding jet, but he pushed the throttle wide and threw in both clutch levers.
Ponderously the great machine ground forward, almost contemptuously shouldering the sea aside, her tracks solidly gripping the bedrock.
Johnny looked about him quickly. The sand ramps at each end of the pit were washed away. The sides were sheer now, and behind him the sea was rushing unimpeded into the pit.
A wave broke over his head, and Johnny shook the water from his hair like a spaniel and looked around with mounting desperation for an avenue of escape.
With a shock of surprise he saw the Old Man. He had thought him to be four hundred miles away in Cape Town, but here he was on the edge of the pit. The white hair shone like a beacon.
Instinctively Johnny swung the bulldozer in his direction, crawling through the turbulent waters towards him.
The Old Man was directing two of the other bulldozers, reversing them as close as he dared to the lip of the bank of sand, while from the service truck parked below the cliff a line of Ovambos came staggering down the beach with the heavy tractor tow chain over their shoulders. They shuffled bow-legged under the tremendous weight of the chain, sinking ankle deep into the sand with each step.
The Old Man roared at them, urging them on, but the words were lost in the thunder of diesel engines and the ranting of the wind and the sea. Now he turned back to Johnny.
“Get her in close,” the Old Man yelled through cupped hands.
“I’ll bring the end of the chain down to you!” Johnny waved an acknowledgement, then grabbed at the controls as the force of the next wave pushed even the giant tractor off its line, and Johnny felt the diesel falter for the first time - the water had found its way in through the seals at last.
Then he was under the high bank of yellow sand that towered twenty feet above him and he scrambled forward over the engine bonnet to meet the Old Man.
The Old Man was poised on the lip of the pit with the end of the chain draped in a loop over both shoulders. He was stooped beneath its weight, and when he stepped forward the sand crumpled away beneath him and he came sliding and slipping down the steep incline, buried waist deep, the great chain snaking after him.
Judging the rush of the sea Johnny jumped down to help him.
Together, battered by the sea, they dragged the chain to the bulldozer.
“Fix it on to the blade arm,” grunted the Old Man, and they got a double turn of chain around the thick steel arm.
“Shackle!” Johnny snapped at him, and while the Old Man untied the length of rope which secured the steel shackle around his waist, Johnny looked up at the cliff of sand that hung over them.
“Christ!” he said softly, the sea was attacking it - and now it was soft and trembling above them, ready to collapse and smother them.
The Old Man passed him the huge shackle, and Johnny began with numbed hands to secure the end of the chain.
He must pass the thick case-hardened pin through two links and then screw it closed. It was a Herculean task under these conditions, with the surf bursting over his head, the drag of the sea on the chain, and the cliff of sand threatening to fall on them at any moment. From twenty feet above them Johnny’s foreman was watching anxiously, ready to pass the word to the two waiting bulldozers to throw their combined weights on the chain.
The thread of the pin caught, half a dozen turns would secure it, he would have finished the job by the time the word was passed to the “dozer operators.
“Okay,” he nodded and gasped at the Old Man. “Pull!” The Old Man lifted his head and bellowed up the bank, “Pull!” The foreman acknowledged with a wave.
“Okay.” And his head disappeared behind the bank as he ran back to the bulldozers, and at that moment the surf swung the chain. A movement of a few inches, but enough to catch Johnny’s left index finger between two of the links.
The Old Man saw his face, saw him struggling to free himself.
“What is it?” Then the water sucked back for a moment, and he saw what had happened. He waded forward to help - but from above them came the throaty roar of the diesels and the chain began running away, snaking and twisting up the bank like a python.
The Old Man reached Johnny and caught him about the shoulders to steady him. They braced themselves in horror, staring at the captive hand.
The chain jerked taut, severing the finger cleanly in a bright burst of scarlet, and Johnny reeled back into the Old Man’s arms. The great yellow bulk of the bulldozer was dragged relentlessly down on top of them, threatening to crush them both, but using the next break and push of the sea the Old Man dragged Johnny clear - and they were carried sideways along the bank, tumbled helplessly by the strength of the water out of the bulldozer’s path.
Johnny clutched his injured hand to his chest, but it hosed a bright stream of blood that discoloured the water about them. His head went under and salt water shot down his throat into his lungs. He felt himself drowning, the strength oozing out of him.
He surfaced again, and through bleary eyes saw the glistening wet bulldozer half-way up the sand bank. He felt the Old Man’s arms about his chest and he went under again relaxing as the darkness closed over his eyes and brain.
When the darkness cleared from his eyes, he was lying on the dry sand of the beach and the first thing he saw was the Old Man’s face above him, furrowed and pouched, his silver white hair plastered across his forehead.
“Did we get her out?“Johnny asked thickly.
“Ja,” the Old Man answered. “We got her out.” And he stood up, walked to the jeep, and drove away, leaving the foreman to tend to Johnny.
Johnny grinned at the memory, and lifting his left hand off the driving-wheel of the Jaguar he licked the shiny stump of his index finger.
“It was worth a finger,” he murmured aloud, and still searching for road sig
ns he drove on slowly.
He smiled again comfortably, shaking his head with amusement as he remembered his hurt and disappointment when the Old Man had walked away and left him lying on the beach. He had not expected the Old Man to fall on his shoulders sobbing his gratitude and begging forgiveness for all the years of misery and loneliness - but he had expected something more than that.
After a two-hundred-mile round Jeep-journey through the desert night to the nearest hospital where they had trimmed and bound the stump, Johnny was back at the workings the next day in time to watch the first run of gravel from the beach.
In his absence, the gravel had been screened to sieve off all the over-size rock and stone, then it had been puddled through a tank of silicon mud to float off all the material with a specific gravity less than 2.5, then finally what was left had been run through a ball mill - a long steel cylinder containing steel balls the size of baseballs.
The cylinder revolved continually and the steel balls crushed to powder all substance softer than 4 on Mohs hardness scale.
Now there was a residue, a thousandth part of the gravel they had won from the sea. In this remainder would be the diamonds - if diamonds there were.
When Johnny arrived back at the shed of galvanized iron and wood on the cliff above the beach that housed his separation plant, he was still half groggy from the anaesthetic and lack of sleep.
His hand throbbed with the persistence of a lighthouse, his eyes were reddened and a thick black stubble covered his jaws.
He went to stand beside the grease table that filled half the shed. He was swaying a little on his feet, as he looked around at the preparations. The massive bin at the head of the table was filled with the concentrated diamond gravels, the plates greased down, and his crew was standing ready.
“Let’s go!” Johnny nodded at his foreman, who immediately threw in the lever that set the table shaking like an old man with palsy.
The table was a series of steel plates, each slightly inclined and thickly coated with dirty yellow grease. From the bin at the head of the shuddering table a mixture of gravel and water began to dribble, its consistency and rate of flow carefully regulated by the foreman.