by Peter Watt
Michael glanced at the loaded magazines at his elbow. He did not feel fear and he wondered if he actually had a soul because he had come to love the danger and adrenaline. Killing had become second nature to him.
‘Don’t fire until you get the order!’ His commander was an experienced soldier who knew that the closer the enemy came, the more accurate the fire from his own defending forces would be.
The Simbas were being led by a man wearing a black burnous with a hood, concealing his face. He was a sinister figure, and the rebels charged towards the small defending force they outnumbered.
Michael set his sights on one of the Simbas carrying a light machine gun and followed him along his foresight. The enemy was coming on in groups, forcing the frontal fire to be split. The target at the end of Michael’s rifle sights grew larger and he began squeezing the trigger.
‘Fire!’ the order came over the hellish screams and taunts of the attacking force, and Michael saw his man stop and fall backwards when he fired. Without hesitating, Michael swung his sights on the enemy combatant slightly to his left and fired; he felt satisfied to see him drop. He was aware that bullets were smashing into his sandbagged emplacement and realised this was not a one-sided affair.
Mortar bombs and heavy machine-gun fire tore into the ranks of oncoming Simbas, ripping away limbs and flinging bodies into the air. Michael kept firing, only stopping to replace another magazine. It was obvious that, between the small-arms fire and supporting weapons, the Simbas had had enough, falling back to leave at least forty-five of their comrades dead on the killing ground before the bridge.
Michael did not need the order to cease firing, as he had run out of targets to fire at. The intense noise of the battle left him with ringing ears and a desperate thirst for water. He reached down for his canteen and saw that he only had one magazine of twenty rounds left.
Michael swilled down the warm water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was aware that a shadow fell over him, and when he squinted at the figure he could see it was Frankie.
‘We’re still alive,’ he said before walking away. Michael leaned back against the sandbags and wondered how much longer he would serve with the mercenary force in the Congo. Major Hoare had proved to be a great leader, and Michael knew he would have followed him into hell if he had asked.
A couple of days later the enemy attacked again in greater numbers, led by the mysterious man in black. No matter how much the mercenaries tried to kill him, they failed. He even turned his back on the bridge defenders and walked casually away from them when the attack failed. Afterwards, Frankie strode up to Michael’s position and uttered the well-worn phrase, ‘We’re still alive,’ before walking away.
Michael thought about the connection between him and Frankie. Despite the animosity between them now, there remained a bond. Michael thought that bond might be important for what was ahead. The morality of war did not keep you alive, Michael reflected while thinking back to Frankie’s actions in the village. It was easy for people safe in their armchairs to judge. They were not exposed to the horror of war as he and Frankie were.
There was an attack to be made on Stanleyville now, and Michael hoped Frankie would continue to tell him, ‘We’re still alive’. What Michael did not know was that he was about to be involved in one of the biggest – and mostly forgotten – rescue operations of the twentieth century.
Over two thousand European men, women and children were being held hostage in Stanleyville, a large, well set out city with magnificent Belgian architecture in the heart of the Congo. Most of the hostages were being held in the five-storey Victoria Hotel. Amongst the captives were the staff of the American consulate, who had been imprisoned against all international diplomatic rules.
The popular Congolese mayor of the city, Sylvere Bondekwe, had already been dragged to the city centre, stripped naked and had his liver cut out. As he lay in agony dying from his wound, the Simbas distributed the bloody organ to their frenzied followers to eat. The hostages knew of his death and had long given up hope of rescue. And even if the soldiers did come to the city, the hostages knew the Simbas would hack them to death with pangas or, if they were lucky, shoot them.
*
The rains came in the kind of torrent Michael had never seen before in his travels around the globe. Already he had seen days of fighting on the way to Stanleyville where the dripping jungle encroached onto the neglected roads. His comrades had taken casualties and Michael had found himself in hand-to-hand combat when clearing the ambush sites.
He could remember how supercharged his body had been with adrenaline and the way it drained away to leave his body trembling. At one stage he had stepped in to save Frankie, who had been overwhelmed by two panga-wielding Simbas in the thick scrub by the road. Michael had killed both men and grinned down at his old friend with the words, ‘We’re still alive’. Frankie had reached out with his hand, and in the grasp Michael knew that the incident weeks earlier in the village they had cleared was now forgotten.
The advance had been temporarily halted because of the torrential rain, and both men huddled inside the truck under a tarpaulin that hardly stopped them from being soaked to the skin.
‘I’m calling it quits after Stanleyville,’ Frankie said, attempting to light a soggy cigarette. ‘If I was home I would be in the pub having a pint and a packet of pork crackling. What about you, Aussie?’
‘You know,’ Michael said, ‘it’s not the killing that gets to me. It’s seeing the innocent victims of this war. Like when we rescued those nuns and priests. They were hardly recognisable as humans after the Simbas got through with them, and seeing those pregnant young nuns . . .’ For a moment Michael ceased talking as he recalled one nun wearing little more than scraps of her former habit stumbling to the mercenaries, weeping and wailing, ‘God has answered our prayers.’ It was not God, thought Michael, but Mike Hoare and his Wild Geese who had come to rescue them.
‘I think I might be joining you, Frankie. I have a feeling that after we take Stanleyville the Simbas are going to head off to the bush to hide, and it will mostly be over anyway.’
The morning came in sunshine and so too the advance towards Stanleyville. The long column of vehicles was vulnerable to ambush as they moved north, and each village they passed through meant a firefight with the enemy.
At one village, the enemy allowed the armoured vehicles to pass through before opening fire on the soft-skinned trucks. Immediately the mercenary commando force leapt from their trucks and engaged the Simbas concealed in the long grass either side of the narrow road. It came down to hand-to-hand combat and Michael was in the thick of it, swinging his rifle like a club as a big Simba loomed up in front of him. The heavy butt of the rifle caught the African on the side of the head with a sickening crunch. The Simba fell to the earth, either dead or unconscious. Michael did not have time to ascertain the man’s condition, but stepped over him to raise his rifle to shoot at a Simba armed with a light machine gun. As usual, his aim was true and the man stumbled forward, falling to the ground with a round through his chest.
Then, when the road had been cleared, Michael heaved himself into the truck and slumped down beside Frankie.
‘You didn’t join us,’ Michael said, noting his friend was calmly smoking a cigarette.
‘Na, I knew you could do all the killing for both of us,’ he replied, offering the packet to Michael.
Michael leaned back against the side of the interior of the truck with his rifle between his knees. It was a deadly game now, he reflected, taking turns to add to their body count as they advanced on Stanleyville. He had been briefed that the American hostages were most at risk, as the Communist-backed Africans saw the USA as the real enemy. Every day they had been dragging out helpless Congolese citizens and executing them in front of a giant photograph of Lumumba, the man they considered a martyr. The rescue mission was as much about saving innocent
Africans and Europeans from butchery as it was about defeating the murderous rebel army. But time was running out, and each time the convoy was delayed by skirmishes, the less likely it was that the rescuing force would arrive in time.
TWENTY
Sarah Macintosh was looking forward to the arrival of Lady Georgina White and her two daughters, Jane and Victoria. She wished to repay their hospitality to Michael when he was being educated in England – until the unfortunate incident that had him sent home. Sir Ronald was tied up in America on business, but he would join his wife in Australia at a later date.
Sarah would ensure their social calendar was filled with dinners and parties in their honour and she’d connect the family to some of her charitable institutions. Sarah organised for a chauffeur-driven limousine to pick up the three visitors from Kingsford Smith Airport and whisk them to her house on the harbour where they would be staying while in Sydney.
She was just a little nervous, pacing the library until she heard the car drive up to the house. She hurried downstairs to see Lady Georgina alight, followed by Jane and, finally, a pretty young girl of about six years. It was a hot day in late spring and the three wore light cotton dresses. Already Charles was greeting them and issuing orders to the chauffeur to carry their luggage into the house.
‘Lady Georgina, Jane, and this young lady must be Victoria,’ Sarah said, giving them each a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Welcome to Sydney.’
‘It is very warm,’ Lady Georgina said, cooling herself with a small fan. ‘Such a contrast to New York.’
‘You must come inside,’ Sarah said. ‘I have refreshments ready.’
She led them to the spacious dining room with its French doors opening onto a luxurious garden. Tea was served by the housekeeper on a patio under the shade of a pergola.
Sarah glanced at Jane, who was now in her early twenties, and thought how pretty she was. Then she looked at Victoria sitting demurely at the table, and when Sarah looked into the young girl’s face she felt a tremor of shock. It was as if she were looking at herself at the same age; her own eyes looked back at her.
Charles joined the women and his first words only added to Sarah’s confusion.
‘Young Victoria looks like you, Sarah,’ he said lightly and sat down at the garden table without considering his remark as anything but flippancy.
When Sarah looked across at Georgina, she noticed that she had paled at Charles’s offhand remark.
‘What an odd coincidence,’ said Lady Georgina coolly.
Jane shifted uncomfortably. ‘I meant to ask, is Michael with you in Sydney?’
‘Michael enlisted with the mercenary army in the Congo,’ Charles said sadly. ‘We do get the occasional letter from him.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Lady Georgina rallied. ‘From what I have read in the newspapers, the men over there are doing a fine job rescuing many Europeans from those savages. I pray that he will stay safe and return to you both. I remember him as a wonderful young man, despite everything that happened.’
‘Mother, Mrs Macintosh, if I could be excused,’ Jane interrupted. ‘I would like to go into the garden and take in the magnificent views of the harbour.’ Jane rose unsteadily to her feet and walked away from the table. Sarah could sense Lady Georgina’s tension, so she changed the topic of conversation to the weather.
That evening Georgina and Jane were invited to dinner by friends from England, leaving Sarah and Charles alone to care for Victoria. When Victoria had been put to bed, Sarah joined Charles in the living room.
She poured them both a glass of white wine and sat down on a lounge. Charles was watching the end of a new Australian-produced television show called Homicide.
‘Did you feel that the White family are guarding a family secret?’ Sarah asked, sipping her wine.
‘What do you mean?’ Charles said, switching off the television now the show was over.
‘The mention of Michael appeared to cause some distress to Jane,’ Sarah frowned. ‘And Victoria and Georgina don’t look alike. In fact, Victoria looks more like a member of the Macintosh family.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ Charles asked. ‘That somehow Michael is the girl’s father?’
Sarah knew it was not uncommon in polite society for the mother of an unwed daughter who fell pregnant to assume the child’s maternity. With money, it was easy to be out of the country so such a thing could be pulled off.
Charles shrugged. ‘It is possible that Jane reacted to the news of Michael fighting in the Congo because she simply liked him as a friend – and nothing else.’
Sarah swilled her wine around in the crystal goblet. Charles could see from the expression on her face that he had not convinced her. Knowing Sarah as he did, he knew she would not let the matter drop until she had used every avenue to pry into the secret she felt Lady Georgina was concealing. Or at least, dismiss her suspicions.
Charles picked up the television guidebook to see if another programme he enjoyed, the ABC’s Four Corners, was on.
*
Lady Georgina and her daughter returned to the Macintosh mansion in the early hours of the morning after a pleasant evening wining and dining with friends at a top Sydney restaurant. They made their way to their respective rooms, and Lady Georgina was preparing for bed when there was a light tap at her door.
‘Come in,’ she said, and Jane entered the room still dressed in her formal clothes.
‘Mother, I will not be able to sleep until we have this conversation about Victoria,’ she said, standing at the end of the large bed upon which her mother now sat.
‘We have been through this many times,’ Lady Georgina said in a tired voice. ‘If you had taken my advice when she was born and had her adopted in America, we would not be having this discussion.’
‘How could I give her up to strangers?’ Jane said. ‘She is my child and was born in an act of love.’
‘You were far too young to comprehend the concept of love,’ Georgina said. ‘You know full well the stigma of being an unwed mother in our society. Your chances of finding a respectable man to marry would have been greatly diminished. We are the Whites, and it would have brought great shame to your father and I if you had kept the baby in your name.’
‘I know you don’t understand, but Michael loved me. Pretending Victoria is my sister grows harder each day I live. I had hoped that, when Daddy said we were coming to Sydney, I might have the opportunity to at least speak to Michael and explain things. I don’t know what his reaction would have been, but it is something I must find out or the rest of my life will be a lie.’
Lady Georgina rose from the bed and placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Victoria has already accepted me as her mother. How do you think she would react to learning that her sister is really her mother? Do you think that now is the right time to tell her such a thing?’
For a moment Jane remained silent, reflecting on the dilemma. The pain of each day being with Victoria and pretending to be her sister was emotionally draining. Yet, could she really turn her daughter’s life upside down by telling her the truth?
‘I think you should return to your room and forget about this,’ Lady Georgina said gently. ‘You also have to think of Victoria. She is happy and secure with her place in the family.’
Jane nodded and turned to leave. She knew everything her mother said was logical. She had to think about her daughter’s welfare. Lady Georgina was a loving mother to Victoria, and Jane had little to offer her as a single mother without an income.
When Jane was in the hallway she saw a light on in the library. She wondered who would be awake at this hour, and when she passed the door she could see Charles sitting at a large desk with a bottle of Scotch. Jane liked Charles and decided to enter the room.
He looked up in surprise. ‘Did you have a good evening?’ he asked, and Jane sat down in a big leather cha
ir. Only a desk lamp lit the room, and most of the library was in deep shadow.
‘It was very nice,’ Jane answered. ‘But I could do with a drink.’
Charles retrieved a second tumbler and quarter filled it with Scotch. He passed it to Jane with the comment, ‘Does your mother allow you to drink?’
‘I believe the legal age in Sydney is eighteen. I am old enough,’ Jane replied, taking a sip of the alcohol. ‘When was the last time you heard from Michael?’
‘I had a letter from him last week,’ Charles answered. ‘He does not write to his mother, but I pass on his news to her. My son and his mother do not get on.’
‘Oh, that is sad to hear,’ Jane said.
‘It’s a pity because Michael should be the one to take over from his mother when she eventually steps down running the family companies. Instead, he chose a life roaming the world, and now he’s a soldier of fortune in Africa.’
Jane could see that the talk of Michael had distressed Charles. She could also see that he was drunk and tears were forming in his eyes. He gazed down at the desk, gripping the tumbler of Scotch in his hand. ‘I don’t get much sleep, worrying about the boy,’ he said and looked up at Jane whose expression of sympathy was genuine.
‘I will tell you a little family secret,’ he said. ‘I am not my boy’s biological father. His real father has never met Michael. But I am the man he calls Dad, and I have always felt like his father.’
Jane sat very still. So, who was Michael’s father? She dared not ask for fear of upsetting Charles further.
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ Jane said. ‘Victoria is not my sister; she is actually my daughter.’
Charles focused on Jane. ‘She’s Michael’s daughter, isn’t she? My wife suspected as much.’
‘She is,’ Jane replied, knocking back the last of her Scotch. ‘I only wish that Michael knew, but I am afraid of how he might react.’
‘By God, I think he would be overjoyed – I have . . . a beautiful granddaughter.’