by Fred Khumalo
‘The bombs start dropping. Bha-bha-bha-bha! Gunfire. Boom-boom-boom! Mkhize dropping those bombs. Our guys – the Brits and the other Allies – are firing away at the German planes. Bha-bha-bha-bha! I like the sound, man. Wish I could take that sound back to my home village. So they can hear what a European war sounds like. Bha-bha-bha-bha! Our boys are shooting like crazy. How I wished I had a big gun in my hands, so I could start firing away as well.’
Vundla started coughing all over again. He lifted his hand, to assure his audience the story was not yet over.
He picked up the thread. ‘Anyway, the planes evade our shots. They disappear, only to come back a few minutes later. Now there’s only three of them. Diving low, skimming over the tops of the trees. You see the pine trees and gum trees up north? There. One of our guys starts firing again. He hits one of the planes. Vrrooooom! It twists and turns in the air – vroom-vrooom-vrooom! – before finally crashing onto the ground. When we run up to the wreckage, we find three men. But two are dead. One is still alive. Talking, laughing derisively at us. The Basotho chaps in our group want to kill the German bastard. I could have throttled him with my own hands. That’s how angry I was. The bugger and his friends made me soil my pants. No man alive made me soil my pants.’
The entire room vibrated with laughter.
Vundla continued, ‘I wanted this Fritz to die. But Captain Geddes says no, let’s spare him. Let’s get as much information as we can get out of him. Which makes sense. Much as we hate Fritz, he’s got information we need. Anyway, the prisoner is taken to hospital. This very hospital. Dieppe Hospital. On being interrogated, he apparently told our men that their instruction was to wipe Dieppe off the face of the earth. Why? Because Dieppe is where the troublesome blacks are based. The blacks are fast in handling the supplies on the docks, the same supplies that have breathed some new life into the almost comatose body of the Allied forces. So, my brother, that’s what we blacks are doing here. That’s how we’ve changed the pace of this war. But the bastards still won’t arm us.’
There were snorts from some sections of the room. Pitso spoke some more with Vundla about the attack in which he lost his arm. He was still enjoying this raconteur’s tales when Vundla drifted off and started snoring.
Weeks later, on his release from hospital, Pitso had finally made peace with the fact that this war did not discriminate: whether you were British, or a native of India, or a white South African, or an unarmed black auxiliary from any of the colonies, as long as you were on the side of the Allies you were in shit. Mkhize was out to get you. Pitso shuddered at the thought.
CHAPTER 30
After the bleak, overcrowded confines of the hospital, Pitso was happy to be breathing the crisp, fresh air of the coast. To the west, beyond a gauze of fog, he could see the sea. And to the east the land unfolded in a steady incline towards the dark heavy sky. Everything was blanketed in snow – the stunted, dejected trees, the flat open country. It was depressing, inspiring a slight shiver in him even though he was swaddled in layers of clothing – long johns, thick army uniforms, a greatcoat, snow boots, undershirt, thick shirt, windbreaker, gloves, a scarf which he had contrived into a mask that covered his entire face, leaving only space enough for the eyes to peek out. His head was covered in a heavy woollen cap with thick earmuffs.
An officer with some British accent he didn’t care for was giving him a ride on horseback to a warm hut at a camp in Arques-la-Bataille, which he’d been told was about ten miles from where they were.
The officer said, ‘Should learn to dress appropriately for this kind o’ weather, son. This here is not Africa. Yer goin’ to freeze yer balls.’
Pitso merely grunted.
The horse was having a hard time, its hooves sinking into thick mounds of snow. Every now and then they had to pause so the poor creature could catch its breath. Pitso’s heavy coat was gradually feeling thinner and thinner. His teeth started chattering. The officer did not appear to be in a hurry.
‘We get to camp, they’ll teach ye how to dress properly and yet be able to move about, make yerself useful. As it is, you look like a mummy. Cain’t be very comfortable, can ye? Cain’t be a useful soldier dressed like that.’
The horse trudged on. ‘At the camp they got hot showers, boy. Ever taken a shower in yer life?’ Silence. ‘I didn’t think so. They got water from the tap. They got taps in Africa?’ Silence. ‘Didn’t think so. At the camp they got hurricane lamps.’
Pitso closed his eyes. He was roused from his doze by the man speaking again. ‘But what they don’t have at that camp are nurses. No white nurses for ye over there. I believe some nurse was doing more than massage yer broken leg at the hospital, ye old rogue, ye.’ Pitso threw a panicked look at the back of the officer, whose laughter rang across the wide-open expanse of land. ‘Word travels fast, boy. We know ye randy lot from Africa don’t waste time, do ye now? And, listen to this, they have heated huts for ye lot. Ye don’t have to go looking for wood out there in the freezin’ cold. At least not just yet.’
Pitso chose not to respond. Mainly because he was at the mercy of the bugger, but also because it was so cold he feared if he opened his mouth his teeth would freeze. He shuddered at the memory of some patients he had seen at the hospital – sufferers of chilblains, trench foot and frostbite. A lot of amputations had taken place there.
He cast his mind to the warm, pleasant climes of home. His mouth salivated at the thought of biltong. When were the French ever going to discover biltong – the salty pick-me-up that a healthy body demands as a matter of course? Oh, biltong. And he missed mangoes. Mangoes which tasted like sunshine. Home. He could see African women in twos and threes, sashaying in deliberate languor down a winding footpath. Pots of water balanced on their heads, their arms folded across their buxom breasts, their hips swinging. Their tongues dancing with stories, the women would every now and then stop to look each other in the face, and joyous laughter would explode from their lips, dancing all the way to the deepest valleys.
‘Soldier,’ the voice startled Pitso out of his African reverie, ‘behold yer new home.’
The camp was a sprawling settlement of timber huts which, in Pitso’s opinion, would have done a South African village proud. Once inside the gate, which was guarded, they tethered the horse to a stunted tree and started walking towards one of the huts. The white officer consulted a notebook before he went to another hut. The minute they entered the hut, the warmth inside slapped Pitso in the face with such force his eyes watered. He removed his scarf from around his face. His ears buzzed. His lips, previously comatose, woke up. Confused by the sudden change of temperature, they began to tremble. His armpits itched. The hospital smells he’d got used to came to be replaced by the welcome aromas of warm peasantry, tobacco, stale alcohol, horseshit and woodsmoke.
The twenty-odd men who had been playing cards and lazing about snapped to attention at the appearance of the officer next to Pitso.
‘At ease,’ said the officer. ‘Now, boys, we have a new member. He has been allocated a bed in this room somewhere. Do give him a warm welcome, will ye?’ He saluted and left.
Most of the men went back to their game of cards or whatever else they’d been occupied with. But some looked at Pitso expectantly, not unlike prison inmates sizing up a new arrival.
One man sniggered. ‘What a nose he has, the new one.’
‘Hawk-like, wouldn’t you say?’ his mate offered.
Pitso did not care for these comments. He put his mild irritation aside and greeted the men with a warm, but shy, ‘Good afternoon.’
The men started speaking together in Zulu. One of them cried, ‘Ha, labelungu! Basilethela esinye isilwanyana futhi!’ These white people! They have brought us another creature! ‘Why is he speaking to us in English?’
‘It’s because he can’t speak an African language. Can’t you see he’s not like us? Look at his hair, his eyes,’ another replied.
‘I thought the half-caste ones had their own batta
lion. Why is this one here, with us?’
‘Have you noticed that it’s usually the camps occupied by the whites, the coloured and the non-Ngunis that are susceptible to Mkhize’s attacks?’
‘Now that you mention it, us Zulus and Xhosas have remained unscathed thus far. But why is that, my brother?’
‘It’s because we still pray to the African gods. Before we came here, my people slaughtered a beast to ask my ancestors to be with me on my journey to the white man’s land.’
‘Same here. Now, the other people, the whites, the mixed-race and others, they’ve forgotten that though he may sojourn long in the branches of the umganu, the partridge will never forget the nest of lowly brush where he was hatched.’
‘True. They’ve forgotten their roots,’ the first man said. ‘Now these whites in charge have brought us this creature who will bring misfortune to our section. My friend, can you tell him we don’t want him here? You know I can’t speak English. Get someone who can speak English to tell him straight away, before he even sits down.’
Standing near the entrance, Pitso had an epiphany: he was going to like these chaps; they were honest, laying it all out there in front of him, not sniggering behind his back. But some business needed to be taken care of first.
Harking back to his Zulu lessons from Portsmouth and his late friend Ngqavini, Pitso said, ‘Bafowethu, nakhuluma ngami ngikhona! Kanti ngiyini kinina? Ngiwumsuzo?’ Brothers, you speak about me as if I am not here. What am I to you? Am I a fart?
They stopped playing cards. One man got up. ‘Who are you to speak to us like that?’
‘I am Pitso Motaung, the cub of a lion that roars across the dusty plains of the Free State,’ he said in a mishmash of Zulu and Sotho. ‘I am the stone that the builders refused.’
The man pushed Pitso back. Pitso threw a punch that floored the man immediately.
‘Hey, you two!’ a thick voice bellowed from somewhere in the room. ‘This is not prison, you ill-brought-up sons of bitches! We are soldiers here. We are united. Forget your past and focus on what’s in front of you.’
The owner of the voice approached Pitso. He was a dark man, almost as tall as Pitso himself. The other men suddenly snapped to attention.
‘At ease!’ The soldiers relaxed. When the man was directly in front of Pitso, he spoke to him in Afrikaans, ‘Where do you come from, soldier?’
‘Who wants to know?’ replied Pitso. The other men sniggered.
‘Sergeant Major Madosini, King William’s Town, Cape Province. Junior Certificate holder, Lovedale College.’
Pitso was startled, but tried to mask his surprise by shouting as loudly as he could, ‘Corporal Pitso Motaung, Mohokare, Free State, Standard Six Certificate holder, Centre for Coloured Children, sir.’ He saluted.
‘Your bed is in the corner over here. All your belongings are there, properly labelled.’ He switched to English, mixing it with some Sotho. ‘Your exhibition of physical prowess was impressive, albeit a bit excessive. I think you broke the man’s jaw. How do we explain that to the senior white officers? I’m only a lowly native sergeant, how do we explain this incident?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I didn’t start it, as sir is my witness, sir.’
‘It was a rhetorical question, soldier. Do you know what a rhetorical question is?’
‘It’s when someone asks a question to which he doesn’t expect an answer.’
‘Ah, this man is educated.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. He turned to the other men. ‘Troops! We have another educated man among us. What do we have?’
‘An educated man, sir!’
‘Now, the labels on your belongings say PITSO MOTAUNG, but the man standing in front of me looks more like a Van der Merwe or something.’
‘I’m a product of these long-running wars of conquest, sir.’
‘He has a sense of humour to boot. Troops! The man has a what?’
‘A sense of humour, sir!’
‘Now, soldier Motaung, feel at home. We are currently on break. We shall resume duty tomorrow at six in the morning. Seeing as you’ve just come out of hospital – is that correct?’
‘Correct, sir.’
‘Seeing that you’re straight from hospital, you probably don’t know about rations, daily food rations?’
‘No, sir, but I do know your food can’t be worse than what they serve in hospital, sir.’
Some men laughed.
‘I’ve never been to hospital, so I would not know, corporal. Anyway, in terms of our regulations, our daily rations are as follows: one pound frozen meat, or nine ounces preserved meat. One pound mealie meal, one pound bread, one ounce coffee, one ounce sugar, half an ounce salt, eight ounces fresh vegetables, two ounces of English tobacco per week, three ounces of South African tobacco per week, one box of matches per week. Any questions, corporal?’
‘Yes, sir. Any alcohol, sir?’
More men laughed.
‘Ah, yes, we are allowed to brew our sorghum beer. But the strength and quantity is closely supervised by group commanders. Pity you have repudiated your white blood, or you would be drinking brandy just like the white officers and their coloured cousins.’
Even Pitso joined in on the laughter.
Officer Madosini continued, ‘They say the weather is gradually improving, although I’m not seeing any improvement. By the way, which battalion are you with? When exactly did you arrive in France?’
‘Fifth Battalion, sir.’
‘Fifth Battalion, Fifth Battalion,’ the sergeant major said, toying with his moustache. ‘Fifth Battalion.’ He suddenly snapped to attention. ‘Thixo wamazulu! You wouldn’t be one of the Mendi survivors, would you?’
‘Yes, one of them, sir.’
Everyone sat up at the mention of the Mendi. The room was suddenly a cauldron of excited voices. ‘What did he say about the Mendi?’
‘Said he survived the Mendi.’
‘Fucking ghost!’
‘Order!’ shouted the sergeant major. ‘This man is exhausted, utterly exhausted. He needs to lay his side on the bed and rest. But, Corporal Motaung, would you mind sharing your story with us?’
Pitso grinned benevolently. ‘You’ll tell this story to your grandchildren, if you live long enough …’
CHAPTER 31
Spring arrived. The landscape, long buried under thick blankets of snow, woke up from its slumber. Trees threw up their fists of triumph into the warm air. Brooks started gurgling. Birds – thrushes and blackbirds and other variously hued types – filled the air with song. They flitted among the chestnuts and the elms and the pine trees. Bees buzzed from one bright flower to the next.
A relatively festive mood reigned at the various camps. Only the distant explosions reminded the soldiers that they were still at war, that they were far away from their loved ones. The appearance of an ambulance on its way to the hospital also helped sober the men up – reminding them that the game of death was far from over.
Pitso was among the men who, one day, were told to dress sharply and climb onto the back of a big lorry. They were going into town, a town called Rouen, to take advantage of the beautiful weather. The lorry was to be part of a convoy of five, each carrying about thirty men. Two huge drums of mahewu were mounted onto the vehicles. For many, this excursion was going to be their first trip into a French town.
As the lorry rolled into motion, the men sang and danced in the back of the truck. Equally excited, Pitso devoured the passing landscape with his eyes. Being from the Free State, which was largely arid flatland, he was enthralled by the rolling hills and the broad valleys of France, the landscape blanketed in a profusion of trees whose leaves were so green they reminded him of spinach. The valleys and flatlands alongside the road were carefully cultivated. Every now and then an old chateau showed its elegant face, speaking of a bygone era. At every hamlet they passed, the roads would be lined with people who waved excitedly at them.
The lorries slowed down and a hush fell when they entered a small town
whose most conspicuous landmark was a broken cathedral tower. A statue of the Madonna holding the infant Christ surmounted the ruined tower. They were told that the partially damaged figure had been rescued from falling by local engineers. The townspeople seemed intrigued by the soldiers, who, in turn, were entranced by the ruined cathedral. The convoy moved on.
When they finally arrived at Rouen, they were mobbed by locals. Women threw garlands at them and sang. The children reached out and touched the soldiers. It was clear they had never seen black men before. Many wanted to feel the texture of their hair. The men obliged them, bowing their heads and letting the children stroke their hair.
The men who wanted to buy fresh supplies of tobacco were allowed to. The troops then walked around to get the feeling of a French town. Before long, the soldiers had taken over the entire main street. The white officers stationed themselves at the various cafés along the street. An instruction was sent for the drums of mahewu to be offloaded from the trucks and set up on the pavement. The men were ordered to stand in line and received their rations of mahewu, while the officers drank their beer and wine in the cafés.
A local man came out in a huff and said, in rapid-fire French, ‘What the hell is happening here? Why are these men drinking from pig troughs, while the others are sitting on comfortable chairs, on the porches of our cafés? What’s happening, where are you from?’
The white officers grinned stupidly since none of them could speak French. Pitso saw an opportunity. He said to the man in French, ‘Monsieur, we’re from the Union of South Africa. Back home, this is how we do things. People of your colour are not allowed to mix with les noirs.’
‘What? Tell your officers to get out of our town then. They are not welcome here.’
Now the local people had gathered around to watch.
An officer who had seen Pitso talking to the man said, ‘Corporal, you know the rules: only under an officer’s supervision are you people allowed to speak to locals.’