Dancing the Death Drill

by Fred Khumalo

  ‘Sir, with respect, sir. But the man needed some urgent help. The man is trying to sell us prostitutes, but I told him we are soldiers from Africa, and we’re held in highest regard by all the nations involved in this war. We do not sleep with syphilis carriers. That’s why he got highly agitated and said we must leave his town. I hope that I represented the South African army well.’

  The officer hurried towards a group of his colleagues. They had an animated discussion before they gulped their beers and got up.

  It was time to go back to camp. The men were counted, as usual, and their names checked against a register. Someone had gone missing. The senior officers communicated this to the officers in the other lorries. The men in charge sprang into swift action, moving from shop to shop, from café to café.

  About two hours later, the recalcitrant man was brought back and pushed into the back of a lorry. He’d been found in the company of one of the local ladies. On the way home, the mood was muted. When their camp came into sight, there was a sudden roar above them. Everyone scrambled for cover. It took them a few minutes to realise what had just happened – a German plane had whizzed past, raining pamphlets on them.

  Many of the men who had managed to catch the light green pamphlets could not read them. Luckily for those next to Pitso and other literate soldiers, the mystery was soon solved. Pitso took one of the pamphlets and started reading. ‘Okay, brave men, the German Chief, Mkhize, has a message for us. Listen very carefully, he says:

  ‘I hate you, Uncle Sam …’ Pitso paused to explain, ‘Uncle Sam, my friends, is America.’ Then he continued, ‘… because I do not know what caused you to come and enter this war. I hate Belgium, and I will crush it, because I have already taken most of it. I hate France. I hate England the most, because she takes other countries into her Empire. But in this war, I hate the black people the most. I do not know what they want in this European war. Where I find them, I will smash them! So says the German ruler, my friends.’

  ‘Come here, you dog Mkhize!’ some of the men shouted, pointing at the skies. ‘Come, let my spear drink your blood!’

  Back at the camp, the men filed into their respective huts. The man who had tried to elude the troops was to be transported to the native prison in Dieppe. He would probably face a charge of consorting with a white woman, which carried a sentence of twenty-eight days, as provided for under Field Punishment No. 1 regulation. There would be no proof that he had tried to desert.

  ‘What was that fool trying to do?’ one man asked at the dinner table that evening. ‘Say he managed to give us the slip, where would he go? He doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t know exactly where he is, doesn’t have money – I mean, it doesn’t make sense at all.’

  ‘When you’re desperate, you don’t spend too much time thinking. You act when you see an opportunity.’

  ‘But it’s not as if we were forced to come here,’ the first speaker continued. ‘I don’t know about you chaps, but many of us were attracted by the money.’

  ‘And the promises that we would get the vote back home once the war is over.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  ‘But to go back to this chap … what’s his name?’

  ‘Mjoli.’

  ‘Sounds like a Cape surname.’

  ‘Yes, from Qumbu somewhere.’

  ‘So, I’m still intrigued by what he did, or tried to do.’

  ‘Maybe Mjoli wasn’t even trying to run away. Maybe he wanted time with his lady,’ suggested someone with a grin.

  Pitso ate his dinner quietly, listening to the conversation without bothering to join in. Not that he wasn’t interested in what was being said; he was. But the subject that had more weight for him was the delivery of the German pamphlets.

  He finally spoke, eager to discuss the enemy’s strike. ‘What do you think of Mkhize’s pamphlets?’

  ‘Mkhize has balls. Flying into enemy space just like that.’

  ‘Have you stopped to think – what if Mkhize had dropped, not pamphlets, but bombs?’

  He had their attention now. ‘Think about it, gentlemen – there we were, out in the open, unarmed, with nowhere to hide. Proverbial sitting ducks. What kind of death is that? A soldier dying unarmed, right there on the front.’

  ‘So, what are you suggesting?’ a man asked.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. All I’m saying is that we’re at Mkhize’s mercy. He knows that the blacks are not armed. He’s laughing in our faces. That won’t be his last visit to the black-dominated side of Allied lines.’ Pitso finished his mug of mahewu, let out a long luxurious belch, then said, ‘Me, I’m not going to die with my thumb up my behind like a fool. I’m going to get myself armed.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Since his days of shovelling coal into the furnace aboard the Mendi, the callouses on Pitso’s hands had hardened into shiny crusts. His nails resembled tortoiseshells. His arms, naturally big and thick, now rippled with muscles as he raised his axe in his steady attack on a tree trunk. While some of the men from his camp had been sent to work at a quarry, he had been assigned to a team of tree fellers. After felling the trees, they would cut up the trunks. These would then be dragged by specially trained horses onto wagons, which would cart the cargo to the trenches.

  The survivors of the Mendi were just a tiny fraction of a huge workforce from the Native Labour Contingent, which comprised a total of 20887 black men deployed all over France. The contingent had been broken down into forty-three companies involved in a variety of tasks. The principal classes of work were ammunition (discharge of ships, train loading and unloading, building and traversing of hangars), provisions (discharge of ships), petrol (discharge of ships, train loading, ropeway work), Royal Engineer stores (discharge of ships, train loading), and, of course, forestry.

  Pitso loved the rhythm of his new assignment in the forestry section. Like his stoking duties aboard the ship, tree felling allowed him to think, rather than spend time talking to his comrades – although, in fact, he had learned a number of things from them. One of his comrades, who had been on a road-building chain gang back home, taught them some agreeable ways of working. With the permission of the officer in charge, he showed them how to stand at the base of the tree that needed to be cut. And then, when he screamed ‘Nazo-ke!’ each man would start hacking at his own tree. This was done in a coordinated manner, the blades of the axes falling in unison at the base of the tree, so that there was a musical cadence to the sound reverberating across the forest. With each strike, each man would cry, ‘Abelungu oswayini! Basincintsh’itiye, basibize ngoswayini.’ Whites are swine! They refuse us tea, and call us swine.

  All morning long, the chant would ring across the forest as the axes rose and fell. Without breaking the rhythm, a man would use the chant as a springboard from which to launch a poem or short song which spoke of his love for the woman he left back home. So it went:

  Oh, girl if you were to see what they are doing to us here …

  Abelungu oswayini, basincintsh’itiye basibize ngoswayini

  Out of old buckets we eat some mishmash they call food

  Abelungu oswayini, basincintsh’itiye basibize ngoswayini

  You should see our axes making love to huge formidable trees

  Abelungu oswayini, basincintsh’itiye basibize ngoswayini

  When I chop down a tree, I am chopping down a German thug

  Abelungu oswayini, basincintsh’itiye basibize ngoswayini

  From you girl, I draw my strength, I derive my focus

  Abelungu oswayini, basincintsh’itiye basibize ngoswayini

  I use an axe, for the whites refused me a gun.

  On and on it went, the chanting and chopping and the singing and cursing. Insects and rivulets of sweat blinded the men, but they didn’t slacken their pace, for their concentration was intense. Enemy shells that dropped with shattering noise in the distance soon became part of the songs of the Arques forest. Abelungu oswayini …

  At noon they would
break for lunch, which was usually a hasty affair of mealie-meal porridge with some vegetables, chased down with a huge mug of mahewu. This was strength-giving food. After lunch some men, indolent of body, heart and mind, would flop on the ground and take a nap. Others would venture deep into the forest to lay traps for animals, which they would check before work began the following day. They caught rabbits, sometimes antelope whose names they didn’t know, but which reminded them of the impala of home. If somebody caught something, he would come and finish it off before work began. When work was over, the man would carry his catch back to camp. The walk back was always filled with song and storytelling and joshing around.

  Immediately after dinner, some of the men would break into small groups and start teaching each other songs which reminded them of their various villages back home. Others engaged in stick fighting. Those with some missionary-school education performed theatrical sketches they had learned at school. Pitso sang in one of the groups, but he sometimes preferred watching the various activities. It gave him an insight into the lives of his comrades. It also was then that he had time to concentrate on his drawings. Like his father many years before, he soon became popular among fellow soldiers for his realistic drawings. They would pose for him during the performances, or as they skinned an antelope they’d caught in the forest.

  The one face he couldn’t stop reproducing over and over again was that of Marie-Thérèse, the nurse. Marie-Thérèse on horseback; Marie-Thérèse in a bright pink dress, floating down a glade ablaze with brightly coloured flowers; Marie-Thérèse walking hand in hand with him down a street in Rouen. He wondered how she was and if she ever thought of him.

  CHAPTER 33

  One Saturday, at the height of spring, the various companies stationed in camps on the outskirts of Arques-la-Bataille marched into town, singing lustily. Proud in their uniforms, they swung their arms, their boots thudding on the dusty stretch of road. The June sun touched their faces with fingers of warmth. The green countryside rolled steadily past them, nicely rounded hills and knolls. On a hill before them they saw a sprawling feudal ruin – their destination.

  When they finally reached the ruins, they were made to sit down on the grass. The morning dew had evaporated. A makeshift platform rose in front of them, at the entrance to what looked like an old fort.

  A Catholic priest welcomed everyone and opened with a brief prayer. Then a local French soldier in uniform got up and took the podium. He introduced the various speakers who would appear before the soldiers that day – prominent local citizens including shop owners and minor politicians. They each spoke of how, ever since the arrival of the South African soldiers in town, business had been brisk, the town had found a new sense of purpose. The locals had never felt safer. They were grateful for the soldiers’ good neighbourliness and positive attitude.

  The French soldier translated from French to English. Taking initiative, one of the South African soldiers quickly got up and offered to translate from English to Xhosa and Sotho, the main South African languages represented there.

  Pitso almost had a heart attack when the next speaker was introduced. Marie-Thérèse ascended the stage. His Marie-Thérèse. She greeted everyone present, then began, ‘I take pride in being a native of Arques, and in welcoming you to our small, but historically rich town.’

  The sunlight still had the magical golden hue of early day, touching her face lightly as she continued.

  ‘The full name of this town is Arques-la-Bataille, named after the Battle of Arques, which is dear to every self-respecting French person. The battle broke out in September 1589, between the French royal forces of King Henry IV and the troops of the Catholic League, during the eighth and final war of the French Wars of Religion. You gentlemen came all the way from Africa to defend your Crown, to uphold international justice and democracy. So you will readily understand what it means to be proud of one’s nationhood, one’s culture, one’s religion.’

  Pitso looked at her lips as she took a sip of water from her glass.

  ‘Henry IV stood no chance against the 35000 troops of the Catholic League, so he fled to this city you see at the bottom of this hill, the city of Arques. These here are the ruins of just some of the fortifications left by Henry IV.’ She waved her hands to indicate the formidable ancient structures, complete with a moat. ‘The Catholic League attacked Arques and the surrounding areas on numerous occasions, but when Queen Elizabeth sent about 4000 English soldiers to support the French, Henry IV was left victorious.

  ‘So, my friends, we have strong ties of history that bind us together: back then, the English rescued and protected Arques; today, the British Crown is protecting not only France, but international democracy and justice. And you are the foot soldiers of that righteous army. You should be proud of yourselves.’

  She paused to allow for applause. At that time a new company of soldiers arrived, but Pitso did not bother to look at them. He hated latecomers.

  Marie-Thérèse concluded, ‘As you sit with us in this town, you must be secure in the knowledge that we are fighters. You must be secure in the knowledge that we respect history, much as we hope you do. On behalf of the mayor, I wish you a warm welcome here. I know you have been here for quite a while already, but today the mayor wants to officially welcome you and thank you for what you have done for our town.’

  Everyone applauded.

  A group of men from the Cape were next on stage. Dressed in leopard-skin traditional outfits and wielding ceremonial sticks, they took the stage by storm. Their voices, coming from the pits of their stomachs, resounded around the hill and poured down the slope to the town below. The ground thudded and shook as they stomped their bare feet, provoking ghosts of dust into the air.

  Soon, the number of people in attendance had swelled as more townsfolk ascended the slope to see, first-hand, what the Africans were doing.

  As the celebration continued, Pitso sidled up to Marie-Thérèse, catching her as she was taking a stroll just behind the ancient chateau. But as he was about to catch up with her, he realised she had a rendezvous with someone else back there. His shoulders dropped.

  As he was turning to go, she called out, ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going? Come and join us.’

  He realised she was talking to him and followed her wordlessly. Turning the corner, he was surprised to come face to face with Captain Portsmouth.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ said Portsmouth, laughing.

  ‘When did you arrive, Captain?’

  ‘Just as mademoiselle here was regaling the audience with the history of this illustrious town.’

  The men paused, looked at each other. Then, in turn, they looked at Marie-Thérèse, who had a shy smile on her lips.

  She said to Portsmouth, ‘You’re the senior officer here, will you kindly give this young man permission to go to town and get some tobacco? In other words, can you play escort to him, as per your army regulations?’

  Pitso opened his mouth, but changed his mind.

  ‘Why, sure.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, starting her descent back to town, Portsmouth in tow, ‘what are we waiting for?’ Pitso followed them down the steadily sloping hill.

  Portsmouth shouted to one of the senior officers, ‘Just going to the town for a roll of tobacco. When you’re finished up there, you may join us for a drink at the main bistro. And from there we’ll push for home.’

  When they got to the town, they walked to an inn. ‘This is my elder brother’s establishment,’ explained Marie-Thérèse, meeting Pitso’s questioning gaze. ‘He is currently in Saint-Nazaire, on the northern coast. So, I spend my free time here when I am not working at the hospital.’

  They sat at a table on the veranda, sipping soft drinks and discussing what they had been doing since Pitso was released from the hospital. A young woman soon joined them. ‘Gentlemen, this is my sister Geneviève.’

  The resemblance between the two women was striking. The men shook the lady’s hand politely be
fore sitting down again. Their conversation turned to the usual banalities – weather, never-ending war, shortage of stocks at the shops.

  Marie-Thérèse then got up and assumed a businesslike tone. ‘Excuse me, Corporal Pitso, may I have a private word with you?’

  Pitso looked at Portsmouth, who nodded assent. The young soldier got up and followed Marie-Thérèse inside, through the restaurant to a door that led to the inner recesses of the building. Marie-Thérèse closed the door behind her. Pitso looked around and realised they were now in some kind of corridor.

  ‘You looked rather shocked when you saw me give that speech earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you there, let alone giving a speech.’

  ‘You clearly haven’t done your research,’ she teased.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Our family is highly regarded in this town. My brother, who owns this inn, is a famous lawyer. He has a practice in Paris, as well as some businesses in different parts of the country. Were it not for his law practice, he probably would have been mayor of this town.’

  She opened a door, led him inside, and closed the door behind them. He looked around at the nicely appointed, typical hotel room – with a bed, a writing table, a comfortable chair.

  ‘I know you’ve been wanting to speak to me. Now’s your chance,’ she said.

  ‘I thought I wanted to say something to you, yes, but … I thought you and Captain Portsmouth …’

  ‘I knew you’d misread the picture, much as he has misread it. He is interested in me, and I am interested in you,’ she shyly explained.

  Butterflies exploded in Pitso’s stomach, who was relieved his feelings were reciprocated. But, remembering his bitter-sweet experience with Christine back home, Pitso could not help but change the subject. ‘I enjoyed your speech very much. It opened a new window for me into European affairs.’

  Embarrassed, Marie-Thérèse got up, and said, ‘Let me get us some drinks.’

  When she came back she had a tray with a half-full bottle of white wine and two glasses. She put the tray on a side table. He got up to pour the drinks.