Dancing the Death Drill

by Fred Khumalo

  ‘Of course it is Indian. Kashmiri, to be exact. It is a curry. Back at military college in England, we had this great chef from India – gigantic whiskers, nostrils always a-twitch, sharp piercing eyes … Taught me everything I know about Indian cooking, the old codger.’

  ‘And where do you get these Indian spices from, in the middle of a war?’

  ‘British officers. Many of them are so addicted to Indian cooking they can’t leave their own country without these spices. When they go to war, the spices become part of their arsenal.’

  ‘I have yet to see an undernourished British soldier, Captain.’

  Portsmouth laughed good-humouredly.

  ‘But it’s true, sir,’ insisted Pitso. ‘In all the war books I’ve read, the Brits will, in the middle of a ferocious skirmish, take a break for “a spot of lunch”, as they call it.’

  It quickly became a Friday-afternoon tradition: Portsmouth at the pots, cooking rabbit vindaloo, or antelope rogan josh, or antelope shank korma, the cooks beginning to get the hang of it, and Pitso pretending he was only there in his capacity as an interpreter, when in fact he also was an eager student. Not to mention that he relished the resulting meals.

  Every now and then during the week, Pitso would ride to the hospital, ostensibly to perform an assignment, when in fact his primary motive was to see Marie-Thérèse. When he was supposed to be working, he would sneak into town and spend time with her at her house, whenever she was off duty. He knew it was risky even though his new-found status offered him a sense of immunity from close scrutiny. He could go to many places unaccompanied by a white officer, but going into town was pushing it. All the shopkeepers in town knew the rules: don’t serve a black soldier if he is not accompanied by a white officer. The second rule, though unwritten, was: French citizens should not hesitate to report an unaccompanied black soldier to the authorities.

  One day, after Pitso had spent a sizzling afternoon inside Marie-Thérèse’s bedroom, he was untying his horse from a pole when a familiar voice said, ‘And what are you doing here?’

  He wheeled around to see Officer Haig, his eyes bleary and red.

  Officer Haig switched from English to Afrikaans. ‘Answer me – what are you doing here unaccompanied?’ When the officer spoke for the second time, Pitso’s suspicions were confirmed: the man was drunk.

  ‘You know I can have you court-martialled?’

  ‘But why would you want to do that, sir?’

  ‘The rules are simple: a black trooper can’t enter town unaccompanied by a white officer.’

  ‘But, sir, you’re here. I am not unaccompanied.’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny with me? You know I can get you punished for that. That’s insubordination.’ He took a step forward.

  Three passers-by slowed down to watch the exchange between the two soldiers.

  ‘Sir, I think you’re attracting attention to yourself. These people can see that you’re drunk. You wouldn’t want another senior officer, say, Captain Portsmouth, finding out about this …’ He allowed his voice to trail off.

  Officer Haig turned to the onlookers and grinned foolishly. Pitso got onto his horse.

  ‘Hey,’ Haig shouted after him, ‘will you give me a ride back to camp?’

  ‘With pleasure, sir.’

  Getting Officer Haig on to the back of the horse proved to be a challenge. His drunkenness and unruly belly did not help at all. Pitso wondered what the passers-by were making of these clownish men in uniform. How had Officer Haig passed the physical test with such an unwieldy body?

  They rode in silence for a while, before Pitso said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but why are you speaking more Afrikaans these days? On the ship you spoke English to everyone.’

  ‘English is a good language for playing cricket or polo. Afrikaans is the language of war. Zulu is the language of war. So waar as wragtig! We’re in the trenches now; we need to communicate in an inspiring language, such as Afrikaans.’

  Pitso wanted to laugh, but he remained guarded in the presence of this man.

  ‘More seriously, I’m an Afrikaans-speaking person by birth. But we’re Cape Boers. And as you know, the Cape Boers have always sided with the English. All about convenience, my man …’

  ‘I didn’t know that, sir.’

  ‘Well, listen and learn. My grandfather moved over to the English side a long time ago, in exchange for huge tracts of land in the Cape, in the Grahamstown area. We have ever since been more English than Afrikaans – at least in the public eye. At home we speak Afrikaans. Needless to say, during the Anglo–Boer War, we were officially neutral, but our sympathies were with the English.’

  Perhaps sensing he’d revealed too much to a mere corporal, and a black corporal at that, Officer Haig clammed up all of a sudden. They continued in silence. At some point, Pitso realised that Haig had fallen asleep and allowed his mind to travel back to what had happened at Marie-Thérèse’s house that afternoon.

  As they were getting dressed after making love, she had said, out of the blue, ‘Pitso, I can see blood. Blood flowing. And you’re in the middle of it.’

  ‘What are you?’ he had said casually, as he pulled on his clothes. ‘A clairvoyant or something?’

  ‘Gosh, no, not a clairvoyant!’ she replied in alarm. ‘It’s just that when something terrible is about to happen, I dream about it. Sometimes my dreams come to fruition.’

  ‘Sometimes. This won’t be one of those times your dream comes true, my dear. Nothing will happen to me.’

  She ignored him, continuing, ‘Avoid unnecessary confrontation over the next few hours – or days. I know this is all vague but … It was in the dream.’

  ‘You’re just anxious, my dear. That’s only natural. And it’s also only natural that when you dwell too much on something, it tends to weave itself into your dreams.’

  ‘But I see lots of blood!’

  ‘Blood is inevitable. We’re in the middle of a war, after all.’

  ‘Try and avoid all confrontation,’ she repeated, ‘even in its mildest form.’

  Officer Haig’s groggy voice startled Pitso from his musings. ‘Tell me, have you heard the rumours about what happened as the ship was going down?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about any rumours, sir. All I know is what I saw, sir, and what I heard at the inquest.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘One could write a book about the whole thing, sir.’ Pitso stayed non-committal.

  They rode past the dilapidated Norman chateau. Some children waved at them from the side of the road. Pitso waved back.

  ‘Somebody is spreading malicious rumours … rumours that can destroy a man’s life.’

  Pitso was silent. His mind flew back to the day of the sinking.

  ‘Trooper.’ Haig broke into his train of thought. ‘I know you’re close to Captain Portsmouth … I think he is behind the rumour. Maybe you could politely ask him to stop, to desist.’

  ‘What is the rumour about, sir?’ Pitso could now vividly see Haig on the raft, kicking desperate men back into the water as they tried to clamber onto the raft.

  ‘Are you listening to me, trooper?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘The captain says … they say I was the man who kicked people off that raft as the ship was sinking.’

  ‘What raft?’ Pitso was trying hard to control his rage.

  ‘Apparently there was a raft. And … and this … this person climbed onto the raft. When the other people tried to join him on the raft, he started kicking them back into the water.’

  Even though he was seething, Pitso said calmly, ‘Why wasn’t it mentioned at the inquest, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why they are raising it only now.’

  ‘But why does it bother you, sir?’

  ‘I just told you. They say I was that person. They say I must be court-martialled. But they have no evidence against me.’ Haig’s voice rose, almost to a wail.

  Startled by the sound, the
horse came to a halt and clopped the ground hard with its right front hoof. Pitso brushed its mane reassuringly. It started moving again.

  ‘Trooper, I am a good man, a better soldier than most. Do you think I would do that?’

  If Pitso had had any doubt about what he’d seen that night, Haig’s fear and anxiety only confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll speak to Captain Portsmouth about it, sir.’ Pitso was relieved to drop Haig off at his camp.

  That night, Pitso went to bed, with Officer Haig where he didn’t want him – sitting on his mind.

  CHAPTER 37

  Two days later Pitso got an urgent message to make his way to the native prison in Dieppe. There had been a disturbance at one of the camps, and some men had been arrested. They were to appear before a court martial that day and the services of an interpreter would be needed. As he was leaving his hut, he made sure to bring with him a set of pencils, sheets of drawing paper and some of his older drawings. He found that, on these assignments, the wheels of officialdom could not always be trusted to start spinning at the appointed hour and minute. The best way to kill time, and thus keep himself in good humour, was to work on his drawings while he waited – either retouching older drawings, or embarking on entirely new pieces.

  His horse was sweating and foaming at the mouth by the time they arrived at the native prison. Pitso introduced himself to the two officers in charge. They assured him it was not going to be a long trial, which could mean anything. He was told to sit down as they were still awaiting the arrival of an officer who was an accuser in the matter.

  Although Pitso had never seen the two officers before, there was no mistaking their South African accents. They must have come with earlier battalions. They were cordial and polite, cut from the same cloth as Portsmouth, not as boorish as Haig and some of the others.

  It was his first time at the prison, which was a rudimentary structure – a huge hall, really, with a partitioning of iron bars right down the middle. The prisoners’ side was gloomy, pale shafts of light filtering from tiny windows that were set high up. In the gloom, he could see that the floor was completely bare. The prisoners’ sleeping mats and blankets had been folded and lined up in neat piles against the walls. For toilet purposes, the prisoners used three buckets, placed next to each other in a corner.

  On the jailers’ side of the building, towards the entrance, the floor was of dark, smooth cement, polished to a shine. There were two sturdy tables side by side, with a chair allocated to each table. A large grey typewriter sat in the middle of one of the tables, a neat pile of white paper next to it. The other table was completely bare, except for a huge copper-bound register, a record book of sorts, which was shackled to one of the table’s legs. There were two benches for visitors against the wall, facing the officers’ tables.

  The officers asked Pitso to join them for a cup of tea. He gratefully accepted, noticing how the officers poured the tea from their cups into the saucers, slurping it from the saucers, tilted just so. It was an affectation Pitso had observed among the Brits. He smiled to himself, reflecting how his own friend Portsmouth had become more English ever since they’d arrived in France.

  When the officers finished their tea, they excused themselves and left the room, presumably to go over the final strategy for the day’s proceedings.

  Quickly, Pitso moved towards the bars and asked the men to come forward and brief him before the officers returned. It was only then that he spotted Tlali among the men.

  Pitso almost shouted for joy at seeing the friend he hadn’t laid eyes on in months. They had last met each other when Tlali’s company had driven past Pitso’s own camp – a quick glimpse during which they had called to each other. But excited as he was now to see his friend, he checked himself and simply looked at Tlali. He had to exercise restraint here. Like the other prisoners, Tlali was wearing a white vest, government-issue trousers, no shoes. Tlali was uncharacteristically sullen, his face sporting dark unseemly bumps.

  ‘What happened? Speak quickly before they return.’

  ‘There was a fight at camp last night. I fought with Officer Red Beard’ – Officer Haig – ‘and he stole my money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I gave him money, as I usually do, to go and get me some tobacco from town. And a little bit of white man’s liquor as well. He always buys it for me.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ exclaimed Pitso, unable to recognise his friend’s behaviour. These were all new habits for Tlali, who had never drank or smoked before.

  ‘When I asked for my money back, he attacked me. The other men rose to my defence. That’s why we’re here.’

  When the two officers came back, Pitso was back on the bench where he had been sitting earlier, studying his drawings. The one that always stood out was that of his mother as drawn by his father those many years ago. It had been one of the works in the pocket of the greatcoat he’d been wearing on the day of the sinking of the Mendi, and he had since restored it.

  One of the officers interrupted his thoughts. ‘I don’t expect this to be a major hearing. Just going through official motions, to remind our troopers that we’re watching them. Levels of discipline among our troops have been nothing but praiseworthy.’

  ‘Quite commendable, Captain Moffett,’ added the other, ‘if you consider that these are not trained soldiers. They’ve had to deal with the whole issue of … uhm, cultural adjustment. The snow, the sea and the diet, which must be largely alien to them. It must have been a shock to their system. But they rose above it all, and acquitted themselves admirably.’

  Pitso merely nodded.

  ‘They’ll probably only receive a reprimand,’ said Captain Moffett. ‘And everybody can go home.’

  ‘Discipline is important,’ said Pitso quietly.

  Suddenly the morning air outside was filled with song – throaty African voices, singing, chanting. As they got closer, the words of the chant became clearer: ‘Bakhululeni, bakhululeni.’ Free them, free them.

  The two officers – Captain Moffett and Lieutenant Benjamin – instinctively reached for their guns.

  The voices grew closer. Pitso, joined by the two officers, rushed outside. In the distance, from the direction of the barracks, they saw the black soldiers, in full uniform, half running towards the prison.

  ‘They are not supposed to be here,’ said Lieutenant Benjamin. ‘These hearings are private matters. They are not court cases.’

  ‘Look, lieutenant, these are not regular soldiers. They don’t understand procedure like you and I,’ said Moffett.

  ‘But rules are rules, Captain.’

  ‘Maybe we should let them sit in, just to assure them that everything is above board. It will also give them an understanding of how our justice system works.’

  Pitso chimed in, ‘I don’t think they mean any harm. I don’t know the entire rule book myself, but I think what the captain is saying is reasonable enough.’

  ‘It’s your call, Captain.’

  The men, who could have numbered anywhere between thirty and forty, were now at the gate, remonstrating with the guards who wouldn’t let them in.

  The captain said, ‘Lance Corporal Motaung, why don’t you go over and tell the men to stop singing? Tell them to walk in an orderly way into the building and get seated while we wait for the officer who is the main complainant in this matter.’

  Pitso hurried to the gate to explain the situation to the guards. Then he spoke to the men in Sotho and broken Xhosa. They immediately stopped shouting and followed him back into the building. But their spirits were still high, peppering their muttered conversations with angry words.

  Because the front of the prison had not been designed with large groups of visitors in mind, there was not much space for sitting. The men decided to stand and wait. The minute they saw their colleagues waiting in the darkness behind the bars, they chanted, ‘Siy’ekhaya! Siy’ekhaya.’ We’re going home, we’re going home.

 
Pitso called them to order. They obeyed.

  The captain spoke, ‘Just for the record, gentlemen, this here is not a court of law. You are not supposed to be here. The hearing that is about to unfold was supposed to be a private matter between the accused members and the officer in question. But in the interest of justice and openness, I see no harm in allowing you to stay.’

  After Pitso had interpreted the captain’s words, the men cheered and sang praises to the captain. Pitso knew there was no sincerity in the captain’s words. He thought the man was being oh-so-polite and reasonable because he realised he had a possible mutiny on his hands. He was saying now, ‘But as you know, I am not the chief of chiefs here. I’m only one of the many small chiefs. There are many chiefs above me, who will be very upset if they discover that I’ve broken the rules. In order for them not to find out, I am asking for your cooperation. I am urging you to respect my position but, most importantly, to respect the proceedings that are about to unfold. If you don’t shout and heckle, this matter will never reach the ears of the big chiefs. If you have problems or complaints about our procedure, there are channels you can follow. You can appeal the sentence, or ask for a review of the sentence – that is, if someone gets sentenced. Which I doubt very much.’

  After Pitso had finished translating the captain’s words for the group, the five men behind the bars were moved to the front. They were made to stand next to the table with the typewriter.

  No sooner had the accused men taken their place than the door opened. In walked Officer Haig, in full uniform.

  Some of the men roared with fury, ‘Here’s the dog! Here’s the dog!’

  ‘Order,’ cried Pitso. ‘Order. Show them you’re civilised.’

  The roar was reduced to a murmur.

  Officer Haig was clearly shaken by the sight of the men. He took his place next to the captain.

  ‘Ah,’ said the captain consulting his watch, ‘Officer Haig has finally decided to grace our humble little event with his great presence. Seeing as we’ve already run out of tea, we shall go straight into the matter at hand …’