Dancing the Death Drill

by Fred Khumalo

  Pitso noticed that even though Officer Haig had tried his best to look sharp – with nicely pressed trousers and his beard neatly trimmed – there was still something haggard about him. His face looked puffy, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. His thin lips were cracked, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘My apologies, Captain,’ said Officer Haig, but he was looking at Pitso. ‘What is this man doing here? He’s not from my camp, the camp where the … unfortunate events took place. And I was not expecting any spectators, either.’

  ‘Lance Corporal Motaung is an interpreter,’ said the captain. ‘He is here in that capacity.’

  Officer Haig switched to Afrikaans. ‘With due respect, agbare kaptein, could we not have an interpreter from another battalion? Not the Fifth Battalion. Certainly not a survivor from the Mendi …’

  ‘Why not from the Mendi?’

  ‘The Mendi people are biased against me, en dis die waarheid. This man, in particular, is a notorious agitator who’s been spreading malicious rumours about me. In the interests of justice, I would urge you to consider getting another interpreter. Not this man.’

  ‘Ah, this is getting more complicated than I anticipated,’ said the captain in his shaky Afrikaans. ‘Can we …’

  Pitso had recoiled from Haig’s words. The captain looked sharply at him. ‘Everything all right, Lance Corporal?’

  ‘Everything is fine, sir.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’

  Pitso was sweating and trembling. He could hear Marie-Thérèse’s words resounding in his ears: ‘Try to avoid all confrontation. Even in its mildest form.’

  The captain addressed Pitso directly, ‘Lance Corporal Pitso, did you hear what Officer Haig had to say, or do you want him to repeat it?’

  ‘Captain,’ Pitso said suddenly, surprising even himself, ‘I’m prepared to recuse myself. I can arrange for another interpreter to be sent, if that pleases this hearing.’

  One man shouted, ‘We can’t understand what you’re saying. Tell us in one of our African languages. We didn’t come here to watch you speaking through your nostrils like this.’

  The other men laughed.

  Pitso turned to the captain. ‘The men want to know what’s happening. Do I have your permission, Captain, to give them a summary?’

  ‘I see no harm in that.’

  Pitso translated Haig’s words to the audience.

  ‘He can’t change the rules!’ one man cried.

  ‘Order!’ shouted Pitso.

  ‘Hy lieg soos ’n koerant, hierdie rooibaard!’ said one of the Free State men. He lies like a newspaper, this redbeard!

  ‘Order!’ shouted the captain.

  ‘He killed our people on the Mendi, the piece of shit!’

  ‘The truth must come out!’

  The two armed guards, disturbed by the noise, ran from their posts at the gate and burst into the hall.

  ‘Everything is under control,’ shouted the captain. ‘Everybody stay calm. Guards, go back to your posts.’

  ‘Stop behaving like monkeys!’ screamed Officer Haig.

  One man launched himself forward, ramming his head into Officer Haig’s midriff. The officer’s belly proved formidable, for the assailant bounced off it and fell. As Officer Haig staggered backward, another man slammed a fist against his temple. Haig bellowed in fury and pain.

  A guard fired a warning shot in the air, hitting the roof. One man snatched the rifle from the guard’s hands and started firing indiscriminately above the men’s heads, shouting, ‘Let our men go!’

  The captain shot the man in his shoulder so that the rifle clattered to the floor.

  ‘Order!’ cried Pitso, looking around with panic in his eyes.

  Tlali jumped on the captain, punching him so hard his nose broke and a cascade of blood poured out of his nostrils. He then picked up the captain’s weapon and charged towards the centre of the room.

  Officer Haig reached for his own pistol, aimed it and pulled the trigger. Spatters of blood exploded from Tlali’s chest, vivid against the whiteness.

  Screaming with rage at seeing his friend fall, Pitso leaped on Haig, grabbing his throat. The two crashed against one of the tables. As he was going down, Haig pulled the trigger again. The bullet went wide. A guard came hurtling towards them, hitting Pitso with the butt of his rifle, catching him in the face, the force of the blow sending an explosion of pain through his left eye socket.

  Somebody slammed a chair into the guard who’d just attacked Pitso. There were more gunshots. Officer Haig was tussling with yet another man on the floor, while the other men were trying to disarm the guards.

  Pitso was fully conscious, but he decided to stay on the ground for a while, to catch his breath and find a way to escape. It was clear to him that the fighting was not about to end. The room reeked of gunpowder. Slowly, he dragged himself towards the door, which was wide open. Once he was there, he tried to stand up. A surge of dizziness overpowered him and he collapsed onto the floor. He could taste his own blood, which was gushing in torrents from his injured eye. He licked the bloodied saliva that had collected in the corners of his mouth and spat it out. With great effort, he heaved himself to his feet and staggered out into the dusty yard, putting his left hand on his damaged eye in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. There was no pain there, just the fast, dull thumping of the blood, as if his heart had relocated itself to his eye socket.

  He tried to run, but fell on his knees. As if it could sense trouble, his horse neighed animatedly. With his hand still firmly pressed over his injured eye, Pitso blinked with the other. He saw the horse stomping the ground impatiently. The desperation of the animal gave him renewed hope. ‘I can do it, I can do it,’ he muttered to himself. With his last ounce of strength, he heaved himself to a standing position, then started hobbling forward drunkenly until he reached the animal. It took great effort to mount his horse.

  Once he was astride the animal, he galloped away at a furious speed.

  He knew that sooner or later someone was going to call for reinforcements. There was no doubt that the mutineers would be court-martialled. They would be dead before the day was over. Even though he was confident of his innocence, and could justify his action against Officer Haig that morning, his chances of winning the case were slim. He did not want to take the risk.

  It would be sad to die in front of a firing squad when he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong and that the war was slowly crawling to an end. What would he tell the angels in heaven: that he had travelled all the way from Africa to succumb to the bullets of his own comrades in Europe? That he had given up so easily on his dream to fight to protect his dignity? That he, like his father, had refused to see the war to its conclusion?

  As soon as he thought about his father, he felt a twinge of guilt. Many of his friends at the camp had looked to him for advice, for friendship, for leadership. Yet, here he was, running away. Riding like a madman, not back to camp. He felt that there must be another way to continue fighting this war. But how, how? He brought his horse to a slow canter, tears of shame blinding his good eye. He felt dizzy and his head was throbbing. He brought the horse to a halt and dabbed his injured eye with his handkerchief before starting to wail loudly. He was angry at what had just happened, but ashamed of his reaction. How would he live with himself? He had spent his life mocking his father for running away from war, from his responsibilities. Yet here he was doing exactly that. He dismounted, collapsed on his knees and bawled for a time, not caring if there were men pursuing him. He clawed the earth with his fingers, hoping for the ground to collapse under him, to bury him and his pain, anger and shame.

  It was only when he was nearing Marie-Thérèse’s inn that Pitso felt truly excruciating pain. He was now drifting in and out of consciousness. Marie-Thérèse rushed to meet him and he quickly explained the situation, feeling all his energy leave him.

  ‘We can’t stay in this town. The military police will be after him,’ Marie-Thérèse told her sister Geneviè
ve, as they helped him off his horse and into one of the bedrooms.

  ‘Let’s attend to his bleeding first. He might die of blood loss.’

  ‘I’ll make a poultice to staunch the bleeding. He also must take lots of liquids. Then you are going to get him out of town, as soon as possible,’ urged Marie-Thérèse.

  ‘What? Why me, why not you?’ Geneviève asked.

  ‘When the military police come knocking on my door, and find me here all by myself, it will confuse them. They will want to subject me to a long interrogation. They will do a thorough search of the inn, and the house. That will give you enough time to reach Amiens. Cousin Bernard will take care of him.’

  ‘Why don’t we take him to Saint-Nazaire? It’s a busier place, where he won’t stand out.’

  ‘Saint-Nazaire would have been ideal. Problem is the distance – too far for a person in his state. Plus, Bernard is a surgeon – he can help. Once Pitso’s fully recovered, we can reassess the situation.’

  ‘What do I tell Bernard?’

  ‘He already knows about me and Pitso. All you need to emphasise is the need for vigilance. No one should know Pitso is there – or that he even exists. My poor darling. His eye looks horrific.’

  ‘Bernard should be able to fix it. He is a magician with those hands of his.’

  ‘Pitso must stay indoors at all times. Tell Bernard I’ll be in Amiens in a few days’ time,’ instructed Marie-Thérèse.

  Pitso spoke in a slurring voice, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Geneviève.

  Marie-Thérèse translated it into French: ‘Il est doux et beau de mourir pour la patrie.’

  ‘You think …’ asked Geneviève hesitantly, ‘… you think he’s dying?’

  ‘No,’ replied Marie-Thérèse, knowing how tenacious Pitso really was.

  CHAPTER 38

  Nine weeks later, Pitso was sitting on the veranda of a well-appointed house in Amiens, watching the river Somme as it flowed gracefully by, about six hundred feet from him. The gardens, which sloped gently towards the riverbank, were profuse with chestnuts, plane trees and wild lilacs, offering the inhabitants of the house privacy, protection from prying eyes. Pitso could sit for hours on the end of the veranda, or take short strolls up and down the garden, without having to worry about being noticed by people sailing past in their boats, or fishermen slumped over their fishing rods further up the river.

  Now that it was autumn, the lawn and the gardens were covered in a russet carpet of fallen leaves. The smell of the river was sharp, and its cold breath even sharper on Pitso’s skin. Birdsong was still in the air, but not as clamorous as it would have been at the height of summer. A group of ducks, of a breed Pitso had never seen before, floated by. He wondered what they would taste like. His exposure to wildlife at Arques-la-Bataille’s bountiful forest had sharpened his appetite for game meat.

  This was a house of understated opulence. The gardens stretched for some distance on all sides and the stables were sizeable. Next to the stables were coach houses, where Pitso saw the finest collection of carriages, and then there was an automobile – a wondrous monster, gleaming black in the coach house. He spent time admiring the emblem with its two gleaming letters: RR – Rolls Royce.

  Though he was grateful for the shelter, he found that he was missing camp and his tree-felling duties – the hypnotic music of his axe as it swung towards a tree, the querulous voices of birds from nearby trees, as if they were challenging the tree fellers to stop what they were doing. And the song of the tree fellers – Abelungu oswayini! Basincintsh’itiye, basibize ngoswayini!

  In all the weeks he’d been at the house, he had not once looked at himself in the mirror. Bernard, Marie-Thérèse’s cousin, had been good to him. A retired surgeon and good spirit rolled into one, he had been taking care of Pitso ever since he arrived, changing the delicate dressing around Pitsos’s injured left eye with his own hands on a daily basis. He couldn’t risk sepsis setting in.

  Pitso had tried on numerous occasions to get a better understanding of Bernard: how was he ‘related’ to Marie-Thérèse? Why was he spending so much time and money on a stranger? Pitso’s experience with Christine had taught him to be always on the alert when it came to women: they would put you on the pedestal of happiness, then knock you down into an early grave. Was he Marie-Thérèse’s husband? If he was, why would he expend so much care on a young man who was cuckolding him? Pitso thought he would never understand the ways of the French.

  When Pitso asked about his damaged eye, Bernard would only say, ‘Yes, it is in bad shape. But modern medicine can surprise you. Once the war is over – which I believe is only a matter of months – we’ll go to Paris. There are some highly accomplished eye specialists there – they’ll know what to do.’

  Every time Pitso recalled the events of the day he got involved in the bloody mutiny, he shivered. A lot of questions were floating in his head, keeping him up at night. How could he have acted differently, to bring the situation to a different conclusion? How many people had died that day? Who were the survivors? What had they said about him? Portsmouth would have heard about his involvement in the mutiny. He must have been disgusted and disappointed by Pitso’s despicable behaviour. What had he told the military police about him?

  Most importantly, why had he run away? Shouldn’t he have stood his ground and faced the consequences? Isn’t that what he’d vowed to do: to take responsibility, to stay in the war and fight to the last, unlike his father, who showed a clean pair of heels when the heat became too intense?

  He was grateful that Marie-Thérèse had saved him from capture. Indeed, she had saved his life. He could have bled to death. But what was the next step? Surely the military police were closing in. Amiens, after all, was only a few towns away from Arques. It was only a matter of time. In wartime, he knew, the army could become a law unto themselves. There was nothing stopping them from embarking on a house-to-house search. Now that he was fully recovered, albeit with a huge patch on his left eye, he felt confident enough to go out there in the bigger world and find his feet, fight his own battles. Except that he didn’t know France, apart from the things he’d read in books and the maps he’d consulted. But his plans would have to meet Marie-Thérèse’s approval: she had the money. She could also easily bring the military police to his hideout, if she chose; she had so much power over him. He hadn’t heard a word from her since he’d left Arques.

  As he sat on the veranda, deep in thought, a familiar sound wafted towards him in intoxicating ripples. He strained his ears. The waves of sound came in richer swirls now, with more urgency. He thought he was dreaming. Warm tears welled in his eyes, as he recognised The Blue Danube. The music sent his mind back home to Bloemfontein, to Christine’s house, to her gramophone, to the two of them whirling and twirling about to this waltz, to them making love to the enchanting flow of the music.

  Pitso got up and went inside. In the middle of the huge ballroom, he found Marie-Thérèse and Bernard waltzing. They were so engrossed in the music that they did not immediately see him, at least not until he stumbled into a chair.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ cried Marie-Thérèse, coming towards Pitso with outstretched arms. ‘We thought you were taking a walk down by the river.’

  They embraced, then she stepped back, stood on tiptoe and gently pressed her lips across the patch over his left eye.

  Pitso simply said, ‘Let’s dance. Bernard, play something up-tempo, will you?’

  Taking her by the fingertips, he led her to the middle of the ballroom. Bernard inserted the disk into the gramophone, then went to stand by the staircase, a glass of red wine in his hand and an amused smile on his face.

  The sound of Johann Strauss’s Luxury Train filled the cavernous ballroom. The dancers glided and twirled. As the music slowed down, then speeded up again, the vivacity of the violins and the fury of flutes and the thud of the tuba made them understand, once again, why the song was called Lu
xury Train. The train was barrelling between Viennese mountain passes, swooping past deep verdant valleys, crossing shimmering rivers, snaking along the banks of smiling lakes and nosing its way through endless blonde cornfields.

  Pitso’s bare feet made a squeaky sound when he swivelled on the shiny, highly polished floor. Marie-Thérèse knew he did not wear shoes if he could help it. He’d told her walking with his feet bare made him feel at one with the earth he was treading; he loved the comforting softness of rotting leaves under his soles when he walked in the garden, or the cold morning dew in spring and summer.

  Marie-Thérèse noticed he was crying, tears running down his right cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ she said, her voice raised slightly above the music, but not so loud as to reach Bernard, ‘we’ll get your eye fixed.’

  But she did not understand. These were tears of joy he was shedding. He hadn’t been sure how soon he would be touching her hands again – if ever. Every now and then, his heart was constricted by a suspicion that, like Christine in the past, Marie-Thérèse might just stab him in the back. His comrades were knee-deep in the mud, German shells falling all around them, but he was still alive, his snout in the trough of splendid food. That was why he was crying. Not because he was missing his eye.

  When the music came to an end, she was breathing fast, pebbles of sweat gathered on her nose. ‘You waltz like this in Africa?’

  ‘That was a polka, dear, not a waltz.’

  ‘You get my meaning, silly.’

  ‘Ex Africa semper aliquid novi!’ Out of Africa, always something new.

  Later that evening, after dinner with Bernard, Marie-Thérèse suggested a walk in the gardens. Pitso was happy to be out and about, as he had been sleeping in the bunker ever since he got to the villa. He found it claustrophobic, but he had to abide by Bernard’s rules. Pitso helped her into her cape, took her arm in his, and they breezed into the night. The sky was clear, dotted with stars, the natural light just enough for them to slowly trace their path down towards the river.