African Sky

by Tony Park

  ‘Yes, you will. And you’ll be sharing the sky with other squadrons, operational squadrons full of men near the end of their tours. It can get crowded up there.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘One of the Lancasters in my old squadron was involved in a midair collision with a Wimpey from an OTU. The other kite was hundreds of miles off course. The pilot of the Lancaster had trained here in Rhodesia, when I did my elementary flight training. Jimmy Roberts was his name. On his last sortie, would have been going home afterwards. The Wimpey ploughed into Jimmy’s fuselage, just aft of the mid-upper turret. Cut the Lane in half. They all died. Thirteen men, from both aircraft. Try to be careful where you fly, Clive.’

  Wilson nodded. ‘The losses, sir. Are they as bad as some of the blokes reckon?’

  Bryant shrugged. ‘Numbers don’t mean much, Clive,’ he said. He dragged on the cigarette again. ‘Live life.’

  ‘Sir?’

  He tried hard to think of something positive to say. Too late. The door had been opened wide. He took a deep breath and coughed. ‘Live life, Wilson. Enjoy it while you can. Get rat-arsed tonight and hit the town. When you get to England, live every day like it’s your last.’

  ‘You make it sound like I won’t be coming back, sir.’

  Bryant smiled, and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked hard at the boy. He reckoned he could tell, during his tour, who’d make it and who would die. He’d been right more often than wrong. He was certain about Wilson. The boy had the look, the attitude, the cocky smirk, the swagger. He even wore his peaked air force cap at that rakish angle he thought made him already look like a veteran. ‘You’ll be fine, Clive,’ he lied.

  ‘Well, um, thanks, sir. I’d best be off. I’d like to talk more, if you have the time. Maybe over a beer or ten tonight?’

  ‘I’ll try to be there.’ He searched the younger man’s eyes to see if he were taking the mickey out of him. Bryant knew he drank too much, and he suspected the rest of the base was also aware of the fact.

  ‘Thanks again, sir, for . . . for your words.’

  ‘You’re a good pilot. Do your job, look after your crew, and you’ll all get home in one piece.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. See you tonight,’ Wilson said as he left, and shut the door.

  He gave the young pilot officer a month in England. No more. Probably wouldn’t even make it out of the OTU alive.

  Bryant checked his watch. It was five minutes to eleven. Fuck it, he thought. Searches ran themselves once the operations room was alerted. He slid open the second drawer of his desk. He lifted the single sheet of blank paper that covered the Santy’s gin bottle. Rarely did he take a nip before eleven. His hand shook as it closed around the smooth glass neck. He told himself it was the talk about Roberts and the severed Lancaster.

  He started to lift the bottle, felt the saliva fill his mouth. The telephone rang. He put the bottle down and closed the drawer again. ‘Adjutant, Squadron Leader Bryant,’ he said.

  ‘Flight Sergeant Henderson on the front gate, sir. I’ve two police officers here, sir.’

  ‘God. Which pub have the trainees destroyed this time?’ Usually the drunken brawls, property damage and car accidents happened on the final night of a course, not five days before graduation. While they were learning to fly, the student pilots tended to control their behaviour, lest they get kicked out of flight school and wind up as wireless air gunners, where they could look forward to freezing their balls off in front turrets or short lives as tail gunners.

  ‘They won’t say what it’s about, sir. Should I send them through with an escort?’

  That would have been the normal procedure. Bryant could probably have had a quick drink while he waited for the coppers to arrive. No, that wouldn’t do. ‘Don’t worry, Flight. I’ll walk down and pick them up.’ The walk would keep him away from the bottle. He wasn’t so desperate that he didn’t realise he was developing a problem. That had to be a good sign, he told himself.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Bryant hung up. He took his peaked cap off the hook on the wall and opened the metal locker in the corner of his office. There was a small mirror on the inside of the door. His eyes were bloodshot. He adjusted his hat and gave himself what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Cheer up, you’re alive,’ he said to himself. The smile fell from his face and he shut the locker.

  His office door opened onto the orderly room. Corporal Richards, the noncommissioned officer in charge of the base’s daily paperwork war, looked up from his typewriter.

  ‘Back soon. I’m going to the gate to pick up some coppers. I’d call my lawyer now if I were you, Richards.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the younger man smiled. ‘Should I burn the pictures of you and the goat, sir?’

  ‘Get back to work or I’ll have you horse-whipped.’

  Outside it was another perfect Rhodesian flying day. It wasn’t hard to see why they had picked this country to train pilots. It was the same with Australia. The empire needed airmen at an ever-increasing rate to make up for the losses over Europe and, to train flyers, you needed open spaces, empty skies and, preferably, a lack of enemy fighters.

  Two students in RAF tropical uniforms, khaki tunics and shorts hemmed above sunburned knees, saluted him as they passed. The trainees marched, their arms swinging to breast-pocket height. Bryant walked casually. He couldn’t remember the last time he had marched anywhere. He took the cigarette packet from his shirt pocket and lit one on the move. Oh yes, he thought, the last time he marched would have been at a funeral. He couldn’t remember whose. Slow march, carrying the coffin. Bryant checked his watch and hoped the police wouldn’t delay his lunch. Lunchtime was a highlight of his dreary desk-bound day. A couple of bottles of Lion beer in the mess. Too many of his memories – all of them, it sometimes seemed – were linked to the death of someone or other.

  He scanned the sky. An Oxford was on final approach to the main runway, its waggling wings betraying the trainee’s nerves and inexperience. There was no sign of the eagle and he wondered if it had caught its prey A ruddy dust plume from the dozer marked the site of the new taxiway. The twin-engine trainer bounced once then slewed down the runway. At least that one had landed safely.

  ‘Cheer up, you’re alive,’ he told himself again.

  ‘Squadron Leader Bryant,’ a deep voice called behind him.

  Bryant knew who it was and smiled at the man’s formality. He turned and grinned. ‘Is it worth me telling you again, Kenneth, that you can call me by my first name? You’re not in the air force, man.’

  Kenneth Ngwenya gave a small, pained smile. He lowered his voice. And I could tell you, again, that in a country where black men have to get off the footpath when they see a white coming towards them, for me to call you by your first name when there are others nearby would be bad for me and worse for you.’

  All right then, all right, get off the bloody pavement.’

  Ngwenya laughed. ‘Sawubona, Paul,’

  And I see you, too, my friend.’

  ‘Your Ndebele is getting better. Perhaps it’s time you graduated beyond hello and goodbye.’

  ‘You’re like every schoolteacher I ever met, Kenneth.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, a prick.’ Bryant cut their laughter short with a glance at his watch. ‘Where have you been all week? I’ve missed you pestering me for building materials and medicines.’

  ‘The only reason I pester you is because you never say no. And the children appreciate it. I’ve been visiting my father; he has not been well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon. I’d love to stay and chat, Kenneth, but I’ve got the police waiting for me at the front gate.’

  Ah, I hope you enjoy your time in gaol. Is it about the woman who was killed last night?’

  Bryant studied Kenneth’s face. The man was as tall as he was, about six feet, with bright, alert eyes magnified by small rimless glasses that looked completely at odds with his powerful body Ngwenya a
lways seem constrained by the dark suit, starched white shirt and black tie that he wore every day, no matter what the weather. Bryant had written, in one of his infrequent letters to his father in Australia, that Kenneth had the brain of a university professor and the body of a rugby player, even though Africans were barred from playing the game.

  ‘What woman?’

  Ngwenya’s face was devoid of mirth. ‘I am sorry to bring the news. I thought you would have heard by now. She was from here, Paul. White. One of the air force women. Some of the askaris’ wives were talking about it this morning. It will be bad for us.’

  Bryant swallowed hard. ‘Us?’

  ‘She was found in the township, Paul. Mzilikazi.’

  ‘Who was it? Do you have her name?’

  ‘No, sorry. I am worried about this.’

  ‘So am I, mate. I have to go, Kenneth.’

  ‘Of course. I’d like to see you, later, though, about some more building materials for the school. It’s why I was looking for you.’

  ‘I’ll try to make time. Come look for me.’ He clapped the African on one arm and nodded to him, then turned back to the guardroom. Bryant knew that Kenneth Ngwenya was a man driven by much more than his job as the sole teacher at the base’s African school. He was committed – more than any teacher Bryant had ever met – to the education of his children, who were mostly the offspring of the askaris, Rhodesian Africans overseen by white officers and noncommissioned officers, and the labour brought in to construct the sprawling air base. But Ngwenya had confided to Bryant that he was also a member of the Southern Rhodesian African National Congress, a political group committed to improving the lot of the colony’s black population, and other, loftier goals that went far beyond the bounds of reality, such as the right to vote and majority rule.

  Bryant felt his heart beating faster as he approached the guardroom and the boom gate at the main entrance to the base. He wiped his hands on the side of his uniform trousers to dry them. At least he would have time to compose himself before he met the police.

  ‘Stand fast!’ Flight Sergeant Henderson barked as Bryant approached the gatehouse. Henderson ground his left boot into the pavement and snapped out a parade-ground salute. Two black African air askaris dressed in khaki uniforms, ankle boots, puttees and fezes also came stiffly to attention. The askaris provided base security.

  Bryant returned the courtesy with a casual brush of the peak of his cap. He thought he read a flash of contempt at his sloppy drill in the flight sergeant’s slate grey eyes. He didn’t care.

  ‘Morning, sah!’ Henderson boomed.

  ‘Morning, Henderson. As you were, men,’ Bryant drawled.

  The flight sergeant relaxed his ramrod-straight body ever so slightly. ‘Thank you, sir. A Sergeant Hayes and a Constable Lovejoy, a female, are waiting for you in the guardhouse, sir.’

  ‘Thanks. Leave them with me.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Bryant asked Henderson.

  ‘That African, sir. Ngwenya. The schoolteacher.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, he’s a civilian, sir. Shouldn’t be wandering about the base willy-nilly. I can have a word with him if you like, sir. Tell him to stop bothering you.’

  Bryant looked at the smile and wondered if Henderson were actually being sincere, or if he were being baited. ‘Mister Ngwenya is welcome on the base anytime, Flight. Perhaps you’d like to volunteer for one of the work parties doing some construction work at the school?’

  ‘Very busy man, I am, sir.’

  Bryant opened the door of the guardroom. Henderson would keep. If the man had been operational, on a squadron serving as a wireless air gunner or a bomb aimer instead of a glorified gate guard, he would have seen plenty of black faces serving at the same rank as him. The Royal Air Force was happy enough to have Jamaicans and Nigerians flying and dying alongside Englishmen, even if Flight Sergeant Henderson had a problem with an educated Rhodesian walking around the base.

  Bryant didn’t consider himself a bleeding heart, but he did pride himself on judging a man by the way he acted, not by the colour of his skin. He’d grown up in Dubbo in the far west of New South Wales, the son of a sheep shearer who roamed the plains from farm to farm. His mother had died during his birth and Bryant had been raised by an Aboriginal nanny and his father’s sister and her husband. His childhood friend had been the nanny’s boy, Alf. The pair had grown up as close as brothers. By the time his uncle, a wizened blacksmith his aunt said had been angry at the world since a horse had smashed his jaw, had sat him down at the age of ten and tried to tell him he should spend less time with Alf and more time with boys his own colour, it was too late. His uncle had knocked him to the ground when Paul had tried to object – confirmation, if it were needed, that the world consisted of only two types of people. Good blokes and bastards.

  3

  Pip Lovejoy loved her job. Unlike her other life on the dairy farm, being a policewoman was interesting, exciting, rewarding, and comparatively safe. But it could also be tiring. She’d been up all night. She put a hand over her mouth to conceal a yawn as she peered out the window of the Kumalo air base guardhouse, and thought back over the preceding hours.

  ‘It’s a murder. Grab your hat and jacket and put down that sandwich, Philippa. I don’t want you throwing up when we get to the body. Sometimes they stink so much you swear you’ll never get the stench off you,’ Sergeant Hayes had said as he burst into the criminal investigation division office at Stops Camp, Bulawayo’s main police station, a little after three that morning.

  Sergeant Harold Hayes didn’t like her – Pip was sure of it. Certainly he made it abundantly clear he hated the fact that women had been enlisted into the British South Africa Police in the newly created Southern Rhodesian Women’s Auxiliary Police Service to cover for the large number of young white men who had volunteered for service in the air force and army. Hayes was old enough to have served in the first war, but had joined the police instead. Pip thought her presence at Stops Camp, and the fact that many more women were joining the SRWAPS as the war dragged on, were constant reminders to Hayes of his lack of war service. He was arrogant and foul-mouthed and he hated blacks and women. But he couldn’t stop her from loving the job.

  ‘A murder?’ she’d repeated, wide-eyed. Up until now the closest she’d come to death as a volunteer policewoman had been keeping onlookers away from a fatal car crash, and typing up scene-of-crime reports for the Criminal Investigation Division detectives. ‘What about CID?’

  ‘Suicide down at Esigodini, and a drunk driver’s wrapped himself and his family around a tree. We’re it, Lovejoy, and even though I’ve got to take you with me, I’m not letting them take this case away from me!’

  Pip had ignored the insult – she, too, was excited about getting a murder case. She wolfed down the last of her boiled egg sandwich, put on her grey cap and jacket, and brushed the breadcrumbs from her uniform shirt and navy blue tie. The tie matched the cuffs and epaulettes of her uniform. She was a messy eater, always had been, but she made sure she looked her best when she was in public in her uniform.

  ‘No, you don’t have time to do your bloody lipstick, Lovejoy!’ Hayes had barked at her as she glanced in the mirror behind the door.

  She had pulled a face at his back and followed him outside to the car park. It was warm out. The rains would arrive in a month or so and the days were getting hotter, the nights balmier.

  ‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’ Pip had asked, unable to mask her excitement, as they climbed into the Dodge.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough, young lady. Nowhere you’ve ever been before in your protected little upbringing, I’ll wager.’

  She’d let the condescension wash over her. The fat red-necked pig knew nothing of her life. At twenty-two years of age she did not consider herself young and neither had she been shielded from much during her life. Pip Lovejoy’s parents had been farmers, and not very lucky ones
at that. Her father had had an incredible knack for planting the wrong crops at the wrong time. He’d gone into cattle when the price of beef plummeted. Her mother was smart, smarter than her father, but too deferential to the old man to give advice. As things got worse, her father’s drinking and gambling increased. Her mother had started to argue with her father, growing bolder as the old man slid deeper into a hole of his own digging. One day, Pip woke to find her with a purple bruise on one side of her face and a cut cheek. Shortly after, her father had wagered away the last savings they’d had and blown his brains out with a shotgun. That was when Pip was fourteen, at the height of the Depression. Her mother had started growing vegetables in the backyard of the rented property they’d moved to, in Fort Victoria, in the eastern part of the country, and managed to eke out a paltry living for herself, Pip and Pip’s two younger sisters.

  Pip was the smartest of the three girls and had won a scholarship to a good boarding school in Salisbury. She’d excelled and loved her time there. Surrounded by the wealthy daughters of Rhodesia’s elite, she had been able to forget the traumas and privations of home. She’d won another scholarship, to university, where she had been accepted to study law.

  ‘Keep a watch out, Lovejoy,’ Hayes had said to her, breaking her train of thought as they drove through the darkened streets.

  It was just as well. One, she certainly needed to be alert when they were out after dark, and two, she didn’t need to rekindle any more memories of her time at varsity. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘It’s sergeant, Lovejoy, not sarge. We’re not in some second-rate American film.’

  She stared out into the gloom of the resting town and felt her excitement mount as Hayes drove along the Sixth Avenue extension, out of downtown Bulawayo. It seemed they were heading into Mzilikazi, one of the African townships on the outskirts of the city. Hayes had been right about one thing – although she’d been born in Africa, she’d spent most of her life on farms or in school dorms, so she’d never really had a close look inside one of the chaotic, crowded communities in which much of Rhodesia’s black population lived. It was one of the things she loved, though, discovering new places and seeing people through new eyes as a policewoman. She’d only lived on this side of the country, on the dairy farm, since her wedding a little over two years ago, so she didn’t know Bulawayo or the region as well as her bellicose partner did.