African Sky

by Tony Park

‘Load!’ Hayes screamed. ‘Drop that razor or we will fire.’

  The African man looked over his shoulder, apparently searching for a way out. There was none. Bryant sensed the man’s thoughts. If he dropped the razor the two white airmen would be on top of him before the police could arrive. If he did nothing, he would be shot.

  ‘On my command, Grant, two rounds, rapid fire, at the man with the razor! Aim!’

  ‘Shit,’ Bryant said. He pushed past Hayes, stepped between two of the armed police officers, then, before Hayes saw what was going on, said to Pip Lovejoy: ‘Excuse me, Constable.’

  ‘Stop that man!’ Hayes roared, red faced. Several members of the police line looked back at him as Bryant pushed his way through the front rank, which closed behind him. To move out to stop the air force officer would weaken the cordon and create an opening for the rioters. Also, the squadron leader was armed, having drawn his service revolver.

  ‘Careful,’ Pip called to him. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

  He turned and gave her a smile and wink. ‘No bloody idea.’

  Bryant crossed the fifty yards of empty street that divided the police and fighting men. A few of them, those of both colour not immediately trading punches, turned and eyed him. He stopped, twenty feet from a white man who was standing over a prone black man, kicking him.

  ‘Carmichael, isn’t it?’ he said quietly, just loudly enough for the man to hear.

  The big Ulsterman, a trainee pilot, paused mid-kick and looked at him. His eyes were wide with the rage of the fight. ‘These fookers killed our people.’

  ‘Sir,’ Bryant said quietly, but forcefully.

  Carmichael turned away from the African, squared up for a second, but then looked into Bryant’s eyes. ‘Sir,’ he said at last.

  ‘That’s better. The police have arrested one man for Langham’s murder. Smythe’s death remains the subject of an investigation. Get back behind that police rank now, or I swear you’ll sit this war out as a shithouse cleaner in the hottest, driest part of Arabia I can think of – that’s if you survive two tours over Germany as a rear gunner first.’

  The Irishman looked down at the barely conscious youth and then back at his superior officer. For a moment defiance flashed in his eyes, as he stood there, fists clenched.

  Then Bryant pulled the trigger. He fired two shots, into the air. The police line instinctively advanced a pace.

  The individual fights halted, some in mid-punch, and several of the African men involved took their cue to run off down the street. The man who had brandished the razor, seeing his two white opponents staring at the madman with the pistol, hopped through the gap where the barber shop window had been, then ducked around the corner into an alleyway.

  ‘Trainees and members of the Rhodesian Air Training Group, fall in behind the police. Now!’ Bryant barked.

  Enraged as they were, each of the airmen and trainee aircrew on the street knew that Paul Bryant could hurt them far more than any civvie policeman. At his word their worlds would change, for the worse. In spite of his orders, a few last blows were landed, but the remaining Africans took flight, one by one.

  ‘Henderson!’ Bryant called, not looking back but still staring the huge Irishman in the face.

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Escort this fucking rabble back onto the truck.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right, escorts, move forward, at the double now! You heard the good squadron leader.’ Henderson led the airmen through the police rank and each man paired off with one of the troublemakers.

  Bryant turned and walked back towards the police cordon. He holstered his revolver and kept his hands by his side, hoping the shaking would not show.

  ‘Well done,’ Pip Lovejoy said as he walked past her again.

  He paused and looked at her, noticing, for the first time, the bruise on her left cheek. ‘Who did that to you?’

  ‘One of your blokes. Funny way of seeking vengeance for the death of a woman, hitting another one.’

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know. All those Pommies look alike to me,’ she said, forcing a painful smile.

  ‘If you pick him out, let me know. He’s history.’

  ‘Don’t go acting like a vigilante now because some hothead landed a blow on me. I’ve had worse and, besides, it’s part of my job. It’ll be up to us to lay charges, but I’d be more worried about some of those African lads who just got clapped for no other reason than their colour.’ She paused, then added quietly: ‘You just showed incredible leadership, Paul.’

  He didn’t know how to react to a compliment from her. ‘They’re airmen. They’re used to following orders. It’s why we put them through all that drill on the parade ground. You’ll tell me if there are charges to be laid against any of them, won’t you?’

  ‘No, Squadron Leader, I will tell you if there are charges to be laid,’ Hayes said as he strode towards Bryant. ‘Get back in line, Lovejoy. We’re going to sweep down the street to see if there are any other troublemakers to pick up.’

  Bryant turned on his heel and walked towards the truck. When he looked over his shoulder, one last time to make sure all his men were accounted for, he saw Pip Lovejoy turn away quickly. He wondered if she had been watching him go. He smiled to himself.

  *

  From his hiding place on the tin roof of an Indian tailor’s shop, behind the masonry facade that bore the date of the building’s construction, 1914, Kenneth Ngwenya watched his friend Paul Bryant elbow his way back through the police line and down the street to the air force lorry.

  He and the others had initially thought that the police had been after them, but it soon became clear, from snatched reports, that the cops were looking for just one man – Innocent Nkomo – rather than the assembled members of the African National Congress and the Railway Workers’ Union.

  There had been no political trouble between the blacks and the whites in Bulawayo during the war years, and Kenneth had hoped things would stay that way. However, some of the far-left members of the union had mumbled about strikes and armed struggle, in virtually the same breath, at every monthly meeting. They were hungry for action and progress, and Kenneth could understand that, even if he disagreed with them. They argued that with so many white men away at the war, there had never been a better time for the workers to flex their collective muscles. Their reasoning, which Kenneth thought dangerously flawed, was that they could cripple the railways – and with that paralyse the whole country – with a general strike to gain better conditions for workers and to push for the vote for Rhodesian Africans. The unions thought they had the upper hand. Kenneth reasoned, passionately, that a country at war would not hesitate to use the police and the army to crush a strike by native workers.

  A stocky itinerant Matabele carpenter, a member of Kenneth’s own party, who taught woodworking classes at the Kumalo base school when he was in town, had been swayed by the unionists at today’s meeting. The man, whose name was Joshua, had railed: ‘If they turn guns on us, then we will turn guns on them. We have fought them before and we can fight them again. This time we will win!’ Kenneth regularly cycled past the monument in Main Street to the two-hundred and fifty-nine white pioneers killed by his people nearly fifty years earlier during what had become known as the Matabele Rebellion. The old Gardner machine-gun atop the memorial’s column was a stark reminder not only of the European blood spilt, by firebrand predecessors of Joshua’s ilk, but also of the many more Africans killed by Rhodes’ men and their guns. It would take a lot to convince Kenneth that death and destruction were a better alternative than education, passive resistance and, once the war was over, well-organised strikes.

  Rhodes himself still looked down over Bulawayo, from his plinth on Main Street. The statue of the country’s founder was, to Kenneth, a constant reminder of the oppression his people chafed under every day. However, much had changed since the pioneer column had entered the lands of the Shona and the Matabele a mere fifty years earlier. Rhodes
ia was part of the Commonwealth now, with an elected parliament – albeit all white – and not simply a money-making outpost of the British South Africa Company. The foundations of democracy had been established in this part of Africa. Kenneth was not opposed to the British system of government the colony had inherited – he just wanted to be part of it.

  The screeching of police whistles brought his attention back to the streetscape in front of him. The bravado had vanished and base instincts of self-preservation had overtaken the firebrands. Big Joshua had lumbered into a back alley with two equally brawny railway stokers. God help any stray white who got in their way. Kenneth had used his mind rather than his heart to assess the situation. The police would probably have already positioned men behind the building. He’d followed Joshua out the back door, knocking over a tailor’s dummy in the process, and leaped up onto a garbage can, then grabbed the guttering and hoisted himself up onto the roof, unseen.

  The riot was over now. The police were marching down the empty street looking for stragglers, and Kenneth’s heart was still pounding. While he and his comrades were not the law’s quarry this day, the mere fact that they had met to discuss politics made them criminals. Innocent Nkomo, however, was somewhere in police custody. Kenneth had mixed feelings about that fact. The man was a criminal – his reputation was legendary in the townships – but he was surprised the sharply dressed scoundrel had been the target of a full-scale police manhunt, which had degenerated into a melee once the Kumalo airmen had joined in the fight. He could only presume, from the ferocity displayed by the white air force trainees and the police’s heavy-handed methods, that Nkomo had been arrested for the white woman’s murder.

  Kenneth sighed and put his hand on his heart to still his fear. Innocent or guilty, yet another black man was probably going to hang.

  9

  Bryant sucked in a deep breath and knocked on the door just below the gold-embossed, engraved nameplate that said, Wing Commander Rogers, DFC – Commanding Officer.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Bryant said.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t preface that with, “good”, Bryant.’

  Bryant sighed inaudibly. This was going to be like his last trip to the base dentist. Long, painful and bloody. The Wingco always reminded him of a vulture – bald, hook-beaked, hunched and nasty. The man had a fierce and richly deserved reputation for intolerance of stuff-ups. The last two weeks had been full of them.

  ‘Tell me about our latest casualty . . .’ Rogers consulted a file on his desk. ‘What’s his name . . . ah, yes, Smythe. What’s happening about catching the bushmen who killed him?’

  ‘It’s in the hands of the police in Bechuanaland. They’re sending out patrols to the known tribal areas.’

  ‘They haven’t a chance in hell of catching those bloody bushmen,’ Rogers pronounced.

  ‘We put up two flights of three aircraft yesterday to search the area where Smythe was found, but there was no sign of the downed kite.

  We’ve still no idea why he didn’t stay with it.’

  ‘It’s a big, wide expanse of nothing out there on the saltpans. However, I’d have thought that if we had a location for where Smythe’s body was found, the kite would have been relatively nearby.’

  ‘I agree, sir. The game hunters who found him knew the area and were able to give us a pretty good fix.’ Bryant checked the manila folder he’d carried in and found some notes made by the search party. ‘Pilot Officer Wilson reported seeing tyre tracks made by the hunters’ vehicle from the air, the only marks on the surface for miles, so they had the right spot.’

  ‘Maybe he had a problem, got jumpy and bailed out. Perhaps his kite flew on and crashed further away?’

  ‘I told the search party to look for chutes and clothing, but they found nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps those bloody bushmen stole his clothes and parachute. I don’t like having a kite missing, Bryant. Crashed is bad enough, but missing is, well, untidy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Keep up the search.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Next.’ The Wingco rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingertips together. ‘Langham’s murder investigation . . . what’s the gen from the police?’

  ‘I phoned them this morning,’ Bryant said, recounting his conversation with Pip Lovejoy. ‘They arrested an African bloke yesterday, as you know. Apparently, they had an anonymous tip-off that he’d been seen with a white woman the night of Langham’s death. They think he’s also a major player in the black market in town – fuel, mostly. He tried to run for it when the coppers came for him. A police car went around the block to head him off and ran over an eleven-year-old black girl. She’s alive, with a broken leg. A crowd gathered at the accident scene and a few hotheads started to get in the way of the arresting police – that’s what sparked the fighting in the street, and our lads joined in. When the police searched the suspect man’s car, they found some of Langham’s personal papers and effects in the boot.’

  ‘Pretty damning evidence.’

  Bryant nodded. ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Now, tell me why you took nearly two days to investigate the crash up at Wankie and, of more relevance, why you chose to go there in person, given the events of the last couple of days.’

  Bryant glanced at the row of medal ribbons on the Rhodesian-born, former fighter pilot’s left breast. He was a veteran of the first war, with twelve kills to his credit. Bryant wondered at what point the presumably once dashing, rakish colonial airman had become an overbearing chair-bound bore. ‘I’d arranged to conduct the investigation and pick up the kite several days ago, sir. Mrs De Beers was expecting us.’

  ‘You could have telephoned her.’

  ‘The line was out. Besides, as it turned out, she had to be informed about Felicity Langham’s death. You’re aware a police constable came with us?’

  ‘Mmm. And not happy about it. The air force’s schedules are not dictated by the whims of women, Bryant, not police constables nor attractive widows. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bryant said wearily.

  ‘What’s the upshot of your investigation into the crash at the De Beers place?’

  ‘Cavendish – the Canadian pilot – said he hit a hole on landing, and that much is true.’

  ‘What was he doing up there in the first place? Wasn’t he supposed to be on a gunnery exercise?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He claims he had engine trouble, lost his way and had to make a forced landing at the first strip he could find.’

  ‘A catalogue of errors. More likely the widow De Beers flashed her smile – or something else – at him in the mess and invited him to drop around for tea, or something else, eh?’

  Bryant had his own suspicions about Cavendish, very much along the same lines, but it annoyed him to hear the Wingco’s innuendo-laden summation. ‘He’s sticking to his story and she says she never invited him to drop in.’

  ‘I might have been tempted to show him some leniency if the silly bastard had told the truth. I hate liars, Bryant, even more than stupid love-struck pilots. Make that known to him and charge him.’

  Bryant decided to hold off mentioning the ammunition missing from Cavendish’s aircraft until he’d had a chance to question the soon-to-be-ex-pilot. ‘There’s the matter of yesterday’s riot, too, sir.’

  ‘How many of our chaps involved?’

  ‘Twenty-four, sir. Eleven of them are sporting injuries of some sort from the fights they got themselves into. Bunch of idiots.’

  ‘Understandable, though. Can’t have the blacks rising up against the police, Bryant. Can’t blame our fellows for siding with the law.’

  ‘With respect, sir, our blokes kept the fight going long after the danger to the police had passed. They were pissed off about Smythe and Langham and wanted to take it out on the first black faces they saw. That’s not siding with the law.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your views on the law in my co
untry, Bryant. Charge the lot of them with conduct to the prejudice of good order. I’ll let them off with a severe reprimand when they come before me. I’ll have a word with the police and make sure they don’t go pursuing any criminal charges.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bryant said. He thought it a pathetic punishment for the unchecked actions of the airmen. He, too, could understand their anger and frustration at the apparent murders of two colleagues, but he reckoned the riot was more about latent racism than any high-minded notions of justice.

  ‘Now, I’ve something for you, Bryant.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ He was relieved. The grilling had not been as bad as he had feared.

  ‘Ossewa Brandwag. The OB are in the news again. HQ’s sent us a signal telling us to be ‘vigilant’. There’s a possibility they may try to derail the Empire Air Training Scheme in some way.’

  ‘I read in the newspaper the other day that the South Africans had arrested an Afrikaner OB agent who’d been trained by the Germans. I mentioned the possible threat to the policeman in charge of the Langham investigation. He laughed it off, said they’d no support in Rhodesia.’

  ‘We’ve got our fair share of Afrikaners living up here in Rhodesia. They’re good people, the Boers, but they’re good fighters, too. That fellow you read about in the newspapers, Willem Siewert, is facing the noose in South Africa. According to HQ, he’s told the authorities down there that there was another man sent over with him.’ Rogers read from an intelligence report on his desk. ‘They were landed by U-boat on the Skeleton Coast, in South West Africa. One headed south, to Cape Town – that was Siewert, the one who was arrested. He says the other man headed north-east, into the Namib Desert, but claims he wasn’t informed about his destination or mission.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Bryant said, ‘that they’d compartmentalise their information.’

  ‘What we do have is a name, though, which is something to go on.’ The wing commander pushed a piece of paper across the leather top of his mahogany desk.

  Bryant did his best to ignore the giraffe’s-tail fly whisk on the desktop – a colonial affectation of his commander’s – and took up the paper.