Willie and I had the first guard duty, from eight to midnight. It was Willie’s turn at the boathouse on the river-bank, I had the verandah. From the verandah I had a good view of all sides of the ravine. The rains broke that night. There were great flashes of lightning that lit up the jungle and then great claps of thunder that were so loud and near you started each time, even though you were waiting for it. Then came the rain, first fat slow drops, hitting the corrugated-iron roof of the house like pellets, then down it came in a clatter, then a roar, beating the iron roof, and I could not see the sides of the ravine, nor the boathouse. I thought: I pity those poor bastards in that tent downstream, at number two ravine, they’ll be washed out, and I pity Willie in that tin boathouse, he won’t be able to hear himself think. The rain settled down to a steady batter on the roof, and there were gurgles and splutters of water running down off the roof and the sides of the ravine, and rolls of thunder. I paced round and round the verandah in the dark, but I could not see anything because of the rain, and I could not hear anything. I found myself again thinking of Suzie, just twelve miles away now, up-river at Kariba Township. Suzie, my Suzie, only twelve miles away from me, married to Jake Jefferson, my Suzanna married to him sleeping in his bed, making love to him, my Suzie his wile. At night it was very bad: during the day when we were busy patrolling it was easier, but when I was all alone on night guard duty it was very difficult to stop myself thinking about Suzie. I thought how good it would be to live in this house with Suzie, I thought of her in my bed at night, soft and naked and female and willing, I thought of waking up with her in my bed in New York and Scotland and London and Paris and Madrid, I thought of the fishing and the skating and the skiing and the wine in the sun on Sundays. I thought of all the good things, and I very much regretted all the bad things I had done to her, and I could not feel the way I had felt when I had done them, I only felt longing for her, and much regret. I thought: if only she had had a child, it would all have worked out, it would have been very good. And I thought of my child born of Suzie’s body, Suzie’s flesh and mine, I thought of the tiny body, I would hold it in my hands and thrust it aloft in joy and shout, shout that it was marvellous, that I had done something very good. And I could see the thrill on Suzie’s face, the happiness, and it felt very bad. And I thought of Suzie trying so hard to have a child, Suzie counting the days on the calendar, Suzie taking her temperature with the thermometer, trying hard to have a baby, and I felt a choking in my throat, and my eyes burned, and I cried inside: Oh my poor darling Suzie, my poor sweet lovely girl, forgive me, I am very sorry. I had not seen her for over eight months now, since the day Samson Ndhlovu was hanged. The first time we had gone to Kariba on leave I had tried to find her and at last I had phoned her house: ‘I am having a baby now, Joseph, darling Joseph, Jake’s baby, Jake’s baby, darling, you must forget me, Joseph, as I have forgotten you, because I am carrying another man’s child Joseph, you must forget me, you must never try to seek me out Joseph, you must never never phone me again, do not destroy yourself and me and my happiness, Joseph—’ Jake Jefferson’s child, another man’s child in Suzie’s belly. Sometimes it was unthinkable, but mostly now it was very real. Sometimes, in the night, I said to myself: it is your child she is carrying from the day they hanged Samson – and when I thought that I wanted to crash through the bush to Jake Jefferson’s house at Kariba and seize my woman and carry her away. But in the morning I did not believe it, and I thought of Suzie’s sad face, Suzie desperately trying to get her baby, Suzie with her baby in her belly at last now, Jake Jefferson’s baby, and I did not seek her out again and I did not phone again.
I paced round and round the verandah, the rain beating on the roof, filling the night, thinking about her, trying to think of this war, of what Lazarus had told me. Some Lazarus. Some war. How many of us marching up and down these goddam gorges in small patrols for five months and we had caught nine guerillas? Down in the valley below Chirundu hundreds of soldiers patrolling two hundred miles of Zambezi – how many terrorists slipped through that thin cordon, through that vast jungle? How many soldiers to catch one terrorist? In how many manhours? How many more miles of jungle, how many more terrorists to come? Many many more. Cannon-fodder, undisciplined, untrained, cannon-fodder, yes, but many many more where they came from, an unending supply of them from the vast blackness of Africa north of the Zambezi. And how many soldiers to catch one man? In how many manhours? And for how long? For how many more days, months, years would we be patrolling these vast jungles? For ever? Like Korea and Vietnam? No, not like Korea and Vietnam, worse than that: forever, like Israel.
Oh God if only there was an army to fight against, soldiers to shoot at, something visible to lick, to finish, so that win or lose, we could start again—
The field telephone buzzed, on the verandah. Nine-thirty. I walked over to it and picked it up.
‘Number two post. Oi-oi, Willie.’
‘Oi-oi, DA. Number one post all clear.’
‘Okay, Willie. You enjoying it down there?’
‘Lovely. Fucking beautiful down here, it is.’
‘Okay. Willie.’
I put the receiver down and continued pacing round the verandah, tramp, tramp, tramp.
Some Barnabas. Big, strong Barnabas. A few clouts and he had talked. I think I had beaten Suzie harder than I had beaten him.
Trembling, face shiny with nervous sweat, he had talked jerkily.
‘We were going to Salisbury, Bwana. There we were to find work. We must contact other men of the Party. We would receive our instruction by letter from the big ones in Lusaka, they would tell us to organise the Night of the Long Knives—’
‘When is this Night of the Long Knives—?’
‘I do not know, Bwana.’
‘Your mother-fornicating party has been talking about this Night of the Long Knives for many years, you must know when it will be!’
‘I do not know, Bwana.’
I had given him a clout across the face, so his head had jerked and some sweat flew and he hung his head. ‘Tell me, Barnabas.’
‘I do not know, Bwana.’
Another clout: ‘I will have no hesitation in killing you slowly until you talk.’
‘I do not know, Bwana.’ He did not know.
‘How many men were trained in Peking in your group?’
‘Twenty-five, Bwana.’
‘Who are they?’
He told me, I wrote down their names and particulars. ‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know, Bwana, we were to return to Zimbabwe in small groups.’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Two days ago, at Lusaka, Bwana.’
‘Where in Lusaka?’
‘In quarters provided for Freedom Fighters by the Zambia Government.’
‘Were you not all sent back to Rhodesia at the same time?’
‘We were all told at the same time that we would be returning, but we were to return in small groups.’
‘At what places on the Zambezi were the others to cross into Rhodesia?’
‘I do not know, Bwana, each group was told separately.’
‘When will the others return?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Why did you cross the Zambezi at the gorges?’
‘We were ordered, Bwana. Because it is wild country and the river is difficult to cross here and, therefore, there will be less guards.’
‘Will the others cross at the gorges?’
‘I do not know, Bwana.’
Another clout.
‘I do not know, Bwana.’
I started all over again.
For how much longer would this Godawful war go on? How much longer before we could all go home and take off our goddam uniforms and get down to our jobs and start earning money again, go to work in the morning knowing there was money available for the earning, knowing that hard work and brains were rewarded, knowing there were things in the shops to buy with your money, the nice thi
ngs you wanted, the things you need, when would we be able to jump into our motor cars again and have the petrol and the money and the freedom and the safety to go on picnics again, holidays again, up to Inyanga and down to this Zambezi valley to catch fish again and drink sundowners in the African sunset again, with the smell of the campfires and the friendly sounds of the cookboy making skoff, when would we stop seeing our people packing up and selling up for a song, and emigrating because they can no longer make a living, when would we stop seeing natives lounging around, out of work because there is no work for them any more, for how much longer must we open the newspaper in the morning and see that there has been another coup in bloodstained Africa, another bloodbath, another dictatorship set-up, more screaming chaos, another hymn of hate, another billion dollars given in exchange for abuse, while we are not even allowed to earn our livings, when would we drive to work in the mornings and feel that hustle-bustle of industry and optimism again, and drive home again at night to our suburbs to wives and children and sleep unafraid for them at night again, without a pistol under our pillows, when would we end opening the papers in the mornings and seeing petrol bombings and murders – when? For how much longer? For ever. Like the Israelis.
The field telephone buzzed again. Nine forty-five. I picked it up.
‘Number two post.’
‘Number one post all clear, DA.’
‘Okay, Willie, I’ll be down to take over in fifteen minutes.’
Tramp, tramp, tramp, my boots going slowly round the wooden verandah, the rain falling on the roof, the thunder, the splash and gurgle of water. Suzie – a home again – how long will this last?
I looked at my watch. Nearly ten o’clock, time to get into my raincoat and go out into that bloody rain and slip and slide my way down to that boathouse and swap guard with Willie. It was going to be charming in that boathouse for two hours, absolutely bloody charming, with the water pouring in through the holes in the roof and the rain making so much noise on the tin you couldn’t hear yourself think. It’s all right for Willie, he hasn’t got any brains to think with, but me? I unslung my SLR and leaned it against the wall and pulled on my raincoat. It was hot underneath it, sticky and bulky. I buttoned up the flaps and picked up my SLR and slung it under my armpit, muzzle down so rain wouldn’t fall down the spout. I walked over to the field telephone and stood by it looking out into the black rain, waiting for Willie’s call. Come on, Willie. Ten o’clock, one minutes past. Come on, Willie. I picked up the receiver and whirred the handle, and listened. Nothing. I whirred the handle again and listened. I cursed and put the receiver down. I tramped into the house to the sergeant’s room and shook him.
‘Sarge, that unprintable telephone has gone on the unprintable blink again.’
‘The fookin’ thing,’ the sergeant blinked.
‘I’m going down to relieve Willie, if we can’t get it to work again, we’ll wake you.’
‘Okay,’ Sarge said.
I went back to the verandah. I screwed up my eyes and hunched up my shoulders and stepped off the verandah into the rain and mud.
I jumped over the trench and the sandbags we had thrown across the ravine and began to plop and suck my way down the slope to the boathouse alongside the stream that ran down the ravine to the river. We had cleared most of the slope of its bush and banana trees to give the Bren gun behind the sandbags a clear field down the slope to the river-bank, and the earth was churned up and it was sodden mud now. The rain beat down on me and ran down my face, tasting salty. I slipped and staggered down the slope. There was a flash of lightning and the boathouse and the river danced silver and black in front of me and then they were gone again. I squelched on down. I could see the boathouse dimly through the rain now.
‘Willie, it’s the DA.’
I tramped up to the side of the boathouse. ‘Willie, it’s the DA.’
I walked to the doorward end of the boathouse and looked in. ‘Willie?’
I flicked on my torch and I stifled a cry, Aaar! in my throat.
There was the open end of the boathouse on the river edge and there on his back lay Willie.
There was blood running black from the stab wounds in his chest, and his head and shoulders lay in a pool of black-red blood from the gape across his throat. There was white sinew and cartilage showing in the gape. And there were big black patches around his crotch and his trousers were ripped open, red and raw and still running blood out there, and stuffed in Willie’s mouth were his genitals, red and bleeding and blood trickling down his chin.
I spun back out of the doorway and pressed myself against the wall, I fumbled as I unslung my SLR and shoved it against my hip, my hands shaking, and I fumbled as I put it on to automatic fire. My heart was pounding. I stood still for an instant, trying to see, waiting for the bastard to jump out of the boathouse at me. I scurried backwards, doubled up down the wall towards the water. I stopped halfway down the wall and I dropped to my knee amongst the ferns. So the bastards were playing it quiet, going to knock us off one by one as we came down to the boathouse. Raise the alarm, fire a burst through the bushes that’ll wake the sergeant and the boys up top—
—yes you idiot, and then you’ll have given their game away and every goddam terrorist will open up on you—
You’ve got to wake up the boys up top, you idiot – a noise behind me, a rush of awful fear, terror, blind instinctive self-preservation, I spun round on my knee, a scream in my throat, an animal scream of murder to terrify my enemy, the SLR at my waist, my finger clutched hard on the trigger, da-da-da-da my flesh shaking with the vibration, the acrid smell, a big shape looming dim against the night, a flash of lightning, a big wet black man standing poised big above me, knife raised flashing once in the lightning, a crease of white tooth, shock on his black face, da-da-da-da-da, big form crumbling, darkness again. Then, da-da-da-da-da, two machine-guns flashing in the bush along the banks, I was running doubled up, head down, rain beating my face, the mud skidding and splashing and bullets whistling and beating the air, throwing myself sideways into the stream ditch, splash, scrambling, crouched low, splashing upstream slipping and sliding on the rocks, the mud and the water pulling. Please God please God please God, still the clatter of the machine-guns above the banks of the stream and the bushes ripping, scrambling, panting. Please God—then the heavy angry clatter of the Bren gun mounted at the sandbags up at the house, tears in my eyes, thank you God, thank you, scrambling through the bushes, bullets ripping all above me. Atta boy, Sarge, shoot the bastards, for Chrissake don’t shoot me, Sarge, for Chrissake, I mean thank you God, scrambling slipping and sliding and clutching and clawing up the streambed. Then silence.
After the noise, the silence was very loud. Then, in came the sound of the rain again, falling, falling, and the gurgle of the stream and the deafening sound of my boots in the mud and the water. I rested behind a rock, panting. I reckoned I was a third of the way up the slope.
‘DA. You all right!’ The Sarge’s shout was muffled by the rain.
My breathing roaring in my ears. Yeah, Sarge, what you want me to do, you idiot, shout hullo and get myself blown to digestible pieces by those ten million savages down there by the boathouse? I didn’t answer, I tried to listen above the sound of my panting. I waited, listening, panting. Good, good, let both sides think I’m dead until I get back up this stream to those lovely sandbags. There was a flash of lightning, a long flickering flick-on, flick-on-and-on flash, and I crouched lower, trying to look like a rock, then the crack of thunder and I jerked. Then a short burst of the Bren above me again and then a moment’s silence. And then the fizzing sizzle overhead and then the dazzling blue-white light of the overhead spotter-flare, the long dancing shadows of the bush, then the loud heavy clatter of the Bren gun again. Blackness. Silence. Then another sizzle and another long flickering light up in the sky, and then another clatter-clatter from the Bren. Attaboy, Sarge, that’ll keep the bastards’ heads down. I scrambled up out of the mud, and ran up the steep str
eambed again, slipping and sliding and cursing and praying. Blackness, silence again but for the roar of my panting in my ears and the thud thud thud thud of my heart in my ears and the din of my boots in the mud and the water – then the mad da-da-da-da-da of the SLRs from the water’s edge again, and the Bren’s angry answer. I kept running up the stream, praying, crouching, scrambling, bullets going wild all about me. I was nearly at the top, I was nearly crying now, tears of joy and hate and love, keep firing at each other, you bastards, keep firing, just don’t shoot me for Chrissake, please God – twenty, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen dark slippery noisy treacherous yards to go, slip and scramble, my fingers raw now, two fingernails screaming and welling and wincing, but I didn’t care, my right hand open, a pleasurable reckless pain as I grabbed rocks and branches, mud in my mouth, keep shooting you bastards. Ten seven five four yards, a bush grabbing at my eye, whimpering, slip, grasp pant thud da-da-da clatter-da-clatter-da-da-da, the sandbags in front of me now, one two three slip slide grasp slides strides thud thud thud of the slugs hitting the sandbags. Sarge, Sarge it’s me, firing Sarge you lovely bastard. Please God, please God, not one in the back now as I go over. A shout, yes Sarge, it’s me, hands clawing up out of the mud, slip back again Jesus Christ. I mean Jesus Christ keep the bullets off my back, slip slide standing up now the bullets thudding the sandbags no lightning, now, please God, one two three up, and struggle and over and da-da-da. And lying in the mud of the ditch behind the sandbags, those sweet sandbags and the roar of the guns and the thud thud of the bullets a sweet cosy sound like the sound of the storm outside your snug lounge windows. And laughing in my throat, tears of laughter.
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