Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Chris shaking me.

  ‘You all right, DA?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  ‘How many of them did you see?’

  ‘About ten million, it seemed.’

  ‘We’ve seen at least ten.’

  ‘Willie?’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Dead.’

  I crawled along the ditch till I came to my station in the sandbags. I shoved my SLR through the hole and screwed my eyes up tight, once, and then opened them and I peered out into the wet black. I glanced at my watch. Eight minutes past ten. Is that all?

  Silence again.

  ‘Ammo,’ the sergeant said. ‘Chris, fetch some more ammo for the Bren.’

  Chris got up and ran doubled up along the trench. Then there was a spotter-flare sizzle overhead, and then our trench was bathed in the blue-white light.

  ‘Well fook me—’ the sergeant said. The Bren and our SLRs were chattering da-da-da-da-da. Chris was jumping up out of the trench on to the verandah. A spurt of gunfire came from the black jungled wall of the ravine and raked the side of the house and Chris went down in a heap.

  So now we were four.

  Blackness again, and silence. Then a long flickering of lightning, on-off-on-off, and gunfire flashed from a dozen places.

  ‘DA, get on to the radio set and call Sunray for reinforcements. And bring a box of ammo back with you—’

  I scrambled up and ran doubled up along the trench to the farmhouse.

  The rain was beating on the roof and the guns were beating the air da-da-da-da-da and there were long rolls of thunder and the radio bleeped and squealed and crackled.

  ‘Sunray, Sunray, Sunray, Charlie Zero Ten calling Sunray, can you hear me, over—’ click.

  Bleep squeal crackle, went the radio. There was another roll of thunder.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Click. ‘Sunray, Sunray, Charlie Zero Ten calling Sunray, Charlie Zero Ten calling Sunray, can you hear me, over.’ Click.

  Da-da-da-da-da went the guns. Ssssh crackle squeal, bloody atmospherics.

  ‘Jesus Christ—’ Click. I tried for the eighth time. ‘Come in Sunray, please. Over.’

  The windows went in a clatter of falling glass, slugs smacked in a row across the wall above me and plaster fell.

  ‘For crying out loud—’

  ‘Sunray speaking, I hear you Charlie Zero Ten, Sunray speaking, I hear you Charlie Zero Ten, over—’

  Thank God. Click. ‘Sunray sir, Charlie Zero Ten, Private Mahoney reporting engagement number one ravine estimate at least fiften repeat one five terrorists landed armed with machine-guns and spotter flares, they have taken the boathouse, repeat boathouse, not the homestead, we are holding them at the number two post but we’ve lost two men, repeat lost two men, we are under heavy fire, and we can’t see much because of the bloody rain, repeat very heavy rain, visibility bad, consider we can hold them, sir, provided they’ve got nothing to knock the Bren out with but request reinforcements if possible. Over sir—’

  Sssh sssh bleep squeal bleep crack. Da-da-da-da went the guns. – ‘Charlie Zero—’ bleep bleep crackle ‘hear you …’ bleep … ‘Ten’. Click.

  ‘Jesus. Sunray Sunray I’ll repeat that—’

  I mouthed it into the microphone all over again, the air vibrating with the guns and the thunder and the rain drumming down on the roof.

  … bleep ‘Zero Ten—’ Sunray’s voice came back over the crackling radio—‘… impossible until morning’ bleep ‘earliest …’ bleep crackle … ‘landing below the bridge and’ bleep ‘the lake, repeat extensive attempts at landing below’ bleep bleep squeal ssh crackle … Sunray’s voice came back on a wave of atmospherics: ‘Night of the Long Knives repeat information indicates tonight is Night of bleep wail crackle … ‘at all cost, repeat hold number one ravine … Over.’

  I flicked the switch.

  ‘Message received Sunray, Sunray’s message received, signing off, then, over—’ I moved the switch halfway and then I snapped it back: ‘Sunray, Sunray, is Kariba town secure, repeat is Kariba town secure? Over.’

  I flicked the switch over and listened. Only atmospherics, the long wails and squeals and whines. I snapped the switch back and shouted it again. A voice came back over the atmospherics, but it wasn’t the usual voice, it was the Corporal’s – Christ things must be a shambles up there. He misheard Kariba town for Kariba dam. ‘Okay, I hear ya, DA, I’ bleep bleep ‘fuggin bastards’ bleep squeal ‘laid a time charge to’ bleep ‘the wall’ crackle squeal bleep ‘OC Police is going over the side’ bleep ‘demolish’ bleep crackle ‘Jesus it’s pitch black and the’ bleep ‘rain’ bleep squeal ‘envy the poor—’ I snapped the machine off. My chest was knocking, a thumping in my ears above the clatter of the guns. Jesus – the dam wall! If the black bastards blew that precious wall – Jesus, good Jesus Christ don’t let that wall go up, not that wall, God! – the destruction, the unholy havoc, the biggest tidal wave of the world, the destruction, a maniac mountain of water hurtling down the valley on to us, down the hundreds of miles to the sea, the holocaust, the people and the soldiers and the animals and the jungle – the waste the dreadful maniac waste – and Jake Jefferson, oh Jake Jefferson, I hated your guts sometimes but Jesus the bastard had guts, Jefferson going over the side of Christ knows how many hundreds of feet of sheer concrete and the bullets smacking all around – Jesus, Jesus, Jefferson, God surround you, just demolish that charge Jefferson may God help you please God help that brave bastard down that wall – Christ!

  I scrambled up from the machine and ran down the passage to the storeroom. The guns were still hammering and the rain was beating down. It was hot and I was cold, and I was shivering now. I unlocked the door and flung it open and seized a case of Bren ammunition. I swung it up on to my shoulder and ran back down the passage at a stagger.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  And the rain came down. The trench was deep in mud, we lay in the bloody stuff, firing, waiting, listening, firing again, sending up flares, firing, being fired at. And all the time the rain teeming down. We listened between the hammering of the guns for the faraway roar and thunder of the wave coming crashing down through the gorges. No, not yet. ‘Come on you bastards, come and charge us, let’s get it over with.’ They had good cover in the rocks and bush at the sides of the ravine: it had been impossible to clear all that. At least they’d get smashed to hell by the wave if it came, the bastards, as well as us. And when they heard it coming there would only be only one way for them to run, straight into our guns, the bastards, serve them right the bastards for blowing up the wall – our wall, the fools, it was theirs and Zambia’s as well as ours, the fools—a big distant rumble, a jerk, listen, heart pounding, was that the water coming?—But, no, it was only thunder falling on ringing ears. A flash of lightning, a man standing up out of cover, his arm drawn back, poised for the long hard throw of a grenade, four guns swinging on him da-da-dada, we mowed him down. Luck, next time the lightning wouldn’t come at the right time. We sent up flares, hammered the shadows at the sides of the ravine. They had to take us or retreat before light because they would be unable to retreat back across the open river in daylight. And still the noise did not come, the roar of the tidal wave. By Christ he must have done it, Jake Jefferson must have made it by Christ, thank you God thank you, old Jake Jefferson must have done it by God – come on, you bastards, come on! Then at four o’clock the incendiary bomb hit the wooden house from nowhere, and a great ragged yellow light leaped up and flooded the ravine. And our row of sandbags was silhouetted against the fire behind us, and they opened up on us, a dozen guns, but the light also fell on them, the bastards, and there was nothing in the world but the cacophony of guns and the blind blood hate and lust to shoot and shoot and kill kill kill. Then down at the water’s edge a man broke cover and ran across towards the boathouse, then another man broke cover and the sergeant swung the Bren on them with a whoop-da-da-da-da and they fell and the sergeant was screaming with glee: ‘Reinforcements—Reinforce
ments—’

  And I looked over my shoulder, and a pair of headlights was churning down the track of the ravine behind us, bouncing and skewering and smacking on to the ruts and then surging on, bouncing and splashing.

  ‘Hurrah-hurrah-ha ha ha ha ha—’ the sergeant screamed and his teeth were clenched and his lips were pulled back in glee in the leaping firelight, and the Bren shuddered in his hands and clattered. And a laugh gurgled up in my throat, a welling of triumph, we’d held them we’d held them!

  The headlights swung out of sight behind the native compound and then came back into view bouncing and churning and skewering up the track towards the flaming homestead. Then it reached the light of the burning house and it stopped and I looked back again and I saw it wasn’t a military vehicle, it was a Ford sedan and the door opened and only one person climbed out and began to run towards us, staggering, a woman in a dress and her belly was big in front of her and she ran with both hands across her belly holding it and she was staggering and she came into the light of the fire and I recognised the long yellow hair flying in the firelight and I recognised the hysterical face weeping.

  ‘Joseph—Joseph—Joseph—’ and she fell on her side.

  I dropped the SLR in the mud and I ran back to her.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  I laid her on the concrete floor of the pumphouse behind the sandbags. Slugs smacked against the outside wall and our Bren was rattling. She was weeping: ‘Joseph—Joseph – are you safe are you safe I had to come when I heard of the fighting to warn you about the wall; you’ll be drowned Joseph; it’s yours, Joseph, it’s your baby Joseph—’ and the tears were running down her demented face and she was tossing her head from side to side on the concrete and I was trying to hold her still and my heart was pounding in my ears and the sergeant was screaming Aha! Aha!—run you bastards, die you bastards! Aha! Aha!—and the Bren was firing again and her words were swimming in my head. She didn’t know about Jake going over the side. Then she cried out ‘Aah! and her hands clutched her big belly and she arched her back and she bit into her lip and her eyes screwed up and she cried out – ‘Joseph Joseph Joseph hold my hand—’ and I grabbed the hem of the dress and ripped it apart up to her belly and felt her swollen belly and I put my hands between her legs and her legs and her pants were warm wet and sodden. And I pulled the pants off her and I tore off my shirt and I was whimpering as I spread it on the concrete between her thighs. And then I was running in the rain, running as fast as I could for the native compound, running and stumbling and falling and scrambling up again, and behind me I could hear the Bren and the sergeant’s shouts of glee and then the Bren again.

  I ran into the compound shouting: ‘Madara, Madara, call your women to help me – Madara—Madara—’ I ran to Madara’s hut and kicked the door open. ‘Madara!’ I bounded to his sleeping mat and kicked it, but I kicked nothing. I ran out of the hut. ‘Where are the people, come out of hiding, a woman gives birth—’ I ran to the hut of the junior wife and kicked the door open – ‘Woman, woman, come out of hiding, we have won the battle and a woman gives birth—’ But there was no woman in the hut, I ran to the hut of the senior wife and kicked it but it did not open. I kicked it again, and I roared: ‘Grandmother open the door, come out—’ I kicked the door again and it crashed open, and there was the old wife of Madara cowering in the corner. ‘Grandmother—’ I leaped at her and she raised her spindly old arms to cover her head and I grabbed her thin wrist and pulled her up. ‘Do not fear me, Grandmother, it is I, the white soldier, come with me—’ I grabbed her blanket off the floor and I dragged her out the door and then I flung my arm around her thin waist and I was running and staggering and dragging her back towards the pumphouse, and I saw that the roof of the homestead had fallen in and the fire was low now and it was raining less and it was beginning to get light.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  It was light and it was only drizzling now, a very gentle murmur on the tin roof of the pumphouse. I could hear the squeal and crackle of the two-way radio as the sergeant tried to get it to work again. Suzie was warm and her eyes were open. Outside the boys were standing quietly, hushed, awed, and the wet smoke was rising tiredly from the ashes of the homestead. The noise of the radio stopped and then I heard the sergeant say: ‘The wall’s okay but the cop got it on the way back,’ the boys muttering. I held her head in my lap and I looked down at her, my Suzie, my eyes were dry now and I could feel nothing again, only disbelief. Somebody moved up to the door and blocked the light but I did not look up.

  ‘Nkosi?’

  I did not answer the old woman. ‘Nkosi, I have washed your child and now he sleeps well in my arms.’ I did not look up.

  ‘Take him back to your hut, Grandmother, and tend him well till I come.’ The old lady still stood in the doorway. ‘Does the Nkosi wish to hold him?’

  I did not shake my head. ‘No.’

  The old lady still stood in the doorway.

  ‘When he awakes he must be fed. The wife of Tarawona beyond the hill has an infant and much milk in her breasts, shall I send for her?’

  I nodded, but without looking up.

  ‘Yes, Grandmother. Give him the breast of the wife of Tarawona.’

  She half turned and then she stopped and looked back at me.

  ‘I think it will comfort the Nkosi to see his son.’

  I turned and looked up at the old woman in the doorway. She held a bundle of grey blanket in her arms.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he killed my woman.’

  She looked at me and then she nodded, and she turned away from the doorway holding the bundle and then she stopped again and looked at me.

  ‘Nkosi?’

  I looked at her.

  ‘Nkosi. He has a fine body. And much flesh and big bones. I think he was conceived in great love.’

  She looked at me and then she turned and shuffled away on her dirty black skinny ankles through the drizzle, back towards the compound and as she shuffled she hunched herself over the bundle to shield it from the rain.

  Then the pain returned up my throat, a great erupting stab that shuddered and the tears welled up and I choked and I clutched her head against me and I felt for her hand and I brought her hand up to my chest and I held her hand and I cried:

  Suzie Suzie Suzie, hold my hand.

  Novels of John Gordon Davis

  Published by House of Stratus

  Hold My Hand I’m Dying (1967)

  Cape of Storms (1970)

  The Years of the Hungry Tiger (1974)

  Taller Than Trees (1975)

  Leviathan (1976)

  Typhoon (1978)

  Fear No Evil (1982)

  Seize the Reckless Wind [also as Seize the Wind](1984)

  A Woman Involved (1987)

  The Land God Made in Anger (1990)

  Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies (1992)

  Roots of Outrage (1994)

  The Year of Dangerous Loving (1997)

  Unofficial and Deniable (1999)

  Select Synopses

  Cape of Storms

  James McQuade, a young handsome marine biologist sails on a whaler into the Antarctic. On board is Victoria Rhodes, one of a number of nurses, and James falls hopelessly in love with her. However, other members of the crew, who range from ordinary as seamen go to very rough personalities, also lust after Victoria. Her origins become the centre of attention and an air of mystery surrounds her. Following a return to port in Cape Town drama ensues and startling facts emerge. The author depicts the brutality of both whaling and human behaviour with no holds barred and undeniable insight in this thrilling novel. It is packed with adventure, sexual frustrations, and mystery.

  Hold My Hand I’m Dying

  A stirring and compelling story, full of adventure, set against the background of the move to freedom in Africa. In the face of opposition, hatred, violence and death, the gentler human feelings of friendship and love are nonetheless maintained. Joseph Mahoney is the last Colonial Commissione
r in the Kariba Gorge, faced with easing the transition to new rule. To complicate matters, his servant Samson has been accused of murder, and he is drifting apart from Suzie, whom he loves very deeply. Yet personal matters apart, he must deal with the simmering undercurrent of violence and revenge that might envelope the countryside at any moment.

  Leviathan

  A compelling novel of adventure and intrigue, ‘Leviathan’ tells the unadulterated and at times terrible story of whaling, partially from the perspective and mind of a whale. The novel concentrates the senses in terms of willing on conservation, whilst entertaining with a varied mixture of characters, some of whom might be classified as eco-terrorists. There are thrills, adventure, battles and heartaches in the story which is taut with human drama, and the author manages to convey the underlying message without preaching, or propaganda.

  The Years Of The Hungry Tiger

  Set in the years of Mao and prior to the handover, ‘The Years of the Hungry Tiger’ is the story of McAdam, a Hong Kong policeman who is unhappily married. Then he meets Ying-ling, who is a schoolmistress, and he falls headlong for her. This, however, makes him a security risk as she teaches at a communist school, and to make matters worse her father lives on the mainland and so McAdam becomes immediately vulnerable to Chinese pressure. Ying-ling herself is a ‘starry-eyed’ Marxist with resulting conflicting loyalties. In a novel which contains more than a smattering of realism, the author thrills with a tale of political intrigue, espionage, riots, sex, and the underworld of the island, along with it surviving typhoons, economic crises, and everything a hostile regime can throw at it.

  Taller Than Trees

  For many years hunters had tried to kill Dhlulamiti, but he had survived. An elephant some thirteen and a half feet tall – his name translated to ‘Taller than trees’ – and weighing in at twelve tons he was a giant even amongst the largest species of mammal ever to have inhabited the earth. In his early days, he had roamed the savannah in Africa as a killer, attacking every man that came his way, but now wiser thoughts prevailed. Inevitably, one day Dhlulamiti met up with Jumbo McGuire, a hard hell-raising Irish hunter who was renowned for the number of ‘kills’ to his credit. As the predators circled with a hope of cashing in on what would seem to be the inevitable outcome and an easy meal, the final epic struggle between elephant and man began.