by Barry Sadler
"What is it, Mr. Romain?" Montfort responded a bit testily. "Do you think my men and our poor rations are not good enough for you and your overpaid prima donnas?"
Casey took a deep breath and got a grip on his temper.
"No, Major, but if you have served anyplace other than your own country and with anyone other than your own troops, you know that a change in diet can bring on dysentery and a number of other problems that could temporarily disable some of my men, and I have none to spare. This way they are used to the food and the way it is prepared." He ground out the cigarette butt under his heel.
"And I don't want any contact between your men and mine, because it could lead to short tempers and fights, which if our own exchange is any example will probably happen before supper."
By the time the conversation had reached this point, they had arrived at the old Quonset huts that would be their homes for the next week. Major Montfort chewed the ends of his sandy mustache as he thought over Casey's comments. "You're right, Mr. Romain," he admitted a bit reluctantly, "and I apologize. I am letting my personal prejudices against mercenaries color my thinking. You are right about the food and the troubles between our men. But remember this, sir. I am a professional soldier in the service of my country and will do anything to assure her survival. I fight for my home; you fight for money. That is what I find distasteful. For enough money you would fight against us."
Casey shook his head. "Montfort, if we had the time, I would tell you some things about us that might change your thinking, but it wouldn't make any difference to the mission, so let's just maintain a polite and friendly attitude and set an example for our men. And, incidentally, these 'prima donnas' of mine would bust your men open like watermelons just for the practice if they got pissed off. Like you said, you and your boys are patriots. Mine do this for a living. They have to be good or they wouldn't be here."
Casey turned his back on Montfort and entered the nearest hut, glad to be out of the sun, which was already gaining in strength. After meeting Montfort he wasn't surprised to see that the floors were clean. The GI style bunks were made up with clean linen with blankets at the foot of each. Beidemann came in cursing, followed by George and the others. Fitzhugh was assigning bunks as Van set up their own security posts and duty roster.
As the men settled in, Casey, Beidemann, and George went for a look see around the area just to get the feel of it and to work up a contingency plan in case anything went wrong while they were there.
Taking their time, they made a wide circle about a mile out so they could get a look at the field from the outside. Dust licked at the heels of their boots as lizards blinked out of their path to seek the small comfort of the shade of a bush. George didn't like what he saw. To him this was dead land, not having the rich soil of Southeast Asia, but he changed his mind when a warthog burst out of a clump of brush twenty feet ahead, hotly pursued by a young male lion who was just getting his mane. He didn't know who won the race. They disappeared down a dry wash to the south, the pig running with its tail stuck straight in the air and the young lion coming after him with long, space eating leaps.
Casey let the others return to the Quonset huts, wanting to spend a few minutes by himself. Squatting down on his heels, he rested his chin on his forearms. Breathing deeply, he sucked into his lungs the hot, dry air of Africa. It would not always be dry. Soon the rains would come, and the veldt would come alive in a manner nearly beyond comprehension. The earth would erupt with vital green growth, and animals would pick this time to give birth to their young so they could grow strong before the next dry season set in.
To the north of them, in the deep jungle, there was not the dramatic change of season, just a time that was not quite so wet. And to the south and west lay the Kalahari, a place so dry it made the Mojave Desert look like a swamp.
A scorpion crept out of the roots of a bush, its pincers opening and closing as it scrambled within inches of Casey's feet. He ignored the tiny killer. He had seen them before, as he had a place such as this. In his mind's eye he could see the regiments of the Zulu tribes of the Matabele, the impis forming their battle lines in the shape of Cape buffalo horns. He saw the thousands of tall warriors of the Zulu wearing lion, civet, or black and white monkey fur, the fur strategically placed on their sweating ebony bodies or formed into fantastic headdresses. All chanted as they held their short spears, iKwlas, high over their heads.
Sweat collected in the small of his back and ran down his spine as the memory of the "horns of the buffalo," the tribal battle formation, advanced, singing and chanting. Hide shields of rhino or buffalo, painted with the totems of their clans, were held above their heads. The main force formed the base of the skull from which the horns tapered to a point, and the Zulus advanced upon the Boers. They had run forty miles for this fight, eager to wash their blades in blood. They advanced across the plain to the waiting Dutchmen in their circle of wagons and oxen. As they came closer, the points of the horns spread out in an arc as men flowed from the base, filling up the horns until they encircled their quarry. Ten thousand tall, proud warriors beat their shields and sang of their courage.
The Boers, tough, taciturn men with beards down to their chests, believing themselves to be the chosen of God and the servants of His Word, waited behind their wagons, rifles to their shoulders, hunting knives at their belts. Their wives stood with them, and as their children hid under or in the wagons ready to reload the rifles, they waited for the onslaught of the thousands of natives surrounding them...
A shadow fell across him, jerking his mind back from that other, older Africa. Without turning to see, he asked softly, "What do you want, Major?"
Montfort paused as he watched the broad, muscled back below him. The sweat on the man's body had plastered his shirt to him like a second skin. Even under the cloth Montfort could see the great strength in that back; he watched the muscles ripple unconsciously, much as a horse's does as it shakes bothersome flies from its flank.
"Sorry to bother you, old boy. You looked like you were in deep thought, but your man Harrison wants to take a look at the Waco. My orders are that no one is to go near it until you say it is all right."
Grunting as he rose, the memory of that other time quickly faded into the past where it belonged.
"All right, let's go. By the way, what about the natives in this area?"
Montfort shrugged as he led the way through the brush back to the strip. "All the locals have been cleared out, and they won't be back for a while. We poisoned a number of their cattle and goats, then told them there was some kind of sickness for their animals in the area, and it would have to be quarantined for a time. They have all been moved to `safe' areas until you are finished with your work. Then they'll be permitted to return."
Harrison met them on the runway, pointing toward the old hangar. "I say, Casey, will you tell those louts over there," he indicated two of the major's men who were standing guard at the hangar "to let me into that bleedin' building? I can't fly the damned thing if I can't see it!"
Casey smiled at Harrison's normal annoyance at everything in the world. "Major Montfort, you may relieve your men. From this point on, my people will take responsibility for the security of the glider and our own equipment, which I am sure will suit you just fine."
Montfort grunted and called out to the two sentries, "You are relieved and will return to your quarters." Stamping their feet, the sentries saluted with rifles and trotted off.
Brushing a gnat away from the corner of his eye, Montfort started back across the field to where his own quarters were. He called back as he left, "I do hope you chaps will enjoy your stay here. Cheerie-o."
"Go bugger a camel, you overstuffed arsehole!" Harrison muttered under his breath.
Casey grabbed Harrison by the arm and directed him to the hangar door. "Don't give me any trouble. I don't want to have a harder time dealing with Montfort than I'm having already. Just keep your wisecracks to yourself for the time being and do your job.
Report to me after dinner if you have any problems."
As usual, Harrison felt that he was being unfairly chastised and just put Casey's misunderstanding of him down to an obviously common education. Opening the door to the hangar, he had second thoughts and made excuses in his mind for Casey's treatment of him. Feeling better, he went in.
CHAPTER TEN
Six days to go. Not much time, but it was best that way. The men were becoming short tempered and edgy. Beidemann and Fitzhugh noticed the change and started to work their asses off. They knew they couldn't risk leaving the men idle for too long or the situation would become explosive. They were too close to the staging area. Their subconscious fears were beginning to show. Some smoked more, others lost their appetites, and then there were those who picked fights. But Beidemann and Fitzhugh worked them so hard they had no time to let fear eat at them, and when they hit the sack at night they slept straight through until reveille. From dawn to dusk the two officers ran the men through live fire exercises and ten and fifteen mile forced marches with full packs until the sweat drying on their jackets turned white with the salts they'd leached out. At the end of each day, Fitzhugh and Beidemann reported to Casey, who was satisfied with their work. Several fights were brought to a halt when Fitzhugh and Beidemann offered to take on anyone who felt froggy enough to jump. The German's size and strength were such that there were no takers, and all the mercs knew that Fitzhugh was the better soldier. Though he might piss them off, what he made them do was designed for their own survival and they knew it. If anyone pushed him too hard, he'd cheerfully put a bullet into the back of that man's neck with Casey's approval. There could be no weak links in this chain of men. Each accomplished his job in his own way. There was grumbling, which was to be expected, but no major discipline problems arose.
Only Harrison was excused from most of the training exercises, but even he had to make the forced marches. About that, Casey was firm. He'd been on too many operations where the unexpected happened too frequently to take any chances. If anything went wrong and they weren't able to get airlifted out of the site after hitting Dzhombe, then they'd need their legs more than they would ammo. Harrison bitched about it, but like the other, he knew the reasons for it. Except for the marches, his time was spent in the single hangar going over the old Waco glider. Each strut was checked and some were reinforced; the canvas was poked and prodded as he searched out dry rot. Any spot that didn't meet with his total approval was replaced. Every bolt, gear, and guy line was oiled. He spent hours in the cockpit making his own dry runs. Closing his eyes, he'd try to visualize the flight and everything that could go wrong. A hundred times he landed the glider in his mind. He would have loved to have taken the plane up just once to feel her out, but if anything happened to her on take-off or landing, they'd be up the creek when the time came to make the strike. Any tests would have to be made in the air, and there was only one place the glider would set down: Matthew Dzhombe's presidential palace grounds.
Major Montfort had to admit that the hirelings were good, very good. He watched their training with a knowing eye. He didn't like it much, but it was obvious that what Casey Romain had said about his men was the absolute truth. As good as his own soldiers were, they'd have had little chance in a firelight or hand to hand combat situation against the mercs.
On the fifth day, after a single engine Cessna made a quick stop and turn around, Montfort presented himself with an attache case at the small room to the rear of one of the Quonset huts, where Casey had his office set up. Knocking on the door, he waited for permission to enter. "Come in, Major." As Montfort turned the handle on the door, he wondered how Casey always seemed to know who it was that was behind him, or as now, outside his door.
Casey sat behind a card table that served as a desk. He was going over aerial maps of Kimshaka City and the surrounding countryside. Not rising, he indicated the single metal folding chair in front of the card table. "Have a seat, Major. I'll be with you in just a moment."
For the five hundredth time he went over the layout of the palace and surrounding grounds. Putting down the magnifying glass he'd been using, he turned his attention to his guest. "Yes, Major? What can I do for you?"
Montfort opened the attache case without rising, took out a sealed manila envelope, and handed it across the card table to Casey. "These just came in by courier. I believe they're what you've been waiting for."
Casey slit open the flap. "I hope so." Removing the contents, he spread them out on the table. Rifling through them quickly, he took a fast look and then set them aside, saying in flat, noncommittal tones, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Montfort accepted his dismissal with good grace, knowing full well that what Casey was doing was exercising his right of a man's having a need to know. Montfort didn't need to know the contents of the envelope.
Rising from the chair, he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his shirt. "No, that's all for now. But I do want you to know that I wish you and your men the best of luck. Your mission is as important to me as it is to anyone else in my country, and while we may have our differences, a lack of respect for your group's capabilities is not one of them. I'll be close by if you need anything from me."
Casey was a little surprised at the major's comments, and he made a mental note to buy the stuffy officer a drink when and if they got back.
Walking to the doorway, Casey yelled for Fithugh.
Fitzhugh answered his summons by presenting himself with a proper British salute. "Sir!" he said, stamping his right foot.
"Get Gus, Van, Harrison, and George. All of you report to me ASAP." Stamping both feet, Fitzhugh about faced and strode off with that peculiarly British manner of marching where the fists swung out nearly to chest level.
It took less than half an hour to get them all together in the small room. Van opened the windows wide to let in a bit more air while the others found chairs and stools to sit on.
Distributing the contents of the manila envelope, Casey had each one go over the pages. George didn't read English too well, but he'd pick up more than enough from the conversation. The papers were passed around until all had a chance to give them at least a cursory inspection. Then they went over the details.
Taking each man's questions one at a time, they went over the new input: the location and number of Simbas in the capital; the location of guard posts and checkpoints; the motor pools and available civilian vehicles if needed; the number of Simbas on regular duty at the palace and their armament. Most of Dzhombe's soldiers were outfitted with AK 47s donated by Kimshaka's once friendly advisor, the Soviet Union. Heavy weapons were from the same family: RPD light machine guns and a few PKS 7.62mm crew-served machine guns on tripods. These and a few mortars of varying calibers were kept inside the palace armory along with some other heavy weaponry, including a few American made 57mm recoilless rifles.
The location of Dzhombe's rooms was clearly indicated in charts showing the entire floor plan of the palace building. A timetable showed the schedule of events of the last time Dzhombe had celebrated his ascendance to power, and there was a list of guests known or expected to be in attendance at the festivities to take place the day after tomorrow.
With his squad leaders Casey discussed the routes out of town and the alternates in case they ran into resistance too stiff to reduce on their primary route. He pointed out on the maps where the alternate rendezvous sites were located. This was done so that if anyone became separated from the main party, he'd know where to go and how to make contact with the N.F.L.K. Another page contained the colors of the flares and radio codes to be used to identify themselves to the N.F.L.K. if they were needed. The success of the operation depended on Matthew Dzhombe's history.
For the last five years, after Dzhombe gave his State of Kimshaka speech, a drunken orgy had taken place at the palace. Even the troops not on duty ended up smashed.
Many of the festivities had always taken place in the palace garden, which was ringed by strings of
colored lights. Those lights would guide them in.
Asking for final critiques from his men and receiving none, Casey said, "Okay, gentlemen, that's the way it goes down. Each of you will return to me tomorrow morning for final instructions pertaining to your separate missions. Give the men tomorrow afternoon off. Let them relax and sleep if they can. They may need it later. We pull out at 1700 hours. Remove all signs of our presence here. Clean up the area. I want it sterilized."
Van and the others went out into the Quonset huts, gathering their men to them to pass along the orders and to answer any questions.
Afterward, when night fell, George sat quietly sharpening his blade, then he cleaned his shotgun. Van lay on his bunk thinking of the Chinese girl working at Raffles in Singapore. Casey heard Beidemann sit down on a folding chair outside his hut and then begin to sing softly: “Wann wir beide Laterne stehn, wie einst, Lil Marlene wie einst Lili Marlene?" Another voice joined that of the giant German. Fitzhugh added his own words to the famous song of another war: "Underneath the lantern by the barrack gate, Darling, I remember the way you used to wait; ‘Twas there that you whispered tenderly, That you'd love me..."
Good men. Steady. They'd be where they were needed, Casey thought, listening to them. He tried not to think about those who would probably be dead by this time tomorrow, even though he understood that they knew the risks and each had his own reasons for taking them.....
Casey walked out past the sentry, telling him that he'd be gone for a time. He felt the need to be by himself. Walking into the bush just far enough so he felt the solitude he needed, he sat down on a half rotten log that the termites hadn't yet finished with and opened up the buttons of his shirt, letting the night's mild breeze evaporate the moisture from his hot flesh. It felt good.