The Soldier who Said No

by Chris Marnewick

  De Villiers tried his best. It hurt.

  ‘You have to do it ten times,’ she said. ‘Every time you wake up, you do it ten times. And every day from tomorrow, you add one, so tomorrow you do eleven, and Friday twelve, and so on. You do that until you get to fifty, and then you do fifty at a time three times a day.’

  ‘Until when?’ De Villiers wanted to know.

  ‘For the rest of your life.’

  De Villiers was surprised at the absence of empathy in her voice.

  ‘Once you’ve had cancer,’ she added, ‘you must learn to look out for it so that you can fight it. You must learn to fight it every day.’

  Southern Angola

  May 1985 12

  Three hours later they bivouacked under a sycamore fig, a tree found wherever there is water nearby. It was a good find and it gave them hope. They dug for clean water in a sandbank and took turns to drink from their cupped hands.

  Birdlife was abundant along the river banks, and a tree squirrel scuttled around the trunk of a white seringa tree. De Villiers spied a red-billed hornbill. They made good eating, a bit on the fatty side, but fat was what he and !Xau would need to prepare them for the leaner times they could expect once they left the river course.

  ‘I’m going to look for honey,’ De Villiers said and stood up.

  !Xau didn’t look up. He was shaping a sharpened digging stick from a russet willow shoot with slow, measured strokes of his Best. ‘It is over there.’ He pointed over his shoulder with his knife.

  De Villiers found the small stingless bees, no larger than gnats, almost immediately. They led him to their comb, where a clay pipe the diameter of a pencil betrayed their entrance. Gobatsane, De Villiers remembered from his childhood on his uncle’s farm. Honey made by stingless bees in a clay pot buried in the ground. It is mokatsane when it is deposited in a hollow tree trunk, moka for short. Another memory nagged at the back of his mind, but De Villiers had to concede that he had forgotten what the honey is called when it is found in the crevice of a rock.

  He carefully lifted the pot from the ground and carried it whole back to !Xau. He found the Bushman wearing only the traditional loincloth. !Xau pointed to disturbed soil. ‘I buried the uniform there.’ They took turns to dip their fingers in the honey.

  The Bushman heard the helicopters first and they immediately took cover in the shrubbery. !Xau’s skin was the colour of the soil, a khaki brown, and he melted into the earth, virtually invisible unless you should tread on him. De Villiers watched the sky through eyelids reduced to slits. TWO SADF Alouette gunships flew over slowly. The pilots manoeuvred their machines side by side, like giant wasps, covering every square foot of ground below. Men with binoculars combed the ground while others sat behind them with rifles pointing down.

  When the Alouettes had reached the end of the wooded area a kilometre to the north of their position, they heard them returning for another sweep. When they had completed their second sweep and turned to hover together above where De Villiers estimated Rito to be, he was certain that they were also being hunted on foot. Under normal operational conditions, the helicopters would never have hovered over a village in enemy territory. They could be blown out of the sky by a single soldier with a grenade launcher fixed to his AK47. Ground forces had to have taken control of the village and they were not far behind.

  After an hour the sounds of the Alouettes moved steadily south and faded. De Villiers and !Xau conferred briefly. Ordinarily they would have preferred to move at dusk, but the sun was still too high at four o’clock. On the other hand, !Xau suggested, those who were tracking them could only do so in daylight and would not reach their position before the sun was down. If they started moving now, they could be very far away by dawn. !Xau pointed east.

  De Villiers studied the map again. The decision had been made by the Alouettes that had flown off towards Rundu and the trackers who were now ahead of them.

  They would have to take the long route home, away from the river and the food and water it provided, but also away from the risk of detection by the local population.

  De Villiers looked at his companion and decided to bet his life on !Xau’s skills. ‘We have to get away from the river before they catch us here.’

  !Xau read his mind and pointed east. ‘There is water and food in the veld.’

  They set off at a brisk pace in a south-easterly direction. They made good speed but in stealth, wiping their tracks as best they could. The next river on their intended route certain to have water was the Luiana about seventy kilometres to the east, but there were encouraging signs on the map. It showed a succession of dry riverbeds running north to south, each about a day’s forced march from the next. They could go without food for a week, but they would need a fresh supply of water every day for at least the first three days in order to survive.

  In the game reserves they were about to traverse, De Villiers and !Xau would face an additional enemy, the poachers who roam all of sub-Saharan Africa, armed with AK47s and machetes, killing for gain, seldom to eat, and for whom any white man represents the authority of the law, protectors of the game and spoilers of their trade, a mortal enemy.

  !Xau entered the Luengué without a backward glance. It was De Villiers who felt the presence of the pursuers on their spoor and had to look back.

  They hurried away from the river to put as much distance between them and the men following them. They quickly found the road to Luengué. It was no more than a track carved out of the soil by fourwheel drives. It initially ran in a north-easterly direction, but De Villiers saw on the map that it would turn east and south of east in due course.

  They followed the track for most of the day. There was evidence of recent traffic and they knew they did not have to skirt the road for fear of landmines, so they made good time. By De Villiers’s calculation, they had covered about twenty-five kilometres, well short of his target, but they had to conserve their energy. It would be a full day before they would be able to dig for water again. It was still too early to hunt for food. They had to be sure that they were safe before they could hunt.

  At daybreak they made camp well clear of the road in a guarri thicket known to be favoured by lion. The guarri would provide shade and shelter, being nearly impenetrable to anything larger than a rabbit. In the evening they would start east again. They drank the last of their water and took turns to sleep during the heat of the day.

  De Villiers thought of Verster’s parents. What was he going to tell them? And would they believe him when the official version was certain to be different? Lost in combat, he gave his life for his country in the fight against communism.

  THE TRACKING

  Hotel du Vin

  Friday 28 December 2007 13

  De Villiers was awake at first light, as usual, a deeply rooted remnant of his past. It was his sister’s birthday, but back in Pretoria it would still be the evening of the 27th. He would have to wait until the evening before he could send a text message to congratulate her on her fortieth. In the last two days, he had become mobile. Since the blood transfusion and the removal of the catheter, he had felt able to take charge of his body again, even though it was only in a limited way.

  The surgeon did his rounds early and Emma came to fetch De Villiers before morning tea. Sister Appollus insisted on carrying his bag to the car. She wanted De Villiers to use a wheelchair and scolded him when he objected.

  ‘Jy’s nie nou by die hys wa jy ka loep wa jy wil nie! Ek issie baas hiesô. Hie ry jy in ’n rolstoel as ek so sê.’ You’re not at home where you can walk where you like. I’m the boss here. Here you ride in a wheelchair if I say so.

  De Villiers mimicked her accent. ‘Ek loep hie in, en ek loep hie yt.’ I walked in and I’ll walk out.

  ‘There are regulations, you know.’

  She took the bag from De Villiers and chided him. ‘It won’t be my fault if you fall over.’ She walked next to him and kept an eye on every step he took.

  The security guard
s who had dispatched Henderson and Kupenga a few days earlier were smoking outside the front entrance. De Villiers shook their hands.

  ‘See you, mate,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ De Villiers said.

  They laughed as he eased himself into the passenger seat. Sister Appollus leaned into the car and gave him a hug. ‘Do your exercises,’ she ordered.

  De Villiers nodded as he carefully fastened his seatbelt. He hooked his thumb in the lap-belt and held it away from his abdomen.

  Emma steered the car into the traffic in Gillies Avenue and headed south. For once Zoë was quiet, leaving De Villiers to contemplate his homecoming. Emma turned left into Greenlane and right onto the Motorway South a few minutes later. She picked up speed to keep up with the holiday traffic. De Villiers looked out of the window at the graffiti-covered walls and the dismal backs of factories and small industrial premises. There was no reason for him to be alarmed when Emma ignored the Ellerslie–Panmure turn-off, but when she stayed in the centre lane as the South-Eastern Highway turn-off came up, he indicated with his hand for her to go to the left.

  ‘We’re not going home,’ she said.

  ‘Where are we going?’ De Villiers asked.

  ‘It’s a surprise!’ Zoë shouted from the back seat, unable to hold the pose any longer.

  ‘No, seriously, Emma, where are we going?’

  ‘I’ve booked a room in the country for the weekend,’ she said.

  De Villiers turned to look at Zoë. Behind Zoë the station wagon was packed with their luggage.

  Zoë tinkled on her xylophone. ‘You’re not allowed to guess. You’ll see when we get there, Mom said.’

  He didn’t like the idea of being treated like an invalid, but reconsidered his position. What would he do at home, anyway? And the two had conspired against him. Slowly he relaxed and looked around at things he wouldn’t normally see if he was doing the driving. It was a relief not to have to take any responsibility or to make any decisions.

  They crossed the Tamaki Estuary, the furthest reach of the Pacific onto the North Island, and quickly found themselves next to the Auckland Botanical Gardens. They had spent Emma’s birthday in the Gardens a few years earlier, when she was expecting Zoë, but had not been back. A few minutes later they crossed the Pahurekure Inlet where the Tasman Sea reaches into the North Island from the west and stops just short of cutting it in half.

  On the downhill stretch after the vegetable stalls at the crest of the Bombay Hills, De Villiers had to remark, ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful this country is. We should get out of Auckland more often.’

  Emma de Villiers agreed. ‘What more could you ask for? Civilisation and exquisite scenery all in the same place.’

  At the foot of the hill Emma took the main road to the east, State Highway 2. Within a few kilometres they ran into slower traffic. The annual exodus to the beaches of the east coast had begun and their pace slowed down to well below the urban speed limit.

  Vandals had painted graffiti on every vertical surface within fifty metres of the road, puerile and apparently inconsequential signs and words, a claim of sorts. It angered De Villiers.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked De Villiers. He needed a restroom.

  ‘Ten minutes at the most,’ Emma said.

  ‘You’re not supposed to tell,’ Zoë admonished from the back seat.

  I can hold for ten minutes, De Villiers told himself.

  He found Emma scrutinising the names of district roads on the left and helped her by reading them.

  ‘Graham Road.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Pendergrast Road,’ he read. She again shook her head.

  After a while he read, ‘Lyons Road.’ State Highway 2 curved to the right and there was a shed with a row of old tractors and abandoned cars.

  Emma took the turn into Lyons Road. There were several small farms, all well tended, along the way. They passed an archery range and crossed a narrow stream. The vegetation was lush and green, with large trees hiding their destination until the very last moment.

  The Heritage Hotel & Spa du Vin came into view at the end of the road. The sun was out, the sky powder blue, the buildings clad with ivy. They were among vineyards at the foot of the Hunua Ranges.

  The reception room was decorated in browns and ambers. Maori artefacts decorated the walls and there was a stall which sold local wines, olive oil and chocolates. Boxes of wines stood at the entrance to the stall, ready for delivery. De Villiers wondered whether he would be allowed some wine. The surgeon had said nothing and Sister Appollus hadn’t either. Maybe Emma will stop me, he thought, but I’d have to find a way around that.

  De Villiers rushed to the restrooms while Emma checked in. He arrived back in time to hear the receptionist saying, ‘And we have you booked for a Honeymoon Delight at 10 on Sunday morning.’

  De Villiers felt himself blushing under the eyes of the receptionist.

  Zoë’s initial exploration was over quickly and she came over to his side and held his hand. They watched as Emma punched her pin number into the Eftpos machine.

  ‘Your luggage is on the golf cart and the driver will take you to your room. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay, and please don’t hesitate to call us if there’s anything we can do to make it more enjoyable,’ the receptionist said in a singsong voice.

  Zoë wanted to sit on his lap on the short ride to their room, but Emma made her sit between them. The driver took them along the paths between the chalets, arranged in small clusters of four, like grapes on the vine, past an indoor swimming pool and tennis courts. The view from their veranda was stunning, a manicured vineyard within a few paces of their deck and a herd of sheep on a hillock behind it.

  A farmer sat on a quad bike higher up while two sheepdogs below rounded up the herd, moving them towards a narrow gate and into the next paddock. De Villiers was too far away to hear the farmer’s whistled directions, but the dogs darted from side to side, following orders only they could hear. De Villiers watched the interplay between the farmer and his dogs. Each time the farmer brought his fingers to his lips to whistle, the dogs immediately reacted and set off in the direction ordered. It struck him that the dogs operated as a team, a team of two under the command of an officer, like a two-man team of Recces in the field, with their orders coming from higher up. But Verster is dead, he thought.

  Emma’s touch, when she took his hand, brought him back to the present. ‘I’m happy here,’ she said.

  ‘But we’ve never been here before, have we?’ De Villiers teased.

  She gave his hand a gentle jerk. ‘I mean in New Zealand. Aren’t you?’

  De Villiers had often pondered the question and his answer remained the same. ‘I miss Africa.’

  ‘But aren’t you happy in New Zealand?’ Emma asked again.

  ‘I’m happy where you and Zoë are and I’m glad that we’re here, and not anywhere else.’

  Emma shook her head. His answer had been a circuitous one, ending in a negative.

  ‘For the next two days, you’re going to follow my orders,’ Emma announced.

  The driver placed their bags inside. De Villiers stood on the veranda, watching the golf cart make its way back to the hotel. ‘I’m going to take my shirt off and sit in the sun,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, but let’s see what medication they gave you first.’

  She looked through his bag. There was a vial with antibiotic capsules and a blister-pack of paracetamol. The antibiotics were to be taken twice a day and the paracetamol when required for pain relief.

  ‘Nothing is due now,’ said Emma, squinting at the small print on the vial, ‘unless you’re in pain.’

  De Villiers tried his luck. ‘I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay instead. I am sure it’s as good for pain relief, and far better for my kidneys.’

  ‘But not for your bladder or your liver.’

  He sighed and removed his shirt. He turned a lounger on the veranda to face the sun and lowered himself sl
owly into a reclining position. The backrest of the lounger could be adjusted.

  ‘Zoë!’ he called.

  Zoë came running out and stood in front of him, blocking out the sun. ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘Do you want to play nurse?’

  ‘No, I’m going to be a teacher, like Mum,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ said De Villiers, ‘I’ll have to find someone else to play nurse for me then.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll play,’ Zoë said. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘I’m the patient, and you’re the nurse. You must bring me things and wipe my face and take my shoes off.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll start with the shoes.’

  De Villiers helped by pushing at the heel of the shoes with his toes. ‘Take the socks off, please Nurse, but don’t hold them close to your nose!’

  ‘Yech!’ Zoë said and pulled a face. ‘What do I do next?’

  ‘You can fetch my sunglasses and cap, please Nurse.’

  ‘Where are they?’ she asked.

  ‘The big bad matron in the room has them.’

  Zoë looked over De Villiers’s head. Emma was leaning against the doorjamb, dangling his cap and sunglasses in her hand.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ she said. ‘Now see if you can keep it so for fortyeight hours.’

  Emma insisted on covering his face and chest with sunblock. Her hands were soft on his skin.

  De Villiers lay face down on the lounger, his cap on the back of his head. The sun on his back was faint but still reminded him of a place which he missed every waking moment, its dusty smell, the sounds of birds and insects, even the ubiquitous presence of reptiles, from the innocuous to the ultra-venomous. He felt Emma’s hands and smelled more sunblock.

  He sat up and did a dozen of Florette Appollus’s exercises.

  Later they went for a walk, his wife and daughter on either side of him, holding hands. They walked slowly, following the winding paths between the chalets. When they arrived at the front of the hotel, De Villiers saw that the weekend guests had arrived in force. A wedding troupe was waiting at Reception. De Villiers followed Emma and Zoë to the reading room. Zoë busied herself with crayons and a colouring book while Emma studied one book after the other on the hotel’s bookshelves. De Villiers watched them over the morning paper.