"We have to get that gun," he gasped, and Comrade Lookout gave him a twisted grin.
"Go to it, Kuphela we will watch you with great interest." Another RPG rocket missile slammed into the wall, deafening them and covering them with a fine haze of white dust.
Craig rolled on his side and checked the AK 47. It had a full magazine. Comrade Lookout passed him another full magazine from the haversack on his shoulder, and Craig had the Tokarev pistol on his belt and two remaining grenades buttoned into his breast pockets.
He darted another quick glance around the corner of the wall and instantly a burst of machine-gun fire kicked and jarred into the brickwork around his head. He rolled back. It was only a hundred yards or so to the foot of the kopje, but it could as well have been a hundred miles.
They were pinned helplessly, and the gunner up there on the hill commanded the entire compound. Nobody could move under the floodlights without drawing instant fire or a rocket from the RPG launcher.
Craig looked anxiously for the second truck, but sensibly the driver must have parked it behind one of the buildings as soon as the RPG opened up. There was no sign of any of the other guerrillas, they were all under cover, but they had taken more casualties than they could afford.
"It can't end like this-" Craie was consumed by his own sense of frustration and helpi essness. "We've got to get that gun!" The gun up on the hill, without a target, fell silent and then suddenly in the silence Craig heard the singing in, low at first, just a few voices, but swelling and growing strong: "Why do you weep, widows of Shangani When the three-legged guns laugh so loudly?" Then the ancient fighting chant crashed into tl)Q silence, flung out by hundreds of throats.
"Why do you weep, little sons of the Moles, When your fathers did the. king bidding?" And then from the prison huts they came, a motley army of naked figures, some of them staggering wih weakness, others running strongly, carrying stones aud bricks, and poles torn from the roofs of their prison. A few, a very few, had picked up the weapons of the dead guards, but all of them were singing with wild defiance as they charged the hill and the machinegun.
"Oh, Christ!" whispered Craig. "It's going to be a mass, acre." In the front rank of the throng brandishing an AK 47 came a tall gaunt figure, looking likea skeletal caricature of death itself, and the army of starvelings and gaol, sweepings rallied to him. Even altered as he was, Craig would have recognized Tungata Zebiwe anywhere this side of hell.
"Sam, go back!" he shouted, using the name by which is friend, but Tungata came on bee ss he had known h and beside Craig Comrade Lookout said phlegmatically, "They will draw fire, that will be our chance." "Yes, be ready," Craig answered. Lookout was right. They must not let them die in vain and, as he spoke, the machine-gun opened up.
"Waid" Craig grabbed Comrade Lookout's arm. "He must change belts soon." And while he waited for the gun to fire away its first belt, he watched the terrible havoc it is playing amongst the throng of released prisoners.
The stream of tracer seemed to wash them away lit, k a fire hose, but as the front rank fell, so the men beEi,id raced forward into the gaps, and still Tungata Zebiwe was coming on, outdistancing his fellows, firing the AK as lie ran and the gunner on the hilltop singled him out and swung the machine-gun onto him so that he was wreathed in smoking dust, still miraculously untouched as the machine-gun abruptly fell silent.
"Gun empty! "Craig shouted. "Go! Go! Go! They launched themselves, like sprinters off the blocks, and the open ground seemed to stretch ahead of Craig to the ends of the earth.
Another rocket missile howled over their heads, and Craig ducked on the run, but it was high, aimed in panic.
It flew across the parade ground and it hit the silver bulk fuel storage tank next to the guard barracks. The fuel went up with a vast whooshing detonation. The flames shot up two hundred feet in the air, and Craig felt the hot breath of the blast sweep over him, but he kept running and firing.
He had been losing ground steadily to Comrade Lookout and the other guerrillas, his bad leg hampering him in the race for the hill, but while he ran he was counting in his head. A good man might need ten seconds to change ammunition boxes and reload the machinegun. Since leaving the sheltering wall seven seconds had passed eight, nine, ten it must' come now! And there were still twenty paces to cover.
Comrade Lookout reached the sandbagged fortifications and shinned up and over.
Then something hit Craig a crushing hammer-blow and he was thrown violently to- the ground as bullets flew all around him. He rolled ov'e4r and came up again running, but the gunner had seen him go down and swung the machine-gun away, back to the charging mob of released prisoners.
Hit but unharmed, Craig ran on as strongly as before, and he realized that he had taken it in the leg, the artificial leg. He wanted to laugh, it was so ridiculous and he was so terrified.
"You can only do that to me once," he thought, and IT hi
4f suddenly he had reached the foot of the kopie. He jumped up, found a hold on the top of the sandbag parapet wit one hand, and heaved himself up and over. He dropped onto the narrow, deserted firing platform on the other side.
"The radio he fixed his will upon it, "got to get the radio." And he jumped down into the communication trench and ran down it to the bend in the passage. Thei@ was the sound of a scuffle, and a cry ahead of him, and is Comrade Lookout was straight he came around the corner, ening up from the body of the Third Brigade trooper who had been manning the RPG.
"Go for the gun," Craig ordered him. "I'll take the radio room.
Craig climbed up the sandbagged passageway, Passing en quartered on his last visit.
the dugout where he had be "Now, first on the left-" He dived into the opening, brushing aside the curtain of hessian, and he heard the radio operator in his dugout at the end of the passage shouting frantically. Craig hurled himself down the narrow passage, and paused in the doorway.
Too late. His stomach turned over in a despairing convulsion. The radio operator, dressed only in a vest and the bench underpants, was hunched over the radio set on by the far wall of the dugout. He was holding the his microphone to his mouth with both hands, shouting warning into it in English, repeating it for the third time, ig hesitated, the acknowledgement boomed and, as Cra from the speaker, also spoken in clear English.
said the voice of the "Message received and understood," erat or at Brigade headquarters in Harare. "Hold on! We op will reinforce you immediately-" Craig fired a long burst of the AK, and his bulb sing and ripp, smashed into the radio, shattering the hou The unarn the wiring out of it in a glittering tangle.
microphone and cOw el radio operator dropped the against the sandbag wall, staring at Craig, blubbering with terror. Craig swung the AK onto him, but could not force himself to fire.
Instead, the burst of automatic fire came from the passageway behind Craig, startling him, and then for an instant the operator was pinned to the wall by striking bullets and he slid down into a huddle on the floor.
"You always were too soft, Pupho," said the deep voice beside Craig and he turned and looked up at the gaunt naked figure that towered over him, into the scarred and desiccated visage, into the dark, hawk-fierce eyes.
"Sam! Craig said weakly. "By God, it's good to see you again.
he first truck had its entire front section wrecked by the RPG while the rear wheels of the second truck had been destroyed by heavy machine-gun fire. The fuel tanks of both vehicles were registering empty.
As briefly as he could Craig explained to Tungata the plans for getting out of the country.
"Eight o'clock is the deadline. If we don't make it back to the airstrip by then, the only way out will be on foot."
"It's thirty miles to the airstrip," Tungata mused. "There is no other vehicle here. Fungabera took the Land-Rover when he left two days ago."4
"I can pull the rear heels out of the wrecked truck but fuel! Sam, we need fuel." They both looked towards the blazing tank. The flames were still towering int
o the night sky and clouds of dense, black smoke rolled across the parade ground. In the light of the flames, the dead men lay in windrows where the machine-gun had scythed them down, but there were no surviving prison guards either. They had been torn to pieces and beaten to bloody pulp by their prisoners. How many dead, Craig wondered, and shied away from the answer, for every death was his direct responsibility.
Tungata was watching him. He was now dressed in random items of clothing gleaned from the lockers of the barrack room, most of it too small for his huge frame, and the prison stench still hung around him likea cloak.
"You were always like this," Tungata told him softly, "after an unpleasant task. I remember the elephant culls you would not eat for days afterwards."
"I'll drain the one tank into the other," said Craw quickly. He had forgotten how perceptive Tungata was.
He had recognized Craig's remorse. "And I will get them started on changing the wheels. But, you must find fuel for us, Sam. You mustP Craig turned and limped towards the nearest truck, thankful to be able to evade Tungata's scrutiny.
Comrade Lookout was waiting for him. "We lost fourteen men, Kuphela,"he said.
"I am sorry." God! How inadequate "They had to die one day," the guerrilla shrugged. "What do we do now?" There were heavy wheel-wrenches in the toolboxes of the trucks, and enough men to lift the rear end ho i chock it with timber baulks while they worked. ig supervised the swopping of rear axle and wheels, while at the same time he rolled up his trouser leg and stripped off his leg. The machine-gun bullet had ripped through his aluminium shin, leaving a ragged exit hole in the calf, but ed the sharp the articulated ankle was undamaged.
He tapp, petals of torn metal down neatly with a hammer from tl,toolbox, and strapped the leg back in place. "Now, you JL hold together a little longer," he told it firmly, gave the an affectionate pat and took the wheel-wrench away frc Comrade Lookout who had already cross, threaded two the nuts on the rear wheel of the truck.
An hour later Tungata came striding up to where Craig and his gang were lowering the truck's body onto its cannibalized rear axle. Craig was black to the elbows with thick grease. Sarah hurried to keep up with Tungata. Next to him she seemed slim and girlish, despite the rifle she carried.
"No fuel,"Tungata said. "We've searched the camp."
"I reckon we have fifteen lit res Craig straightened up and wiped the sweat off his face with his shirt-sleeve. It left a smear of grease down his cheek. "That might take us twenty miles. If we are lucky." He checked his watch. "Three o'clock where did the time go? Sally-Anne will be overhead in just over two hours. We aren't going to make it-"
"Craig, Sarah has told me what you have done, the risks, the planning, all of it-"Tungata said quietly.
"We haven't got time for that now, Sam."
"No," he agreed. "I must speak to my people, then we can go." The prisoners who had survived the slaughter on the parade ground gathered around him as Tungata stood on the bonnet of the truck. Their faces were upturned towards him, lit by the harsh glare of the floodlights.
"I must leave you," Tungata told them, and they groaned, "but my spirit stays with you, it remains with you until the day that I return.
And I swear to you on the beard of my father and by the milk that I drank from my mother's breast, that I shall return to you."
"Babo!" they called to hint "You are our father."
"The Shana kanka will be here very soon. You must go into the bush, carry with you all weapons and food you can find and go with these men." Tungata pointed to the little group of guerrillas around Comrade Lookout. "They will lead you to a safe place, and you will wait until I return in strength to lead you to what is rightfully yours." Tungata.
held his arms extended in blessing. "Go in peace, my friends!" They reached up to touch him, some of them weeping like children. Then, in little groups, they began to drift away towards the gate of the compound and the darkness beyond.
Comrade Lookout was the last to go. He came to Craig and smiled that cold white wolfish smile.
"Though you were in the forefront of the fighting, you did not kill a single Shana not here nor at the bridge," he said. "Why is that, Kuphela?"
41 leave the killing to you," Craig told him. "You are better at it than I am."
"You are a strange man, oh writer of books but we are grateful to you. If I live that long I will boast to my grandchildren of the things we did together this day."
"Goodbye, my friend," said Craig, and held out his hand and when they shook hands it was with the double grip of palm and wrist and palm, a salute of deep significance.
Then Comrade Lookout turned and loped away, carrying his rifle at the trail and the night swallowed him. The three of them, Craig, Tungata and Sarah, stood by the cab of the truck and the loneliness held them mute.
Craig spoke first. "Sam, you heard the radio operator speaking to his headquarters. You know that Fungabera will have already sent in reinforcements. Are there any troopers between here and Harare?" (I do not think so," Tungata shook his head. "A few men at Karoi, but not a large enough force to respond to an attack like this."
"All right let's say that it took them an hour to assemble and despatch a force. It will take them another five hours to reach Tuti-" he looked at Tungata for confirmation, and he nodded.
"They will hit the mission at approximately six and Sally-Anne should be overhead at five. It will be close, especially if we have to make the last few miles on foot let's get moving." While the others climbed up into the cab, Craig took a last look around the devastated compound. The flames had died down, but smoke drifted over the deserted hutments and across the parade ground where the dead men lay. The scene was still brightly lit by the floodlights.
"The lights-" Craig said aloud. There was something about the lights that worried him. The generator? Yes, that was it something about the generator that he must think Of.
"That's it! he whispered aloud, and jumped up into the cab. "Sam, the generator-" He started the motor, and put the truck into a roaring Turn. The engine room was at the back of the hill, part of the central complex protected by sandbags and by the fortifications on the high ground above it. Craig parked the truck close to the steps that led down into the power house, and he ran down and burst into it.
The generator was a twenty-five-kilowatt Lister, a big squat green machine, and its fuel tank was bolted on steel brackets to the wall above it. Craig tapped the side of the tank and it gave back a reassuring dull tone.
run!" Craig breathed. "Forty glorious gallons, at least! he road twisted likea dying python and the truck, her fuel-tank humming, was unwieldy and stiff on the turns. 4Craig had to wrench the wheel into them with both arms. The up hills were steep and the speed bled away to a walking pace as Craig changed down through the gears. Then they roared down the far side, too fast for safety, the empty truck bouncing them about unmercifully as they hit the deep ruts.
Craig almost missed the causeway at the bridge, and they lurched out over the drop with the edge crumbling away under the big double back wheels before he swerved back and they went lumbering over the narrow timber bridge.
"Time?" he asked, and Sarah checked her watch in the dashboard lights.
"Four fifty-three." Craig glanced away from the bright tunnel of the headlights and for the first time he could see the silhouette of the tree-tops against the lightening sky. At the top of the slope he pulled into the verge and switched on the radio set. He searched the channels slowly, listening for military traffic, but there was only the buzz of static.
"If they are in range, they are keeping mum." He switched off the set and pulled out into the track again, mary el ling at the swiftness of the African dawn. Below them in the valley, the landscape was emerging out of the fleeing night, the great, dark, forested plain leading from the foot of the hills down to the mission station stretched below them.
"Ten miles," said Tungata.
"Another half an hour," Craig replied and sent the Toyota bellowin
g down the last hills. Before they reached the bottom, it was light enough for him to switch off the headlights. "No point drawing attention to ourselves." Suddenly he sat up straighter, alarmed by the change in the engine note of the truck; it was harsher and louder.
"Oh God, not that, not now," he whispered, and then realized that he was hearing the sound not of the Toyota, but of another motor outside the cab. It was growing louder, closer, more compelling. He rolled down the side window and stuck his head out into the cool rush of the wind.
Sally-Anne's Cessna was roaring down from behind them, only fifty feet above the road, sparkling blue and silver in the first rays of the sun.
Craig let out a whoop of joy and waved wildly.
Swiftly the Cessna overhauled them and drew level.
Sally-Anne's beloved face looked down at him from the cockpit. She had a pink scarf around her head, and those thick dark eyebrows framed her eyes. She was laughing, as she recognized Craig, and she waved and mouthed at him, "Go for id" Then she was roaring past, climbing, waggling the wings of the Cessna from side to side, heading for the airstrip.
Wilbur Smith - B4 The Leopard Hunts In Darkness Page 43