I caught up with Lateef and the other two in the village, and we moved on in the direction of the wood. Lateef said nothing about the man inside the helicopter. I had evidently overrated the importance of the incident.
As we came out of the village and joined the main road that ran through the wood, one of the older men who had gone with Collins came up to us excitedly.
"In the wood! Collins says it's there!"
"What is?" said Lateef.
"He sent me to get you. We've found them."
Lateef pushed past him and walked quickly in the direction of the flames. As I followed, I glanced at my wristwatch, holding up the face to catch what little light I could from the moon. It was barely possible to make out the time: it was half past three. I was getting more tired with every minute and could not see us setting up another camp within the next hour. We had found that it was hazardous to try to sleep during the day, unless we were able to find somewhere well concealed.
As we came to the edge of the wood I found my lungs filling with smoke.
The flavour of it was not one I was familiar with and appeared to be a composite of many fires. Overriding it all, though, was the stench of cordite; the flavour of war, the stink of a spent cartridge.
We approached the scene of the ambush. A heavy agricultural lorry had been parked broadside across the road. Twenty yards from it was the wreck of the leading truck of the convoy. It had received at least one direct hit from the rockets of the gunships, and it was scarcely recognizable as having once been a vehicle. Behind it were the wrecks of several more: I counted only seven, though afterwards I heard Lateef say that there had been twelve. How he had access to this information, I do not know. At any rate, there were four trucks still burning. To each side of the road, shrubbery had been ignited by the explosions and the smoke from this joined with that of the vehicles. There was not much wind, and in the region of the trucks the air was virtually unbreathable.
I stood with Lateef. We were trying to discern on which side the trucks had been; in this undeclared civil war, the opposing forces rarely displayed colours and it was unusual to see any kind of vehicle bearing identification-marks. Logically, the trucks had been driven by Nationalist or Loyalist troops, as the helicopters had been shown to be piloted by the Afrims, but there was no way of telling for certain. I thought the trucks looked as if they had been American, but neither of us was sure.
A man came out of the smoke and stood before us. In the orange light from the blaze we could see that it was Collins. He had tied a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth, and was breathing heavily.
"I think it was a Nationalist supplies-convoy, Lat," he shouted to us.
"Is there anything for us?" Lateef said.
"No food. Not much else. But come and see what we've found."
Lateef took a rag from his pocket and tied it around his face. I followed suit. When we were ready, Collins led us past the remains of the first two trucks and up to the third. This one was not alight.
A rocket had evidently landed directly in front of it, wrecking the driver's cab, but not setting fire to the main part of it. The truck had then collided with the one in front of it, which had burned earlier but without affecting the other. The truck immediately behind it had been victim of a direct hit and its remains were smouldering. Eight or nine of our men stood around, looking expectantly at Lateef.
Collins gestured towards a crate lying on the ground. "We found that on the truck."
Lateef knelt before it, reached inside, and pulled out a rifle. He laid it on the ground.
"Are there any more of these?"
"It's full of them."
Just then, a truck about fifty yards away from us exploded, and we all crouched defensively. I was holding my own rifle and instinctively I backed away towards the nearest trees. I watched Lateef.
He looked round. I heard him say: "Is there any ammunition?"
"Yes."
"Get it off quickly. As much as we can carry. Kelk!" One of the men ran forward. "Get a handcart. Empty everything off it. We'll carry the rifles on that."
I stepped back into the trees, suddenly an observer.
It occurred to me that if the ammunition truck were to explode, then all of the men around it would probably be killed. I noticed how much of the grass and shrubbery around the truck was blackened with heat, and how sparks from other trucks drifted near by. I wondered if there was much diesel-oil on the truck, or if there were any unexploded rocket-shells in the vicinity. It was possible that rifles and the ammunition for them were not the only explosives on the truck, and that some of it might explode simply by being manhandled.
Though my fears were based on logical grounds, there was an element of irrationality too . . . a feeling, superstitious perhaps, that if I moved to assist the others I would somehow provoke disaster.
I stood amongst the trees, the rifle redundant in my hand.
Once, Lateef left the others and stood with his back to the truck, staring towards me in the trees. He called my name.
I waited until the loading was finished to Lateef's satisfaction. Then as they pushed the handcart away, I followed at a discreet distance until a camp-site was selected at a distance of about half a mile from the ambushed convoy. I made an excuse to Lateef that I had thought I saw a figure lurking in the woods, and had investigated. Lateef was displeased, and to appease him I offered to stand first guard on the liberated weapons. Another man, Pardoe, was told to share the watch with me, which lasted for two hours.
In the morning each man was issued with a rifle and ammunition. The remainder was stowed on the handcart.
In the weeks following, Sally and I were on our own. For some time we continued to live in our tent, but were fortunate finally in finding a farm where we were allowed to live in one of the labourers' cottages. The couple who lived in the farm itself were elderly and took little interest in us. We paid no rent, and in return for assisting with work around the property we were given food.
In this period we had a semblance of security, though we were never allowed to forget the growing military activity in the countryside.
The area was under the control of the Nationalist forces and the farm itself was considered to be strategic. Men from the army came in occasionally to help with the work, and an antiaircraft battery was built in one of the outer fields, though it was never, to my knowledge, used.
At first, I had an overwhelming interest in the progress of the civil war but soon learned to curb this. I spoke only once with the farmer about the politicial situation and learned that he was either unwilling or unable to discuss it. He told me that he had once had a television and radio, but that they had been removed by the army. His telephone did not work. His only access to information about the outside world was through the army tabloid that was distributed free to all civilians. His occasional meetings with other farmers were uninformative, since they were all in a similar position.
I spoke several times with the men from the army who worked on the farm.
Here, too, I was not able to learn much. They had evidently been ordered not to speak with civilians about the progress of the war, and though this was not strictly adhered to it was plain that the major part of their knowledge consisted of the propaganda put out by their superiors.
One night, in early October, the farm was the target of a raid by enemy forces. At the first pass of the reconnaissance plane, I took Sally to the best available cover -- a disused pigsty, which had the advantage of being constructed with stout brick walls -- and we laid there until the attack was over.
Our cottage was not damaged, but the farmer's house had been destroyed.
The couple were missing.
In the morning the commander of the Nationalist troops visited the farm and took away what remained of the equipment that had been dumped there. The anti-aircraft battery was abandoned.
For no better reason than an unwillingness to uproot ourselves, Sally and I remained in the cottage. Though w
e felt we were in a precarious situation, the prospect of living once more under canvas was not attractive.
Later in the day, the farm was occupied by a detachment of integrated Afrim and Secessionist soldiers, and we were questioned closely by the African lieutenant in charge.
We observed the soldiers with great interest, as the sight of white men actually fighting alongside the Africans was new to us.
There were forty men in all. Of these, about fifteen were white. Both officers were Africans, but one of the N.C.O.s was white. The discipline appeared to be good, and we were treated well. We were allowed to stay temporarily in the cottage.
During the next day the farm was visited by a high-ranking Secessionist officer. As soon as I saw him I recognized him from the photographs which had been published regularly in the Nationalist tabloid. His name was Lionel Coulsden, and before the war he had been a prominent campaigner for civil rights. During the period of Afrim infiltration of private property in the towns, he had renewed the commission he held earlier in the army and at the outbreak of overt military hostilities had been one of the leaders of the secession to the African cause. He was now a colonel in the rebel army, and was currently under sentence of death.
He spoke personally to Sally and me, and explained that we would have to leave. A Nationalist counter-attack was anticipated shortly and our lives would be in danger. He offered me an immediate commission into the Secessionist forces, but I turned it down, explaining that I had to consider Sally.
Before we left, he handed me a sheet of paper which explained in simple language the long-term aims of the Secessionist cause.
These were a restoration of law and order; an immediate amnesty for all Nationalist participants; a return to the parliamentary monarchy that had existed before the civil war; the restitution of the judiciary; an emergency housing-programme for displaced civilians; and full British citizenship for all contemporary African immigrants.
We were transported by lorry to a village eight miles from the farm.
This, we were told, was in liberated territory. We noticed that there was a small Afrim army-camp situated near by, and we approached them for assistance in finding somewhere to stay temporarily. We were not greeted with the affability displayed by the Secessionist colonel, and were threatened with imprisonment. We left at once.
The village was a singularly unfriendly place and we experienced distrust and hostility from the few people we encountered. That night we slept under canvas in a field on the side of a hill three miles to the west of the village. I heard Sally crying.
A week later we found a house standing in small grounds of its own. It was near a main road, but screened from it by a wood. We approached it warily, but though we were met with some initial caution we were not turned away. The house was occupied by a young married couple, who offered to allow us to shelter with them until we could find alternative accommodation. We stayed for three weeks.
It was the first time I had seen Lateef frightened.
We were all tired after the events of the night and our nerves were stretched accordingly. Lateef, in particular, betrayed the stress he was feeling; unable to decide whether or not we should move on, he prowled to and fro clutching his new rifle, as if by releasing it he would have his authority undermined. The rest of us watched him uneasily, not liking the personality that had been revealed by this latest development.
I was occupied with my own doubts, for I found growing in me a feeling of alarm generated by our acquisition of the weapons. Already I had overheard one remark about forming an effective guerrilla organization against the Afrims. I had heard the phrase "black bastards" used on more occasions recently than at any other time, including the vengeful hours after the women had been abducted.
Lateef was at the focus of my fears, as well as the mood of the rest of the men. Now, as never before, there was a sense that our actions would be determined solely by him.
What it was in Lateef that occasioned my apprehension was the man's apparent indecision. He was frightened himself: frightened to stay here in the camp we had made less than half a mile from the ambushed convoy, and yet not able to summon the courage to move on.
Both fears were understandable. To stay so close to the scene of the attack was to court discovery by any party sent out to investigate. But to move, laden down as we were with so many rifles, would be disastrous if we were seen by any of the participating military forces. It was the nature of Lateef's position to direct us, and though we were at this moment looking to him for instructions, it was tacit that if he failed in his leadership we would replace him.
For the moment we stayed where we were, as by non-action we did at least have the semblance of decision.
With three of the other men I made an inventory of the rifles we now possessed. In addition to the ones carried by each of us, we had twelve crates. In each crate there were six rifles. There were also several boxes of ammunition. In all, the pile of weaponry was almost more than we could handle.
We had loaded most of it on to our handcarts, but it was apparent that this could not be a permanent arrangement.
I glanced at the other men sitting in a ragged group among the trees, their new-found rifles close at their sides. I looked beyond them to where Lateef stood, lost in his own thoughts.
I felt that of all the men, I had come nearest to Lateef in recent weeks. In a while, I went over to him. He was not pleased to be interrupted, especially by me. I saw at once I had made a basic error of judgement, and realized I should have stayed with the other men.
He said: "Where the hell were you last night?"
"I told you what happened. I thought I saw someone."
"You should have told me. If it had been the Afrims they'd have shot you."
I said: "I thought we were in danger. I had my rifle and I was the only one able to defend us." I did not wish to tell him the truth.
"We've all got rifles now. You don't have to undertake hazardous missions for our benefit. We can look after ourselves, thanks very much, Whitman."
The tone of his voice was not only bitter. It was impatient, irritated, distracted. His mind was on something else; my crossing to speak to him had only reminded him of the night before, it was not uppermost in his mind.
"You've got all the rifles you need," I said. "What are you going to do with them?"
"What would you like to do with them?"
"I think we should throw them away. They'll bring us more problems than they'll solve."
"No . . . I'm not throwing them away. I have other ideas."
I said: "What are they?"
He shook his head slowly, grinning at me. "You tell me something. What would you use them for, assuming you could get away with it?"
"I've already told you."
"Wouldn't you barter them to other refugees? Or try to shoot down more helicopters?"
I saw what he was getting at. I said: "It's not just the fact of having weapons. It's that if everyone has them, instead of one or two people, the effectiveness is lost."
"So while you were number one with the rifle, it was all right. Now that distinction no longer exists, it isn't."
I said: "I gave you my arguments for having a rifle when I first discovered it. One rifle represents a form of defence; complete arming constitutes aggression."
Lateef looked at me thoughtfully. "Perhaps we agree more than I had thought. But you still haven't told me what practical use you would put them to."
I considered for a moment. I still had only one real motivation, however impracticable it might appear to be.
"I would try to do something about finding my daughter," I said.
"I thought that's what you'd say. It wouldn't do any good, you know."
"As far as I'm concerned, anything would be better than what we've done so far."
"Don't you understand?" Lateef said. "There's nothing we can do about that. The best you can hope for is that they're in an internment camp. More likely they've been raped or m
urdered, probably both. You saw yesterday what they do to white women."
"And you can just accept that?" I said. "It isn't the same for you, Lateef. That was my wife and my daughter that they took. My daughter!"
"It didn't only happen to you. There were seventeen women taken."
"But none of them were yours."
Lateef said: "Why can't you accept it like the other men have, Alan?
There is nothing we can do to find them. We're outside the law. Approach any of the authorities and we'll be imprisoned immediately. We can't go to the Afrims because first of all we don't know where they are, and anyway we couldn't expect them to admit that they've abducted our women. We'll get no sympathy from the U.N. people. All we can do is continue to survive."
I looked round angrily. "You call this survival? We're living like animals."
"You want to give yourself up?" Lateef's tone had changed; he was trying to be persuasive now. "Listen, do you know how many refugees there are like us?"
"No one knows."
"That's because there are so many. Thousands of them . . . perhaps millions. We're just operating in a small stretch of the country. All over England there are homeless people like ourselves. You said we shouldn't be aggressive. But why not? Every single one of those refugees has an excellent reason for wanting to participate. But circumstances are against him. He's weak. He has little food, no resources. He has no legal position. Err to one side and he is a potential danger to the military forces because he is mobile, because he sees the war being conducted; too far the other way and he becomes politically involved. You know how the government treats refugees? As secessionist fraternizers. Do you want to see the inside of a concentration camp? So the refugee does just what we've been doing: he lives and sleeps rough, he congregates in small groups, he barters, steals and keeps out of the way of everyone else."
"And has his women taken from him," I said.
"If that's the way it has to be, yes. It's not an attractive state, but there's no ready alternative."
I said nothing to him, aware that he was probably right. I had long felt that had there been an alternative to the wretched vagrant life we had been leading we would have discovered it. But what we saw of the various organized bodies during the brief periods of interrogation to which we had been subjected, made clear to us that there was no place for the displaced civilian. The major towns and cities were under martial law, smaller towns and villages were either under military control or had defended themselves with civilian militia. The countryside was ours.
Fugue for a Darkening Island Page 12