by Linda Ihle
The soldier reached the tree in less than five seconds, making not a sound. Devin saw then that the glint she had observed when this man was slithering through the grass came from a wicked looking knife, hooked at the end, with serrated edges extending about halfway down the blade. The man now held it pointing downwards and seemingly backwards, away from his body. Again, it caught and reflected the mid-afternoon sun. It wasn’t anything like the knife Red Underpants had used to open the can of condensed milk. That was more like one of those bigger pocket knives the boys at school had carried around. Harmless.
The soldier backed up to the base of the tree and stared around, then swiftly stepped forward and around. He grabbed the top of Red Underpants’ head, yanked it back and sliced the man’s throat in one seemingly fluid, almost orchestrated, move. Red Underpants, his throat cut practically to the spine, never knew what hit him. The blood gushed from a gaping wound, made more stark by the contrast of red on black, and spilled into the soil where he sat, feeding the ants, worms, and whatever else crawled there. The soldier kicked his comrade’s corpse moving it so that he could assume the same position to take the other guerrilla’s life. He did that quickly, thoroughly too, without raising so much as a gurgle from either. The second corpse lolled forward until the man’s arse was raised and his head resting on the ground. He got the same treatment -- a kick and a shove to allow the soldier to finish his work.
He moved quickly to the girl who was beginning to stir, perhaps sensing the movement around her and smelling the blood that now pooled around her companions. The soldier reached her just as she began to open her eyes. He tried to grab the top of her head, but his hand, slick with blood now, slipped on the material of her tightly wound doek. As he reached down, improvising, and grabbed her chin, raising it to get a clear shot at the throat, she stared upward, her eyes bulging and the whites revealed almost to their fullest extent. She looked directly into the horror-shocked eyes of the white woman crouched far above her in the fork of the tree.
She raised her hand as if to reveal this to the soldier, but could not speak due to the viselike grip he had on her jaw. He cut her throat swiftly, dropping her forward to avoid the spurting arteries. He stepped over her, wiping the blade of the knife on his trousers. He grabbed a handful of sand and rubbed it between his palms and fingers, sluicing off the blood, before taking the cloth the girl had used to cushion the kerosene can on her head and pouring a little water on it. He daubed the damp cloth in the soil and used that mixture to cleanse the blade. Once satisfied that he had removed much of the blood from the blade and handle, he sheathed it, and clapped his hands as if rubbing dust from them. The soldier proceeded to drag each body into the long grass at the foot of the kopje, propping them up against a black boulder there. He broke some low branches from the mopane trees and used these to partially camouflage the corpses which the flies had already found. Their excited buzzing was audible even to Devin as they clustered in a black, iridescent mass in and around the seeping throats and sipped at the fresh blood.
From nearby came the cough of a leopard, perhaps the same one that had lunched on the hapless baboon, and Devin peered around fearfully. That was one animal she did not want to take on under any circumstances. And somehow, being practically naked, made her feel even more vulnerable. So much for the trappings of civilization, she thought. Even if I still had my clothes on, they wouldn’t help. She sighed and rubbed at her mouth, longing for a sip of water, and wondered if she could get down the tree, sneak some water from the kerosene can then resume her perch without detection. No way, stupid! she scolded herself.
As the soldier returned to the scene of the slaughter, Devin heard the hyenas begin their cackling and knew they would soon find their way to this kill. Leave! Leave! she silently exhorted the soldier, but he merely squatted beneath the spreading boughs, his haunches up against a small boulder, reached into his pants pocket and took out a 10-pack of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes. He carefully removed the plastic wrap and tore off the silver foil around the top of the pack. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it with the gold Ronson he must have taken from his former comrade. He drew deeply on the cigarette, then exhaled, his head disappearing briefly from view in the cloud of smoke. The smell of it drifted up to where Devin crouched, and she wanted one so badly she almost gave herself away again. Forget that! She knew now that, no matter what happened, she would be in this tree until the following day. Even if she tried to stand now, her legs would probably crumble like rotted plastic beneath her. She was in no shape to walk, let alone run, and soon the predators and their scavenger shadows would be here.
The soldier finished the cigarette, smoking it right down to the edge of the yellow-gold filter, and extinguished it in the blood-sodden dust. He rose and stretched, then walked away from the tree into the mopane forest, where he stopped. From his stance and judging from the movement of his head, Devin could tell that he was probably relieving himself. She found it odd that he would do this away from the tree where she sat; after all, no-one was around to witness his toilet. This thought was quickly pushed aside by the unmistakable roar of a lion, close by. The soldier looked over his shoulder in the direction of that roar, then returned quickly to the base of the tree. The sun was beginning its long descent and his elongated shadow danced above the ground, bouncing over the bronze tips of the grass.
He stopped beneath the tree and filled his tin cup from the kerosene can. He drank it quickly, took a refill, and sipped at that more leisurely. Once that was finished, he took the canteen off the back of his belt, filled it with water and reattached it to his belt. He picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked to the base of the tree and looked directly up at her.
“Ndeke (airplane)?” he asked.
All she could do was nod. Her bladder and bowels threatened to embarrass her in this her last minute on earth, and that was practically all that enveloped her mind, pushing back the fear.
“Hau!” he said, looking down at his feet and shaking his head. He looked back up at her and saw the stark terror in her eyes. Slowly he raised one of his comrade’s AK-47s from where it had been left leaning against the tree.
Devin closed her eyes waiting for the bullet to burn its way through her skull leaving her perched there for the scavengers or tumbling through the branches to land like a discarded doll where the vultures and ants would render her nothing but shiny bones. None came. She opened her eyes and saw that the soldier was grinning. He had placed the rifle in the first large fork. He reached down and pulled the kerosene can from its hole and placed that up there alongside the weapon, his tin cup next to it. He took his cigarette pack out again and proffered it. She nodded, mute and nearly numb with terror. He placed the pack under the butt of rifle and proceeded to dig around in his jacket pockets. Finally, he pulled out a box of Lion matches, and was about to place those alongside the cigarette pack, but apparently changed his mind, took them back and put the Ronson there instead. He flipped his knapsack off his back and took from it two large pieces of biltong[4] still wrapped in newspaper. He offered those, the questions in his eyes, unspoken. Devin nodded. He placed those on top of the rifle butt. Then he slung his weapon back over his shoulder, picked up the third soldier’s rifle, and threw her a salute. She stared back, too scared to move or even acknowledge that any of this was really happening, realizing that she was gaping like a village idiot, but unable to close her mouth.
“Hamba kahle, Mabonz,” he said. (Go well, Bones.)
She stared at him. This man knew her! That was the name (Mabonz) the nannies and cook and gardeners had given her when she was a child. She had been as scrawny and gangly and worm-ridden as their children, even though better fed, even though without the Kwashiorkor belly, and snotty, fly-blown nose. His face, though, remained unfamiliar. “Tatenda chaiswo (thank you very much),” she stuttered, clapping cupped palms together, tears of relief welling in her eyes. “Sala mushe (stay well). Who....?”
But the soldier h
ad already begun to leave. She watched him stride swiftly toward and up the path over the kopje. He climbed that and at the crest, where the elephant had stood and trumpeted its anger, he stopped and looked back towards her. Then he was gone.
3.
Devin sat there for a full five minutes before she found the strength and confidence to move her cramped legs. Taking hold of the branches alongside her, she gingerly moved her right leg, whimpering as pain gripped her knees and blood pushed its way into the area, feeling as if thousands of tiny hot needles were charging helter-skelter through her veins. She bent the leg, straightened it again. Holding onto a branch with her left hand, she leaned over and rubbed her knee, shin and calf until the pain subsided. Then she released her left leg, crying out again as the pain rushed in. She massaged the leg before climbing shakily down to the large bottom fork where all her treasures lay.
She carefully lifted each one into a fatter, higher fork, before clambering down to the ground. Her feet landed in the damp stain of blood from Red Underpants’ wound, and she grimaced, jumping away and rubbing the soles of her feet in the dirt near the boulder where her friend had squatted and smoked. She climbed onto the boulder and looked over to where the corpses sat propped against the rock, leering obscenely at her. Above them, silent and grotesque, sat a massive black-backed vulture. She watched it knowing it would not be alone for long. Sure enough, as Devin made her way over the boulders and into the mopane forest she heard the familiar calls from above and three more swooped down, joining the first one on the boulder. They were not as circumspect or restrained, and were soon dancing and swaying as they contemplated the feast.
Devin pulled her panties down to her ankles and squatted in the grass to urinate. As she did so, sighing with relief and not caring that the urine spattered in muddy little droplets on her feet, she heard the hyenas again, followed by the yelp of a jackal. Jesus! There has to be water close by.
She had no idea where she was, knowing only that the plane had been in the air less than 15 minutes out of Victoria Falls before the missile took part of its left wing. She shuddered again as the picture of the burning part falling into nothingness played across her memory. A very few passengers had panicked, but the captain and the air hostesses were as calm as if this were an everyday occurrence. The captain told them over the intercom that they had been hit by a SAM, an air-to-ground missile, to brace themselves, that he would make an effort to land the plane in the bush, and then they were to get away from the area as quickly as possible. He left it to their imagination. Perhaps he was afraid the plane would explode. They didn’t think about it then. The hostesses crowded them into the rear seats of the aircraft, and ensured that all were buckled in. Devin found herself near the back of the crowd, huddled between a German tourist and a young boy who was clutching his mother’s hand and weeping softly.
How that pilot managed to bring the Viscount down she would never know, but he did. He landed on a relatively flat stretch of veldt dotted here and there with massive boulders, scraggly baobabs, and acacias, the plane bucking and tilting leftward, the remains of the wing gouging a dust-drenched trench more than 100 yards long. The plane came to rest with its nose up against a massive reddish-brown ant hill. The captain and an air hostess hustled those still alive out of the cabin, forcing them to jump to the ground or climb down the smoldering remains of the wing. Some, most tourists, refused to leave, terrified by what they might meet in the bush.
“You need to get out of here, now!” the captain had yelled at them. “Those bastards will be looking for this plane!”
Some had heeded his warning then and reluctantly scampered or slid from the plane. He begged the remaining three or four to get the hell out of there, but they shook their heads, and he turned and left them, leading the group of about thirty across the veldt at a smart clip. They climbed boulders and pulled on tree branches and roots to get themselves out of the flat-bottomed bowl in which he had put them down. Their faces were red and sweaty, but the grey of shock and fear lingered below the glow. They were mostly silent, gasping for breath, swearing when the wag ’n bietjies[5] tore at their flesh; or weeping softly.
As they crested the third and higher kopje they all stopped, as if by pre-arrangement, and looked back to where the plane lay on its side. From that vantage point, those who had chosen to remain looked like elves. It seemed though that some had changed their minds and appeared to be clambering out of the plane to follow the rest of the passengers and crew. The air was still and hot, and the only sound now was the panting of the group on the hill. So, when the shouts and yelps of victorious glee came from the south, they were readily audible.
“OK. That’s what I thought,” the captain said. “Keep your heads down and follow me.”
“What about them?” asked Devin, her favourite, cork-soled, dusty-pink suede topped high-heels swaying by their backstraps in her left hand, pointing to those who had hesitated.
“We can’t stop for them now,” he said. “You know what they’re up against?”
“Ja,” she said softly.
“Let’s go then.”
He led them at a half-run down the side of the kopje into a narrow valley dotted with boulders. They followed the valley eastward then north where it took an abrupt turn, forcing them to climb again. The shouting, laughing, and whooping of the guerrillas were still audible, although barely, being partially blocked by the kopjes around them. Devin remembered feeling thankful for that. She could only imagine the fate of those who had refused to leave the plane. The captain led them up over a small kopje, then down into a broader valley. He made a beeline for the north, panting that that was the most logical direction to take if they wanted to find a road. He seemed to know where he was. He had not, however, counted on the obstacles in that path. As they emerged from some tall grass, still jogging along at a good pace, they came right up on a herd of elephant browsing in a small mopane grove.
“Ag, no!” the captain hissed. “Quick! Come this way.”
He beckoned to them to follow him downwind from the herd, but a cow on the periphery of the herd had already scented them. She began her slow loping trot in their direction, ears flapping back and forth, trunk raised. As the group fled after the captain, Devin tripped and landed flat on her stomach, forcing all her breath out in a loud Ooomph! The cow stopped about 40 yards from Devin and stood swaying as if on tiptoes, staring short-sightedly in her general direction. Devin pulled herself to her feet, and, after hesitating for only a split second, hurled her favourite corks at the animal. They landed right in front of the cow’s massive feet. Devin turned and ran back the way she had come into the relative cover of the tall grass.
She turned once and saw that, although the shoes had distracted the cow which was demolishing them at that moment, a young bull had taken up the chase. Devin swerved westward and headed up the side of a low kopje, pulling off her blouse and tossing it backwards, then hop-skipping, tripping out of her new hotpants, flung those back in her wake too, before sliding on her backside down the other side, where she found herself again close to the herd, but downwind. She looked quickly around to see if she could catch up with the fleeing passengers, but they were nowhere in sight and she could hear the pounding of the young bull’s massive feet as he chased her.
The rest was, as they say, history. That young bull was tenacious, chasing her at least a mile before she found her refuge in the marula tree. As a child, she had been chased and charged by young bull elephant on several occasions, but none had exhibited the persistence of this one. Must have been showing off for a cow, she thought, but the bastard really made me lose my way. And now, bloody hell, I am half bloody naked and I don’t have my corks anymore!
4.
She made her way back to the tree and stood in its shade observing the antics of the vultures, none of which had yet made an attempt to feed on the corpses. Probably aren’t rank enough yet, Devin decided. She recalled her encounter with vultures whilst guarding the body of a waterbuck
her father had shot. She had ended up climbing the tree above the buck’s carcass because the vultures had intimidated and scared her to the point of almost wetting her pants.
The sun was beginning to set, turning the tips of the yellowing grass golden and luminous. A cooling breeze accompanied the dying day, and she wondered how she was going to keep herself warm, and awake, while she perched in that tree all night. The yelps of the hyenas echoed again, even closer now and she knew she would have to start settling in quickly. She reached up and pulled the AK-47 down and examined it. She had absolutely no idea how it worked, having used only conventional hunting rifles. She turned it over in her hands seeking a safety clip, or at least some device which would indicate whether the thing was readily operable. The long, boomerang shaped magazine looked full, but what if she fired the thing and it used up all its rounds at one time? She shrugged, and placed it back in the crook of the tree. Better than nothing.
She looked around the area under the tree wondering if there were a way she could fence herself off, if time would allow. She dared not light a fire for fear the smell of it and the smoke would be detected by the terrorists. She decided to pile some thorny branches around the base of the tree and hope they would serve at least to deter a large cat. She walked around the mopanes to the lower end of the kopje and found what she was seeking -- a gnarled old cowboy-thorn tree, dead, its twisted branches hanging close to the ground. She found spaces between the stark white thorns on the limbs where she could place her hands and, one by one, broke them off. They cracked loudly as they split away from the tree, sounding like gunshots and startling her. She dragged them back to the tree and began to build a stockade.