Moffie (19 page)

‘I am so sorry. How close were you?'

‘Very. He was my only friend in the platoon. Malcolm is in the same company, but we only really see each other on Sundays.'

‘Do you know why he did it?'

‘No, well, yes . . . I don't know. They really picked on him, you know.' I keep quiet, convinced that the visit is now moving in the wrong direction. ‘I also think he was gay.' The words just plop out. As I say them I can't believe I'm doing it. Am I using Dylan's death to test Ethan's reaction? I look at him.

‘Shit, poor guy. I'm sorry, man. We also had a guy, he took pills, and another one died in a car accident coming back from pass. But I didn't really know them. Did you see him?'

‘Yes.' I want to cry, but I don't. No weakness in front of Ethan.

‘Shit, that's bad. I'm so sorry, Nick. It must have been terrible. Are you all right? Something like this, I mean, it must have knocked you.'

‘It's OK. Let's talk about other stuff. How are you, Ethan? You say you like the course?'

‘It's all right, but when we finish, they're posting some of us to the border and I think some are staying here for the big parade for the new Head of the Defence Force. General Viljoen is replacing General Malan. They need numbers for the parade. I just hope I don't go to the border. I can tell you Nick, things are looking bad up there. We see the guys here at 1 Military Hospital, and we hear the stories.' He keeps quiet, then he smiles and says, ‘Do you remember Middelburg? It feels so far away . . . so long ago, I should say.'

‘Yes, I do. I'll never forget that sunset, that Sunday before we left that shit place.' He smiles, looks past me into the distance. Is he thinking of that evening on the hill or of something else? ‘Ethan, what happened to you on the train?'

Before answering, he smiles, but it's more like a grimace.

‘When we left Middelburg I ended up in a coach where the sergeant in charge was the biggest cunt ever, an Infantry School sergeant.'

‘Dorman?'

‘Yes, I think so. In fact, I'm pretty sure. How would you guess that?'

‘I don't know, it's like that man . . . our paths were made to cross, or crash. Shit, he's such a bastard. Can you believe it? He's my platoon sergeant. He's the guy who hated my friend Dylan so fiercely, and I swear it is he who pushed him over the edge. You know, the last straw. Fuck, I can't believe it . . . the same guy!'

‘Well, he gave us an
opfok
all night long, while he was getting pissed. Early in the morning he made me do push-ups. Eventually I just couldn't do a single one more. I knew if I went down I wouldn't come up, so I just kept the prone position and he kicked me. From underneath on my lower tummy!'

‘Fucking bastard!' I say, knowing I'm talking too loudly and reacting too strongly. ‘The bastard! Oh, Ethan, I hate that fucking bastard.' But I've seen much, much worse; it's just because it was Ethan. ‘So what happened?'

‘He ruptured my bladder. Shit, Nick, I've never felt anything like it. I think getting in and out of the Bedford afterwards was what really did it for me. I passed out on the parade ground.'

‘Yes, I know, I saw it, but they wouldn't let me go to you. I stopped the whole Golf Company. They almost put me on RTU that first day.' He smiles, maybe at the thought of me stopping the whole company for him.

‘Well, they took me to hospital, operated, then to 1 Mil, because I wasn't getting better. Turned out the op in Oudtshoorn was a stuff-up, so they operated again. My folks came up and organised a specialist.' He waits a while and changes the subject. ‘What did you think of my mom?'

‘Great, she was really nice to me. Shit, I love where you live.'

‘And you met Precious. Fuck, I miss home. I've only been there once since the op; my folks flew me down.'

‘Precious loves you, hey. How is your stomach now?'

‘I have a scar,' he gets up, grips his shirt and pulls it from his pants. Just seeing the small sliver of his tummy is hugely erotic. The scar is below his navel on the neat little path of hair linking his bellybutton with his pubic hair. I have been there a thousand times in fantasy, and to the mystery below that—almost too enormous to contemplate now. His stomach has beautiful definition, and he is slightly tanned. Then he lets go of the shirt, loosens his web belt and the two top buttons of his pants, and tucks his shirt in. I see his underpants, the fine hair running through the scar; then I look away.

‘I missed you.' As I say it, I regret it. I always say stuff like that out loud, without thinking. Shit, how many times have I told myself, ‘Jeez, you're pathetic'?

He says nothing. Why the hell not? He seems so far, so distant. Oh shit, it's over! He stays quiet for a long time. So do I. But eventually he says, ‘Yes, me too.'

Is he saying it because I've left him no choice, or does he mean it? I know nothing any more. Vasbyt starts as soon as we get back. Dylan is dead, I still have more than a year and a half of this, my pass is almost over! Then there is the border and those bastard instructors, especially Dorman.

I have a brief realisation of how, in this short time, my emotions reach extremes, even changing in the space of one sentence, and I despair.

‘How are the guys you're with?'

‘They're OK, I guess.'

‘What about the friend you said you've made?' Ignoring my own warnings against later misery.

‘I don't see that much of him.'

‘Why not?'

‘I reckon we're just too different.'

I bet he fell in love with you, I think. You're straight, I knew it! But then he says, ‘He's not like you.'

I want to scoop him up, all of him, his whole past and future, and hold him, enfold him, drink him into me, to stay inside me forever.

‘In what way?' I'm more confident now and smiling. Those words are enough to hold me up like crutches under a limp Dali balloon.

‘You know, I wish you were here,' he smiles. ‘So tell me about Vasbyt.'

‘I'm kind of nervous about it. The ones who make it, go to the border and then, well, I reckon it costs so much to train us that at that stage an RTU will be too bad an investment.'

‘Shit, the border . . . if I'm not chosen for the parade I'll be going there pretty soon too.'

‘Be careful up there, Ethan.'

‘We'll be in a hospital. It's you guys who have to be careful. You'll be on patrol.'

‘Yes, I know. I can't even think about having to shoot people, or being shot at!'

Our time runs out unnoticed, as I am too scared to look at my watch. Then I see Malcolm parking his car, getting out and walking towards us. He reaches us and smiles, but suddenly everything feels awkward. Mal looks at me for clues and cracks a joke. Ethan says he is only allowed an hour and should go. We say we must go too, and Mal says goodbye. I want to hug Ethan, but I shake his hand.

I watch him walk away. He is looking down, and again I notice how perfect his body looks in clothes. He stops, turns to wave and then moves out of sight. Gone.

I don't remember how many times I re-run every single word he said, reliving it, questioning and chastising myself for a wrong tone or interpretation, wishing I had said more, or less, or something different. I carry it with me during Vasbyt and then the border; but then, it often carries me.

 

***

 

On the way back we listen to Joan Armatrading singing
Willow
. ‘Mal, I want to tell you something.'

‘Tell me.'

‘I want to tell you, I have this need to say it out loud, to relate something that straight people can do all the time, but I've never been able to do.'

‘What?'

‘I want to tell you about my love for Ethan.'

Malcolm takes his eyes off the road for a moment, smiles at me and says, ‘It will be my pleasure.'

‘It's . . . like . . . well . . . just to hear him say my name. I crave it, I yearn for it, you know. In a different way—like with love, like I've never experienced. I long for him to say my name in that way, to look at me . . . just he and I, and he says it softly. It would be the most beautiful thing ever.

‘And then there's this desire I have to say
his
name as a lover, you know . . . Ethan. I want it so much that it hurts . . . to hold him and hold him and hold him . . . to look at him all night while he's sleeping.' I smile, and to break the seriousness, which I know Malcolm doesn't like for too long, I say melodramatically, ‘Ethan, Ethan, Ethan.'

 

***

 

On the trip back to Oudtshoorn, we are quiet for long periods, unlike the over-excitement of the trip up. I think about the recklessness of telling Malcolm that I'm gay, I think of Ethan and too often about Vasbyt and the border.

The Karoo night around us feels starless and dark. Ahead of us lies the long straight road lit by our headlights. The white lines suck towards us rhythmically, and I picture us slurping them up, filling the car as part of the weight of distance.

‘I knew someone who was in Ward 22, you know,' Malcolm suddenly says into the darkness.

‘Really, is it as bad as they say?'

‘Worse . . . much, much worse. This guy, well, he was . . . is, totally fucked up now.'

‘What did they do to him?'

‘Everything. Hormone therapy, shock therapy, aversion therapy. You know, the sad thing is, he was a great guy, good-looking, fun, masculine, fit, sporty . . .'

‘So how did he end up there?'

‘Because he was going to study drama! Can you believe it?'

‘No way!'

‘Yep.'

‘They put him in this platoon, the reject platoon, as they called it, with all the druggies, gay guys and fuckups, and he just rebelled, so they punished him. I believe all the gay boys they catch out,' he turns to me and the lights of an oncoming car reveal a cold smile on the side of his face, ‘end up there too. First the psychiatric ward, then DB.'

‘Shit. How did you know him?'

‘He was three years ahead of me at school.'

‘Was he gay?'

‘He was. I didn't know it at the time, of course. Never slept with him or anything like that, but shit, I would have loved to.'

‘And?'

‘No. He's still gay, but he's so fucked up, man.'

‘Like how?'

‘Well, the hormone therapy changed him. He says he has hardly any libido, but he definitely still prefers men. The shockaversion-therapy was a bad joke; apparently really painful, but with no results . . . real crap sort of Nazi experiments. He'd act like he didn't like the pictures they showed him and afterwards he'd wank soon as he got the chance. But I think it was DB that finally fucked him up. He didn't want to talk about it, you know; constantly beaten up, slept on a concrete floor, no blanket . . . tortured all the time. Must break one, I guess.'

We are quiet with our own thoughts again, and after a while I say, ‘Mal, did you ever think it would be this shit?'

‘No, and it's going to get worse. Vasbyt and the border . . .' As we go underneath the bridge that carries the railway line north to Potfontein, Poupan, Kimberley and Johannesburg, Malcolm says, ‘Hey, Nick, we're close to Hanover and there's a hotel that does the best ever
boerekos
. I'll stick you a dinner.'

‘We won't make it back to Oudtshoorn on time, Mal. There's no way we'll get there by midnight if we do that.'

‘Fuck them, I'll tell the duty officer we had car trouble.'

A truck passes us, and the Golf shudders from the displaced air. If it had hit us, we would be dead now, I think.

‘OK, that will be great. I'll drive after dinner.'

 

 

T
omorrow we start Vasbyt, an excruciating five-day route march with full kit and minimal rations.

In the small hours of the night I dream the same dream that came to me night after night following Frankie's death. I see my brother lying with the dark pool of blood under his head. But then it becomes Dylan's head—my friend who I feel I betrayed in the trench. DF, my dark ghost in sharp focus.

 

I can tell you,
I write in my diary, as if to some alter ego,
I've figured something out about fear. Fear has different patterns. It takes on different shapes under different circumstances. It's like the way that every room has a different feeling, only with fear you experience it much more acutely—at the tip of every nerve; from the outside in. This is how it is with fear. If you've been exposed to dreadful situations, you realise that they are all different, like a living evil, with a personality and a specific intent. My feeling about Vasbyt, for example, or knowing there are people who want to kill me, is totally different from the feeling I had with the Bellville Tennis Club, where everybody was watching and I couldn't catch the cricket ball.

 

‘Hey, Scankie, do you think he's gay?'

‘I don't know. He's really different from the rest.'

‘No shit, different looking too, different class. Fuck, he's hot. Nice name as well: Oscar.'

‘You just like everything about him. You're the scankie one. Stop thinking about him and pack your kit.'

‘No, I need something to take my mind off all this. Man, imagine lying naked next to that guy, all sweaty after a long sex session!'

‘Like you stand a chance! Do we really have to pack all of this? Step-outs too?'

‘Yep.'

‘I can't fit it in!'

‘Roll it real tight and just squash every layer.'

‘It's so heavy, I don't know if I'll be able to even pick it up!'

I finish packing, put my pack on, and the only way I can get up is to go on my hands and knees and then stand up.

 

***

 

Way, way above, yet dramatically close, Lion's Head towers. With its body stretched behind, the lion lies vigilant, protecting the life nestled close to its belly above the ocean of the Cape of Storms. Clifton at the end of day—the warm light of the setting sun reflecting orange against the blue rock faces of Lion's Head and the magnificent Twelve Apostles with their feet in the water.

But the true magic lies in the early mornings on the four white, sandy, rocky, bungalow-encased beaches of Clifton. When the sun rises over the distant mountains, the sea absorbs its light. Bands of colour form in the sky above the mercury horizon, turning into turquoise, then crimson and fading into silver.

Through the haze of sun-saturated, wind-still, cold-sea days one can see ships journeying around the foot of the Dark Continent. Far on the horizon they float by, not silhouettes, but soft air, a tone darker, like smoke blown along by a gentle breath.

It is here that I picture Ethan and myself most often. Clifton and an Ethan of my own design is what I think of lying in bed, waiting for the day that will bring the start of Vasbyt.

 

***

 

When the body has given up, but the mind ignores the pleading and drives the body through the pain and the protests . . . that is Vasbyt.

Vasbyt starts on a Sunday afternoon, after being frisked, completely nude, even up our arses. We are not allowed any cigarettes or extra food, only the sparse provisions they give us.

On our backs we carry our
grootsak—
literally, big bag—filled with our kit, and below it our webbing. To the front straps we attach the heavy army radio with its face-whacking aerial, which we take turns to carry. Our epaulettes are modified to carry the weight of our rifles; the buttons are stitched with nylon gut to prevent them from sliding off our shoulders.

Altogether we carry more than our body weight. This we will be hauling over very difficult terrain for many, many kilometres.

We walk from Sunday evening to Tuesday morning—approximately 33 hours—and this counts as our ‘first day.' This day is a thorn driven into my memory and stuck there, never to fester out. Most of the route is over mountains, between Oudtshoorn and Calitzdorp. There are crevices so wide that each and every one of us falls, and the weight we carry causes some to break their coccyx, others to sprain or break ankles. Alouette helicopters casevac the injured.

Almost every man in the platoon is driven to tears, but not me.

Our food again consists of half a ‘mystery-can.' The only thing that is not a mystery is what we find inside—something simply and utterly awful.

Water, cool drinks and food are thrown down in front of us, and we are not allowed to touch it. The instructors know that Vasbyt is their last and easiest opportunity to break us. If we haven't ‘cracked' before, this is the time that we probably will—these five days.

 

One foot in front of the other. Keep your mind off the pain. I do this by thinking of Dylan. I carry him with me. I fantasise about him. In his absence I can love him freely, not sexually, but with a love of regret. And its noise is louder than my body's pleas.

If I had angels, they've deserted me. They are far away, absent, unconsoling in these days, or are they with every foot dragged in front of the other, helping just enough? But if they are helping, then why so little? No, they've betrayed me, for I don't get what I so desperately need: superhuman strength and to be carried—carried away.

On the third night we are high up in the Swartberg mountains, where the temperature drops dramatically.

To get into your sleeping bag, you have to worm in without bending your legs. If you bend them, multiple cramps seize you in painful spasm.

Tonight a powerful PA system plays recordings of horribly disturbing sounds—babies screaming, a sick, continuous shrieking, sounds of animals howling, dying; but merciful exhaustion prevents me from having any reaction to them.

At around two in the morning, I am kicked in the stomach. It is an instructor who demands that we get up and line up. In front of us are two massive silver containers, one with hot soup and one with coffee. We stand, stiff with cold and exhaustion, holding our fire buckets in anticipation.

I am aching all over. It is raw where the straps have cut into my shoulders, and my swollen feet are throbbing in my boots where blisters have burst and are rubbing against my socks. We dare not take off our boots; if we do, we will never get them on again.

I obsess about the liquid; there is nothing I crave more. Steam gushes from the mouths of the huge containers, turning yellow in the gaslight and contrasting sharply with the desert night beyond.

When everybody is lined up, Sergeant Dorman starts a speech. I watch the dark clouds that seem to have gathered to look at the madness going on down below. Like a group of people staring at a road kill, they crouch low, pulling the bleak moon down with them. I pray that they will go and weep about us somewhere else, for if we had to be drenched again, we'll surely not make it. And I focus on the hot soup.

Vaguely aware of Dorman speaking, I hear how he works himself up. Then he kicks over the containers. Within seconds the steam with all its promise of warmth has dissipated over the freezing ground.

 

Only an hour to sleep—if we are lucky—then the day starts.

Light only starts breaking faintly through the clouds much later. We are in a line again, and again we're being shouted at. For a start to the morning, we are given human excrement to pass hand to hand, all the way through the company. Nothing smells as awful as human shit. We have to squeeze it with both hands before passing it on. With no soap and very little water, we have nothing to remove the smell, even if we could, but we are not allowed to clean our hands, so everything we touch is contaminated. I rub my hands in the sand, which helps to a certain extent, but we'll be walking with the smell for two more days.

From time to time I see Malcolm when our platoons pass each other. We're not allowed to speak, but we have a sign. We hold our fingers out, as for our unique handshake, and over the distance they interlock and we share our secret.

On the fourth night, high up in the mountains, we are even betrayed by the weather. It starts to rain. I believe I cannot go on. I try to stop the water running through the long grass in an attempt to keep my pack dry, for if it becomes waterlogged, it will be so much heavier to carry. The voice inside me, encouraging me to carry on, has become small and weak. My need to give up has almost become an obsession. I am wet, cold—no, not cold, bone-freezing, ice cold—stiff, hungry, sore and desperate. The half of the company that has given up is kept apart, but close enough for us to see that they have warm food and tents to sleep in.

On the last day, those of us still holding on are merely plodding; dragging ourselves forward. Attached to every footprint you can see the drag marks, if you have the energy to look down.

We are in a small group and Sergeant Dorman starts to speak about Dylan. He theorises about the reasons for Dylan ending his life. Because these instructors have such authority over us, they are treated with reverence, and in their ignorance and arrogance, this power soon spirals out of control.

‘Stassen was a moffie, a weak moffie, a fucking fudge-packer. If he stood in front of me, I would tramp his balls off.' He brings the heel of his right foot down violently and grinds it into the dirt. ‘The world doesn't need shit like that!' The words hack into me, each blow fuelling a hate in me, so pure and so strong that in that moment I understand clearly how it is possible to take a life. I feel like beating him so thoroughly that what drives such words is completely destroyed.

‘He wasted our food and air. Do you know how much it cost the army to train him, hey? Now it's all wasted. They should sue his parents for damage to state property, but his parents are probably just as weak and pathetic. Fuck, I hate those spoilt
poeses.
They should just have shot the
doos
on the first day.'

Wanting to get out of earshot, I fall back, but he sees me.

‘Hey, Van der Swart, get back here! Are you giving up, you little cunt?'

‘No, Sergeant, I will never give up,' I hiss dramatically, showing him how badly he is affecting me. As I increase my pace to catch up, I decide to channel this anger to drive me to complete Vasbyt . . . for Dylan . . . today.

‘Van der Swart, you were his little arse-fucker, weren't you? Did you two have a lovers' quarrel? Yes, that's probably why he couldn't take the punch, hey? Hey! I'm talking to you. Answer me, you little shit.' I don't answer.

‘So it was you!' He draws out the
you
, making it slither like a worm from his mouth. ‘You murdered that little fuck!' His head is nodding affirmation, as if choreographed for effect.

How much can one take? Much, much more than one would ever believe, and still I don't react at all. Because I know that the best way by far to honour my friend, is to beat this man and get through this hell.

My brain blanks out. Black blurs of fury shut my mind down, like a short circuit. Only one tiny clip of logic holds me back, for I know that the man
wants
me to attack him.

He can see that he is getting to me. The energy I am using to fight my emotions comes from a place unknown to me. Dorman waves down a
garry
, which I didn't even hear approach. ‘Get in, you fuck!'

‘No.'

‘Get in or I'll fucking break you. I swear you'll wish you were never born. Van der Swart, GET IN!' But I know, for as long as I carry on, I'm winning.

‘No.'

‘No, who, you shit-licking fuck?'

‘No, Sergeant.' I say firmly.

We are standing still. Everybody has stopped, looking at us, but mainly using this time to rest.

His face contorts, sick with frustration and loathing. In my eyes he sees only revulsion and abhorrence; that much I know.

‘Your friend,' he says and I look straight into his eyes, his mouth deformed as he spit-whispers, ‘was a fucking fag, fairy, moffie, queer
poes
! And I hate his type.' He knows that there are some troops in the group who enjoy this kind of talk. ‘He deserved to die. If he hadn't, I would have killed him myself.'

Against every bit of better judgment, my resistance crumbles, my hate overflows and I whisper, ‘You did.' As the words leave me, I know I have crossed a boundary.

‘What did you say? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?' Then softly, ‘You have started something here that you will live to regret. You have fucked with me and I guarantee you, you will be pleading for mercy. I will see you beg!' But now it is about me and no longer about Dylan, and I have regained control.

Realising that I have not answered him, knowing he will need a witness, he demands again that I repeat what I'd said. Centimetres from my face he screams, ‘What the fuck did you say? You answer me now, or as God is my witness I will fucking kill you. I swear I will fucking kill you, troop . . . if it's the last thing I do!' At that moment a Bedford truck stops next to us and a sergeant on the back asks if anybody wants to get on, wants to give up. Now the audience is too large. The moment is broken, and he waves them on. Then he whispers to me, ‘I will get you, mark my words, not now, but one day. We still have the border ahead and you, Van der Swart, will not see the end of this year. If you had any sense, you'd give up now . . . give up now, take RTU and get away from me; save yourself.'

He takes me by my backpack, whips me around and uses the momentum to run me off the track, into a tree. I fall. Dorman spits on me, kicks me and walks on.

Someone tries to help me up. I look up, straight at Oscar's dark eyebrows. He pulls at my webbing and I roll over to my knees, from where I somehow lever myself up.