Moffie (28 page)

Suddenly we are at the Yati again, and then we cross into Angola. The insurgents now know we are close. They don't even attempt any anti-tracking. They have thrown away everything they were carrying, except their rifles, and are running for their lives.

Mal and I are told to shoot only if we are sure it's not a tracker, but best to hold fire. They don't trust us, but we don't care.

Firing breaks out to our left. I hear the radio, ‘CONTACT, CONTACT!' And again,
‘KONTAK, KONTAK!'
Then we are on top of them, the bush erupts in a mad spectacle of cordite, smoke, dust, tracers and a confusion of noises and men shouting.

I register small fragments of sounds and scraps of movement and colour. Staccato detonations of mechanical engineering. Little springs pushing each bullet up in the magazine as the spent hot cartridge ejects from the chamber. Blazing hot slugs travel through the air at exquisite intervals, hit with equal uniformity, and drive with tissue-shredding force into trees, people or just the soil. All of this becomes indistinct, manic, with tortured screams of ricocheting white-hot death.

When there is automatic-rifle fire from a shrub to our right, we drive straight into the line of fire. I pull my R1 into my shoulder, squeezing off two shots at a time, as we were taught. I fire at a point just below the volley's origin.

This is it, this is it—this is when I kill or die! When the ma-chine gun stops firing from the top of the Hippo, I realise that everybody else has stopped too.

I start shaking. The thought of a bullet travelling towards me from the shrub is suddenly paramount. I know it is not aimed at me personally; it's what I represent. The man is shooting at a government I never even voted for. I know this, but I don't think about it. I am entirely fixed on one goal, and that is to shoot at anything that is a terrorist. Suddenly I understand how people who enjoy this feeling can become addicted to it.

When we stop and the soldiers get off the vehicles, I feel only relief. As if the threat to my existence comes only from that one place, I walk with my rifle at my shoulder, aiming my right eye through the sights, my left eye open to detect any other movement. But it is unnecessary, for the man whose remains lie almost cut in half, will never be a threat to anyone again. It is clear that it was the machine gun that got him. I did not kill him.

In total there are nine terrorists dead—it has been a good day for
our side
.

 

***

 

‘Listen to that sound . . .' I exaggerate an expression of expectation, holding my hand close to my ear.

‘What sound?'

‘That, that, listen . . .'

‘What is it? Do you mean that?'

‘Yes, it's a nightjar.'

‘A what?'

‘It's a bird, a fierynecked nightjar. I love that call.' Mal listens intently. I look at him, he looks back and smiles.

‘There, there . . . listen, you can hear it again. Do you know what it is saying?' I don't wait for an answer but lay the words over the haunting, plaintive sound of the bird's call, ‘Good Lord, deliver us. Good Lord, deliver us.'

I become aware of movement towards us. As the shape moves into the light of the fire, I see a person approaching. Above and around him the sinister hard shapes of the vehicles reflect the flickering light.

‘Het julle manne iets geëet?'

‘Ja, dankie, die een man het vir ons 'n
rat pack
gegee.'
Malcolm answers in Afrikaans with a heavy accent.

The car commander changes to English and there is a definite mildness in his voice.

‘Do you want more food?'

I say, ‘No thanks,' but Mal says, ‘Yes, please, I'd like some more condensed milk.' The car commander turns around and calls to one of his staff to bring more rat packs.

‘When are we going home?' Mal asks, now clearly relaxed, ‘It's just that we are meant to go back to the States tomorrow.'

 

‘Ja, they radioed for you two. Your platoon is fetching you tomorrow and bringing parts for this fucking thing,' indicating to the broken-down Hippo. ‘O ja, and coming to fetch the dead terrs before they stink out the place. Nothing stinks like terr, especially a dead one.'

As the car commander turns to leave, he says, ‘You must be careful. Don't sleep under the Hippo. If we are attacked with mortars, the shrapnel ricochets down from the V-angle and will kill you. Rather sleep over there.' He points to a tree.

 

We make a bed on a groundsheet and blanket given to us. We pick the tree next to the broken Hippo for cover and listen to the sounds of the bush. I feel the urge to hug Malcolm, sleep in the love I feel for him, hold him, and sense his warmth . . . my best friend.

This incredible day starts drifting out of me, out of my muscles. Tomorrow my body will be strong again, with no scars, but my mind will carry them all.

‘Nick . . . Nick, are you still awake?'

‘Yes, kind of.'

‘What are you thinking about?'

‘Just this day. So much has happened.'

‘You must let it go. Don't think about it too much. Things like these can make one go
bossies
—totally cuckoo.'

‘Yes, I know. What are you thinking about?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Bullshit, you're thinking about Oscar.'

‘Mm.'

I must pray, I must thank God for protecting us today, I remind myself, turning to lie on my back. I see the stars above me, turn my palms upwards in meditation and say thank you; softly and sincerely. I don't want to ask for anything, I only want to express gratitude.

 

***

 

Before we leave the next morning, I walk past the Buffel Malcolm and I were in yesterday. I see the neat little scars on the armoured side where AK-47 bullets, fired on automatic, travelled towards us. I climb the large tyre to the rung of the side step, holding on to the dew-wet metal edge of the bulletproof side. From this point I can see where I sat yesterday. I follow the trajectory of the spaced abrasions. There is a lesion just below the ridge. I see that the next bullet would have travelled over the edge directly to my exposed head during the contact. Did he miss, or was he killed just before he fired? I touch the last mark as though I am somehow linked to it. Holding on for a while, I stroke the inside of the lesion; then decide not to look at the marks again.

 

The early morning bush, so rich with life, so clean and good, contrasts sharply with our journey from where we camped to where our platoon is going to meet us. We are carrying the bodies of the nine men killed, polluting the air with noise and fumes, and damaging everything in our path.

Mal and I try not to look at the blank gazes, bodies with chunks missing, empty rib cages, bags of lifeless meat. The dark skins now have the dull colour of death—muscles lie formless, yet stiff, as if they never really functioned.

I try to feel some kind of hate for these people who tried so hard to kill us; but there is none. All I know is that I'm alive and they are dead.

It is still early morning when we arrive at the four vehicles with our platoon encircling them. The previous day has covered us like a membrane—invisible, but there forever.

‘I don't think they'll believe that we slept out here last night without standing guard,' Mal says quietly.

Lieutenant Engel and Corporal Smith want to know everything about our ‘major contact.' Dorman asks no questions, but listens to our answers. When we scale the side of the Buffel to take up our designated seats, we are bombarded with questions from the rest of the troops.

I clip and tighten the straps of the seat, but already I have to fight the desire to travel like the Koevoet men—standing instead of being strapped in. Oscar takes his position next to me.

‘Vannie, it's good to see you, man. I'm so glad you're safe!' On my other side Malcolm nudges me.

‘Thanks, thanks a stack, Oscar,' fighting Malcolm's prods.

Malcolm and I both dodge as many questions as possible, and eventually they stop.

Below us the Koevoet driver who dropped us at the meeting point, talks to Lieutenant Engel and the driver who will lead our convoy, recommending a shorter route back to base.

They decide to take it.

 

Malcolm sits next to me as he has done every day on vehicle patrol; no need for us to talk any more. Time and compatibility have wrapped around us, and within this union we start the first of many legs back to South Africa.

When the driver changes gears, all ten of the occupants facing the sides rock as one—forward then back, like bottles in a crate. Then we move sharply forward as the driver slams on the brakes the moment the vehicle ahead of us detonates a land mine.

We were drilled to loosen our belts, release the catches on the sides, get off and form a circular defence as soon as the vehicle comes to a halt, because a triggered land mine is often followed by an ambush. The training has the intended effect—we all obey mechanically. Malcolm still carries the memory of the stuck handle and immediately starts attacking the lever.

Our driver, focusing on the Buffel ahead, that is now on its side, with dust and smoke billowing from it, lets our vehicle roll slightly forward instead of stopping dead. In this short distance our right front tyre triggers a fuse that, in turn, triggers another mine.

The only release for the device's energy is upwards, towards the tyre that activated it. The force then travels to the wheel, suspension and body of the Buffel in a wave of terrible power. This invention is designed to cause maximum damage, which it does, particularly to the troops who are busy climbing out.

 

There is blood somewhere. Sun in my eyes. I try my best to see.

Am I sitting? I'm not upright. Bright, bright light. I can't see. No, no. I'm lying, but where? I can hear nothing on the outside, but inside everything is loud. I'm lying on the moulded seats. Yes, that's where I am! Thick, sticky. Something is running into my eyes. I want to wipe it. I can't. My arm is stuck. There is someone with me. Or is there? More people. I close my eyes. I open my eyes when I hear sounds far, far away. Hollow, heavy sounds that clog together and move in and out, in and out. The noise that I can't see is there. No, it's here. Yes, I hear it. More. There are large spaces in between these small bits of recognition. Comfortless, harsh, jarring. I'm lifted. My hand is free. Obscure, hazy sounds from the people. Hollow, wobbling sound. Questions and more questions. I just want to wipe my eyes. If only I could wipe my eyes, I will hear. More comfortable now. Flat. Moving. Blur. Different sounds now. Silver buckle. What is that noise? It's hot. More noise. Mechanical. Smell. Jet-fuel. Where is the buckle? Fumes, petrol. So tight around my head and ears. Under my chin. Tight, tight! Tube. A drip!

On my forehead I feel something crumbly. I rub it and it comes off. I can see a little better, less discomfort in my eyes. I'm sitting. Blood and people everywhere. Outside is far. I look at the metal loop.

Just relax. The side is open, and far below I see the earth streaking past. I can see the other side too. From time to time there are people moving in front of me from the darkness. When they do, their faces distort and I can't hear what they're saying. One looks at me. Talking. Looking and talking. But I can't really hear him. I don't understand. He touches my leg and then my hands, but mostly he looks into my eyes. Then he leaves me and melts into the dark shapes silhouetted by the bright light—a steady, fluid light with shapes.

The Puma helicopter lands at Oshakati. I can see now, and I know what I'm seeing, but in a confused and fuzzy way. I can identify simple things if I'm asked to, but I don't ask myself to give anything a name.

We are lifted into army-brown ambulances. On the inside, it is white and there is a light, opaque whitish, with a shiny silver fitting attaching it to the roof. It is a short trip from the Puma to a prefab hospital, where I lie and wait.

A doctor removes a bandage from my head and a medic cleans the blood on my face. He gives me an injection, shaves my head and stitches a cut. They ask me questions, which I answer lazily. The medic who is seconded to Koevoet says, ‘Two Buffels hit land mines—yours and the one ahead of you. Most of the casualties came from yours. It hit while you guys were getting off. The driver says he must have rolled forward.'

‘Where is my friend?' I ask.

‘Who? The one who was looking after you?'

‘Malcolm!'

‘I don't know your friend. But it's probably the guy who took care of you. He's fine.'

‘Malcolm, his name is Malcolm.'

‘I don't know who Malcolm is. Don't worry, just rest,' and he leaves. Above me is a metal roof. I notice the way it is constructed. It has hooks that pull the sheets of metal to the angle-iron rafters. It feels like a cheap barn, harsh and unforgiving—no place to heal. Above me is wire stretched across the room, resembling a washing line. Drips dangle untidily from it.

There is still this buzzing in my ears, like bees trapped in a tin—a persistent whirring, unwavering, with electronic steadfastness.

A scream weaves through a cleft in the humming, entering through my right ear and flooding my cognisance with sound, driven by the way a brain interprets information as life-threatening—from fright to pain, and interlaced with it the smell of hospital. Only then it reveals itself: Something has happened . . .

As the thread of events unravels, I am gripped by concern over Malcolm's absence and I call out, but nobody responds. I become aware of a heavy pain in my head and a burning ache on the surface. My back hurts when I try to move. I am carried on a stretcher down a narrow corridor to a room.

The medic who stitched my head comes in. ‘Listen, troop, I don't know who Malcolm is, OK!'

‘How many people got hurt?'

‘Five of the ten on the back, mostly compressed fractures. One guy's hand is fucked.'