Moffie (29 page)

‘Are they all alive?'

‘No . . . one guy bit the dust.'

‘No, SHIT, who died, man? Find out! Fuck, NO! Please! Please just ask . . .'

‘OK, OK! Calm down, china. What's his name?'

‘Malcolm!

‘No arsehole, his
surname
. What do you think this is, a holiday farm?'

‘His surname is Bateman . . . please, Bateman, remember, Bateman!'

‘OK, I'll check, I'll check. Fuck!'

‘He's my buddy. His name is Bateman,' I say again.

He returns almost immediately. ‘Your friend is the one with the fucked-up hand.'

‘Shit, how bad is it?'

‘I don't know. He'll probably need an op. States
toe
with him, china.'

‘Where?'

‘1 Mil.'

‘Dammit,' but I am relieved that Malcolm is alive. ‘Besides his hand, is he OK? Can I see him? Where is he? Is his hand going to be all right? Can I go and see him?'

‘Listen here, troop, just don't come in your panties! You're not getting out of that fucking bed, and I don't know how bad his hand is. I'm not a specialist, OK? But it's bad . . . OK, china?'

‘Shit!'

‘You okes are all going back to the States once you've stabilised; all except the oke who's fucked, that corporal whoever.'

‘No way . . . is he dead . . . shit, really? And the sergeant?' I ask.

‘Ah, him? He was in the front car, a little shaken, like the others, but no bad hits, just some backs, as usual.' Must write this down, I think, and then, with sudden alarm, I swing my feet from the bed.

‘Where the fuck are you going, troop?
Is jy fokken doof, ou?'

‘Listen, there is something I must get.'

‘What?'

‘It's in my shirt.' Sliding forward I move to transfer the weight of my body to my legs, and my head spins.

‘Lie down!' the medic says, almost panicked. ‘What is it with you,
ou
? Seems like that mine fucked up your brain, or are you deaf? OK, OK! What is it? I'll get it!' When I move forward, he jumps up and pushes me over onto my back. ‘Wait here. I will get your shirt. What's your name? Mm . . . Van der Swart,' he says, not waiting for an answer as he reads my dog tags.

He hands me the garment and I fumble through it to the top pocket for my diary. The top half of my shirt is covered in blood, which is now dark-dirty and almost dry. When I retrieve my book, the red wetness has stained the cover and seeped onto the rim of the top few pages.

 

Through the pain and the drugs I am at Malcolm's side all the way South. From the makeshift hospital in Oshakati we are taken to Ondangwa in a Unimog ambulance. From there, we fly in a Dakota to Grootfontein, where we board a Flossie back to South Africa. After landing at Waterkloof Air Base we drive through an unaware South Africa to 1 Military Hospital at Voortrekkerhoogte, near Pretoria.

It is like moving between two seasons in the space of a day, or two generations, or mindsets—from a deserted rubbish dump to clean porcelain on an opulent dining table.

I am sent for observation for the knock on my head, but it is clear to me that apart from the concussion, my injuries are minor.

I sit next to his white metal bed, under which a grey, army-clean floor mirrors the dragging of time in darkened half-reflection. The white blanket that covers the white sheets is pulled tightly over the frame, and under it his body appears slight.

Surrounding us are damaged young people, lying in similar beds, their lives crippled to different degrees. Most of them believe they will heal, and most will—on the outside. But I focus only on my friend.

Malcolm moves between two planes—a drugged stupor and angry pain. When he is lucid, frightened and suffering, we talk, but when his lids lie half-mast over his eyes, I pray and beg, like a chant, that he will not lose his hand.

Mal's father and sister arrive. Leaving them alone with him, I look back for some outward sign of the blood that links them, but again I don't see any.

After his visit I walk with Mal's father to his car. He says that the doctors have told him Malcolm may lose his hand. He lights a cigarette, sighs, and says he feels the doctors know what they're doing and he will support their decision. What else can he do?

I picture Malcolm with a stump at the end of his arm.

‘No!' I interrupt him, almost too loudly.

‘It's out of our hands, my boy,' he says gently.

Does he really believe that they are competent enough? Or is it that his fight is depleted? He cares for his son, I can see that, but life, and everything it has done to him, has yanked all energy from him. Now this older man appears to have no drive left to fight, or the power to
will
something so strongly that you somehow make it happen.

‘We must go,' says the sister.

‘Mister Bateman,' I urge, ‘Malcolm has his life ahead of him. He can't lose his hand,' but I realise that my desperation means nothing and I have no power over these events.

‘Nicholas,' he says softly, a little smoke escaping with my name, ‘they're going to operate and see if they can repair the damage. Only then will they make the decision whether to amputate or not.' It infuriates me that this exhausted man is the only one with some say, and that he has made the decision not to interfere.

‘Besides,' he says as I look at his dull eyes with baggy layers of skin under them, ‘I have no say, you know. He belongs to the army. So do you. It's out of my hands.'

I walk to the doctor's rooms to find out who will be performing the surgery. All I want is for him to try harder. If there is the slightest chance to save the hand, he must. This is what I have to impress on the man.

I am surprised when the doctor, a commandant, is willing to see me. He is irritated by my arrogance, but he listens. I'm standing at attention in front of him, searching for any mercy he might have, any care and compassion that he is not showing me, but that might just be beneath the surface.

He rides back on his chair, his hands behind his head. It looks as if he is enjoying the power he wields in this situation. ‘Wait, Rifleman Van der Swart,' he says as I do an about turn, stamp my foot as part of the manoeuvre, and proceed to the door. ‘Let me explain. We will not simply amputate, except if the wound is threatening the rest of his body or his arm. The first operation will be to start the restorative process. You must realise your friend may require a number of operations. First we are going to clean it up and have a look-see. Amputation is the last resort.'

‘Thank you, Commandant, thank you,' I say softly, with as much humility as I can muster.

Walking down the passage, I think of how often we encounter people who have life-changing power over us and the only weapon we have is to plead for mercy. People we may never see again. And I wait.

 

They chase me away from where I'm sitting in the hospital passage, close to the operating theatre door. I pretend to move away, but I don't.

It feels far longer than just 48 hours since the Buffel triggered the land mine. In this short time, I have watched something settle over Malcolm, like a creeper that has netted around him. And this is what I fear most: losing him, losing the Malcolm I know.

Eventually they call a sister with rank—a staff sergeant—to get me to leave. ‘Wait outside, Rifleman, and that's an order. If I see you sitting here again I'm sending you back to the lines. This is bloody nonsense. Is there no
donnerse
discipline in this place?'

I wait directly in front of the entrance to the theatre block, where I know I will be noticed. I don't hear the cars, the people or the birds. My attention is focussed on the doors that will bring news, and on God for intervention.

‘Nicholas! Nicholas . . . is it really you?

‘Ethan!' Everything in me becomes unsteady. I feel hot and cold, blood gushing in my ears, his name exploding around me.

‘Nicholas, what are you doing here? What happened to your head? How are you?'

‘I'm fine, but they're operating on Mal's hand.'

‘But your head . . .'

‘I'm fine, I'm fine, Ethan. We were in . . . Ethan, I can't believe it's you, right here!'

‘Nick, what happened?'

‘A whole lot of stuff. In all this confusion I forgot that you were at this base, or rather that you were still here. I've been in a kind of a
dwaal
since this . . . this head thing and all.'

‘Nick, tell me, how bad is your head?'

‘No, not bad at all. I think my rifle must have connected me here.' I stroke the bandage at the spot where they stitched the cut. ‘I was out like a light and a bit confused, but I'm fine now; no headaches or anything like that. The staff here have been pretty understanding. They've allowed me to sort of stay with Mal.'

‘How long have you been here?'

‘Since yesterday.'

‘Where's Malcolm?'

‘In the theatre. They're operating on his hand. Our Buffel triggered a land mine. I had a little concussion, but Mal's hand was crushed.'

‘Fuck, how bad is it? I mean, what do they say?'

‘Not much to me. You know what they're like. What I
do
know, is that this first op is to clean up the hand and start the reconstruction—the reconnection of tendons and resetting the bones—or, what I don't even want to think about, amputation.'

I say his name, ‘Ethan,' and again, ‘Ethan . . .' The person I've carried inside me is now crouching down in front of me, looking at me, reading in my eyes what I can't say, and staring back with confusion.

‘In a way it was my fault, Ethan, mine . . .'

‘But you said it was a land mine.'

‘Yes, but he wouldn't have been on that patrol if it hadn't been for me. We were there because Dorman sent us to deliver fuel.'

‘What?'

‘It all started with Dylan. I actually think he killed himself because of . . . shit, I'm not making any sense, am I?'

‘Wait, let's take it one step at a time. You're obviously going to be here for at least a few days. You'll have time to tell me everything.' I know that Ethan has noticed how close I am to tears. He gets up and says he wants to check on Malcolm.

When he returns, I have regained my composure.

In the short period that Ethan was away, something inside me had sunk into place, almost like a dog curling up on its favourite blanket—a mixture of thoughts for which there suddenly appears to be a home.

Without thinking it through, I say, ‘Ethan, I need to see Dylan's parents.'

‘OK, I'll take you. Do you know where they live?'

‘No.'

‘I'll speak to the Welfare Officer. He's quite cool. I'm sure he'll help us. Nick, I'm so sorry, but I have to go now. What ward are you in?'

Before he leaves, he squeezes my knee and we look into each other's eyes. It has happened to me only a few times in my life that a look has travelled right through me.

 

***

 

I sit smiling next to Malcolm while he sleeps off the last of the anaesthetic, his hand still intact. When he has shed the last of the drugs, I tell him about Ethan and my plan to visit Dylan's parents.

‘So, how does he look?'

‘Amazing . . . you'll see for yourself, Blondie. He'll be visiting you a lot. Listen, I don't know how much longer they're going to let me stay here.'

‘No way, man!'

‘Well, at least Ethan will be here. Don't you steal him now!'

‘I'm not into twinkies, you know that. Only real men for me, thanks.'

I sigh, and after a pause I say, ‘I need to tell you something, Mal. When we were doing section leadership, Dylan and I slept next to each other one night.'

‘You little tramp! In the trench? Fuuuuck me! Why didn't you tell me?' Malcolm is hugely excited by this information. It does more for relieving his pain than the pills do.

‘I don't know actually. I guess the whole Dylan thing is just something I wish I could escape, but I realise I'm going to have to work through it.'

‘Go on.'

I tell him about the night in the trench, the freezing cold, how Dylan dried me, gave me his shirt, and held me from behind when we lay together.

‘So, did you guys, you know, have a poke-in-the-whiskers?' he asks, laughing.

‘No, we did not. Shit, you know, that's all you think about. We just lay really close; his arm around me. He may even have saved my life that night . . . makes me feel even worse. You remember how closed Dylan was? One never really knew what he was thinking, but that night . . . I think he wanted to tell me that he was gay.'

‘And did he?'

‘No, but I felt it. You know what it's like when you just know what someone is going to say, but you don't want to hear it.'

Suddenly Malcolm is serious. ‘Nick, there's something I need to tell you . . . seeing that this is truth hour and all.'

‘Yes?'

‘It's not just you that Gerrie has it in for. I've been wanting to tell you this for so long, but I didn't know how to. We have a history.'

‘NO! No way! Don't talk shit here, Mal!'

‘Well, the weekend before the border I was at the club on the Saturday night, and I'm like really camping this hunk. Remember, I told you? I was going to tell him it was his duty to be nice to me, because I was going to risk my life to protect him and all that. I wonder if it would have worked.'

‘Yes, I'm sure it would have, but tell me about Gerrie, man. Besides, you said you didn't go home with the hunk.'

‘True, but I never told you why. That little
poes
Gerrie suddenly appears—in the D!—and he won't leave me alone.'

‘Gerrie! In a gay club! Are you serious?'

‘Yes. At . . . the . . . Dungeon.' He pauses between each word for effect. ‘And he won't leave me alone and says that he has no place to stay and please can he come home with me. So I said yes. I mean, he was one's
makker
and all, you know, you do that for your buddies.'