Storms Over Africa (43 page)

‘So what's your answer?'

‘I guess I don't have one. There are times when I think I'd have done better to stay single and not get involved with anyone.' He laughed softly. ‘Ouch, Yeomans, that much honesty hurts.

‘It's good for you.'

‘So's going to the dentist but you don't have to like it.'

‘It's going to be a beautiful day,' Greg said wistfully.

They fell silent, each man busy with his own ghosts and memories. Then they heard the owl. Richard felt his spine tingle. ‘Jeff,' he mouthed.

Greg nodded. Only one man made that owl call. It had been the cause of much ribbing.
They knew it well. He had been in their stick during the war.

The camp had begun to stir. Men were slowly travelling through the flimsy end of dreams. The army chose this moment to act.

‘Get yore hends in the air now, Kaffir.' The accent was pure Rhodesian and had to be the sweetest sound Richard had ever heard.

Grinning at each other, they struggled to their feet and shuffled outside. A man, his face blackened with boot polish and wearing the uniform of the Zimbabwe Security Forces, raced up to them. ‘Are you all right, man?'

‘What kept you?' Greg looked closely at the man. ‘You old bastard, Skinner. You still make an owl call that sounds like a budgie with a harelip.'

Skinner, whose name was Jeff Tanner, had joined the Security Forces after the war because he didn't know anything else. He sliced through the ropes on their hands and feet.

‘Anyone got a cigarette?' Richard needed one badly. His legs gave way and he sat down heavily on a campchair, rubbing his wrists to get the circulation going.

‘Make that two.' Greg joined him.

Jeff Tanner handed them a pack and a lighter. ‘You two old farts are losing it.'

They looked at each other, then they looked at the early morning sky heralding another
beautiful day, the one which was meant to be their last, and at a black eagle soaring against it, wild and free. Then they looked at Kobus Conradie, Brigadier Hambalaze and Joseph Tshuma and the others, and at the Security Forces surrounding them, then they looked back at each other.

Richard put his arm around Greg's shoulders. ‘I love this stupid old fart.'

Greg leaned his head on Richard's shoulder. ‘Kiss me, you fool.'

Then both men were pounding each other on the back, laughing and shouting, dropping their cigarettes, thumping each other and each man knew from those words that their friendship would endure for as long as they both would live.

‘This calls for a drink,' Greg shouted to the men around them who were grinning with them.

‘What'll it be, gents? Beer or scotch?' Someone had found their supplies in the truck.

‘Both,' they shouted.

‘Join us,' Greg invited, popping one of the cans of beer.

Jeff Tanner pulled a face. ‘Bit early in the day.' But he joined them anyway.

A Major came up to them. ‘My name's Muldoon.' He eyed the can in Greg's hand. ‘When you're up to it you'll have to write reports. There's a General Kaguri in Harare who's
anxious to speak to you. I understand the Prime Minister would also like a word.' He turned to Jeff. ‘Good work, Tanner. If you hadn't been writing down the coordinates we'd not have found these men in time. Try not to get drunk, there's a good chap.'

Jeff Tanner snapped off a salute. ‘Thank you, sir. I'll do my best, sir.'

‘I have to get back to Pretoria,' Greg said, once Major Muldoon had left them. ‘There'll be a ton of paperwork waiting for me after this little caper.'

‘You can fly back to Harare with one of our choppers.' Jeff looked at Richard. ‘What about you?'

Richard waved his can at the truck. ‘I'll take that.'

‘Better check it,' Greg said grinning.

‘What for?'

‘Probably have a parking ticket by now.'

Jeff and Richard looked at each other. ‘Shaddup,' they said in unison.

‘He's parked on a zebra crossing,' Greg went on seriously.

Richard glanced over at Jeff, who nodded. Both men pounced on Greg and rumbled him considerably.

‘You don't give a monkey's do you?' Greg chuckled when they climbed off him. He remained on the ground.

Jeff raised his eyes.

Kobus Conradie was being marched past them, his hands cuffed, a look of total defeat on his face. ‘Kind of gets your goat doesn't it?' Greg taunted him. He lay flat on the ground, chuckling.

Conradie showed no sign of having heard.

‘What happens to him?' Richard was smiling at Greg and shaking his head.

‘He'll be reacquainted with his cell in Pretoria.' Jeff was making circles around his ear with his finger. Greg was still chuckling.

‘Guess you bet on the wrong horse,' Greg called out after Conradie, laughing harder.

‘Won't he go to prison here?' Richard had almost given up on Greg.

‘Pretoria lay claim to the lion's share.' Greg was howling.

‘Mugabe doesn't want him, keeping him here costs money.' Jeff crossed his eyes and bared his teeth at Greg.

‘An elephant never forgets,' Greg roared.

Richard reached for another can. ‘Perhaps we can ignore him.'

Jeff reached for the other. ‘Bit hard.'

They popped their cans and sipped. Then both men realised that Greg's mirth had stopped.

‘Uh oh,' Richard said.

They looked down. They were a fraction too late. Greg came off the ground as easily and as fast as a leopard springing for the kill, locked
an arm around each man's legs and flattened both of them. Then, leaving them on the ground, he walked away, still laughing and saying something about finding the beer because he was as dry as hyena turd.

Lying flat on the ground, with his beer spilling over his chest, Richard had never loved his fellow man so much.

At a bit of a loss as to what to do while the Security Forces mopped up, Richard, Greg, Jeff and a couple of other men sat around drinking beer. It was good to be in the company of these men, good to feel the sun burning through his shirt, good to feel the amber perfection of a Zimbabwe Lion beer slipping down his throat. Looking up Richard saw the black eagle again. Classified endangered, the Matopos was one of their last havens on earth. It might have been his last sight on earth. God, it felt good to be alive.

‘Do you remember that time up in Hurricane trying to live rough?' Jeff said, mentioning the vast operational area to the north of the country which bordered with Zambia and Mozambique and which saw the first action of the war. Part of the men's training was to be dropped in the middle of nowhere and expected to survive with no food, no weapons and no means of making a fire. All they had were knives.

Greg laughed. ‘That coloured platoon.'

They had been camped on a vast flat plain. Six men, three knives and four days to go, having already spent three days out there. They had just consumed a snake, killed with a rock and cooked over a fire made the hard way, by rubbing sticks together. It was Jeff who noticed thick dust in the distance and drew the others' attention to it. Trucks were coming their way at a hell of a pace. They did not try to hide. Terrorists would not be out in the open like that. As the four trucks drew closer they could see they contained what was left of a platoon of ‘coloureds'. ‘Coloureds' in Africa are not black men, they are a race unto themselves from the days when the whites first came to Africa and copulated freely with the blacks. So many offspring did these couplings produce that, over the decades, they developed their own language and had their own culture. During the war, two battalions of coloureds were formed.

The platoon was in poor shape. Dead and dying men were bouncing around in the back of the trucks. They had obviously encountered terrorists. As they passed the six Selous Scouts on the ground a man yelled out to them. ‘Hey, you whities had better start fokking the blacks again because we coloureds are about to be extinct.' The humour in the face of disaster was typical of these people and probably the reason why, when they had been despised by
black and white populations of Africa alike, they had managed to survive.

‘Plucky little beggar,' Jeff grinned.

Major Muldoon joined them, looking pointedly at the beers in his men's hands. ‘You chaps like to move? There's a group just leaving with Hambalaze and Conradie.'

‘What about Tshuma?'

The Major pursed his lips. ‘We'd like to keep him alive if you don't mind, Dunn. We have some questions for him. He's going with the next lot. I'll put you in charge of that, Tanner, if you'd like to stop drinking now.'

‘I'll take him in my truck if you like.'

Major Muldoon ignored him.

Greg held out his hand and Richard took it. ‘See you, pal.'

‘Not if I see you first,' Richard grinned suddenly. ‘Marion.'

‘I lied,' Greg lied.

As he watched the helicopter take off he felt as though something had been severed inside him. He was not a man's man, preferring the company of women, and even though he had drawn close to several men, Greg included, during the war, he never felt truly connected to them. The experiences shared with Greg over the past two days had bonded him to the man. It went beyond respect and liking. Watching Greg leave hurt, he felt deserted. ‘You're getting soft, Dunn,' he thought, amused.

But he watched Greg's helicopter until he could see it no more. Then he turned to Jeff. ‘Can the army do me a favour?'

‘Sure, name it.'

‘Loan me a helicopter.'

‘Jesus Christ, you might as well ask for a million dollars.'

‘Who should I ask?'

Jeff saw how serious he was. ‘Why do you want it?'

‘I want to bury Samson. I want to bury him next to the Shangani Patrol.'

The Shangani Patrol. That brave band of thirty-four men who, in 1893, had been dispatched by a Major Forbes to capture King Lobengula. The King's camp, however, had been filled with 30,000 warriors. Not daunted, or perhaps simply obeying orders, Major Allan Wilson who was in charge of the Shangani Patrol ordered his men to open fire. The fight lasted all morning, despite an attempt by the Matabele to convince the surviving white men to surrender. When the last white man had died the Matabele Induna intoned the words which are still remembered with pride today.

‘They were men of men, and their fathers were men before them.'

The thirty-four men were buried under a tree near the site of their death but later were reburied near the Zimbabwe ruins before Cecil
Rhodes eventually had their much-travelled remains moved to World's View, high up in the Matopos, where he himself is buried.

They spoke to Major Muldoon. ‘No,' he told them bluntly.

So Richard grabbed the Major and forced him to where Samson lay in a body bag, his severed limbs gently laid where they should have been.

‘Jesus.' The Major was shocked. ‘What a helluva way to die.'

‘He died like a man. He will be buried with the men of men. Even if I have to carry him there myself.' Richard got his helicopter.

Several soldiers went with Samson on his last ride. They found a place, just downhill from Cecil Rhodes's grave and next to the monument for the Shangani Patrol. Richard stood, tears again running freely, over Samson's grave. With the soldiers behind him, and his voice choked with emotion, he said goodbye to this man who came from a wild and spirited continent. This man whom he had come to love.

‘Go well, my father. Go with the departed spirits who will help you in your rest. Go with your head held proud for you are truly a man among men and I, my father, as your son, will make sure that all will know of your bravery. Walk to your resting place on strong legs with your arms swinging free. For you died like a
man and none shall hear otherwise from me.' He spoke in Shona.

Then he added in English for the benefit of the soldiers who may not have understood, ‘God be with you,' before turning away.

During the silent helicopter ride back to his truck, if the soldiers with him wondered why this white man was so grief-stricken by the death of a black man, they said nothing. Richard could not be bothered to enlighten them. He was dropped at his truck and the helicopter left quickly. The rest of the army had already departed.

The sight of the truck standing exactly where it had been left, with the keys still dangling in the ignition, reinforced his sense of loneliness. Greg was there. He was there with his rucksack and the tent they had shared, a battered old hat and an empty and crumpled packet of cigarettes. But more than that. Samson was there. Richard fancied he could smell the man when he picked up his sleeping blankets. In a sudden fever of activity he hauled all the equipment and supplies off the back of the truck, piling them neatly on the ground next to his tent. Then he dismantled his tent and loaded it, all of Samson's belongings and a couple of tins of food, back into the truck. Leaving the rest where they were, he drove away. As he pulled away he saw a solitary impala male watching him curiously. The animal was poised for flight
but seemed to understand he was in no immediate danger, standing with his head slightly cocked, his stubby tail erect. Richard slowed the truck and called to him, ‘Got any use for camping equipment?' The animal, which had stood its ground despite the noise of the helicopter, fled at the sound of a human voice. ‘Enjoy!' Richard called after him.

He drove back to the camp site by the river and set up his tent. He intended to get some sleep there before making the long drive back to Pentland Park and the problems he knew would be waiting for him.

The morning after the men left camp, Steve woke with a blinding hangover and wishing she were anywhere but where she was. Penny was lying in the other camp bed, exhausted and deeply asleep. Steve climbed quietly from her bed, dressed quickly and went outside into the cool morning. Dew glistened on the leaves of the trees and clung to the grass. The sun, crouching low on the horizon, was at just the right angle to turn the beads of moisture into sparkling diamonds. The light hurt her eyes. She knew she should take photographs but she simply could not be bothered.