The Smoke That Thunders

by Nathan Bassett

  Chad answered flatly, “Not really.”

  “Well, it shows you what apartheid does. With no apartheid, the Africans feel better about themselves and have more pride. They haven’t been told they are subhuman, and they can be at home in their own country, their own skin. Don’t you see it?”

  Chad looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and said “Maybe so, but it’s still White rule here.”

  At four-thirty p.m., both were jolted out of their sparse conversation. Peter’s heart missed a beat. It sounded like a small explosion or gunfire. Nervous laughter came when they realized it was a car backfiring. That same car, a 1970 Ford Capri, hooted and made its way through a crowd of young people waiting at the bus stop. The car slowed, and a voice called out, “You two? Are you the mates of Simon?”

  Both nodded.

  The car made a U-turn and pulled up beside them. Two people got out. Richard and Amanda hurriedly introduced themselves. Richard opened the trunk; he pulled out a rifle and handed it to his wife.

  As they got into the car, Amanda cocked the rifle, placed the butt on the top of the front seat and the barrel on the dashboard. She wrapped her arm around the rifle, placed her finger on the trigger guard and stated, “We’re ready. Let’s roll. The terrs, they prefer to come out at night.”

  Richard drove fast, very fast.

  Amanda explained, “We’ve got 140 kilometers to cover before dark. There’s lots of bush along this road, places the terrs could easily hide, ready to ambush. This old rifle is just a precaution. I’ve never had to use ... yet.”

  Richard chuckled. “The old thing is nothing to brag about, but all you have to do is shoot in their direction, and they scatter like spooked rabbits. They are very easily deterred. A few shots over their heads, and they’re gone. Cowards at heart. That’s what terrorists are – bloody cowards, all of ’em.”

  Amanda said, “I really wouldn’t want to kill anyone. That would be too much. But if it comes down to us or them … well … But even a skilled marksman couldn’t hit the side of a house with this old thing.”

  “I would bring my machine gun if I could. I drive a cattle truck cross-country, and the company recently issued drivers machine guns to take on our runs. I’d love to bring the baby along with me everywhere, but policy says it’s for work only. And Amanda couldn’t handle it anyway.”

  “I certainly do not care to try.”

  Richard continued, sounding like a relaxed and seasoned tour guide sharing interesting tidbits to gawking sightseers. “The guerillas, terrorists, terrs … murderers is what they are. And they want to be called ‘freedom fighters.’ Bloody hell! They travel around the country in small packs like wild dogs. They’re very unorganized. Mostly they’re in rural areas, like the farms and ranches. Those are their favorite targets because those people are so vulnerable. But lately, villages and small towns are becoming more popular for the terrs. The more people that are there, the more they can kill, and the greater the terror.”

  Amanda’s tone became subdued. “They have even started attacking churches and missions. It is horrible, terrible. Those poor people are defenseless. They rarely have weapons.”

  “Geez! Why’s that?” Chad wondered.

  Richard responded, “Church policy. Crazy, I know, but they have nonviolent policies. Such nonsense, but there it is. It’s suicide for the church people, and the missionaries. Like sleeping kudus waiting to ripped apart by starving lions.”

  “They’re supposed to trust God, I guess,” Chad said, with slight sarcasm in this tone.

  Richard replied, “That’s true. However, I will trust my God and use my gun. I want both, that’s for certain. We need both, eh? God and guns. Give me my God, and give me my gun!”

  Amanda added, “God has no problem using a gun in this country.”

  Suddenly, Richard pushed the accelerator down. The car quickly topped 130 kilometers an hour. His voice picked up its own pace as the car accelerated. “This area we’re driving through, they sighted some terrorists not far from here, only two days ago. We want to make haste around here. A family of six was killed last week, a bit to the north, probably about twenty kilometers from here. Friends at our church knew the father’s dad. The bastards have been at some ranches not that far from here. Two ranchers were attacked yesterday at a place about thirty kilometers west, but they scared them off. The majority of attacks in the past fortnight have been fifty-K or so to the northwest. It’s dotted with farms and ranches out that way.”

  Amanda added, “The most dangerous places are near the borders of Mozambique and Zambia. That’s where they come across. The closer to the border, the greater the danger.”

  Richard jumped in. “They had five tourists—”

  Amanda noticed Peter and Chad looking at one another with wide eyes. She interrupted, “Richard, that’s enough.” She looked at them and changed to an upbeat tone, “I am sorry. We’re making it sound terrible. It really is not so horrific. We live in a safe town. The populated areas are quite safe; only a few problems now and then. Life really goes on as usual. But tell us about yourselves. And you must tell us about Simon. I’ve never even met him! I’ve been married ten years and have never met that brother-in-law of mine.”

  Peter said, “Simon did say that he’s never met you or your kids. He really regrets that. But, yeah, he’s doing well. He’s an engineer of some sort at Iscor, and he does a lot at the church.”

  The car began to slow down somewhat, and Richard’s pace slowed as well. “Sounds like Simon. Still the workaholic, just like Dad. Where did you two meet him?”

  While Chad recounted their story of meeting back in the Sooner State, Peter couldn’t help obsessing over the stories he had just heard about terrorists here, there, and everywhere. He felt a wave of anxiety. Suddenly, he wanted to be somewhere else – he should not be in such a place. He took several deep breaths and told himself, It’s safe where we’re going.

  At dusk, they arrived in West Nicolson. Walking through the door of the bungalow, they were greeted by wildlife figurines, copper-plated pictures of giraffes and elephants, and a few animal skins on the red tiled floors. Just like home, Peter thought.

  On the far wall of the living room were countless family pictures. As Chad examined the photos, Richard said, “That’s our ‘wall of happy,’ as the boys like to call it. Those are our two boys, Andrew and Nick. Nick is nine and Andrew’s seven. After we eat, Amanda will pick them up from the neighbor’s house. I trust you two are good and hungry?”

  Peter said, “Oh, yeah. And whatever it is, it smells delicious.”

  “Sure does.” Chad affirmed. Then he pointed to one picture of the two boys standing drenched in front of a massive waterfall. “That’s Victoria Falls, isn’t it?”

  Richard said, “Yes. That was our holiday last year. Tremendous, isn’t it? The natives called it ‘The Smoke That Thunders.’ It’s absolutely incredible. The thunder of the water raging down the falls creates a never-ending cloud of mist that is seen and heard from miles away. Truly amazing. One of the wonders of the world.”

  Chad turned to Peter. “We are going to go there. We can’t come to Rhodesia and miss The Smoke That Thunderrrrs,” Chad said, projecting the last syllable in a deep, intense growl.

  Peter nodded.

  They adjourned to the dining room and their maid, Sonja, dished up their meal. Thick, juicy T-bones covered their plates.

  “We have the best steak on the continent. Rhodesia is famous for her beef. It is our biggest export,” Richard declared proudly as he watched the Americans take their first taste of the succulent meat.

  “By far the best steak I have ever had,” Peter said as he finished his first bite of the sixteen-ounce, medium-rare, cut-it-with-a-fork delicacy.

  With his mouth still chomping, Chad agreed, “This is an incredible piece of beef. Wow!”

  Richard nodded with a satisfied smile.

  Andrew and Nick arrived home and immediately latched on to their two unique
visitors. They spent half an hour showing their visitors the wall of photographs, describing in minute detail the story behind each picture. They reveled in describing how one or the other had gotten into trouble before or after each particular picture was taken.

  The young boys insisted Peter and Chad read them their stories as they went to bed. The two youngsters delighted in Chad’s rendition of Dr. Seuss’s Cat in the Hat, read in what Chad considered a posh English accent. Peter read Hop on Pop with an exaggerated Southern drawl that left all four laughing uncontrollably for twenty minutes and delayed sleep another half hour for the children.

  As Chad prepared to turn the light out, Andrew asked about the uncle they had never met. Chad gave a vivid description of their long-lost uncle. He told them he looked just like the grandfather they had only seen twice in their lives.

  “Why is it that Uncle Simon has never come to visit us?” Nick asked.

  Both stammered a bit before Peter finally said, “He’s just very busy. He wants to come see you very much. Maybe you could give us some pictures to take back. He would like that.”

  Both agreed, and Andrew said, “Can we call you ‘Uncle Peter’ and ‘Uncle Chad’? Can we?”

  “We would like that very much,” Chad whispered as he turned the light out.

  ***

  The following day, Peter and Chad joined Richard and Amanda for a round of golf. As they drove to the local golf course, Amanda said, “We just started playing. We’re terrible at it, but it is a wonderful diversion from the reality of living in a war-torn country.”

  The four teed off on a warm summer morning.

  Two young Africans boys came out of nowhere and attached themselves to the foursome. “We have our caddies,” Richard said. Both boys were about ten years old and spoke limited English. They chattered between themselves in their native language, often laughing and always smiling.

  Peter asked what language they spoke, and Richard informed them that their first language was Ndebele, the most prominent Bantu language spoken in Zimbabwe. “The tribe is called the Matabele,” he said. “They actually branched off from the Zulu nation in the 1820s, so they’re close kin to the Zulus in South Africa. They are a very kind and thoughtful people, a people with a great deal of pride.”

  Peter noticed the old rifle among the clubs in one of the golf bags.

  “Just a little insurance,” Richard said when he caught Peter looking at the extra piece of equipment. He went on, “At the seventh hole, the bushes and undergrowth gets pretty dense, thick enough to hide any terrs planning to wreak havoc. Nothing has ever happened here, so not to worry. We just have to be cautious.”

  Peter nodded and told himself his hosts would not put him in harm’s way. Peter swung at his teed ball four times before he hit it, sending it twenty meters in the wrong direction. “I told you I shouldn’t be doing this! This cow pasture pool. Those caddies are going to earn their tips today. I hope I don’t lose too many of your golf balls, Richard.”

  “Not to worry,” Richard replied.

  Chad gave the three beginners several tips on improving their swings. His countless summer days and weekends at the country club had not gone to waste. With his friend’s help, Peter gained a little confidence and began to enjoy the game, much to his surprise.

  When they teed off at the seventh hole, Amanda kept her hand on the rifle. Richard pulled back, preparing to swing, when Amanda, in a swift but also clumsy motion, pulled the rifle out of the bag. She pointed toward rustling brush as two figures appeared. Two gunshots rang out; two bodies fell to the ground. Amanda hysterically shouted, “I didn’t … I shouldn’t … My God! Richard! My God!”

  “It’s okay! It’s okay!” Richard said as he grabbed a revolver hidden in a side pocket of his golf bag and began walking slowly toward two young African boys, about fourteen or fifteen. They lay motionless as he approached them.

  Richard leaned toward them and asked, “Are you fellows okay?” Both looked up and nodded. “God, I am so sorry! She wasn’t aiming at you. She couldn’t have hit you if she was. Really, I am sorry!” After shoving the handgun under his belt, Richard helped the two boys up and handed them the large sticks they had been carrying. “I am very sorry. That was quite a scare for you and us.”

  They laughed, though in a guarded manner.

  Richard shook their hands, and they walked to the far side of the fairway.

  Amanda remained frantic. “I could have killed them! God, I could have killed those boys, not much older than my own sons!”

  Richard embraced his wife and chuckled. “It’s okay. Calm down now. If you’d been trying to hit them, you wouldn’t have come close. Don’t worry, honey. There is no harm done. No harm done, love.” His lighted-hearted manner had no effect on his distraught wife.

  Their young caddies had stood watching, showing no emotion. One finally spoke to the other in Ndebele. Both looked at Amanda with intense disgust and walked away.

  They went straight home. Amanda spent ten minutes looking for some diazepam a neighbor had recently given her. When she found it, she retreated to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER 22

  Terror Next Door

  Richard shocked Peter and Chad with an invitation to join Amanda and himself at a midweek church meeting. Simon had painted him as a diehard pagan with no interest in faith of any kind. He described Richard as the black sheep of the family – the one offspring hell-bent on proving that being the prodigal son was, after all, worthwhile. Beginning at age twelve, Richard had fought with their father and preacher doggedly every Sunday morning about having to go to church. At thirteen, he argued incessantly about the ridiculousness of religion just to antagonize his father and see how red his face would become. By the time he was fifteen, he had begun drinking and staying out all night: a declaration to his father, and to his father’s God, that he rejected both. George finally admitted defeat and stopped making apologies to concerned parishioners on behalf of his embarrassingly wayward son, and both father and son stopped talking about or to each other.

  Though neither Simon nor George would ever admit it, they had long ago given up on second chances. George never believed that his wayward son might have changed, though the man made his living preaching hope for such change. When George refused to respond to Richard’s letters about meeting an eighteen-year-old girl named Amanda, about their plans to marry, and then the birth of his grandsons, Richard decided there was no point in trying to communicate. He and Simon did occasionally remember each other’s birthdays but neither thought anything of it when the other forgot. George had seen his grandchildren on the two occasions Amanda visited her family in Krugersdorp. Both times, he said, “I must come to Rhodesia to visit you.” He never followed through.

  After Richard gave the invitation he said, “Perhaps it’s odd, but more and more people are finding that faith is real and is important. Yes, you need some kind of faith, some kind of God to get you through times like this. We need faith to get through the uncertainty, the chaos, and the death that’s … that’s all around. How can you face such things without belief in some sort of God?”

  Peter nodded in agreement to be polite, but he was not quite sure how faith was supposed to make hatred, death, and terror any better.

  ***

  The meeting was at a church ten miles from West Nicolson. Fifteen people, including couples and individuals, were already engaged in animated discussion when they arrived. Each one had a rifle or pistol tucked underneath their chair.

  The group was debating whether they should have the meeting so late in the evening; many were worried about having to drive home in the dark. They deliberated for several minutes until all agreed that there were no other options. Each stated they were willing to face the risk.

  With that decided, they began sharing the latest reports from friends and family members, detailing the location of recent attacks and speculating where terrorists groups were most likely to be lurking.

  A husk
y man with a bushy, graying mustache, perhaps sixty, said, “A couple was killed at a farm twenty kilometers north. They say the terrs used armor-piercing bullets. These bullets,” he sighed, “well, they say they will go straight through ten-inch walls. We know where those bullets, those AK 47s, come from.” He looked at Peter, then Chad and shook his head. “Russia! Bloody Russia. This ups the ante, does it not? They do not even have to get close anymore. They can shoot from forty or fifty meters away and blow our brains out.”

  His wife, a heavyset woman pristinely dressed and adorned with expensive-looking jewelry that begged for attention, interrupted her husband. “Never mind that. Their poor children are orphans now. They’ll be living with their aunt. I understand she will be moving back to England soon. Bradley was their name, Jenny and Adam Bradley. I knew her mother long ago, though I never met her daughter. So tragic. Those poor, poor orphaned children.” She shook her head slowly.

  A young man in his early thirties with thick red hair and a closely trimmed beard stated he had recently been to the Bradley ranch to repair some fences and add lights to the front gate. “Adam had just lost a brother who lived at Balla Balla. He was a teacher at St. Stephens College, the boarding school there. That happened last month. He lived on the outskirts of town. They attacked his home; his wife and children were away at the store. They came home and found him beaten to death.”

  The adorned, heavyset woman spoke again. “And just think about that attack last week at St. Paul’s Mission in Lupane! Those two missionaries, young women, murdered so brutally. And that attack last month at the Musami Mission – seven … seven Roman Catholic missionaries massacred. These terrorists have no shame. No shame. Imagine targeting orphanages, missions, churches. Have they no conscience?”

  A white-haired, elderly man spoke very slowly and deliberately. “My daughter lives near Lupane, about ten kilometers from there. She and her husband have a small farm there. There is a cattle ranch a few kilometers north. James, the rancher, told my daughter that four, maybe five terrorists came to the gate of the ranch, but they turned away. They heard this from one of the terrs that was captured. He talked about going to that ranch. He said … he said that as they approached the ranch, they saw two very large soldiers guarding the gate. When they saw the guards, they turned and ran away. The family knew of no such guards or soldiers. Now, James swore it was angels watching over that ranch. I don’t know about that, but perhaps it is true. Perhaps we should take comfort in such a story.”