Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  The two friends headed towards a man who looked like he was probably in charge by virtue of the fact that he was the one issuing the orders.

  As they got closer, all of the men pointed their rifles at the two friends. The atmosphere was tense.

  'The words, frying pan and fire come to mind,' said Garrett in a low voice. 'Not sure about you but I don't think that we're out of the shit yet.'

  'Let me do the talking,' responded Petrus. 'Greetings,' he said to the leader. 'I am Petrus; this here is my friend Garrett. We are in your debt, stranger.'

  The man nodded. 'My name is Mandla. These are my men. And you owe us nothing, friend,' he continued. 'Any opportunity to kill members of the Fifth Brigade are a welcome bonus to us.' He waved his hand at his men and they all lowered their rifles.

  'I don't understand,' said Garrett. 'Who are you guys?'

  'We are Matabele,' answered Mandla. 'Former members of ZIPRA, the Zimbabwe People's Liberation Army. We used to be part of the Patriotic Front and we fought alongside Mugabe and his Shona tribe during the war against the white oppressors. But after we won, Mugabe spurned us. He sent his Fifth Brigade monkeys to exterminate us. We killed many of them so he put a price on our heads. Now we live in seclusion, exiles in our own country. I myself used to be a major. A man of some substance. Now I am once again a simple guerilla fighter, living off the land.'

  'But that was over twenty five years ago,' said Garrett.

  'Yes,' said Mandla. 'But hatred knows no time limits. The Fifth Brigade are our enemies. Now and always. And Mugabe has never rescinded his kill-on-sight order, nor will he. So, we are still at war. Even though twenty five years have passed. Anyway, a few days ago we saw the Chinese come into our area so we followed them. We watched you kill them all and we thought that perhaps we should then kill you and take your weapons. But then the Fifth Brigade started to hunt you down - and so you became our brothers.'

  'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,' commented Garrett.

  'Yes,' declared Mandla. 'That is it exactly. So, we followed you and watched and waited for the right moment. The rest, you saw.'

  'I knew that we were being followed by someone else,' said Petrus.

  Mandla shook his head. 'No way, man. You suspected. You never knew for sure. We're good man. Real good. We've lived here our whole lives so we should be. Mind you, we were surprised that you even suspected. What did you see?'

  Petrus shook his head. 'Nothing. I could feel someone's eyes on me, that's all.'

  Mandla clicked his tongue in irritation. 'I've told my guys not to do that. Never look at someone too hard or too long, I told them. The good ones can feel that and you'll give away your position. So, let's get you guys stitched up, fed and watered and then you can tell us what the hell you are doing here. Then we will decide if we are all still friends.'

  Mandla's men had already set up camp near to the destroyed APC after piling the dead bodies into a natural donga, a ditch, in the landscape and covering them with a screen of branches.

  Mandla gestured for the two friends to sit next to the fire and an older man came and checked their wounds. A shard of steel had sliced Petrus' scalp open to the bone above his right ear. The old man introduced himself as Doc Johnston and he set about cleaning and stitching Petrus' lesion. He was very good, his stitches neat and the bandage tight and professional.

  Garrett's wound was a little more problematic. He had actually been shot twice. Both glancing blows at almost right angles on the top of his head. A ragged X shaped gash. Doc Johnston tutted and shook his head as he worked, like the wound was Garrett's fault or that he had had a choice in the matter and had deliberately chosen a laceration that was difficult to stitch up.

  But eventually Doc sorted it out. He wound a bandage around the soldier's head, taped it and gave him a thumb up in approval.

  'I am sorry,' he said to both of them. 'I have nothing to give you for the pain. You will simply have to ignore it.'

  Both Garrett and Petrus thanked him and complimented him on his work. He smiled, genuinely pleased.

  Then Mandla called them to the cooking pot to help themselves to food.

  The rebels had cooked a stiff maize meal porridge and, on the side, a gravy of onions, and Mopani worms, a worm that looked much like a silk worm, and a large amount of spicy hot curry powder. Both Garrett and Petrus ate until their stomachs felt distended, such was their need for sustenance.

  'So,' said Mandla, once the two had eaten their fill. 'Tell me your story. Why are you here?'

  So Petrus told their story, leaving nothing out. The rebels were all gathered round and they all showed much interest, asking questions if they needed clarification, voicing their displeasure when they felt the need and nodding their approval when they perceived a triumph.

  At the end of the tail they all clapped as if Petrus had just performed a play for their entertainment. Some patted him on the back and others chatted amongst themselves, condemning the villains and approving the heroes.

  'Good story,' said Mandla. 'And well told. And the fact that the Fifth Brigade are after you means that you must have seriously annoyed that human turd, Mugabe. For that we are thankful. And I agree with you,' he addressed Petrus. 'You need to kill this Chinaman or your brother will not find rest. I think that I know someone who might help. Do you have money?'

  Petrus nodded.

  'Good. The man that you need is about six hours away. More if we walk. But before we go you two must rest. You both look as if death has already staked her claim on you and she is simply waiting for you to realize the fact.'

  'I have felt better,' admitted Petrus.

  The Doc came over with two threadbare gray blankets and handed one to each of them. 'Sleep,' he commanded. 'You are safe here. We will wake you when necessary.'

  The two men lay down where they were, rolled themselves up in the blankets and fell immediately into a death like slumber.

  Chapter 33

  Mandla shook them both awake after eight hours. It was dark and the campfire had already been extinguished. He handed them a handful of cold maize cakes and a canteen of water. They ate and drank quickly, tightened their boots, put their webbing on, slung their rifles over their shoulders and stood ready.

  Mandla led the way, heading northwest at a slow jog, keeping track by the light emitted by the sliver of a bright blue new moon. Garrett and Petrus ran behind him and behind them the rest of the rebels fanned out.

  They ran without talk, their breathing low and steady. They stopped only for water and, after five hours, for a bite to eat. But no one complained or spoke out, they merely ran.

  Garrett felt at ease. It had been a long time since he had last been in a large group of men such as these. Hard men. Men who fought for what they believed in. Men who lived off the land, never complained. Men who never even thought of death even though it was their constant companion. For they knew that any soldier that thinks of death would soon become a dead soldier. Because darkness is all encompassing and to contemplate it, is to allow it access. And then, instead of fighting, one instead attempts to avoid death. But there is no way that death can be avoided. It is inevitable. Implacable. So it was better to ignore it completely and, in doing so, to live one's life more completely.

  Neither Garrett nor Petrus asked whom they were going to see or where they were going. To do so would have been disrespectful. Mandla had stated that he knew someone who might help and that was enough. To question him would be seen as the height of discourtesy.

  So they simply ran on, keeping their eyes open, breathing easily. At one with their surroundings.

  The sun rose in the African way. First the gray of the false dawn, then a retreat back into night and finally the sun itself, bold and red as it painted the land in shades of blood. They halted again for a quick food break and then continued.

  Before the next hour was up they got the first glimpse of what Garrett assumed must be their destination. A small, rectangular house, its roof a mix of corrugat
ed iron and raw African thatch. A patio surrounded the house. Next to it an old windmill to draw water from the borehole. All around the dwelling were chickens and domesticated guinea fowl, running free. Also dogs, three of them, all of such mixed parentage as to have homogenized into a breed that could only be described as Zimbabwean bush mongrel.

  But the thing that really grabbed Garrett's attention, stood in front of the house looking like a giant insect from the realms of fantasy. With its long tail and two pairs of gossamer wings above, it gave the impression of movement even though it was standing still.

  It was an old Allouette III helicopter, circa nineteen sixty.

  'The old white man who might help you lives here,' said Mandla. 'We call him The Old Man. He has a helicopter. And it works. He hates the Chinamen.'

  'Why?' Asked Garrett.

  'Because he hates everybody,' answered Mandla. 'He used to be a combat pilot in the old days. Rhodesian fire force so he hates Mugabe. He hates the Chinese because he says that they are raping the country. He likes us because we also hate Mugabe. If you pay him he will probably help you to find the Chinaman and his train.' The rebel motioned to his men. 'Stay here. You two come with me,' he said to Garrett and Petrus. 'Leave your weapons with my men.'

  Doc took the two friend's rifles and then Mandla, Garrett and Petrus walked slowly towards the farmhouse door. When they were about fifty yards away a rifle shot rang out and a puff of dust leapt up next to Garrett's foot.

  'Hey, Old Man, it's me, Mandla. Careful with that rifle. You might hit me with a warning shot by mistake.'

  'That wasn't a warning shot,' shouted The Old Man.' I was trying to hit you. Eyes aren't what they used to be.'

  'Well don't, shoot again. You know me,' urged Mandla.

  'True,' replied The Old Man. 'But who the hell are those other two? Don't know them. What's a white man doing out here? Thought that I was the only white man for a hundred miles. Not a missionary is he? Hate missionaries.'

  'No, not missionaries,' shouted Mandla. 'They're friends of mine. They killed some Chinamen and then they helped us to kill some Fifth Brigade troops.'

  'Oh well, that's okay then,' said The Old man. 'Hate those fuckers even more than missionaries. Come on in.'

  Another shot cracked out and whipped over their heads. All three hit the floor.

  'Sorry,' shouted The Old Man. 'My mistake. Slipped.'

  Chapter 34

  The inside of The Old Man's house was surprisingly neat. Old, well polished furniture, a dining table, a hand woven grass mat.

  Scores of original paintings covered the walls. Watercolors in vibrant color. Reds and yellow predominated. Mainly landscapes but done with a philosopher's eye, almost surreal, capturing the spirit of the land as opposed to merely recording what it looked like at the time.

  The Old Man himself was painfully thin. A proud six foot three shrunken by time to a bent five foot eleven. A long gray beard and mustache, hair flowed down his back, tied into a loose ponytail. Both mustache and beard were yellowed with nicotine stains. His twinkling blue eyes peered out of a weather-ravaged face with more than a hint of barely controlled insanity.

  Knobbly knees stuck out below too large khaki shorts and his boots, polished to a mirror shine, looked as big as clown shoes on the end of his long spindly legs.

  Garrett stared at the paintings. 'Nice,' he said.

  'They're mine. I did them,' said The Old Man.

  'Well they are very, very good,' commented Garrett with sincere praise.

  'Yes,' agreed The Old Man. 'They are.'

  Garrett smiled and held out his hand. 'Pleased to meet you, sir,' he greeted. 'My name is Garrett and this here is my friend Petrus.'

  Petrus nodded his hello.

  The Old Man shook Garrett's hand. 'Hello, young fellow. My name is…' he thought for a while, head cocked to one side. Finally he committed himself. 'Fucked if I can remember. These bastards call me The Old Man. Have done for so long I'm not even sure if I ever had another name, so I guess Old Man will have to do.' Once again he paused in thought. 'I suppose if you want to be formal it would have to be mister Old Man, or maybe mister Man,' he rambled as he walked through to the kitchen.

  'Come on,' he continued. 'Follow me. So, any of you fellows want tea or coffee?'

  'Coffee would be good,' said Garrett.

  Petrus nodded. 'Coffee sounds great,' he agreed.

  Old Man glanced around the kitchen with an expression of confusion. Finally he went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid and four thick tumblers. 'And just where the fuck did you gentlemen think that I could get coffee?' He asked. 'The local grocers? Don't be stupid. Got this though,' he shook the bottle and then poured four tumblers full. 'Make it myself from distilled vegetable peelings.'

  They all took their drinks and shot them down in one. Garrett grimaced. It tasted like benzene, raw, oily and powerful. By the time he had blinked the tears from his eyes Old Man had refilled all of their glasses.

  'Now, young gentlemen,' said Old Man. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?'

  So Petrus told him their story.

  Old Man nodded every now and then. He asked a few questions and he kept their glasses constantly filled, encouraging them to drink every now and then.

  When Petrus' story had finished Old Man nodded. 'Right,' he said. 'Any money?'

  Petrus pulled out a wad of dollars. Old Man took it from him, counted out two thousand and handed the rest back. 'That should cover expenses,' he said.

  'When can we go?' Asked Garrett.

  'No time like the present,' replied Old Man. 'Let's fuel up and get flying.' He stood up and headed for the door, staggering slightly from the effects of the moonshine that he had just imbibed.

  They filed out of the front door and walked towards the helicopter. Mandla beckoned to his troops to join him and they all approached, chatting and laughing as they did so.

  Garrett did a double take when he got close to the Allouette. The left hand door was missing completely. There were holes in the floor and sundry wires hung from the roof, dangling down into the cockpit like lima creepers or tentacles of some hybrid half-tree-half-machine.

  ‘I’ll get her going while you load up,’ said Old Man as he clambered inside and started to flick switches and join wires together, like he was hot-wiring the machine as opposed to being its rightful owner.

  Doc brought their rifles and packs over and the two friends tossed them into the back of the cab.

  ‘I could have wished for a better ride,’ said Petrus. ‘This one doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. And as for the pilot…well, the less said.’

  ‘If wishes were horses beggars would ride,’ quipped Garrett.

  ‘Yeah, and eat horse meat,’ added the Zulu. ‘But be that as it may, do you reckon that this heap of shit will even get airborne, let alone fly anywhere?’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Old Man. ‘Now apologize or I won’t take you anywhere.’

  ‘Sorry, Old Man,’ said Petrus.

  ‘Not to me, you idiot,’ said Old man. ‘You didn’t insult me. Apologize to the helicopter.’

  ‘Okay. What’s its name?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ answered Old Man. It’s an inanimate object. It doesn’t have a blasted name.’

  ‘Sorry, helicopter,’ said Petrus as he rolled his eyes at Garrett.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ said Old Man as he flicked a final switch.

  The rotors started to spin. Very slowly, like a windmill in the mildest of zephyrs. And then they sped up. The engine coughed and spluttered and then backfired with a series of staccato shots. Smoke billowed and the rotors rotated faster and faster until they were a blur of light and steel.

  Old Man unfolded a map and traced a route.

  ‘We’ll head here,’ he shouted over the cacophony of the beating engine. ‘It’s the train line from Bulawayo to Lusaka. You say that your Chinese fellow hired himself a private train, two coaches and an engine, so
he should be piss easy to spot. Most of the trains that plow that route are long bastards. Forty plus carriages. So the moment that we see a short-assed one, that’s our man. I drop you off; you kill the fuckers, back in time for tea.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ agreed Garrett.

  Old Man nodded, flicked a final couple of switches, settled back in his seat and pushed the stick forward whilst adjusting the rudders. The helicopter screamed and bucked and shuddered into the air like an ancient swan attempting to escape the clutches of the water.

  And once they were airborne the progress wasn’t much better as Old Man had to constantly apply left and right rudder. It was less flying and more rodeo-bull-riding as he wrestled the helicopter into a relatively straight and level flight path.

  The Allouette III travels in excess of one hundred and thirty miles an hour. However, the relic that was propelling them through the air was showing every one of its fifty years of age. The average combat helicopter has a lifespan in the region of one thousand five hundred hours before it needs a massive overhaul. Old Man’s machine had probably done way over four thousand hours since its last service and overhaul. This basically meant that the tree passengers were literally flying on a wing and a prayer. Every second on the air was a second on borrowed time.

  The Allouette thundered and hammered through the African sky, heading north north west as Old Man headed towards Bulawayo to pick up the tracks from there to Livingstone and the Victoria Falls.

  Within two hours they had overflown the town of Bulawayo and were following the railway tracks towards the border. On their left stretched the vast plains of the Hwange National Park, the largest game park in Zimbabwe.

  Old Man pointed down. ‘See there,’ he shouted over the cacophony of the engine and gearbox. ‘That waterhole. Last year, fucking poachers dumped a barrel of Cyanide into the water. Did it to poison the elephants that drink there every night. Killed over one hundred and fifty of them. Dead elephants as far as you could see. Fucking tragic. Bastards. I helped to track the poachers down. Caught three of them. Nothing happened to them. Rumor says that some government minister was involved so the investigation was over before it even began.’