David felt that he had to make a point. They needed to know where he stood.
‘The situation is difficult and I understand your concerns and those are mine as well. You know I’m also a South African. We are not the problem. The Communists are. The West is reluctant to arm what they conceive to be a terrorist movement. They want to follow the route of diplomacy. However, Russia and China see an opportunity. They exploit these black nationalists, providing them with everything the West won’t give them – the ability to make war. They feed them a new ideology, weapons and advisers. That’s where the problem lies. The Communists are after an African continent with a distinct Marxist flavour. Christ! Just look at Africa, it’s already heading that way.’
‘Of course, you know that if Rhodesia goes then there eventually goes South Africa. It cannot stand alone,’ Kallie said ruefully.
‘Kallie, for God’s sake, South Africa will change. Sure, it may take fifty years but change it will. Surely, you must realise this.’
‘Well, as long as it doesn’t happen in my lifetime,’ he replied with the scorn a white man feels for his lesser black minions.
A raw nerve had been touched. Gisela had caught the last part of their conversation.
‘Please let’s discuss something more pleasant.’
They finished the meal in relative silence, their comments confined to everything but the recent events.
That night, they made love but it seemed that this was borne out of sheer desperation. It was as if they wanted to mend the divide that had crept into their relationship. Still, their passion was physically fierce. Afterwards, they clung to each other, their bodies slick with sweat, their hair damp and they gasping for breath. Not once had he said that he loved her. For the first time, she realised that she did not entirely have him, that some part of him just was not there, and she was excluded from it. It was as if their relationship had become a trial affair. He was no longer committed to the relationship.
CHAPTER 27
This was not a densely populated area, still there was the odd village, at intervals of a few miles, each containing a score or more people. Invariably fires burnt amongst the huts, he was able to see them flickering in the distance. He dared not approach. For hours, he had craved water, his mouth dry, and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Fortunately, near one of the villages he saw a cattle trough, fed by water from a small spring on a hillock. He climbed some way up the hill, collapsing on the bank of the stream, drawing the fresh cool water into his mouth. He lay there for a while listening to the voices and shouts that drifted up from the village. It sounded tranquil and peaceful. He was acutely aware of the sound of children’s happy voices. It was so far removed from his own personal predicament, his brothers being killed and his fleeing for his life. Had he really done the right thing?
He was twenty-three years old. He was born in a small village near Mount Darwin, the eldest of seven children. His father was the village headman, a proud, headstrong member of the Shona tribe. His childhood had not been easy. They existed just above the poverty line, growing their own food, and tending their own livestock, but it had been a happy and carefree life. He had the privilege of being the eldest, supported by a wonderful doting mother and a proud, but stern, father. Their village was situated near the Karanda Mission station run by the Evangelical Alliance Mission. He had attended the missionary school from an early age and was one of the few who graduated, the only black in the district with an A-Level certificate – not the best marks, but they still constituted an acceptable pass. His father’s efforts to get him admitted to university had been unsuccessful. His ambition was to be a doctor though this was not to be. They blamed the whites. White school-leavers were freely admitted although their marks were lower than his. It was clear to him that it was the colour of his skin which barred him from a better education. He was disillusioned and embittered. His father saw it differently. This was life. You could not always have what you wanted. These things happened, he had said resignedly on more than one occasion. For Sizwe, this was neither good enough nor acceptable.
He had heard that the emerging black national movements now outlawed from Rhodesia offered a university education to those who possessed the necessary qualifications and who joined their ranks. He had never been political but if he had to be so to further his education, then he would be. He had crossed the border into Zambia and presented himself to the offices of ZANU in Lusaka. He received a warm welcome, this infusing him with a new sense of belonging. Little did he realise that ZANU was about to embark on a rolling subversive military campaign against the Smith government of Rhodesia. All those young men who willingly joined, as well as those press-ganged into the parties ranks, were given very basic military training. Their purpose was to kill the white farmers, mine their roads, blow up bridges and pipelines, and so disrupt the Rhodesian economy. This had been his first incursion into Rhodesia.
He continued along the road, twice having to disappear into the bush at the approach of a vehicle. These were pickup trucks filled with blacks. He never saw any whites or police. He had left his rifle at the scene of the skirmish where he had also disposed of his ration packs and water bottle. To be caught armed could mean torture and death. He was dressed in civilian clothes, which were torn and dirty, although he had tried to clean himself up as best as he could.
The loss of his brothers left him numb and dejected. The emerging hate for the white man and the Ian Smith government threatened to mentally overwhelm him. It was not the manner in which they had died, it was the loss itself. He would have summarily killed any white had they captured them, even if this included women and children. His Komissar was emphatic: all should be killed; no prisoners were to be taken, as this would send a strong message – a bolt of fear through the white population.
The team had agreed on a rendezvous point along the banks of the Zambezi River. It took him four days of walking at night to get there. There was no sign of the police. It seemed they were under the impression that they had killed or captured all the insurgents who had been part of the raid.
He stood on the bank looking down at the body of slow-moving water, the sole survivor. He was weak, having eaten little more than a few raw corn cobs stolen from a village.
They had used wooden flat-bottomed boats to cross the river. The river was not particularly wide at this point, only a hundred yards or so. Huge trees lined the riverbanks, the bush in close proximity to the water, near impenetrable. The boats were pulled up on the riverbank, hidden under cut-down thorn bushes. He found these in the early hour of the morning just as the first light of day began to flood the Bushveld. An attempt to cross the river by day would be foolhardy. He would wait until nightfall.
While he wished to cross the river as soon as possible, he anticipated the eventual confrontation with his ZANU superior with mounting anxiety. They were harsh and cruel people who considered failure traitorous and it was quietly rumoured amongst the comrades that they tortured and killed those who had failed the cause. He was the only survivor. Had he failed the cause?
He was in acute pain. Most of his blisters had burst, now weeping a pink liquid with blood, the first signs of infection visible.
He knew the position of a small base established across the river in Zambia. It was from here that the raid had been launched and orders were that they were to return to that camp. That night he pushed a boat into the water. The task was difficult, the boat heavy and he weak and in excruciating pain. Kneeling in the prow of the boat, he slowly paddled across the dark water.
The boat had barely grounded when men emerged from the thickets. They waded into the water and grabbed the gunwales, dragging the boat up the embankment. Willing hands grabbed him and guided him out of the boat. They placed him on a stretcher and carried him along a trail through the bush. He was hardly aware of his surroundings, exhausted to a near-blackout and in acute pain. Two men walked on each side of him, one holding his hand. An indescribable sense of relief o
vercame him. He had made it. He had survived.
The hospital facilities at the base camp were primitive, no more than a building constructed of ugly ash brick with a corrugated iron roof. There was no ceiling or windows, just holes in the walls. Only a medical orderly served the medical station. There was no doctor. Nonetheless, the man did the best he could, inserting a saline drip, cleaning the blisters and applying an antibiotic powder. The orderly had also administered an injection to alleviate the pain. By the second day they considered him sufficiently recovered to travel and placed him a on a stretcher which they slid onto the back of a pickup truck. They left for Lusaka with the medical orderly in attendance.
Things were a lot better organised in Lusaka. They summoned a civilian doctor who replaced his dressings and gave him an antibiotic injection. They had assigned a black nurse, presumably one of their own people, to look after him. Once he had settled in, they told him that Joshua Nkomo would see him the next day.
He jerked inwardly at the sound of the name, a feeling of fear washed over him. Nkomo was the current leader of the ZANU movement, an astute man who fearlessly took on the forces of the Rhodesian government. He was the thorn in Ian Smith’s side and had repeatedly avoided capture. He had successfully mobilised the black masses against the Smith regime. They said he was ruthless, with little compassion for the weak.
Nkomo was a big man. His face sat on a square neck, as wide as his ample, flabby cheeks. He stood over six feet and weighed well in excess of two hundred pounds. He was dressed in quill khaki trousers with a matching shirt. In his hand, he held an ornate flywhisk made of wood with long ox-tail hairs protruding from the end, which he continuously whisked around him, more out of habit than to dispel any flies. Beady eyes peered through rolls of fat. He perspired profusely, sweat beading visibly on his brow and cheeks, the faint acrid smell discernible through the man’s deodorant. He stood next to Sizwe’s bed surrounded by two of his aides, the three men towering over the prone man.
‘We mourn the loss of your two brothers and the death of the others. They are true heroes of the cause, but you are the first living hero. Your attack has sent a ripple of shock through the white population and awakened a feeling of resolution in our own people. It is in all the newspapers. Our people have realised that we are no longer just a threat. We are now a reality the whites will have to reckon with.’ Nkomo paused for a moment, seemingly appraising the young man before him. ‘We have no medals to give you and, yes, you are young. Still, what you have done cannot go unrewarded. Be proud, you have just been earmarked for proper officer training. Every Shona and Ndebele salutes you. Thank you.’
Sizwe was flabbergasted, not sure that he heard correctly.
‘Thank you,’ was all he whispered. A candidate officer, what did that mean?
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Nkomo asked.
‘Yes, I’d like to study medicine at a university,’ he whispered.
A shadow of annoyance swept over Nkomo’s face.
‘That later,’ he retorted with barely concealed irritation, ‘we will look into that, but for now we must fight on and free ourselves from the yoke of colonialism. The whites don’t want to do this peacefully, so we have no alternative but to resort to force. For all whites – men, women and children – we must make our country unsafe until they relent and free us or until we overrun the country and take control,’ Nkomo said, his vehemence so intense a droplet of spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Sizwe made no reply.
The imposing man seemed to recollect himself. ‘Again, we thank you, Comrade Sybonga, our medical people will look after you, and when you have recovered I will call for you.’
CHAPTER 28
David arrived back at the office to find Doyle waiting for him. The mere sight of the man left him with a feeling of foreboding. He was not one to bring glad tidings.
After exchanging perfunctory greetings, David asked, ‘What brings you here? I thought you the proverbial “Elusive Pimpernel”, never to be seen again, or so at least I hoped!’
Doyle laughed. ‘When would I ever go forth and do battle with the English without Lord Tusk at my side?’
His feelings of apprehension were spot on. He looked at the large man in front of him. Christ, he thought, the bastard actually enjoys his job. ‘You know my sentiments. I wish I had never met you!’
Again the man laughed, brushing David’s protestations aside. He was dressed in a suit, which seemed out of character, most of the men opting for something more comfortable in the oppressive summer heat. ‘Come, David,’ he beckoned, ‘let’s find somewhere secure where we can talk. I’ve others who will be joining us.’
They retired to one of the many mini boardrooms, David ordering coffee from the tea girl on the floor.
Just as they sat down, Anthony Gainsborough entered with John Taylor in tow. David’s heart sank. Something big had to be afoot, of that he was certain. Taylor had not changed. He would always remain the bureaucratic lackey that he was, a civil servant to the core, dour and not prone to laughter; everything was serious. In contrast, Tony’s face beamed at seeing David. The man had undergone a metamorphism; he radiated a picture of heath. He had gained weight, not fat but muscle tone. The pilot had obviously being doing some serious exercising, David thought.
‘Jesus, Tony, who are you trying to emulate? You look a damn sight better than two months ago.’
‘Bond, James Bond,’ Tony replied jokingly with a smile. ‘I’ve got the job but not yet the physique, but I’m trying.’
Everybody laughed. The latest James Bond film, Thunderball, opened almost ten months ago, but Bond’s effect on the people was still profound. Hardly had the film had its premiere in Leicester Square, London, when it was showing in Salisbury. Truly, the Rhodesians’ ingenuity knew no bounds.
‘No, I just gave up drinking, or rather I only do so in moderation, you know, only beer. I’ve also been exercising.’
‘Good for you.’
Everybody sat down, the initial joviality disappearing. ‘David, we need you again,’ Doyle quietly said.
David shook his head. ‘C’mon guys, this is not for me. This is really not my fight. You should know that by now. It’s also not my game!’
‘Sorry, friend. Nobody speaks the lingo as you do. German, French. You know Europe, you know aircraft, and you are a legitimate foreigner.’
‘That means fuck all. I mean, there must be others who fit the bill?’ He simply could not dispel the feeling of dread that had manifested itself.
‘Christ, David! We need you,’ John Taylor said. ‘We simply can’t do this without you.’
‘Why not?’
‘We have managed to ship the remaining Alouettes out of France in crates by sea to Lebanon. They can’t leave the country before we pay. Hiram has paid the French but we have to pay him. He won’t deal with anyone else except you. He’s adamant. He’s not about to give the Alouettes to us on credit!’
‘Listen, I’m not flying any aircraft loaded with these helicopters,’ he said with growing frustration.
‘No, you don’t have to, Tony and his men will do that. Just look after the payment for us. We may have to make two or three payments.’
‘Two or three! Christ, that’s madness, making just the one is dangerous enough. The Brits have learnt. They’re wide-awake now. What’s the problem?’ David complained.
Doyle fished a packet of cigarettes out of his suit pocket and proceeded to light up. ‘Like I said before. We’ve got a leak. MI6 has descended on Beirut in force. They’ve got at least ten operatives in the city. I won’t say they’re all waiting for us, but some must be.’
David sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, his face an expression of resignation. ‘What are you sending me on, a suicide mission? Well, that’s reason enough not to go there at all.’
‘Just hang on,’ Doyle interrupted, waving his protestations aside. ‘As I said, no flying all over the place, nothing like that.
Just meet and pay Hiram, that’s all. I know that this sounds like we are asking you, but actually you’re being ordered. You know that anyway,’ he said, turning his palms up in a gesture of resignation.
He knew that, strictly speaking, Doyle was right. He was a member of the military and an officer to boot, not that he believed they would ever really order him to do so. They would rather that he ‘volunteered’.
‘Okay, give me some background. How’s this going to be done?’ he sighed.
‘Good boy. We’ve still got a whack of German passports, which Mrs Mentz got from God knows where. These haven’t been used at all. Secondly, Siemens, you know, the telecommunications people, recently sold a host of new telephone exchanges to the Lebanese government. Apparently they’ve gone for a total overhaul of the system, a one- to two-year job. You will be a legitimate member of the Siemens task team. So will Mrs Mentz.’
‘Gisela is going?’ he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘In fact, we’ve gone one better. Siemens took over a hotel on the Beirut beachfront to accommodate their staff. You will have rooms in the hotel. A private French firm is handling the security. No British agent or anybody else is going to simply walk in.’
‘What do you know about all these MI6 operatives, why so many?’
‘We don’t know, but what we do know is that they have Hiram under observation around the clock. He told us himself. He says you need to be careful. It’s a “don’t call me, I’ll call you” situation,’ Doyle said.
Nobody said anything. Everyone waited.
Finally, Doyle exhaled. ‘Look, man, they may know you’re coming but as to what and when they don’t know. Not even I know yet.’
David nodded, indicating that he understood.
‘Okay,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘Let me first speak to Gisela.’
Doyle was right. It seemed the only aircraft he would fly on belonged to the airline that flew them to Europe.
The Blockade Runners Page 18
