Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  I try not to let my mind wander, watch for the odd shape, some­thing shiny, something other than the natural line of a bush or tree. I think of Ethan, of home, but also of Dylan and Frank­ie, Dorman and Gerrie; incomplete thoughts, unresolved emo­tions.

  There is a different kind of boredom on patrol—it’s tedium on the move. I look down at my feet and observe the rhythm: one boot showing, then the other; right, then left, then right, then left. The sun bakes down on my shoulders, on my brown shirt, smelling now of old, sour sweat. Is someone following my spoor? Why don’t I care? It feels good not to care. We are repeatedly warned against POM-Z booby traps with green tripwire. If you trigger one, your feet and legs are turned to pulp. As the hours drag by, my vigilance wavers. The thought of dying also feels painless in this heat-induced trance. Like a camel, I rock on my feet, my rifle and the medical bag constantly in the way.

  My head snaps back as a hard thump drives into my right shoulder. I stumble but don’t fall. Then the pain moves down my arm. With the pain comes the jingle of the buckles of Dor­man’s rifle strap, the now familiar sound, when he hits me with his ri­fle butt. I lift my head and align my rifle with my chest. Dorman says nothing and walks back to his position in the formation. The pain allows me to nurse my loathing.

  In the early evening we establish a temporary base, referred to as a TB. From where we lie in our sleeping bags, I see a black korhaan climb into the sky, its call like an underpowered diesel engine. It climbs at an impossible angle, then appears to run out of power and plummet. Malcolm has also noticed it.

  ‘Is it going to crash?’

  ‘No, that’s how it flies. It opens its wings just before it gets to the ground, but you don’t see it land because of the long grass, so it looks like it’s crashed.’

  ‘Crazy, hey?’

  At the base we do not interact with Koevoet. They don’t talk to us; we are low-fat milk and they are jet-fuel.

  ***

  Malcolm and I are sitting outside the base, on the concrete strip against the wall of a shed that contains spares for the Hippos and Buffels. The bush is beautiful, but from where we sit, we see only parts of cars, a gravel road, a water tower and a kuka shop, with the trees way beyond. It is our time off, and we’re talking about the music we like.

  ‘What’s the first LP you ever bought?’ Malcolm wants to know. ‘Can you remember?’

  ‘Neil Diamond, Hot August Night. I loved it. But you know, Mal, just because it was pop music, I thought it was evil. I tried not to like it. That’s how fucked up I was.’

  ‘Evil? Neil Diamond!’

  I start singing, ‘And the time will be our time, and the grass won’t pay no mind . . .’ Then, louder, ‘Child, touch my soul with your cries, and the music will know what we’ve found, I’ll hear a hundred goodbyes, but today I will hear only one sound . . .’ Now my voice is booming, ‘For the moment we’re living is NOW, NOW, NOW! . . . and . . . now . . . I can’t remember the words . . .’

  We both laugh, but suddenly we become pensive and peace­ful, with an unspoken understanding swaying between us.

  ‘Imagine, Mal, if I could be lying next to Ethan, kissing him, feeling his hair, feeling him, just being there with him, you know. It’s almost unthinkable . . . especially here. Do you think it will ever happen?’

  ‘You and Ethan?’

  ‘No, just experiencing that feeling with someone you love.’

  ‘For sure it’ll happen, otherwise what’s the point of living?’

  A Hippo comes travelling towards us on the road we use for patrols. Dust billows from under the large tyres. Tied to the front grill is something dark. Malcolm and I carry on talking, but then we see that the dark shape is a man and he is alive.

  ‘It’s an anti-landmine tactic, but it will only work if he planted the mine himself.’

  The man tied to the bumper dangles from the ropes in agony. I’m sure they wouldn’t even hear or see him if he had to shout or wave at them over the bonnet.

  A little later an Alouette lands in a halo of dust. Koevoet uses helicopters in what they call a killing partnership. Koevoet is still young, taking shape and finding its feet. But in a short pe­riod of time they have become so strong that they set the record for the most kills per unit and developed hitherto unused tactics for guerrilla warfare.

  For all my aversion to the war, there are still certain aspects I find interesting—the sound of a turbine when a chopper starts up, for example; the pilot running through the checks; the huge machine lifting off, with all the noise and upset to everything around it.

  One day, during our time off, Mal and I hear excited talking from behind a building and I get up to see if our position has been discovered. I see a pilot and six men walking towards an Alouette. The pilot climbs into the machine, and behind him two Ovambo Koevoet soldiers are dragging a black man who is tied up. I notice that it is the same man who was tied to the front of the Hippo. There is an older Ovambo walking close to the pris­oner, talking to him.

  Malcolm and I find a position behind an old Hippo engine block and sit down to listen to the muffled sounds coming from the group. The black man is begging, his speech fast, and his eyes darting from the older Ovambo to the two officers who are obviously the decision makers.

  The pilot has headphones on and is concentrating on the con­trols between the seats and in front of him, flicking switches and looking at dials. Then he turns and looks at the officers.

  The most senior of the group signals to the pilot, twisting his hand above his head as if he too has become a helicopter. The pi­lot applies himself to the controls, and slowly the top rotor starts moving. At the same time the tail rotor starts flipping over and over until the stripes on the blades blur into circles painted on air.

  The captive’s voice rises with the sounds of the Alouette’s mo­tor until it becomes a howling whine. One man signals to the two Ovambo’s, who start dragging their captive to the open door of the chopper. One of them takes a bag out of his pocket and tries to pull it over the man’s head. He buckles in protest. The down­ward force of the helicopter blades rips at their clothing. One of the men, dressed in browns, runs towards them, bends below the blades, pulls the hood violently over the prisoner’s head and ties a rope around his neck. He and the older Ovambo load the hooded man in the chopper and strap him in.

  I will always remember that face just before the bag covered it: puffed up, the black and white contrast of the terrified eyes, teeth clenched, neck pulled into his shoulders, howling and writhing to get away.

  The pitch of the blades changes, and a mini dust storm de­velops as the chopper lifts off. It climbs a short way, and the pilot tilts the nose down while it moves upwards and forward. Then the pilot flies around the base, pulls the craft into a hover, stabilises it and moves slowly down towards the place where he took off. The Alouette floats just above the ground for what feels like a long time. Something appears from the side and falls to the ground. In its short fall we see that it is the insurgent. It is neither hard nor far but it is bound in terror. There is a dreadful tension in his body as he lies shaking on the ground. The chop­per moves a short distance away and lands.

  Everybody but the pilot, who does not shut down the motor, gathers around the insurgent. They are bent over him, the one Ovambo listening with his ear close to the man’s mouth. He straightens up, cups his hand and talks into the senior officer’s ear.

  The chopper leaves, and the men start dragging the prisoner back to wherever he is kept. Soil is glued to his frayed clothing where sweat and urine have soaked it. But the real damage is not to his frame; he is shredded from within.

  ‘We can never talk about this, Nick.’ Mal is waxen, goose bumps on his arms.

  ‘No, we have to get out of here. If they know we’ve seen this, we’ll be in deep shit.’

  I fondle the wire-bound diary in my top pocket. I want to record what I have seen, but decide against it. Removing the little book, I look at it as if for the first time, even
though it is so full of my thoughts and feelings.

  There are poems I wrote about the war, my infatuation with Ethan—referred to as ‘E’ and never as he. There are two good gesture drawings and many small sketches for sculptures, which I decide look way too much like Henry Moore’s.

  Most of the writings in the book are prayers, and surprisingly many of them are prayers of thanks. I analyse concepts; inter­pret my experiences. There is much about joy and love, and even more about death, woven between plump Picasso-esque draw­ings with turbulent expressions and figures of skeletal children.

  6

  Good night, Mom.’

  ‘Good night, you two. Did you wash behind your ears?’

  ‘Yes, Mom. You always ask us that.’

  ‘I know, and your necks?’

  ‘Yes, Mom, you always ask us that too.’

  ‘You should see what your collars look like. Don’t worry, boys, I believe you. Come here . . . mm, you smell so nice.’ She has both of us in her arms, me on the right and Frankie on the left.

  ‘Say good night then, and run along. I’ll come and tuck you in later.’ We kiss her—left cheek, right cheek and then on the lips. When she lets go, I can feel her need to hold on.

  ‘Good night, Dad,’ we chorus.

  ‘I’ll tuck you in tonight,’ he says, and we leave the room, which is warm with the glow of the paraffin heater. Mom calls after us, ‘Remember your prayers, boys! Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

  Our father follows and tucks us in.

  ‘Tight, Dad, please, tight.’

  ‘No, Nicholas, not too tight. Then you can’t kneel to say your prayers,’ Frankie says.

  ‘Tonight you can just lie on your backs and say your prayers. It’s OK, God will understand. Good night, boys.’

  ‘Good night, Dad,’ we say in unison.

  ‘How much do you love me, hey?’ he asks.

  ‘We love you as much as all the ships.’

  ‘And trains . . . and planes,’ Frankie adds.

  ‘And cars . . .’ Then we start naming them—Pontiac, Chev, Ford, Valiant, Volkswagen, Mercedes, Land Rover, Mini, Austin, Cit­roen, Renault . . . Uhm . . . Aston Martin, Ferrari, Jag . . .

  ‘OK, boys, that’s enough. Sleep tight now.’

  7

  The coffee’s ready. Where’s your fire bucket?’

  ‘Here, thanks.’ I unclip the handle and swing it around, then secure it with its slide to make sure it will not slip out and tip the coffee over me.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘One-ish.’

  ‘Shit, three more hours to go.’ In the bunker the smell of the coffee mingles with the dust from the sandbag walls. In some places the hessian is torn and sand has leaked out. Ahead, over my R1, is the shoulder-high slit we look through. Hour after hour I watch as the Southern Cross does an almost 180˚ turn on its invisible axis. Over and over I mark south and recalculate the position. It’s very reliable, and each time I remember Jeffrey’s and saying goodbye to Storm. He would not approve of me be­ing on the border.

  Through this little window of war I feel the power of the stars. Their eternity makes this conflict that is so large in my life seem tiny.

  To the right of us, in no man’s land, is the shower trailer, and on the other side of the landmine area stands a house. Must have been the foreman’s cottage before the war, I think. The house is dark, and I imagine that it would have been a good cover if I were planning an attack on our base. I should keep my eye on the building. But it makes me uneasy. To the right of the struc­ture, much further behind it, is a palm tree, which is my marker for south. I close one eye and line it up with the sights of my rifle. How far in that direction is home? I wonder.

  The coffee tastes better than anything I have ever tasted in the army.

  ‘Hey, Mal, this is awesome. What did you do? I mean, how did you make this?’

  ‘I made it with long-life milk, no water.’ He is proud and hap­py that I like it. ‘And lots of coffee.’

  ‘Shit, it’s nice. But where did you get all the milk?’ That is the question he has been waiting for.

  ‘I stole it.’

  ‘WHAT? Are you mad? What else did you steal?’

  ‘Oh, you’re going to love me!’

  ‘I already do, that’s why I want you to be careful. I’ll crack if you end up in DB.’

  ‘Biscuits, and not dog biscuits either.’ He produces a packet of Romany Creams.

  ‘Jeez! We’d better push the wrapper in between the sand bags, or burn it.’

  ‘Yes, Dorman doesn’t need much of an excuse to get rid of us.’

  ‘Have you ever hated anybody so much?’

  ‘Yes, my sister’s husband.’

  ‘Oh, the macho dude.’

  ‘Yes. And I put pool chlorine in his hair-growing lotion.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I stayed with them for a while. He was such a doos, such an absolute fool, I can’t tell you. Telling me I’m a sissy and that kind of shit. But he had this receding hairline and he religiously rubbed in this hair-grow stuff. My sister also had to rub it in from time to time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I just sort of doctored it a little. He got such a rash he stopped using it. Even my sister’s hands would burn. And now he’s completely bald.’

  ‘Wish you could do that to Dorman.’

  ‘You know what was the most fucked up thing of all? I lusted after him!’

  ‘Man, you’re a mess.’

  ‘Let me tell you something else.’

  ‘NOW what have you done?’

  ‘I sheila’ed in Dorman’s bush hat.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And pissed on his clothing before I hung it up to dry.’

  ‘Fuck, you like living dangerously. He’s going to know it’s you!’

  ‘And you? Who do you hate that much?’

  ‘Mm.’ I look out and for a fleeting moment I imagine see­ing shadows crossing no man’s land. A shudder scuttles up my back.

  ‘There are so many dooses, but I reckon the closest I ever came to hating was this one uncle . . . oom Dirk.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was just always really mean to me. He had huge, pap tits that hung down, with big, hairy nipples. I’d make up these fan­tasies and have my revenge on him. Boy, did he suffer.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a moffie scorned.’

  ‘Look, LOOK! Did you see that?’ I urge as a shooting star streaks across the night sky. ‘You know, a meteorite actually hit the earth here in Namibia some time ago. At Hoba, near Groot­­fontein. We did this trip to uncle Ben’s and then to Etosha.’

  ‘Nick, do you know what you’re going to do? I mean, after the army?’

  ‘Sure. I’m going to study art. And you?’

  ‘Marketing, I guess. I want to do something that I can use in other countries as well.’

  ‘Why, you’re not going to leave, are you? Shit, am I going to have to travel to New Zealand or somewhere to visit you?’

  ‘No, Canada! Vancouver. I hear it’s great.’

  ‘No way! Do you have any idea how hideous the weather is there? You just stay here. Shit, where will I find another best friend?’

  ‘Well, you never know. Things aren’t looking good here, man. I mean, we all know it has to change, and I don’t see how it can without major shit. These Boers will never give up without a fight.’

  ‘I really love this country, I mean South Africa. I can tell you, I’ve been overseas, and I don’t want to live anywhere else.’

  ‘The blacks hate us, man, and I don’t blame them. Look what we’ve done to them.’

  ‘The only hope is for the Boers to give up apartheid and pray that the blacks forgive us.’

  ‘Yeah right, dream on! By the way, do you know what they call the guys you like over there?’

  ‘No . . . gorgeous?’

  ‘No, twinkies.’

  I know Malcolm would rather talk about men than
politics, but I’m thinking about the future, which is now, after the army, real grown-up stuff.

  ‘But I also can’t go with the commies, you know, Mal.’

  ‘Yes, well, if the commies take over, we won’t even be allowed to decide what work we want to do. They’ll decide for us! What happens if the commies tell me to be a gynie?’ He pronounces it gaaaynee and we both laugh.

  ‘We need a miracle, a fucking miracle, with no precedent in this world; something so outrageously against human nature, something that has never been seen before . . .’ I say this quietly to myself, as though thinking it aloud. For some time I look out over my rifle at the great Namibian night.

  Behind me Mal has fallen asleep on the ground, leaning against the sandbag wall. The future seems darker than the night ahead. How will we resolve it? I feel heavy, tired, and I check my watch: almost three—one more hour.

  ‘Mal . . . Malcolm.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘You asleep? Chat to me, man, I’m falling asleep too.’

  ‘OK,’ he yawns. ‘Who’s doing the last shift?’

  ‘Oscar and Pieterse.’

  ‘Hey, Nick, I’m going to wake them, OK?’

  ‘Sure, why?’

  ‘Maybe . . . Mmaayybee Oscar has a pishoring, and I can have a cheap thrill.’

  ‘Pervert!’

  ‘I have to go and sheila.’

  ‘OK, you go for a shit and let the twinkie defend the base all on his own.’

  ‘You’re no twinkie, sweetness, look at these muscles.’ He grabs my biceps and squeezes them.

  ‘Go shit, just don’t fall in the long drop, and I hope Oscar has a hard-on just for you.’

  Just imagine how this base will erupt if they had to hear shots. Please God, let us not be attacked on my watch, please. But what if I save the day and become a hero? I might even get a medal for bravery. I wonder if it merits bravery? No, I’d rather there be no action.