Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

‘That fucking Gerrie, it’s his fault that we’re getting into a contact the day before we leave. I’m going to moer that fucker.’

  ‘No, Mal, you know it’s my fault. It’s me Dorman is after. Since Dylan died . . . and Vasbyt, you know . . . and you heard what he said to me the other day. That guy hates me, man.’

  We head north on a dirt track. The Buffel sways, rips branches from the bushes, which scratch the side of the metal like nails being dragged over a blackboard. The motor loses momentum as the driver tries to engage low range in the thick sand, and the gears grate. I feel something crawling on my arm. It’s a massive spider with a yellow body. I lift my arm and shoot it over the edge with the index finger of my right hand.

  The driver brakes violently as we arrive at the entrance to a kraal. There is an evil presence all round. From inside a roofless room we hear scream-wailing, like a mechanical sound switched on with the press of a button. Then the woman gasps for air with a raw sob that cuts right through us.

  Ben speaks to his troops, who jump off and start looking for the spoor of the terrorists and Zulu Bravo’s vehicle.

  ‘OH MY FUCK, NICHOLAS, LOOK AT THAT! AAAUGH! OH, GOD, NO!’ Mal turns his head away, his eyes closed.

  ‘What, Mal, what?’

  ‘There . . .’ He doesn’t look around; points backhanded in a general direction. A vein has popped up on his neck, like implanted blue rope. He rushes to the back of the Buffel, bent over by contractions.

  ‘Above the entrance!’ Then he vomits. My eyes dart around the huts. Then, on a tree, just metres away from us, I see the head of a man impaled on a stick.

  A vice clamps the concept within me, prevents me from thinking rationally, shutting down my ability to assimilate the picture. The head is full of sand, as if it has rolled around in dirt. Soil has dried on the severed neck muscles, pieces of bone, sinew and veins. It is impaled through one eye, and the other eye has been ripped out. The lids are hollow and dark, crusty with dried blood. Strings of nerves hang from them.

  I take a step back, my calf snags on a seat and I sit down with a thud. But I jump up immediately and move over to Malcolm. I put my arm around his shoulders. A silver cord of saliva is dangling from his mouth.

  ‘Spit, Mal, spit.’

  ‘Nick, I don’t want to be here. I can’t . . .’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ He puts his head down on his folded arms.

  There are only the sounds from the wailing woman, the chirping of a few tiny chicks and the constant jabbering of the radio. The leader has spoken to the driver, the trackers are pointing sticks at the ground, speculating, and waiting for us to follow.

  As we leave, the woman runs after us, past the head of her husband. It looks as if she wants to rip the pain from her chest, her shredded clothes flying around her like ribbons. There is desperation in her pleading, and all I can think is to pray that I may never ever see or feel this again.

  As we round the fence, I see her looking up at the head. I don’t see one of the soldiers lifting his rifle, pulling it into his shoulder and squeezing the trigger. It is only when the bullets tear into her and she falls, face down, that I register the lethal explosion in the chamber next to me.

  I claw for self-control.

  The Hippo’s track is clear. The trackers jump on and ride on the sides for a while, until the branches bully them inside. Adrenaline makes Ben forthcoming.

  ‘The terrs were here just before Zulu Bravo got here. We were tipped off by people who had fled to a nearby village. That woman’s husband . . . they tortured him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They thought he was an informer. They raped her, got drunk, slept out here, played soccer with his head.’

  ‘Fuck no! How many?’

  ‘Ten or twelve.’

  ‘TEN OR TWELVE! Shit!’ I turn to Mal to see if he has heard, then decide to keep it to myself.

  ‘We can see ten, but with heavy anti-tracking there could be more.’

  ‘How close are the others?’ The radio interrupts us. Ben gets up and shouts instructions to the driver, who increases speed. We churn through the sand, swaying violently on the channels cut by the wider track of the Hippo. A flare climbs up above the trees, slows down and falls. It seems very close to us.

  ‘The other group is stuck; they need our vehicle.’

  ‘Can this day get any worse?’ I say to myself, or perhaps to God. I go through different scenarios, but they all look bleak. I want us not to find the terrs, but as if he has heard my thoughts, Ben says, ‘They’re heavily armed, so they won’t get far.’

  We travel like this for about ten minutes. To my left a black man ducks the branches, cradling his rifle in his lap with his right hand, the other used for balance. On the opposite side another man sits twirling a piece of red fabric between his fingers. His nails are cigarette-stained. Suddenly the men on the back of the vehicle start cheering.

  I follow their gaze to a body on the ground. Then I see another one. It has been flung back and lies suspended, crucified, in the fork of a tree. Blood has pooled under the tree and is still shining wet on his soaked shirt, flies all over it.

  ‘They got three here,’ Ben says, ‘and wounded two. That’s when they got stuck.’

  I cannot stop feeling the presence of the guest that has now possessed the people on this vehicle. I am terrified by the complete absence of goodness and their almost tangible desire to destroy.

  Being so far removed from anything good and kind makes me yearn for my mother. I see her face in front of me; I hear her favourite phrases, like ‘dash-it-all’ and ‘lovey-ta.’ Suddenly I feel remorse for all the things I’ve done wrong. I’ll go home after the border to see her. I won’t tell Mal now. I’ll wait until we’re safe. Oh God, will we ever be safe again? Will we make it through this?

  We get to the stricken Hippo. Some of the men climb onto our vehicle, others start passing the radio and ammo up the side—grenades, a Russian RPG-7 rocket launcher, rifles, magazines, bullets for the Bren and webbing. As they scramble aboard we hear the repetitive pops of an automatic rifle. It sounds far away. Via radio, we hear that the group in the other Hippo has found and killed one terr and is closing in on the others.

  Four men and two of our companions stay behind with the damaged Hippo. They are instructed to keep looking for the spoor of the other five insurgents.

  ‘Ons gaan gou daai ander terr vrekskiet en as ons terugkom, wil ek weet waar die ander loop. Vandag gaan daai fokken gooks hulle gatte sien.’

  One of the men who has joined us, looks at Mal and me and says, ‘Today you’ll see how it’s done, your mates in browns know fuck all.’ Another shouts something and points to a smoke grenade somewhere in the distance.

  When we reach the other group they are standing casually next to their Hippo, with another ragged corpse between them. The trackers are dripping with perspiration, their black faces shining with a mixture of pride, exhaustion and excitement. They have waited for us to change trackers, and they know their prey stands no chance—one wounded man against fresh trackers, two vehicles and all of us.

  The chase resumes. It becomes a ‘running spoor’—clear, red markings, the blood and prints of the wounded man leading us to his death. It’s ironic to think that the very liquid he needs for life now points like an arrow to his ruin—as though it has changed sides.

  ‘Why must we join them and stand by and watch? Surely one vehicle is enough?’ I ask, not wanting to witness the killing, but at the same time knowing that the alternative would be to start tracking the other, larger group of insurgents.

  ‘Man, it’s better to be two, ek sê, when we cross the Yati, but those terrs are not going far. We gonna get those okes, you’ll see, or at least a couple of them. Depends if they split up . . .’

  ‘But what about the guys at the broken Hippo? What if they are attacked?’

  ‘No fucking way. Those terrs know they’ll only pick up kak there. We are too many and they have cover. No, they’
re kak scared, they’re running, but those cunts are moeg, hey. I tell you, they’re finished!’

  A soldier picks up the slaughtered terrorist’s rifle, checks the rounds in the curved magazine and then exchanges his own rifle for it.

  With remarkable energy the trackers chase the spoor in the heat. They run with the two vehicles flanking them. The wounded terrorist is not far ahead.

  We reach a pan, the Hippo to our right slows down, and the leader indicates that we should hold our fire. A quarter distance into the pan we see the wounded man. His step has changed to a mere shuffle, but he still seems driven, by fear or something else. In his right hand his AK47 twists slightly as he tries to lift it, but he doesn’t have the strength. The weapon’s muzzle digs into the ground and rotates lazily as he squeezes the trigger. The impact shudders through the right side of his body; it takes a split second for the sound of the two shots to reach us. Then the rifle drops from his hand; he stumbles, but stays on his feet. The bush khaki colour of the back of his pants has become saturated with a shiny maroon-red, which now streaks down the black of his legs.

  Faltering, he looks up at the sky, his head loose on his neck, almost like a drunk, but this is a man dying. Everybody is watching, the engines still idling and the bush sounds uninterrupted. Then a calmness drifts through the man. He caves in as though he’s dissolving, and falls onto his face, probably dead before he touches the ground.

  ‘They’re so full of drugs they run until they don’t have any blood left in them.’

  The other vehicle drives up to the body. They casually pick up his rifle, remove the magazine and pass it through the back doors of the Hippo.

  Mal leans over to me and says, ‘Fuck, Nick, I hope we can go home now. This is hilda sheila, man.’

  The car commander standing behind us hears him, but Malcolm doesn’t realise this and carries on, ‘It’s past lunchtime. I’m sick of all this death and shit.’ The big Afrikaner grabs him from behind, twists his shirt in his fist and pulls him violently back over the seat. ‘Go back, you little sissy. Get out; find your own way home. If you wanna go . . . go! Fuck off, moffie . . . GO!’ He releases his grip when the radio calls, and Mal slides back over the seat, red-faced, gulping for air. The car commander takes the handset, listens and says, ‘Right, we’re coming . . . over and out.’ He smiles, but it carries no warmth; it is an expression of a different kind of pleasure. He turns to Malcolm and hisses, ‘You aren’t going home until we’ve killed some more terrs. You two are sleeping in the bush tonight, you fucking little turds.’

  We reach the Yati, turn left and make rapid progress over what feels like a highway, travelling east on the wide, cleared strip between Namibia and Angola. We travel in silence, each with our own thoughts and fears, until the radio tears us back to the present.

  ‘ON THE RIGHT!’ I look up. ‘RIGHT, RIGHT, in the trees!’ The body of the Buffel reels over to the left as the driver turns.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I ask Malcolm.

  ‘OK and you? Are you all right? I saw you bending over just now. Were you praying?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I’m not scared any more, you know.’

  ‘Strange thing, I don’t think I am either. Just kind of tired of all this . . . just so thrown by all those people dying.’

  Mal looks at me, turns to make sure he won’t be heard again, and says, ‘We’re going to be fine, Nicky. This is not for us. Let them shoot each other.’

  ‘I’ve been worried the whole time that I got you into this shit just because of Gerrie and Dorman.’

  ‘Forget it, do you think I’d want to be in the base now, without you and missing all this sheila?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘No, no. I’d much rather be out here shaking my teeth loose, hungry, killing terrs, being shot at . . .’ he smiles at me. I hold my finger out below the seats for our handshake.

  We stop on a slight rise. A grenade billows yellow smoke just above the trees to our left, and we burst into the bush again, crashing over trees and shrubs.

  ***

  We reach the trackers. Downwind I can still see traces of the smoke grenade hanging like synthetic mist amongst the bushes—a veil in artificial colour. I wonder if the plastic air affects the insects and birds.

  The trackers are beaming. They have done well, and their superiors are pleased. We are winning in this game. Nobody wants to rest; they all want to be part of the chase. There is something childlike, primitive, about the hunt. Grown-ups’ hide-and-seek. If you get caught you die.

  ‘Mal, Dylan once said to me that he . . . that he was ready to die.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ja . . . but you know, I’m not. I can’t see myself . . . I mean . . . this being my end.’

  ‘Don’t think about stuff like that, dammit, you’re just making it worse!’

  ‘Dearest Lord God, please, please don’t let me die!’ I pray.

  But then I remember what Mr. Davids taught me. Starting again, I pray, ‘Lord, here is this terrible situation. People who are alive right now are going to be dead. I can feel it; it’s all around me—it could even be me. If it’s your will today that I die, please let it be quick and painless and, dearest Lord, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me for all my sins. May your will be done today. I give you this situation. I trust my life unto thee. I pray this in Jesus’ name . . . amen.’

  All the while I keep my eyes on the metal barrier in front of me, riveted, to seal off the world of death around me.

  The spoor changes direction, from east to northeast to north. They are heading for the border. I constantly check that my rifle’s safety catch is off and I hold it ready, not in the gun port, but against my chest and slightly up . . . my rifle. Instinctively I say the number, casting an allegiance with the awful device.

  Suddenly we are at the Yati again, and then we cross into Angola. The insurgents now know we are close. They don’t even attempt any anti-tracking. They have thrown away everything they were carrying, except their rifles, and are running for their lives.

  Mal and I are told to shoot only if we are sure it’s not a tracker, but best to hold fire. They don’t trust us, but we don’t care.

  Firing breaks out to our left. I hear the radio, ‘CONTACT, CONTACT!’ And again, ‘KONTAK, KONTAK!’ Then we are on top of them, the bush erupts in a mad spectacle of cordite, smoke, dust, tracers and a confusion of noises and men shouting.

  I register small fragments of sounds and scraps of movement and colour. Staccato detonations of mechanical engineering. Little springs pushing each bullet up in the magazine as the spent hot cartridge ejects from the chamber. Blazing hot slugs travel through the air at exquisite intervals, hit with equal uniformity, and drive with tissue-shredding force into trees, people or just the soil. All of this becomes indistinct, manic, with tortured screams of ricocheting white-hot death.

  When there is automatic-rifle fire from a shrub to our right, we drive straight into the line of fire. I pull my R1 into my shoulder, squeezing off two shots at a time, as we were taught. I fire at a point just below the volley’s origin.

  This is it, this is it—this is when I kill or die! When the ma-chine gun stops firing from the top of the Hippo, I realise that everybody else has stopped too.

  I start shaking. The thought of a bullet travelling towards me from the shrub is suddenly paramount. I know it is not aimed at me personally; it’s what I represent. The man is shooting at a government I never even voted for. I know this, but I don’t think about it. I am entirely fixed on one goal, and that is to shoot at anything that is a terrorist. Suddenly I understand how people who enjoy this feeling can become addicted to it.

  When we stop and the soldiers get off the vehicles, I feel only relief. As if the threat to my existence comes only from that one place, I walk with my rifle at my shoulder, aiming my right eye through the sights, my left eye open to detect any other movement. But it is unnecessary, for the man whose remains lie almost cut in half, will never be a thre
at to anyone again. It is clear that it was the machine gun that got him. I did not kill him.

  In total there are nine terrorists dead—it has been a good day for our side.

  ***

  ‘Listen to that sound . . .’ I exaggerate an expression of expectation, holding my hand close to my ear.

  ‘What sound?’

  ‘That, that, listen . . .’

  ‘What is it? Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a nightjar.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s a bird, a fierynecked nightjar. I love that call.’ Mal listens intently. I look at him, he looks back and smiles.

  ‘There, there . . . listen, you can hear it again. Do you know what it is saying?’ I don’t wait for an answer but lay the words over the haunting, plaintive sound of the bird’s call, ‘Good Lord, deliver us. Good Lord, deliver us.’

  I become aware of movement towards us. As the shape moves into the light of the fire, I see a person approaching. Above and around him the sinister hard shapes of the vehicles reflect the flickering light.

  ‘Het julle manne iets geëet?’

  ‘Ja, dankie, die een man het vir ons ’n rat pack gegee.’ Malcolm answers in Afrikaans with a heavy accent.

  The car commander changes to English and there is a definite mildness in his voice.

  ‘Do you want more food?’

  I say, ‘No thanks,’ but Mal says, ‘Yes, please, I’d like some more condensed milk.’ The car commander turns around and calls to one of his staff to bring more rat packs.

  ‘When are we going home?’ Mal asks, now clearly relaxed, ‘It’s just that we are meant to go back to the States tomorrow.’

  ‘Ja, they radioed for you two. Your platoon is fetching you tomorrow and bringing parts for this fucking thing,’ indicating to the broken-down Hippo. ‘O ja, and coming to fetch the dead terrs before they stink out the place. Nothing stinks like terr, especially a dead one.’

  As the car commander turns to leave, he says, ‘You must be careful. Don’t sleep under the Hippo. If we are attacked with mortars, the shrapnel ricochets down from the V-angle and will kill you. Rather sleep over there.’ He points to a tree.