Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  We make a bed on a groundsheet and blanket given to us. We pick the tree next to the broken Hippo for cover and listen to the sounds of the bush. I feel the urge to hug Malcolm, sleep in the love I feel for him, hold him, and sense his warmth . . . my best friend.

  This incredible day starts drifting out of me, out of my muscles. Tomorrow my body will be strong again, with no scars, but my mind will carry them all.

  ‘Nick . . . Nick, are you still awake?’

  ‘Yes, kind of.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Just this day. So much has happened.’

  ‘You must let it go. Don’t think about it too much. Things like these can make one go bossies—totally cuckoo.’

  ‘Yes, I know. What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Bullshit, you’re thinking about Oscar.’

  ‘Mm.’

  I must pray, I must thank God for protecting us today, I remind myself, turning to lie on my back. I see the stars above me, turn my palms upwards in meditation and say thank you; softly and sincerely. I don’t want to ask for anything, I only want to express gratitude.

  ***

  Before we leave the next morning, I walk past the Buffel Malcolm and I were in yesterday. I see the neat little scars on the armoured side where AK-47 bullets, fired on automatic, travelled towards us. I climb the large tyre to the rung of the side step, holding on to the dew-wet metal edge of the bulletproof side. From this point I can see where I sat yesterday. I follow the trajectory of the spaced abrasions. There is a lesion just below the ridge. I see that the next bullet would have travelled over the edge directly to my exposed head during the contact. Did he miss, or was he killed just before he fired? I touch the last mark as though I am somehow linked to it. Holding on for a while, I stroke the inside of the lesion; then decide not to look at the marks again.

  The early morning bush, so rich with life, so clean and good, contrasts sharply with our journey from where we camped to where our platoon is going to meet us. We are carrying the bodies of the nine men killed, polluting the air with noise and fumes, and damaging everything in our path.

  Mal and I try not to look at the blank gazes, bodies with chunks missing, empty rib cages, bags of lifeless meat. The dark skins now have the dull colour of death—muscles lie formless, yet stiff, as if they never really functioned.

  I try to feel some kind of hate for these people who tried so hard to kill us; but there is none. All I know is that I’m alive and they are dead.

  It is still early morning when we arrive at the four vehicles with our platoon encircling them. The previous day has covered us like a membrane—invisible, but there forever.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll believe that we slept out here last night without standing guard,’ Mal says quietly.

  Lieutenant Engel and Corporal Smith want to know everything about our ‘major contact.’ Dorman asks no questions, but listens to our answers. When we scale the side of the Buffel to take up our designated seats, we are bombarded with questions from the rest of the troops.

  I clip and tighten the straps of the seat, but already I have to fight the desire to travel like the Koevoet men—standing instead of being strapped in. Oscar takes his position next to me.

  ‘Vannie, it’s good to see you, man. I’m so glad you’re safe!’ On my other side Malcolm nudges me.

  ‘Thanks, thanks a stack, Oscar,’ fighting Malcolm’s prods.

  Malcolm and I both dodge as many questions as possible, and eventually they stop.

  Below us the Koevoet driver who dropped us at the meeting point, talks to Lieutenant Engel and the driver who will lead our convoy, recommending a shorter route back to base.

  They decide to take it.

  Malcolm sits next to me as he has done every day on vehicle patrol; no need for us to talk any more. Time and compatibility have wrapped around us, and within this union we start the first of many legs back to South Africa.

  When the driver changes gears, all ten of the occupants facing the sides rock as one—forward then back, like bottles in a crate. Then we move sharply forward as the driver slams on the brakes the moment the vehicle ahead of us detonates a land mine.

  We were drilled to loosen our belts, release the catches on the sides, get off and form a circular defence as soon as the vehicle comes to a halt, because a triggered land mine is often followed by an ambush. The training has the intended effect—we all obey mechanically. Malcolm still carries the memory of the stuck handle and immediately starts attacking the lever.

  Our driver, focusing on the Buffel ahead, that is now on its side, with dust and smoke billowing from it, lets our vehicle roll slightly forward instead of stopping dead. In this short distance our right front tyre triggers a fuse that, in turn, triggers another mine.

  The only release for the device’s energy is upwards, towards the tyre that activated it. The force then travels to the wheel, suspension and body of the Buffel in a wave of terrible power. This invention is designed to cause maximum damage, which it does, particularly to the troops who are busy climbing out.

  There is blood somewhere. Sun in my eyes. I try my best to see.

  Am I sitting? I’m not upright. Bright, bright light. I can’t see. No, no. I’m lying, but where? I can hear nothing on the outside, but inside everything is loud. I’m lying on the moulded seats. Yes, that’s where I am! Thick, sticky. Something is running into my eyes. I want to wipe it. I can’t. My arm is stuck. There is someone with me. Or is there? More people. I close my eyes. I open my eyes when I hear sounds far, far away. Hollow, heavy sounds that clog together and move in and out, in and out. The noise that I can’t see is there. No, it’s here. Yes, I hear it. More. There are large spaces in between these small bits of recognition. Comfortless, harsh, jarring. I’m lifted. My hand is free. Obscure, hazy sounds from the people. Hollow, wobbling sound. Questions and more questions. I just want to wipe my eyes. If only I could wipe my eyes, I will hear. More comfortable now. Flat. Moving. Blur. Different sounds now. Silver buckle. What is that noise? It’s hot. More noise. Mechanical. Smell. Jet-fuel. Where is the buckle? Fumes, petrol. So tight around my head and ears. Under my chin. Tight, tight! Tube. A drip!

  On my forehead I feel something crumbly. I rub it and it comes off. I can see a little better, less discomfort in my eyes. I’m sitting. Blood and people everywhere. Outside is far. I look at the metal loop.

  Just relax. The side is open, and far below I see the earth streaking past. I can see the other side too. From time to time there are people moving in front of me from the darkness. When they do, their faces distort and I can’t hear what they’re saying. One looks at me. Talking. Looking and talking. But I can’t really hear him. I don’t understand. He touches my leg and then my hands, but mostly he looks into my eyes. Then he leaves me and melts into the dark shapes silhouetted by the bright light—a steady, fluid light with shapes.

  The Puma helicopter lands at Oshakati. I can see now, and I know what I’m seeing, but in a confused and fuzzy way. I can identify simple things if I’m asked to, but I don’t ask myself to give anything a name.

  We are lifted into army-brown ambulances. On the inside, it is white and there is a light, opaque whitish, with a shiny silver fitting attaching it to the roof. It is a short trip from the Puma to a prefab hospital, where I lie and wait.

  A doctor removes a bandage from my head and a medic cleans the blood on my face. He gives me an injection, shaves my head and stitches a cut. They ask me questions, which I answer lazily. The medic who is seconded to Koevoet says, ‘Two Buffels hit land mines—yours and the one ahead of you. Most of the casualties came from yours. It hit while you guys were getting off. The driver says he must have rolled forward.’

  ‘Where is my friend?’ I ask.

  ‘Who? The one who was looking after you?’

  ‘Malcolm!’

  ‘I don’t know your friend. But it’s probably the guy who took care of you. He’s fine.’


  ‘Malcolm, his name is Malcolm.’

  ‘I don’t know who Malcolm is. Don’t worry, just rest,’ and he leaves. Above me is a metal roof. I notice the way it is constructed. It has hooks that pull the sheets of metal to the angle-iron rafters. It feels like a cheap barn, harsh and unforgiving—no place to heal. Above me is wire stretched across the room, resembling a washing line. Drips dangle untidily from it.

  There is still this buzzing in my ears, like bees trapped in a tin—a persistent whirring, unwavering, with electronic steadfastness.

  A scream weaves through a cleft in the humming, entering through my right ear and flooding my cognisance with sound, driven by the way a brain interprets information as life-threatening—from fright to pain, and interlaced with it the smell of hospital. Only then it reveals itself: Something has happened . . .

  As the thread of events unravels, I am gripped by concern over Malcolm’s absence and I call out, but nobody responds. I become aware of a heavy pain in my head and a burning ache on the surface. My back hurts when I try to move. I am carried on a stretcher down a narrow corridor to a room.

  The medic who stitched my head comes in. ‘Listen, troop, I don’t know who Malcolm is, OK!’

  ‘How many people got hurt?’

  ‘Five of the ten on the back, mostly compressed fractures. One guy’s hand is fucked.’

  ‘Are they all alive?’

  ‘No . . . one guy bit the dust.’

  ‘No, SHIT, who died, man? Find out! Fuck, NO! Please! Please just ask . . .’

  ‘OK, OK! Calm down, china. What’s his name?’

  ‘Malcolm!

  ‘No arsehole, his surname. What do you think this is, a holiday farm?’

  ‘His surname is Bateman . . . please, Bateman, remember, Bateman!’

  ‘OK, I’ll check, I’ll check. Fuck!’

  ‘He’s my buddy. His name is Bateman,’ I say again.

  He returns almost immediately. ‘Your friend is the one with the fucked-up hand.’

  ‘Shit, how bad is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’ll probably need an op. States toe with him, china.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘1 Mil.’

  ‘Dammit,’ but I am relieved that Malcolm is alive. ‘Besides his hand, is he OK? Can I see him? Where is he? Is his hand going to be all right? Can I go and see him?’

  ‘Listen here, troop, just don’t come in your panties! You’re not getting out of that fucking bed, and I don’t know how bad his hand is. I’m not a specialist, OK? But it’s bad . . . OK, china?’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘You okes are all going back to the States once you’ve stabilised; all except the oke who’s fucked, that corporal whoever.’

  ‘No way . . . is he dead . . . shit, really? And the sergeant?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, him? He was in the front car, a little shaken, like the others, but no bad hits, just some backs, as usual.’ Must write this down, I think, and then, with sudden alarm, I swing my feet from the bed.

  ‘Where the fuck are you going, troop? Is jy fokken doof, ou?’

  ‘Listen, there is something I must get.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s in my shirt.’ Sliding forward I move to transfer the weight of my body to my legs, and my head spins.

  ‘Lie down!’ the medic says, almost panicked. ‘What is it with you, ou? Seems like that mine fucked up your brain, or are you deaf? OK, OK! What is it? I’ll get it!’ When I move forward, he jumps up and pushes me over onto my back. ‘Wait here. I will get your shirt. What’s your name? Mm . . . Van der Swart,’ he says, not waiting for an answer as he reads my dog tags.

  He hands me the garment and I fumble through it to the top pocket for my diary. The top half of my shirt is covered in blood, which is now dark-dirty and almost dry. When I retrieve my book, the red wetness has stained the cover and seeped onto the rim of the top few pages.

  Through the pain and the drugs I am at Malcolm’s side all the way South. From the makeshift hospital in Oshakati we are taken to Ondangwa in a Unimog ambulance. From there, we fly in a Dakota to Grootfontein, where we board a Flossie back to South Africa. After landing at Waterkloof Air Base we drive through an unaware South Africa to 1 Military Hospital at Voortrekkerhoogte, near Pretoria.

  It is like moving between two seasons in the space of a day, or two generations, or mindsets—from a deserted rubbish dump to clean porcelain on an opulent dining table.

  I am sent for observation for the knock on my head, but it is clear to me that apart from the concussion, my injuries are minor.

  I sit next to his white metal bed, under which a grey, army-clean floor mirrors the dragging of time in darkened half-reflection. The white blanket that covers the white sheets is pulled tightly over the frame, and under it his body appears slight.

  Surrounding us are damaged young people, lying in similar beds, their lives crippled to different degrees. Most of them believe they will heal, and most will—on the outside. But I focus only on my friend.

  Malcolm moves between two planes—a drugged stupor and angry pain. When he is lucid, frightened and suffering, we talk, but when his lids lie half-mast over his eyes, I pray and beg, like a chant, that he will not lose his hand.

  Mal’s father and sister arrive. Leaving them alone with him, I look back for some outward sign of the blood that links them, but again I don’t see any.

  After his visit I walk with Mal’s father to his car. He says that the doctors have told him Malcolm may lose his hand. He lights a cigarette, sighs, and says he feels the doctors know what they’re doing and he will support their decision. What else can he do?

  I picture Malcolm with a stump at the end of his arm.

  ‘No!’ I interrupt him, almost too loudly.

  ‘It’s out of our hands, my boy,’ he says gently.

  Does he really believe that they are competent enough? Or is it that his fight is depleted? He cares for his son, I can see that, but life, and everything it has done to him, has yanked all energy from him. Now this older man appears to have no drive left to fight, or the power to will something so strongly that you somehow make it happen.

  ‘We must go,’ says the sister.

  ‘Mister Bateman,’ I urge, ‘Malcolm has his life ahead of him. He can’t lose his hand,’ but I realise that my desperation means nothing and I have no power over these events.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he says softly, a little smoke escaping with my name, ‘they’re going to operate and see if they can repair the damage. Only then will they make the decision whether to amputate or not.’ It infuriates me that this exhausted man is the only one with some say, and that he has made the decision not to interfere.

  ‘Besides,’ he says as I look at his dull eyes with baggy layers of skin under them, ‘I have no say, you know. He belongs to the army. So do you. It’s out of my hands.’

  I walk to the doctor’s rooms to find out who will be performing the surgery. All I want is for him to try harder. If there is the slightest chance to save the hand, he must. This is what I have to impress on the man.

  I am surprised when the doctor, a commandant, is willing to see me. He is irritated by my arrogance, but he listens. I’m standing at attention in front of him, searching for any mercy he might have, any care and compassion that he is not showing me, but that might just be beneath the surface.

  He rides back on his chair, his hands behind his head. It looks as if he is enjoying the power he wields in this situation. ‘Wait, Rifleman Van der Swart,’ he says as I do an about turn, stamp my foot as part of the manoeuvre, and proceed to the door. ‘Let me explain. We will not simply amputate, except if the wound is threatening the rest of his body or his arm. The first operation will be to start the restorative process. You must realise your friend may require a number of operations. First we are going to clean it up and have a look-see. Amputation is the last resort.’

  ‘Thank you, Commandant, thank you,’ I say softly, with as much humility as I can m
uster.

  Walking down the passage, I think of how often we encounter people who have life-changing power over us and the only weapon we have is to plead for mercy. People we may never see again. And I wait.

  They chase me away from where I’m sitting in the hospital passage, close to the operating theatre door. I pretend to move away, but I don’t.

  It feels far longer than just 48 hours since the Buffel triggered the land mine. In this short time, I have watched something settle over Malcolm, like a creeper that has netted around him. And this is what I fear most: losing him, losing the Malcolm I know.

  Eventually they call a sister with rank—a staff sergeant—to get me to leave. ‘Wait outside, Rifleman, and that’s an order. If I see you sitting here again I’m sending you back to the lines. This is bloody nonsense. Is there no donnerse discipline in this place?’

  I wait directly in front of the entrance to the theatre block, where I know I will be noticed. I don’t hear the cars, the people or the birds. My attention is focussed on the doors that will bring news, and on God for intervention.

  ‘Nicholas! Nicholas . . . is it really you?

  ‘Ethan!’ Everything in me becomes unsteady. I feel hot and cold, blood gushing in my ears, his name exploding around me.

  ‘Nicholas, what are you doing here? What happened to your head? How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, but they’re operating on Mal’s hand.’

  ‘But your head . . .’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, Ethan. We were in . . . Ethan, I can’t believe it’s you, right here!’

  ‘Nick, what happened?’

  ‘A whole lot of stuff. In all this confusion I forgot that you were at this base, or rather that you were still here. I’ve been in a kind of a dwaal since this . . . this head thing and all.’

  ‘Nick, tell me, how bad is your head?’