by Steve Reeder
“I’ve seen that bullet wound scar on your side too,” he said. I had no idea where he could have seen that. I kept quiet. I’ve never been big on talking about that period of my life. Not just because there is far too much rubbish spoken by people who knew nothing about wars, but also because the South African Army in the 1980s was not popular in most parts of the world, being in essence part of the National Party’s government of Apartheid.
“No one would tell me how you got it though,” Jethro added. Still I said nothing. “Don’t think me nosy or anything but we may find ourselves in some sticky situations soon and I always like to know as much as I can about people I plan risk my life with,” he continued. I thought that was a bit melodramatic but I let it go.
I could feel him staring at me intently, so after clearing it with my conscience, I told him about the day I had got shot while sneaking across the Limpopo River that formed the South Africa/Zimbabwe border.
Chapter 11
July 1989. Somewhere on the South Africa/ Zimbabwe border.
For the third time that year Major Smit stood, hidden in the bush across the Limpopo River. He flashed the pinpoint light in response to my signal and waited for us to cross the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa.
He knew the wait might be many minutes because of my natural caution. Just because Smit assured us there would be no surprises south of the border didn’t mean there were no Zimbabwean soldiers waiting north of the river for us to show ourselves. We would be fully exposed to rifle fire for fifty seconds to a minute as we waded through the almost dry but wide river. Having two older men with us made it all the harder.
Jennings and Botha had been cooped up in Bulawayo Central Prison for nearly five years now, and were not in peak condition. Zimbabwe security forces had captured them while they were on a mission to steal documents from the ANC offices in Bulawayo.
Back then it had seemed like a good idea to the South African government to spy on various African liberation groups. It all seemed ridiculous now, looking back on events of the eighties. Especially as the ANC was now the party in government in South Africa, but at the time they were considered the enemy.
Jennings and Botha had been captured red-handed as they left the buildings with the incriminating evidence. The South African government had refused all knowledge of them of course and they had been left to rot. Until the South African Defence Force had decided to do something about them and four others, without the Government’s official blessing.
I whispered to Billy, “It’s too quiet. I have this feeling we’re not as alone as I’d like. See if you can work your way back a hundred metres or so and creep downriver a bit. Be careful and see what you can.” Billy Botha - it was his uncle we had rescued from the prison - nodded without saying anything, and then vanished into the scrub thorn bushes behind me. Billy was a veteran at the age of twenty-three of the Angolan border war, as were Mike and I. We had been conscripted along with most white males leaving school, but like me he had signed on for a four-year stint. The three of us had been through our training together and had served with a recce company based just inside Angola.
I turned to Mike Coetzer to ask him to go upriver, but he had already anticipated my order and crept away.
Jennings wriggled closer. He looked totally worn out. The trip had been hard for him and the older Botha. We had abandoned the old Land Rover fifty to sixty kilometres back when we found troops manning all the small roads as well as the main Bulawayo to Beit Bridge road to South Africa.
After two previously successful prison breaks, the Zimbabwean security forces were getting their act together. The chances of making a fourth raid for the final imprisoned agent seemed to be remote. Not that it mattered: Doug Blewitt was fast dying of cancer anyway.
The last fifty-odd kilometres we had done on foot in a little over seven hours. Not hard for fit young men like ourselves, but our guests had struggled. We had known we would not be able to take the Landy through the border, but we had not anticipated such a long trip on foot.
Jennings looked at me with concern. “You think they have found us?” he whispered.
I shrugged, and then realised he needed more encouragement than that and said, “Not really. I’m just being careful. Don’t fancy going back to that prison compound myself.”
He nodded and turned to study Botha. “The long trek and the tension have been hard on Rob. They gave him a rough time of it over the past year. I don’t think he would have lasted much longer.” He was silent for a moment. “The sight of you opening the cell door last night will stay with me forever, Simon. No matter how this turns out, I just want you to know how much Rob and I appreciate what you have done.”
“Once we get across the river you’ll meet the man who planned the whole thing. Thank him, because without him we wouldn’t be here.”
Jennings moved back to be with his companion and the stillness of the African night closed in.
A dozen different types of insects buzzed or hummed around us and in the far distance there was the bark of wild dog and the eerie sounds of a hyena that has found a new carcass and wants his mates to know about it. A lion had almost certainly made a kill for the pride not more than twenty-four hours ago. I hoped they were no longer in the area.
Mike arrived back first. “There are four of them about seventy metres upriver, just inside the bush. See where the rocks jut into the river?” He pointed carefully so as not to make any movements that would attract attention. “There’s one LMG and two FNs.” Light Machine Gun and two rifles. Not a pleasant prospect.
Billy appeared without warning next to me and shook his head. I told him what Mike had found and we got into a huddle to consider the possibilities.
“We’re going to have to take them out, Simon. No choice. If we start looking for another crossing point we could just run into more trouble, and I don’t think Uncle Rob can go much further,” Billy stated.
Mike shook his head. “I don’t think we should start a war with Zims,” he said, “but I agree we do something with them.” They both looked at me since I was technically in command. I thought it out for a moment.
“Are we sure there is only the one group?” I asked. Billy shrugged. “No way of knowing really”.
But Mike said, “I’m pretty sure there are just the four of them. They had no radio with them but didn’t seem concerned about it. I should just add that they seemed to me to be pretty competent. Not some of Mugabe’s ex terrorist rabble.”
The use of FN rifles rather than AK47s indicated that Mike was probably right. These were very likely soldiers trained by the old Rhodesian army, and later by British instructors, so they were not the usual rabble found in African armies.
“OK.” I said. “I think if we can distract them somehow, perhaps just one of us, the others can get Botha and Jennings across the river. What we need is to draw them away from the riverbank. If they think we are coming up behind them, they will almost certainly move to intercept. They would much prefer to get to us before we get to the riverbank. Wouldn’t you agree?” I looked enquiringly at the other two. Mike nodded immediately. Billy took his time thinking about it then agreed that it would be our best bet.
“Who’s going to do the diversion then?” Billy asked.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
But Mike shook his head. “We both know this is something I’m good at, Simon. Better than you two anyway.” I couldn’t disagree with him. Mike was good in the bush.
“All right then. Have you still got those grenades we pinched?” Mike grunted and shook his head. “Billy?”
Billy handed the two grenades over and I unscrewed the detonators.
“Take these, Mike,” I said, giving him the detonators. They would make quite a bang without injuring anyone.
“How you get them back from the river is up to you. Just give us one of those famous hyena calls you boast about when it’s clear for us to move. Make it two quick consecutive calls so we know it’s you and not
our wailing friend with the lion kill. When you want to make a break yourself, toss these at them. It’ll give them a scare but shouldn’t start a war.”
Billy and I looked at Mike but he didn’t seem concerned in the least. “We will wait for you at the dead tree by the Batavia/Messina road. You know the one I mean?”
Mike nodded. “Where old Phinius was so sick on the last trip?” I agreed that that was the one. “All right then. Don’t get yourself killed. You still owe me a beer, OK?” Mike grinned and faded away into the bush behind us. I wriggled back to where Botha and Jennings were waiting and brought them up to date.
“So we wait then?” Jennings asked.
“That’s right, Mr Jennings, we wait,” I replied. “What Mike is going to do cannot be hurried.”
We waited without speaking although Botha made to speak twice before thinking better of it.
A lion roared to the north of us, so perhaps they weren’t finished with the kill yet. Bad luck on the hyena and his mates. They’d have to go hungry for another few hours.
After an hour I was beginning to get impatient, and then in the distance I heard the call of a hyena. Just in case it was a real hyena I waited a bit longer. The call came again, twice in quick succession. It had to be Mike. I was mighty relieved; I had been worrying about my old friend.
“Billy,” I called softly. “Let’s go. Jennings, you follow Billy as soon as he reaches the far bank. You’d better take Botha with you; he looks like he needs your help.” I would give covering fire from our present position if needed. I only had the pistol Mike had pinched but it would be better than nothing.
Botha struggled to his feet and said, “Don’t you worry about me. There’s nothing that will stop me getting across that river.”
I didn’t see Billy enter the water because I was watching the bush behind me. At the first sign of anyone showing themselves I would be using the pistol to discourage them while the other three made it to South African territory.
There was very little chance of hitting a moving target in the bush at night with a pistol, but it would keep their heads down while the lead was flying.
Jennings and Botha rose and stumbled down to the water’s edge. Obviously Billy had made it without encountering any drama. Nothing moved that I could see. After an eternity I risked a glance behind me. The two older men were just crawling into the cluster of rocks beyond the first line of small thorny bushes from where Smit had flashed the pinpoint of red light.
I turned my eyes back northwards again. Still nothing moved. It worried me that I’d not heard anything from either Mike or the four Zimbabwean troopers. No shots, no shouted commands, no sounds at all. If they had been drawn away from their observation post, which they must have been, then Mike had achieved it with very little noise. I expected to hear the crack of a grenade detonator at any moment, but none came.
Finally, I could not delay any longer. I took one more searching look behind me and then slipped down the bank.
The water was shallow and warm; the river had been too low to flow for several months now, and would not get any higher till the rainy season started in five or six weeks’ time.
Out in the open the moonlight seemed to me to be as bright as day and the whiteness of the sand did not help either. I made the halfway point without hassle, not far now.
I was perhaps fifty yards from the rocky bank when I heard the sharp crack of the rifle and felt the blow to my side, but no pain. Not at the time anyway.
I fell headlong into the brackish water, hugging a sandbank, trying to find cover where there was none, all the time expecting the second and third shot to slam into my body. I probably wouldn’t feel the third one. I’d be dead.
I rolled over the sandbank and stopped with my lower body in the water facing the Zimbabwean side of the river. Desperately I hauled out the pistol from a jacket pocket and fired three shots at the most likely position of the rifleman. There was no answering volley. Everything was deathly quiet. The birds had either vanished in a rush of beating wings or were wisely staying out of this human madness; probably waiting to see if there would be something to eat afterwards.
I could feel the blood seeping from my side into the water, and laying the pistol on the dry sand I reached down to check the damage, which had started to throb something fierce.
The bullet had struck just above the left hipbone; I could feel the torn flesh. It seemed to be a glancing blow with an exit hole two or three inches further forward. I noticed with horror that my hands were shaking and I was shivering despite the warmth of the night air; shock was beginning to set in. To really top off my troubles I spotted a crocodile lounging on the far bank, one hundred and fifty metres or so downriver on the South African bank, eyeing me for dinner.
I had to move, to get to the South African bank, but the thought of the unseen rifleman scared me more than the croc, which, if he came close enough I could always shoot.
Time dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Not a sound could be heard. Where was Mike? Where were my friends south of the water? How long before the croc came to find out how I tasted? I would have to move soon; weakness was beginning to affect me from loss of blood. I drew three deep breaths and got to my feet.
Perhaps ‘got to my feet’ is a bit of an exaggeration; I stumbled like a drunk at the end of a particularly heavy night. I made five staggering steps before three more shots rang out. The last two coming from the bank I was making for. I dived back into the water; none of the shots had hit me though. I pointed the pistol, which was now soaked, back at the northern bank but could see nothing. Splashes sounded behind me and I swung the gun around.
“Hold your fire, Simon. It’s me. Billy.”
Billy grabbed the gun, and pulled me roughly to my feet again.
“Get down, you daft bastard,” I said. “There’s still a rifle behind us.”
“Don’t worry, Simon. We’re pretty sure we got him. We had to wait till he fired again to spot him, but Major Smit is a champion shooter, so I’m sure he hit him. Now come on before more of the buggers turn up.”
Chapter 12
The twin engine Airbus landed us at Manchester International amid heavy rain and Manchester City fans back from Italy where, judging by their jubilant behaviour, Man City had had a good game. A smaller group of Italian tourists seemed less happy to have travelled with them.
I fought my way through the crush of team shirts, Michele clinging to my arm and squealing indignantly when a soccer fan pinched her rear-end. I found a taxi without much difficulty. He had probably been hiding from the soccer fans.
Our driver recommended a ‘right good’ B & B, his words not mine, and deposited us there without showing us too much of the city. He even went so far as to hold an umbrella to keep us from getting too wet. A ten quid tip didn’t seem too extravagant.
I rang the bell on the reception table and a short, cheerful and incredibly fat young woman came scooting out of the back office.
“Welcome back,” she smiled, “are you just in?”
“Er, … I’m sorry.” I replied, momentarily confused.
“Oh. I’m Sorry. I’ve just come on duty. My name’s Patty. I thought you might be the honeymoon couple who booked in last night,” she said, giggling. “Would you like to book in, then?”
“Yes, please. Just for tonight, we’re driving back to London tomorrow morning,” I explained.
“No trouble at all, sir. You and your wife will want the room with the double bed, then?”
Michele blushed prettily. “We’re not married yet,” she said. “I mean … we’re not married.”
“Well, not to worry, dear, not these days. You just have a lovely time.”
“That’s the plan.” I grinned. Michele punched me on the arm, her face bright red now. “Um, could you send up some whipped cream to help with the lovely time?” I asked.
“Simon.” Michele was horrified. “Please ignore him. He’s joking,” she said to Patty.
“Oh, I don’t know,
” said Patty, “I’ve heard it can be fun, especially with fruit pieces.”
I picked up the key and we trooped upstairs leaving Patty giggling at the front desk.
I showered first while Michele unpacked her overnight bag before chasing me out of the shower. I was almost dressed when Michele stepped out of the bathroom looking very desirable clothed only in a damp towel. I was just threatening to part her from it when there was a knock at the door.
I opened the door and found a slight teenage girl holding a basket. She handed me the basket and said, “Patty said to give you these with her compliments, Sir.”
“Thank you, um, hold on a second.” I grabbed my wallet and handed her a fiver as a tip. “Please thank Patty for me.”
I sat the basket down on the bed and uncovered it. There was an aerosol can of whipped cream and a tub containing a selection of chopped fruit.
“Well,” I chuckled, “I was only kidding, but…” I looked up at Michele and was surprised to find her not looking embarrassed, but aroused.
We skipped dinner that night. I enjoyed some fruit though.
The TVR growled smoothly as I blipped the throttle. The mechanics had done a superb job with the ageing sports car. The dark blue leather interior was immaculately finished and I felt happy, notwithstanding the large sum of money it had all cost me.
The rain eased up and had stopped altogether by the time we left Manchester behind us. As we passed Crewe the sun came out and the day began to look like I felt. I put the top down to feel the wind in my hair.
I bought us a late breakfast in Hanley, just outside Stoke, where several people mistook us for newlyweds. I didn’t mind. Impulsively, we turned south, going through Birmingham and then took the M40 down to Banbury for lunch.
