Piston and Little Pepper spread out and made a quick tour of the grounds, to see whether the refugees and the HCR staff had left anything worthwhile. I let them scout around. Giap had said—following directives from higher up—that we should authorize our soldiers to take whatever they wanted, since there wasn’t any money to pay them. After a while I yelled for Piston and the two of us went to see if we could start up one of the vehicles abandoned by the UN troops. There wasn’t an engine in the world that could resist Piston’s screwdriver. But they’d wrecked everything, the scum! Not only had they removed essential parts from every motor, but they’d slashed all the tires as well. Our pickings amounted to a big fat zero.
Furious, I fired several volleys into the carcass of the jeep I’d wanted to requisition. Hearing the shots, Lovelita and Little Pepper came running. They’d turned up almost nothing in the way of loot. Well, if they’d asked the advice of an old hand like me, I could have told them they were wasting their time here. If you want to get rich, don’t go looting a camp of African refugees. They’re already poor when they flee their homes. What miracle is going to make them wealthy on the road?
We inspected every cranny and turned everything inside out. Night was beginning to fall. Now I was really at a loss, because I didn’t know what mission to assign to my men. I couldn’t reach Giap or any of our other leaders. I began to feel afraid, for I suddenly realized that we were only four individuals on the border of a largely Mayi-Dogo district, a Chechen stronghold, and that if the enemy decided to launch a counteroffensive, we were done for. So I immediately told everyone to leave the compound, which was liable to become a trap during an assault.
We left. A weird silence hung over the place. Thousands of people had been swarming around here only a few hours earlier, but now there wasn’t a soul, not even a ghost. I would have been glad, as well as reassured, to see another living creature, even if only a dog (dogs, like hyenas, are always sniffing about places where the smell of rotting flesh hangs in the air). We couldn’t stay here. One way or another, we had to rejoin the rest of the Mata Mata.
Lovelita, no doubt wanting to relieve the oppressive silence, said she felt like listening to some music. At that unbelievably stressful point—when I was at a crucial juncture with my troops and, as leader, was racking my brain for a plan that would get us out of this mess—Lovelita could think of nothing better to worry about than music. Shit, that bubblehead could probably live entirely on air, water, and music.
I handed her the little radio I’d acquired when we’d raided the humanitarian convoy and told her to keep the volume down, so the noise wouldn’t disturb my train of thought.
I don’t know if she increased the volume on purpose to attract my attention or if she simply turned the knob in the wrong direction by mistake, but all of a sudden I heard the name of our country. She immediately turned the volume down with a nervous look at me, thinking I was going to get angry and bawl her out. But on the contrary I shouted, “Turn it up! Turn it up!”
“. . . special operation.”
“And how did you go about preparing for this special commando operation?”
“We planned it very carefully. As you may know, we’ve had lots of experience in Africa with this type of operation—experience acquired in Congo, Zaire (remember Kolwezi), Gabon, the Central African Republic, and so on.”
“What did you need in the way of resources?”
“It was an armed air strike that required three hundred men, seven helicopters, and two planes. But this sort of operation doesn’t depend only on materiel, you know. What’s crucial is the caliber of the men—the deployment of specific types of expertise.”
“The element of surprise must have played a role as well. Could you ever repeat this kind of operation?”
“If another threat were aimed at our countrymen and against citizens of the European Union—”
“Or against Americans, Russians, Serbs . . .”
“Yes, right . . . If any Europeans—any Westerners—were placed in jeopardy, no matter what their nationality, our paramilitary forces would be ready to intervene with the same airtight security and effectiveness.”
“There are reports that those Serbs were mercenaries . . .”
“Listen, our mission was to save lives. When you’re about to save someone’s life, you don’t stop to ask whether he’s a mercenary or not.”
“Still, there are reports that you refused to rescue Africans who were longtime employees of our embassies. Surely their lives were in danger because of their association with our country.”
“Listen, we’re soldiers. It’s the politicians who decide such things. Our mission was clear: evacuate our fellow citizens who were in jeopardy. But let me say—if I may express my personal opinion here—that our country cannot solve all of the world’s problems by itself. We aren’t the ones who asked those people to go around killing each other.”
“Thank you, sir. That was Colonel Jean Lagnier, commander of Operation Green Gorilla, which evacuated more than fifty Europeans trapped by the civil war raging in . . .
“Mad Dog!”
Damn! Piston had just called my name, preventing me from hearing the rest of the broadcast. I was livid.
“Can’t you wait a minute?” I yelled.
I turned my attention back to the radio, but it was too late. A stupid jingle, and then I heard: “RFI Sports!” I wasn’t in the mood to listen to the sports news.
“So what was so important?” I said to Piston.
“I hear tanks coming! Listen!”
I listened. He was right. To judge from the racket they were making, there was more than one tank—it sounded like a whole battalion. What reassured me right away was that they weren’t coming from the direction of Kandahar, which meant that they were from our own army. All we had to do was make sure they didn’t mistake us for Chechens and fire on us. In any case, if they were coming to engage the helicoptered commandos mentioned on the radio a minute ago, they’d sure as hell missed the boat.
Apparently they didn’t realize that the foreign commandos had been gone for some time, since they immediately began shelling the HCR compound with heavy artillery. They pounded it nonstop for nearly a quarter of an hour. By the time they ceased firing, the perimeter wall was a heap of rubble and not a single structure was left standing.
Taking advantage of the silence, I shouted at the top of my lungs that we were commandos from the Mata Mata, that we weren’t Mayi-Dogos or Chechens, and that we were coming out from behind our cover. They understood what I was saying and told us to come out into the moonlight with our hands up. We immediately obeyed.
Though we were all fighting the same enemy, those guys had no scruples or any sense of honor. They grabbed us and began beating us up, as if we were common Chechen spies. What saved us was that two of them recognized us—they’d been with the men who’d come to help us set up a blockade around the HCR compound, and they’d managed to get away when the helicopters attacked. If it hadn’t been for those two soldiers, we would have been killed.
The leader of the battalion, a colonel, asked us to give him all the information we had. Of course I readily complied, telling him how we’d surrounded the compound with the aid of backup troops and how we’d bravely fought the enemy. We’d put up fierce resistance, and if the attackers hadn’t had helicopters, we would have neutralized them. After I finished my account, the colonel asked what we were planning to do now, since we didn’t belong to his unit. I told him we were real fighters—that we’d captured the radio station and subdued the Huambo district, and that we were ready to join him in attacking Kandahar because Giap had given us orders to do so.
“Who’s Giap?” he asked.
I was astounded. He hadn’t heard of Giap either! Before I had a chance to explain that Giap was the commander of the Mata Mata, the brave militia fighters who had seized the radio and TV compound, I heard:
“He’s probably the head of one of those militias we use as adjunct
forces.”
It was a junior officer who had answered for me.
“Okay,” said the colonel. “You can come along with us as reinforcements, but don’t be causing any trouble for my soldiers.”
I didn’t make a peep, for fear he’d change his mind.
Talking to one of the two soldiers who’d rescued us, I learned why Idi Amin had never arrived. His entire unit had been wiped out in Kandahar. According to information we’d gotten from our spies, said the soldier, hundreds of Chechens armed to the teeth were now in the district. They had heavy weapons, an entire battery of missiles, and were getting ready to attack. So this was no time to hesitate. We had to finish off the district once and for all—annihilate that Mayi-Dogo stronghold, rout the Chechens from their nest. Believe me, the guy wasn’t just talking a lot of hot air, to judge from what I saw around me.
I haven’t had a lot of experience with heavy weapons, but I do know a few. Right away I spotted a BM-21. Who in this country can’t recognize a BM-21? A multiple-rocket launcher that’s mounted on a Russian-made truck and that can fire twelve rockets in forty-five seconds. Turned out the soldier I was speaking with was also the guy who manned the BM-21. He told me proudly that each individual rocket launched a number of grenades when it exploded, so you could easily blanket an entire district. I was immediately sorry that I, too, wasn’t a gunner assigned to an MRL. In addition to the BM-21, I saw two tanks, and two more pieces of artillery—howitzers—each mounted on a military all-terrain vehicle.
“Those are 105-millimeter howitzers,” he told me as soon as he realized I’d noticed them. I wondered what would be left of the district once we’d finished shelling it. Well, too bad for the Mayi-Dogos. They shouldn’t have killed my friend Idi Amin. They shouldn’t have prevented our leader from taking power.
The colonel who was commanding the troops agreed to replenish our stock of ammunition, since we were beginning to run low. But it was the three tins of sardines and three baguettes of bread he gave us that really won my respect and admiration. A man who can find rations for his soldiers under such chaotic conditions must be a true leader. Giap couldn’t have managed it, I bet.
I distributed three sardines to each member of my unit, beginning with Lovelita. We ate our meal and settled down to rest until dawn.
And at daybreak, a rain of steel began to fall on Kandahar.
Chapter Twenty-one
Laokolé
At daybreak, a rain of steel began to fall on Kandahar.
The first rocket startled me just as I was coming out of the latrine, a hole that had been hastily dug in a far corner of the yard to accommodate the large number of people who had unexpectedly sought refuge at Auntie Tamila’s house. Privacy in the latrine was afforded by some old corrugated roof tiles, on which the current user would hang an object—pagne, towel, bit of cloth—to signal that the spot was occupied.
I’d gotten up at first light, before anyone else, to avoid the long line of people who went there to relieve themselves as soon as they awoke. I’d gazed around me. There was no one outside, and I’d wondered by what miracle Auntie Tamila had managed to find space for everyone in the house. I’d looked across the street at the wall that enclosed Mr. Ibara’s property—the wall that protected him and his family in their secure existence, the wall that my father and I had built. A thrill of useless pride went through me. The construction of that wall had been a turning point in my life: for the first time, I’d had the experience of using a cement mixer.
Up to that point, when I’d worked with Papa on small jobs, we’d mixed the cement by hand, with a shovel, before loading it into the wheelbarrow. We would spread out a layer of sand approximately ten centimeters thick, distribute the dry cement more or less evenly over the sand, blend it all together with the shovel, and do this several times until we obtained a uniform mixture. Then we’d level it out again, as at the beginning. We’d dig a small hole in the center, pour in a little less water than we needed, and use the back of the shovel to push the mixture from the edges to the center, blending it with the water. Once it was thoroughly wet, we’d add the rest of the water and mix the whole batch one last time to distribute the moisture evenly. I assure you, it was a long and laborious process. And difficult.
Mr. Ibara, being rich, had leased a cement mixer for the extensive work on his property. I’d never seen one before—an enormous tumbler, more or less spherical, rotating on its central axis with the aid of a small motor. Once Papa had shown me how it worked, I thought it was marvelous. Making cement was now so easy! You loaded the barrel of the mixer first with the sand, then with the gravel, then with the cement; and finally you added the water. You let the barrel rotate for a minute and half (up to three minutes for large batches), and it was done! Cement or mortar in less than three minutes! Not only could we do the work in a fraction of the time, but we didn’t even get tired. Yes, machines make a huge difference. Thanks to that cement mixer, I at last understood from personal experience what I’d learned in school—namely, why cultures that had machines enjoyed a decisive advantage over those that didn’t.
Enough musing about Mr. Ibara’s wall—I gathered my thoughts and wished him good luck. He, at least, was safe and secure.
I set off toward the latrine.
We’d arrived at Auntie Tamila’s house the day before, just as darkness was beginning to fall. We hadn’t expected to find so many people there. They were milling around the courtyard, trying to get organized as best they could. Despite the crowd, Auntie spotted us as soon as we came into the yard, Mama hitching her way over the ground by sliding her hips forward, and me following with bundles on my head and hack. Auntie ran to us, hugged us, carried Mama on her own hack into the house.
“I thought of you and cried! I heard that your district had been attacked, but I didn’t know what had become of you. I’m so glad you’ve come!”
“Is Fofo here?” asked Mama.
“No, I haven’t seen him. Isn’t he with you?”
“We lost him in the crowd.”
“Poor child! Don’t be too worried—I know Fofo. He’s a clever boy, he’ll manage somehow. Come, let’s get you settled.”
“There are so many people here!” I said. “Do you really think you can find room for us?”
“If there’s no room for you, there’ll be no room for anyone!” she exclaimed. “Do you think I’m friends with even half the people here? All I know about most of them is that they’re refugees from the war and that they’ve lost everything. They have nowhere to go. How could I turn them away? So when it comes to you and your mother, Lao, how can you ask such a pointless question? You’re like a daughter to me.”
Yes, she was right—I shouldn’t have said that. In Africa, people shower you with kindness and generosity. Even if you were just the friend of a friend of someone who knew Auntie Tamila, you’d still be able to count on her hospitality. I think this was true of the majority of the homeless people there.
“But Auntie,” I protested, “I only meant—”
“No need to say anything more. Your mother can sleep in my room—the bed is big enough for both of us.”
And turning toward her friend: “You’re covered with dust! And what’s happened to your poor leg? You must be in terrible pain! Come—I’ll help you get cleaned up, and then let’s see what we can do for your leg. You’re badly in need of rest.”
She picked Mama up and took her into the shower off her bedroom. Meantime, I opened the bundle I’d been carrying since the start of our trek and tried to find some clean clothes for Mama. I needn’t have bothered—when she came out of the bathroom she was wearing one of Auntie’s dresses. Then Auntie Tamila massaged the stumps of Mama’s legs with a soothing ointment she herself had made.
“You ought to rest now,” Auntie advised. “A bite to eat, and then you can lie down.”
No sooner said than done. For the first time since we’d left home, Mama ate with a good appetite.
Once Mama had been put to
bed in her friend’s room, my agitation and anxiety lifted—I was now free to tend to myself. Of course, what I most wanted to do was wash, since I was feeling unbearably dirty. For the time being, there was no shortage of water. The taps were all working, though no one knew how long this would last. Thinking ahead, Auntie Tamila had filled a number of large storage containers just in case. I filled a bucket with water and was about to take it outside to the improvised shower near the latrine, but Auntie stopped me. She insisted that I use her own private bathroom, the one Mama had used.
I let the water cascade over me, feeling it wash away the sweat and grime of the previous two days. What a relief it was to clean up after my period. When I’d dried myself off, I put on one of the sanitary pads Tanisha had given me. I changed my panties and washed the ones that I’d been wearing since we’d left home and that were now soaked with blood. At last I felt clean and comfortable. Then Auntie Tamila prepared a meal for me.
“Eat well tonight, my daughter, while we’ve still got something left. Tomorrow we start to tighten our belts.”
Dear Auntie Tamila! If I’d known the way to Paradise, I would have shown it to you then and there. When I finished eating I took two acetaminophen, as Tanisha had recommended, since my menstrual cramps had returned.
Despite Auntie Tamila’s efforts, it wasn’t possible for me to sleep inside the house. Now that darkness had fallen, those who had arrived earlier were occupying every bit of space, spilling across the living room, packed so densely that you could barely walk without stepping on the mats and mattresses spread out on the floor. Tamila was distressed and suggested that if we could make do with a bit less room, the three of us could fit in her bed. I refused. The coming days, I knew, would be difficult ones, and the two women needed some good solid rest. I immediately thought of the shed, and asked if I could sleep there.
Johnny Mad Dog Page 18
