by Steve Reeder
Cole took a closer look and noticed the blood for the first time. The back of the seat was smeared with it and there was a fair bit pooling in the seat between Danny’s legs. His shirt and most of his trousers were soaked through.
“Where are you hit, Danny?” Cole asked.
“In my back, twice I think, and the back of my left thigh. I’ve lost a lot of blood. They hit me when we were getting Robbie on-board.”
Cole called out to Reece. “Sean, check and see what medic-packs we have left… and if there are any bags of fluids.” He turned back to the driver. “OK, Danny, let’s get you out of the cab.”
“No,” Danny whispered hoarsely, “I think the bleeding has stopped from the wounds in my back, but I think the only reason my leg isn’t pissing blood is that I’m sitting on it.”
“OK, so we need to get it bound up tight before we move you, good point.” Cole looked towards the back of the vehicle where Reece had the bin on the back of the vehicle open. “You find anything, Sean?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Reece replied uncertainly. “Give me a minute to sort this out. There are three medic-packs here but they’ve been chewed up a bit when that machine gun nailed us.”
Reece sorted through the broken bags, tossing aside destroyed sterile dressings, syringes and IV bags. “OK, I’ve got two bags of fluid and five dressings along with plenty of bandages - and what looks like some morphine. And I found a scalpel too. ” He handed one of the IV bags to Cole. “You know how to get one of those into a vein?”
“We’ll find out in a sec, won’t we?”
“You two are not doing my confidence much good,” Danny said, and tried to grin.
Cole told Reece to climb onto the back of the buffel above the driver’s cab and hold the bag up while he searched for a vein Danny’s on the inside of the left elbow. After three attempts he tried the vein in his wrist near the thumb. Finally the needle slid in. Reece handed him three strips of sticky plaster to tape the needle and tube securely.
“Where’s that morphine, Sean?”
“Have you got any idea how much to give him?”
“Not a clue. Do you?”
“Let’s try fifteen cc and see what effect that has,” Reece suggested.
Cole stabbed the syringe into the IV tube and carefully pushed the plunger home.
“Danny boy, you are either going to feel no pain or you going to be flying high for a couple of hours.” He didn’t add ‘Or maybe dead’.
A minute later Danny Evans was either unconscious or falling into a comma, they weren’t sure which. Cole took the scalpel from Reece and swiftly cut away the signaller’s trousers from just below his crotch. Tossing aside the blood-soaked cloth he lifted Evans’ leg. Blood began to pour out a messy-looking hole in the back of the thigh.
“Give me one of the dressings, quickly!” Cole demanded. He pushed one as deep into the wound as he could, took the second dressing and, placing it on top of the first one he applied pressure as best he could. They waited anxiously. The flood of blood slowed until it was only seeping. “OK, now let’s get a bandage around it.”
For five minutes more they worked on their injured friend, concentrating totally on stabilising him before trying to get him out of the driver’s cab. To Reece’s mind it seemed like a lost cause. Finally, Cole suggested that they had done all that they could. It was time to move the wounded man. Reece climbed down, planning to roll out a sleeping bag to lay Evans on. But he stopped short, startled at the sight before him.
“Er, Charlie,” Reece said, “I think we have a problem.”
Cole looked back over his left shoulder. There were seven heavily armed black men in army uniforms standing within the cammo-net covering. He looked towards his rifle, but one of the black men had already picked it up.
“You vera lucky mans,” the black soldier told Cole five minutes later. He had a large round face and when he grinned, which was pretty much all the time, he reminded Cole of pictures of Idi Amin, the murderous dictator from Uganda. “Yes, vera lucky mans. UNITA have vera good doctors. Vera good medicine too.” They both looked at the two UNITA members, one a woman, who were diligently working on Danny Evan’s still unconscious form. Three South African army-supplied medic kits lay open close by.
It had taken Cole a frighteningly long few seconds to realize that the black soldiers were from South Africa’s allies in Angola. UNITA had been fighting a war of attrition against the Cuban backed soldiers of the Angolan government almost from the day that the Portuguese had packed their bags and left Africa. As soon as he had realised who these black men and woman were he had shouted a warning to Reece. Standing on top of the buffel within an arm’s reach of one of the fifty calibre heavy machineguns, Reece was quite capable of starting a battle that neither of them would survive. Three of the UNITA men had moved swiftly to help get Evans out of the buffel and onto the sleeping-bag that Cole spread out on the ground alongside the amour-platted vehicle. The doctor - and he was a qualified doctor it seemed - had been quick to spring into action, assisted by the small woman who had turned out to be a trained nurse. Cole shook his head and wondered how Angolan rebels had become better equipped than the South African troops were.
When Sean Reece finally woke it had been dark for several hours. He rolled out from under the buffel to find Cole sitting by a small fire talking to the ever-grinning UNITA man. Danny Evans lay close by sleeping peacefully. The doctor had done what his profession promised. Cole poured him a mug of strong liquid which could well have been coffee and handed it to him as he sat down besides the fire.
“The major here,” Cole said, pointing to the black fighter, “suggests that we leave at two… that’s in about an hour. That way we should be at the border by first light.”
Reece grunted his agreement. The sooner the better as far as he was concerned. “How’s Danny?” he asked.
“The doctor says he should be alright for the rest of the trip, but that he does need to get into a hospital as soon as we can find one.” Cole watched Reece sip carefully on the hot coffee. “The Major is sending four of his men with us as far as the border.”
“That will make life easier I guess. Thanks,” he said, looking at the UNITA officer.
Reece refused more coffee, as well as the mouthful of whatever it was that was left in the pan resting on the fire. “I’ll check the buffel and make sure that we are ready. If I can find that scalpel again, I’ll cut some of the seat-belts and sort out an arrangement to strap Danny onto the seats.”
Eight
“That’ll be all, gentlemen, thank you,” Major Horn said with a nod to the officers and NCOs before addressing Franz. “Corporal Coetzer - a moment please.” Franz waited as the other dispersed back to their units. “Corporal I want to thank you and your men for a sterling job you’ve done on this operation, but also to say that even though we don’t know what happened to the Colonel and his men, I’m sorry about your friend Reece. You have my word that as soon as I get any information regarding that group, I’ll let you know.”
The Major held out his hand and after a second of surprised hesitation, Franz shook the officer’s hand.
“I appreciate that, Major, as will the others. In spite of that, I’d just like to say that the past six weeks have been fun and it’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
The major didn’t look convinced by that statement.
Franz waved at the others, all of whom had been watching him since the order group had been called by the Major.
“What’s up with the hugs and kisses from Horn?” Smit asked.
Franz addressed the four of them. “The sappers have finished clearing the way through the Strip and we’ll be off at fourteen hundred,” he glanced at his wrist-watch, “which is in twenty minutes. We’ll be leading the column, and it’s your turn I think, Smitty. Once we have cleared the Strip, and safely back in South West, we are breaking away and taking Charlie-company west towards Concord Base while the rest of the battalion goes down to Oshive
lo. So, Smitty, when you hit the graded road running from Oshikati turn right, okay?”
Smit agreed that he had the idea and then asked, “So what was the personal chat about?”
“Horn just told me that he’d find out what became of Sean and the Colonel and that he’d let me know when he does.”
“Reese probably found a whore-house and got them all laid!” Bomber Harris told them with a grin. “They’re probably all still drunk and disorderly.”
The bang, when it happened, along with the flash of high explosives, was shocking; numbing the senses. The buffel ahead of Franz disappeared instantly into a dust cloud of its own making and debris rained down, some of it dropping inside the tight, armoured cab where Franz sat opened-mouth at the violent destruction wrought ahead of him. The brief silence afterwards was followed almost as quickly by the shouted, urgent orders of the infantry Company-Sergeant seated not far behind Franz. Franz could hear troops debussing and forming an all-round defensive ring, shouting to each other, co-ordinating, getting it right, not expecting an ambush but preparing for one anyway. Ahead, the dust either settled or drifted with the wind until Franz could see the vehicle thirty metres down the track. It had rolled onto its right side and slewed around until Franz was faced with the under-side. The right front wheel was gone, shattered, and its pieces scattered. Diesel was leaking from a crack in the tank. The drive-shaft and stabiliser bar had sheared off with no trace left of them. There were tiny bits of rubber littering the area around for some distance. Franz stared intently for signs of life and picked out three forms lying by the side of the track: They hadn’t been wearing their seat-harnesses. There was no sign of Billy, but that was probably a good thing for the moment; perhaps he had been strapped in. In theory the mine-protection would save the driver and his passengers from the blast of the anti-vehicle mine, although this tended to work better when the seat-belts were fastened, but Franz knew that it was by no means a certainty.
Time stretched agonisingly for Franz. Finally one of the men flung from the broken buffel stood up, looked about him groggily before bending over first one, and then the other of his stricken buddies. The first one eventually sat up but seemed incapable of doing more. The second lay motionless, his mate shouting for help. Still there was no movement from the far side of the buffel. Franz rubbed his hands through his short hair, keen to rush over and help, but he knew well how dangerous that could be. Anti-personnel mines were often scattered around to catch unwary South African troops.
Eventually, the sergeant knocked on the metal side of the driver’s cab and said something. Franz stood up and leaned over the side. “Sorry, Sarge, what was that?”
“I said I have sent a sitrep to Battalion HQ. There is a medical team coming from Eenhana, but I want you take these three men,” he indicated the Bushmen troopers standing close by, “and make sure the area from here to there,” he pointed at the stricken vehicle, “and around it is free of any mines. I don’t think you’ll find any but let’s not be reckless, right? And I’ll need a report on injuries as soon as you can.”
Franz nodded and looked across to where Billy had still made no effort to show himself. It would take a team from Eenhana the best part of an hour to get here, and if there were serious injuries, clearing a path through to the wreck was urgent. They had no mine-detecting equipment, so probing with bayonets was the only sensible option.
Franz detailed a one metre wide area for each of the three troopers and followed on behind, making sure there was nothing missed.
Three hours later Franz and John Smit helped load the injured Billy Day into the army ambulance. Two others went with him while the rest of the section scrambled into the relief buffel, laughter and silly jokes covering their shaken nerves.
“Billy should be OK,” Smit said confidently.
“Ja, hot and cold running nurses by this time tomorrow,” Franz replied.
“You think that they’ll send him straight back to One Mil?”
“Ja, bound to. And now we are down to six men in the section.”
“Maybe they should send us back to Pretoria to find some fresh suckers to join us?” Smit joked. “Perhaps four of those nurses - the hot ones - can make up the section for us?”
“And you and the guys will be hoping Reece comes back and steals them from you,” Franz grinned. “Come on, let’s get this lot back to Concorde and then we can head for Ruacana. I, for one, could do with a series of cold beers.”
Unknown to Corporal Franz Coetzer, Reese and Cole along with the badly injured Danny Evans took their leave of the UNITA soldiers, and were about to cross the border thirty-two kilometres to the west. Ahead of them lay a one kilometre-wide strip of bush that was strewn with anti-vehicle mines by the army as a barrier to adventurous Swapo terrorists. The Angolans were also known to lay mines along this strip of bush too, and Swapo regularly mined the dirt road further south. Reece drove while Cole sat in one of the mounted seats in the back and pulled the seat-straps tighter, just in case they accidently found one of the mines.
Nine
Ruacana Military Base. Northern Namibia.
Sean Reece arrived back at Ruacana, head quarters of 51 Battalion, five days later. Bomber Harris, John Smit and the others had yet to arrive. Three days of debriefing and hard questions from very senior offices had irritated him, then bored him, and had produced nothing of any use to the army top brass. Reece had retold the action sequences time and time again, but could tell them nothing about why they had been deep inside Angola. Finally they had given up, and returned him to his regiment. He had seen nothing of Corporal Charles Cole or Danny Evans during that time. Evans, he was told, had been transferred south to Pretoria’s massive One Military Hospital within hours of their arrival south of the border. Sherrington, Mad Dog, Jones and the other members of his company gave up bombarding him with questions. Reece started spending his time at the Power Corporation’s swimming pool, drinking beer, and mulling over the past two weeks. Bomber, Smit, Franz and Tommy Freeman finally arrived back with the news that Billy Day had been injured by an anti-vehicle mine as they had crossed the border.
“How is Billy?” Reece asked as he watched the others sorting through dirty laundry with the lame hope that the washing machines would be working.
“They say he’ll be okay,” Bomber replied. “Do you think that there is any chance I can just get new browns?” ‘Browns’ were the khaki bush clothing that was standard for South African troops.
“Billy’s going to have a couple of weeks in bed, and then a couple of month’s physio with those hot nurses in Pretoria,” Smit replied. “And no, I doubt they’ll give you any new clothes just because you’re too lazy to wash your own, Bomber.”
“But let’s cut to the chase, Sean. What the hell did you guys get up to after you left us?” Franz demanded to know.
Reece hesitated before answering: “Come on down to the pool after dinner and I’ll tell you all about it,” Reece suggested. “I’ll organise a case of beer.”
The others considered this an excellent suggestion and left Reece alone in the sweltering tent, to take their chances with the laundry. Reece grinned and imagined his friends’ reaction when he did told them about the past couple of weeks. Pity he had not been able to talk to Cole again. There was still the question of why they had really been there, so far north in hostile territory, in the first place. He considered trying to track Cole down and put a phone call through to the operational base of 31 Battalion, but he knew that the CO was unlikely to let him. Or, maybe someday he’d find Cole and ask him. In the meantime, he was sure there would be plenty of free beers for the story he had to tell. And there was that fourteen-day pass coming up in a month’s time too.
Ten
August. Johannesburg.
Charles Cole nursed his beer and watched the crowds arriving, filling up the terrace of the Sunnyside Park Hotel, which was situated on the edge of Johannesburg city, placing orders and receiving drinks. He’d been there, alone, since m
id-afternoon when the waiters had outnumbered the drinkers.
Life back in civvie-street was boring him to death and he’d only been demobbed from the army for two weeks. The lack of a job was beginning to curtail his activities too, although he was not as worried as his parents seemed to be. Getting a job to earn money was not actually a problem. It was finding something that he had any interest in, let alone enjoyment, that was troubling him.
Just after six that evening a group of five young women arrived and took over a table not that far from him. Being one chair short, a pretty honey-blonde girl came over and asked if she could take one of the chairs at his table. He smiled and suggested that perhaps they would like to join him as he had more than enough room. The blonde looked slightly annoyed and began to look around for another chair.
“It’s OK,” Cole told her, “take the chair.”
She smiled; looking relieved, and returned to her friends carrying the plastic chair.
Cole caught the eye of a passing waiter and ordered another beer. The girls were all talking at each other and Cole gathered that they were from the nursing college just a few hundred metres up the road. He felt put-out; he wasn’t the best looking guy in town, he knew that, but there was nothing wrong with him. His mind flashed to the teenage girl who was pregnant with his child. Her father wouldn’t even let him see her until he agreed a wedding date. That was a decision he was going to have to make soon because the baby was due in twelve weeks’ time. Would he be happy being married with a kid at the age of twenty-three? He tried to picture his life if he did: she was a very beautiful girl and she seemed to love him, perhaps even adore him. But would that change as she became a grown woman? And how was he going to support the family? A job that earned enough money to live like a young bachelor was one thing, but a wife with baby and house payments were a big commitment. He cursed softly and caught the eye of the waiter again.
