The Dark Chronicles

by Jeremy Duns

  He looked at me blankly, and I pointed to his helmet.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Arsenal.’

  I looked down at the crates. ‘You make sure the weapons get to the front?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, looking at me like I was a fool. ‘I support Arsenal Football Club!’

  I started laughing. It must have been a physical need welling up in me, because it wasn’t the funniest joke I’d ever heard and yet tears were soon running down my cheeks. After a few moments, Gunner joined in, nervously at first, and then full-bloodedly. It changed the shape of his face, lighting it up, and I realized just how young he was. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen.

  Then, abruptly, he stopped.

  ‘Why you laugh at me?’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, between heaves. But how to explain to him that I found his devotion to an English football team surreal without insulting him? And then something occurred to me. ‘You lost the cup to Swindon…’ But that thought just set me off again, and Gunner’s eyes, which were starting to bulge with anger, only made it worse.

  ‘Do not mention this word!’ he shouted. ‘I do not want to hear about these Swindon thieves!’

  I waved a hand at him to stop, and he actually went quiet until I’d regained some control. Then he looked at me very seriously, and I wondered if he was going to ask to see my press pass.

  ‘Tell me, honestly, Mister – what is your name?’

  ‘Robert Kane.’

  ‘Tell me, Mister Robert, have you ever heard of such a bunch of crooked sportsmen in your life as Swindon Town?’

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to match his tone. ‘I haven’t.’

  My exclusive interview with Captain Alele came to an abrupt close just then, as the curtain was drawn and an anxious face peered out at us.

  ‘Captain – we have some trouble with the plane. The pilot wants to know how to proceed.’

  *

  The trouble, Isabelle told me when I had returned to my seat, was that a message had come through from Enugu saying it was not safe to land there. Gunner and the pilot were now locked in heated debate about what to do. Isabelle’s theory was that the Biafrans had coordinated one of their rare air strikes.

  ‘What other airports do the Federals have?’ I asked her.

  ‘Not many,’ she said. ‘We already passed Benin City, so perhaps they will have to try Port Harcourt.’

  I looked at the map. Suddenly the world wasn’t so funny. Port Harcourt was a good hundred miles south of Udi. It looked like my strategy had completely backfired – we were now heading away from my target.

  Things soon got worse. Over the next couple of hours, it began to rain again, after which we found ourselves flying through lightning. We were buffeted about in our seats, our stomachs churning, our fingers gripping the arm-rests. Just minutes before we reached Port Harcourt, the pilot decided to land in the bush.

  And so, as night fell, we came down with an almighty bump in a muddy field somewhere in the forests of eastern Nigeria; I noticed a few of the soldiers crossing themselves when we finally came to a standstill.

  Gunner moved swiftly into action. He might not have been the world’s greatest interviewee, but he knew how to deal with his men. He picked out five of them to accompany him on a reconnaissance mission, and gave a short speech to the rest of us explaining the situation.

  ‘We go see if we can find some transport for us to leave here.’ He gestured at the two soldiers sitting in the aisle seats in the front row, and for a moment I thought he might point out the emergency exits, like in the safety demonstrations. ‘In the meantime, Njoku and Otigbe, keep watch on your windows. If you see anything suspicious at all at all, raise the alarm. Everyone, stay close to your weapons. When we return, we knock four times on the door. Do not let anyone in who no knock four times. Understand?’

  Everyone shouted that they understood, sir, and Gunner and his group started gathering up their weapons and backpacks.

  ‘We’re sitting ducks,’ I said to Isabelle. ‘A fully lit plane sitting in the middle of a field. What’s to stop the Biafrans from attacking us?’

  ‘Fighting is finished for today,’ she said.

  ‘You sound very sure of that.’

  She nodded. ‘There is a routine, followed by both sides. Usually, they fight in the morning, then have lunch and a siesta and then they fight for a few more hours in the afternoon. They do less during the rainy season – there is too much mud. In any case, it is very rare that there is fighting after dark, so we should be completely safe.’

  Siestas? It seemed I had stumbled into a joke-shop war. Still, if what she said were true, then perhaps there was some hope. We had only been a few minutes from landing in Port Harcourt, which was a Federal stronghold. That meant there should be plenty of transport around. If we weren’t under threat, I might be able to find some. I got out of my seat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Isabelle. ‘Wait for me.’

  I found Gunner and told him that we wanted to come along on the expedition. ‘This could be a big story,’ I said. ‘“Captain Leads Unit To Safety After Aircraft Downed By Storm”.’

  He considered the idea. ‘You do as I say at all times,’ he said eventually. ‘Otherwise I tell my men to shoot you on the spot.’

  *

  The eight of us piled down the small staircase into the field. The rain whipped against us; I’d forgotten how strong it could be. Within seconds, my clothes were stuck to my skin.

  The lights of the plane cast an eerie glow, but it made visibility easier. The field was surprisingly lush, although there didn’t seem to be any crops in it – looted by soldiers, perhaps. Palm trees swayed menacingly around us, and the air was thick with the buzzing of mosquitoes.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Gunner, as we stalked through the field. ‘There may be rebels close by. But there may also be our own soldiers – so look before you shoot!’

  After about a mile, we reached a small dirt track, which Gunner decided we should take. It was the right move, as it led us straight into the centre of the nearest town.

  If you could still call it a town. It seemed completely abandoned, and the unmistakable stench of decaying human flesh hung in the air – we all took care to breathe through our mouths. We walked through streets littered with spent ammunition, broken bottles and the occasional corpse, grey and inflated. The buildings were almost all ruined. One still bore a sign reading ‘Bank of Biafra’, while another had been a cinema: I glimpsed a poster advertising a showing of James Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life flapping from an empty window frame.

  There were plenty of vehicles around, but they were either charred to a cinder or missing wheels. The lights of the buildings were all out – it didn’t look as though there was any electricity here at all. My hopes of jumping in a jeep and driving off to Udi were looking pretty slim. The main road had been cut anyway, with trees laid across it at regular intervals, so even if I had found a working set of wheels, I’d have had difficulties getting anywhere.

  Suddenly the wind intensified, bringing the rain up off the ground. As I struggled to keep my footing, I saw Gunner raising his arms and gesturing at a nearby building, which looked like nothing but a small hut with an open entrance. I reached it just after him, with Isabelle following close behind me.

  The hut seemed much bigger inside, a dark cavern that receded into nothingness. As I came further in, I was conscious of light, and with a start realized it was eyes: the whites of dozens of eyes staring at me from the silent gloom. The men were stick-thin. Their uniforms, if you could call them that, consisted of torn T-shirts and sweaters dyed green, and trousers that could barely hold themselves together. The women wore ragged cotton sheets and little else, their breasts bare and their ribs exposed so much it almost hurt to look. But it was the children that sent a shiver through me. Naked and pot-bellied, they stood there silently as the rain roared outside, calmly looking at the strangers entering.

  ‘Nobody shoot
,’ said Gunner. But his men were frozen.

  ‘The camera,’ Isabelle whispered to me urgently. Perhaps Gunner’s words had made her think of it. ‘Give it to me now.’

  And while we all just stood there, I handed it over and she crouched down on one knee and began photographing the scene, the sound of the shutter almost obscenely loud.

  ‘Who is your leader?’ said Gunner.

  After a few moments, a stoop-shouldered old man shuffled forward.

  ‘We just want food,’ he said. ‘We are all hungry.’

  Isabelle stopped her clicking.

  ‘We must take them back to the plane,’ she said. ‘We must help them.’

  Gunner didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he nodded, and we started taking them out.

  *

  ‘Order, order!’ shouted Gunner from his position at the head of the aircraft. ‘Now listen, men. I am glad to report that our reconnaissance mission has been a tremendous success.’

  I saw a couple of the group glance at each other. There were now eighteen more bodies in the plane, and they were the enemy to boot.

  ‘We are very close to a town that has recently fallen to our side,’ Gunner continued. ‘This is good news.’ He looked out at us, and seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. ‘This is good news,’ he stressed. ‘This means our soldiers must be close by. Divisional HQ must not be far away. When morning comes, we go locate the HQ and proceed to Port Harcourt. We move at first light. In the meantime, please look after our…’ He looked around at the Biafrans hopelessly, searching for the right word. ‘Our guests. Keep them warm. Pass around blankets and cushions. Share your rations with them, please – there will be plenty of food tomorrow.’

  He didn’t say what would happen to the Biafrans tomorrow, and nobody asked. After water and bread had been passed around and some of the most severely affected and youngest children given as much treatment as the plane’s first-aid kits could provide, some semblance of normality began to take hold. Guided by Gunner’s skilful diplomacy, the Biafrans started to talk. One of the Nigerians recognized one of them from his schooldays, and soon they were comparing the fates of friends and family members. As the atmosphere warmed up, I told them how something similar had happened in the First World War – or ‘the Kaiser War’, as they knew it – when British and German troops had played football together in No Man’s Land one Christmas Eve. It wasn’t the same, of course – the men of the group were deserters, and had stayed in the bush when the town, which they told us was called Aba, had fallen months earlier. They had been trying to live off the land since. The field we were in had contained cassava, but it had long gone. But, despite the differences, my historical comparison went down well, and made everyone feel better for a moment.

  It didn’t last. A few minutes later, as everyone began preparing to bed down for the night, there was a loud banging on the rear door of the plane.

  Everyone went quiet and listened to the sound. A few of the men quietly reached for their machine guns.

  The banging came again, a dull but insistent thudding.

  Gunner walked over to the door and stood a few inches away from it. ‘Who goes there?’ he shouted. Everyone tensed: fingers gripped around triggers, shoulders hunched and all eyes fixed on the door.

  ‘This is Colonel Bernard Alebayo of the Third Marine Commando Division,’ called out a familiar voice. ‘Who goes there?’

  XV

  Alebayo stood at the front of the plane, his back and shoulders parade-ground straight. Although our encounter in the belly of Lagos Airport had been less than twenty-four hours earlier, it seemed much longer ago than that, and my image of him had changed in the interim. I was surprised at how small he seemed, and how young – with his short sleeves and slight frame, he looked more like a cadet than the most feared and celebrated commander of the war. But as he stood there, motionless, it was almost as though he were waiting for his presence to ripple around the cabin, and within moments I was remembering just how unpleasant he had been.

  He was flanked by about half a dozen soldiers, all of them well-built and heavily armed. Rain dripped from their helmets, darkening the green and white Nigeria Airways logo that was repeated across the thin carpet. Alebayo’s eyes slowly swept the cabin. As I followed the line of his gaze, the incriminating details seemed to leap out: the Nigerians in their smart uniforms; the rising sun insignia on the sleeves of the ragged Biafrans; the half-eaten loaf of bread.

  When his eyes finally reached mine, they paused for a fraction of a second, and I fancied they glowed with a touch of triumph. He looked like he was about to say something, but if so he thought better of it, for he continued his visual tour. When he came to Isabelle, there was another flicker, but this I couldn’t decipher. Concern, perhaps? Or just surprise to see a woman, and a young white woman at that, in these surroundings?

  He jerked away. ‘Who is in charge here?’ he said, and his voice reverberated through the plane.

  Gunner stepped forward and saluted smartly. ‘Captain Henry Alele at your command, Colonel. This no be as it appear, sir. I apologize most heartily—’

  Alebayo raised his hand. ‘There is no need, Captain.’ He extended an arm and patted Gunner on the shoulder, and at the same time a strange smile broke through his stern features. ‘I applaud you, for you have done the right thing. We must rejoice, today of all days – it is only proper. It came as a shock to me, that is all. I hadn’t heard, you see. When did the news come through?’

  Gunner frowned. ‘The news, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alebayo, his smile still fixed in place. ‘It cannot have been long ago – I listened to the radio just before leaving my headquarters, and there were no reports of a ceasefire then.’

  Gunner lowered his head for a moment – perhaps to gather courage – and then looked up at Alebayo. ‘I have not heard about a ceasefire, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Alebayo, raising his eyebrows in a caricature of puzzlement. He slowly withdrew his hand from Gunner’s shoulder and set his eyes travelling around the cabin again, in the manner of a lawyer making sure everyone in the jury appreciated that he had just caught out a witness. Then, in a louder, more menacing voice, he said: ‘So why are you fraternizing with the enemy, Captain?’

  Isabelle shuddered beside me. I knew how she felt – it had been a nasty little trick.

  ‘I know it begin look that way, sir,’ said Gunner. ‘The truth—’

  ‘Save it for afterward,’ said Alebayo. He lifted his hand again, and as though he were signalling the start of a race, or were a Roman emperor ruling on the death of a gladiator, he suddenly brought it down, slapping it against the side of his trouser-leg. ‘Arrest them,’ he said quietly. And as his men moved forward to carry out the command, he looked across at Isabelle and me with something that looked very much like disgust. ‘Arrest all of them.’

  *

  The rain beat against the tarpaulin above us, and I watched it bounce off the receding mud track, so thick it was almost impossible to see past. I was getting my ride, but it wasn’t in a jeep and it wasn’t to Udi. Instead, I was shackled to my seat in the back of a dilapidated lorry, headed in the direction, presumably, of Alebayo’s headquarters in Port Harcourt.

  Alebayo was in one of the vehicles ahead of us, along with Gunner, his men and the Biafrans. Before setting off, he had assigned three men to guard me and Isabelle. Our bags and the camera had been confiscated, and we’d been chained together and pushed into the truck with about a dozen soldiers.

  So we sat, thighs touching – it was hard to tell where my sweat ended and hers began, even through layers of fabric. The smell of sweat was so heady in the confined space, in fact, that I was finding it a struggle to focus on our guards. They were seated on the opposite bench; all three had sub-machine guns aimed at our legs, and were keeping their eyes glued to us.

  There was no reasonable hope of escape – I’d realized that at once. I was in poor shape to attempt it, anyway, as the last cou
ple of days were choosing their moment to catch up with me: my eyes were stinging, perhaps because I’d only slept a few hours since leaving London, and I had a nagging ache in my back and down my left thigh, both of which were probably gifts from a nasty little Russian with a sand rake. None of this compared to my thirst, though; my tongue was working frantically in a desperate attempt to create more saliva. I hadn’t had any of the water that had been handed round in the plane – I’d spent enough time in tropical climates to know not to drink from an open bottle – but now I was sorely regretting the decision. Thinking about it would only make it worse, I knew, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes only saw moisture: the rain outside; the sweat on the faces of my companions; even the polished metal poles that ran around the roof of the truck holding the tarpaulin up seemed to have a liquid quality to them.

  I tried to empty my mind of such thoughts and concentrate on the problem at hand. The lorry’s suspension was almost non-existent, and as we seemed to be taking dirt tracks through the forest, it felt like we were sitting on a drunk camel. The first time we had hit a sizeable bump, a couple of miles back, Isabelle had let out a yelp, and all three of our guards had tensed, as had a few of the other soldiers. But the guard on the left, the one with the scars on his cheeks, had let out his own cry, almost simultaneous with Isabelle’s, and raised his gun, enough to make me think he was serious about using it.

  I had no idea if Isabelle was aware just how precarious the situation was: a bigger bump, a bigger yelp, and one or both of us could get a round through the legs, or worse. I’d seen Alebayo give instructions to the men before they had taken us in hand, and I guessed he had told them that the two Westerners should not, under any circumstances, be killed – hence their aiming at our legs. And I was confident that they would try to carry out the order, because Alebayo had a reputation for rough justice: the report I’d read back in London had recounted how he’d had one of his soldiers executed by firing squad for shooting an unarmed Biafran. But would he take into account the bumps in the road, and Isabelle’s nerves? If I were accidentally killed, the man responsible might also face a firing squad – but that wouldn’t help my corpse.