by Julian Beale
There had been an unending tirade from Samson, delivered in a mixture of language and dialect of which Josh could decipher hardly a word, for all that the message was clear enough. White mercenaries were expensive and unreliable, especially if they came from South Africa. They were there only to exploit the poor and downtrodden blacks, but they should be careful now as the day was dawning for the new Messiah, Moses Samson himself, and all this announced with much beating of breast, rolling of eyes and jiggling of his little goatee beard. Samson cut a physically small and insignificant figure, but there was no denying his presence and the inspiration which he aroused in his fervent followers. A true rabble-rouser, Josh thought to himself as he suffered this performance which was interrupted from time to time by an immense Belgian mercenary who was on hand to provide a limping translation. In some response, Josh made the most of his own attendance despite the sickness of his partner before lapsing into a surly silence.
This interview with the great leader constituted the whole of his welcome and introduction into the army of Moses. It was made plain was that they were behind schedule and they broke camp before dawn the following day, moving off to the East in a straggle of unlit vehicles down the rough track. It was three hours later when the crisis struck, but it didn’t take Josh unawares. His every sense had been warning him from the moment when he had walked into this outfit that a moment of truth was approaching, the only questions being what and from which quarter.
First they stopped and then they sat. From his vantage point beside the driver in the elderly Mercedes truck which had wheezed its way up the track, Josh could see in the full daylight that his vehicle was about two thirds down the line. The column ahead wound up a shallow incline and there was a gathering way ahead by the lead vehicle, a similar truck to his own with its squat, blunt bonnet lifted. Presumably some sort of breakdown. After a twenty minute delay, brilliant for mobility tactics he thought ruefully and all the better for being in wide open country, Josh saw the big Belgian start to descend the track on foot. As he approached, he acknowledged Josh with a jerk of his head and shortly afterwards, Josh heard him bellow to a Frenchman who was riding shotgun in a Land Rover further to the rear. Josh waited for them to come up to him. There was some delay while they exchanged conversation. He could see them from his cab as they talked. They knew each other well, he decided, well enough to work together, close enough to be discussing something from which he was to be excluded.
Finally, they walked up to his truck and Josh nodded to his driver before descending to join them. The three walked together to the head of the line and there made out a group of a dozen or so gathered around the lead truck which by now had its bonnet mostly closed again and the engine on tick over. The assembled company included all the white mercenaries, an assortment of Africans who served as Samson’s personal staff and of course the General himself, apparently spitting tintacks and fulminating enough to make his spray fly.
Plus one more: a powerfully built black man, completely naked, bloodied back and buttocks. His head, neck and arms were pinned beneath the bonnet of the Mercedes truck on which two soldiers were seated, casually raining further blows on the unprotected torso beneath them. The prisoner was flinching, jumping and scratching his feet in the dirt as he fought for purchase from which to ease his position. His discomfort would owe less to the beating than to the under bonnet heat on his face and hands. Josh Trollope had seen this form of bush stocks treatment before.
As Josh and the other two mercs arrived at the scene, Moses ceased his harangue to boot his captive between the legs and then turned to Josh, at the same time snarling at the Belgian to come forward. Not that much interpretation was needed. Josh could pretty much write the script himself, but he settled himself in a casual pose, hands on hips, allowing the tirade to sweep over him and ignoring the stumbling translation whilst he thought furiously.
The theme of the Moses speech was that the captive was a Nigerian, an Army deserter presenting himself as a mercenary. He had been assigned to travel at the front of the convoy to be on hand for the General in case they met English speakers. He had been caught rifling through papers, no doubt looking for cash and saleable commodities. Just now under questioning, he claimed to know you, Mr Trollope. Probably nonsense, but just to be sure, you grill him a bit more and then finish him off. Enough time wasted already.
It was just as Josh would have expected, and the real version said ‘this poor sod has been singled out as a means of testing you whom I don’t know and don’t trust. Nor do the mercs standing around you who can probably do the job without you and will certainly enjoy your money, so don’t look to them for any support. Don’t forget also that I’m paranoid, must show that I’m the only boss around here and that I can treat my black guys as expendable if it helps me to impress you whiteys.’
Even before Samson’s high pitched sermon was finished, Josh was moving slowly and deliberately over the couple of metres which separated him from the truck. He placed one hand on the wing of the vehicle and gestured with the other for one of the soldiers sitting on the bonnet to climb down. It was a moment of challenge. Josh locked eyes with the brutish, slovenly figure who held his gaze for a full minute before he dropped his face and slid down, encouraged on his way by a barked instruction from Moses. His departure permitted Josh to raise the bonnet a shade and to jam his water bottle into the gap. Then he crouched to see, dimly, the face inside which was by good fortune turned towards him. The heat inside was terrific and he could make out some of the welts on the man’s arms caused by contact with the metal and rubber of engine components. The soldier’s breathing was laboured and his eyes rolled, but this seemed to Josh to be more in fury than in pain. Josh Trollope was a fighting man and in that instant he recognised one of his own. Josh wanted out of there and he had just found a fellow traveller.
Josh spoke just above the engine beat, allowing its noise to muffle his words from the big Belgian who had moved up to stand next to him.
‘Name and rank?’
Immediate answer.
‘Nugumu, Patrick, Suh. From Cross river, Nigeria. Ten years Nigeria Army. Staff Sergeant, Artillery. Last posting with Maiduguri Frontier Force. Retired with honour. Suh.’
The voice was strong through the pain. The Nigerian was trying to form a bond with his only possible salvation and Josh thought to himself: no choice now, must risk it and use the surprise. And then, as always, came the tightening stomach muscles and the slowing of time and events as they passed before him, the two harbingers of action.
He responded.
‘I’m Trollope, ex Grenadier Guards. You ready for action on my count of three?’
A fierce nod in reply. Josh stood upright and turned to Moses Samson who was still standing there with the Belgian at his elbow. Josh spoke slow and clear.
‘This man’s an Ibo. He’ll be treacherous and a liar. Clear and lift the bonnet. Turn off the engine. I’ll finish the job’.
He turned back towards the truck and drew his handgun from the pouch at his belt. He was slow and deliberate in his actions. The big Belgian did not trouble to translate: he didn’t need to. Moses chattered. The engine silenced. The second guard came off the bonnet and started to lift it. Josh called a soft ‘THREE’, shot the guard in the head, grabbed Moses Samson’s scrawny neck in the crook of his left arm and threw the gun at Patrick who came out of his trap like a greyhound. The Nigerian caught the weapon smoothly and jammed it straight into the Belgian’s neck.
There was the brief benefit of shock and surprise and Josh had to use it fast. He had no trouble in holding the general and now he pulled the revolver from Samson’s belt and ground the barrel into his right ear, there for all in their little group to see plainly. He practically lifted the little man off his feet and frogmarched him towards his own command vehicle, another tatty Land Rover only five metres away with the driver standing by the door and goggling. Patrick followed with the big Belgian who was not going to die needlessly for anyone.
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A smooth changeover by the Land Rover, with Josh and the naked Patrick working as if they had trained together. Samson thrown in the pickup rear, with Patrick sitting on top of him and crushing his face to the floor, one huge hand around the neck, the other still covering the Belgian who stood large but relaxed in a clear exhibition of ‘not my fight’. Then Josh was behind the wheel and driving, at Patrick’s instruction, back down the track.
‘Must go that way, Suh. Go gentle. I play dead.’ They bounced back past the convoy, past men who could have been dangerous but who in their ignorance of what had been causing the delay were bored and inactive except to note that rough justice had apparently been meted out.
As they cleared the column and built up some speed on the track, Josh considered their next move. There would be swift pursuit once they had sorted themselves out. Not from loyalty or love, Moses Samson would have earned little of either from black or white. But money, that was a different matter. Samson had raised and financed the expedition. He was the banker and the paymaster. Without him, the motley force had no purpose and no reward. That’s why they would pursue and they would be deadly, especially the white mercenaries. And that’s why Josh Trollope braked the Land Rover to a stop in a shower of dust and turned in his seat. Patrick too had worked it out and moved off Samson who sat up, choking and spitting. Without a further word, Josh shot him cleanly between the eyes with his own gun. Patrick tipped the body over the tailboard and onto the track for the ‘army of Moses’ to find. Then they drove on in silence and made best time back to Mbornou.
And there it might so easily have ended. Just another little African punch up, characterised as much by incompetence as violence. There was no further pursuit. Josh and Patrick dumped the Land Rover just outside the town and walked into the centre with Patrick garbed only in a form of loin cloth which he had fashioned from a large rag in the toolbox. Once there, Josh funded a brisk search for some other clothes and a quick meal before lying in cover to watch their back while Patrick found them a bush taxi in which they completed a direct journey to Libreville, arriving after nearly sixteen hours of bone shaking travel, punctuated by the odd breakdown.
Barry Bingham had died less than twenty-four hours after Josh had left him at the hospital, as he learned from the French doctor. Cremation had already taken place and the doctor handed Josh an urn of ashes together with a little bundle of documents and effects which were the only residue of Barry Bingham. Josh had no idea of the deceased’s family or responsibilities, but he accepted this small burden which included a notarised bill of transfer under which Barry’s pay for this last, shambolic operation passed to him. Josh handed a significant sum in cash to Patrick before they parted at Libreville airport, promising to stay in touch.
Josh Trollope flew home to his farm, his wife, and his new born son. He never took up arms again. But life’s lottery casts a long shadow. Patrick Nugumu continued as a soldier under the influences of both choice and circumstance. Quite shortly after this little incident came the outbreak of the Biafra war in Nigeria, which he survived on the losing side and thereafter he gained the distinction of a mention in Frederick Forsyth’s account of The Dogs of War. Later by far, when age and experience had honed his fighting judgement to its full potency, would come his most productive struggle, to be waged at the shoulder of Josh’s son Rory Trollope whose father had plucked him from a grubby death some thirty-five years earlier.
SOLOMON KIRCHOFF — 1965
Before the end of 1965, just a few weeks after Josh Trollope’s little skirmish in Africa, David Heaven was looking for a job. He was no different to a million other graduates. He had vague notions of what he wanted to do with his life, but was surer of what was not for him. He was certain he would not join Pente in the church, nor to go soldiering with Conrad, nor follow Alexa into banking. Medicine, the law, accounting or insurance — he couldn’t get excited by any of these. He did know that it was straightforward commerce which sparked his interest. He wanted to start something, nurture, build and sustain some form of enterprise which would remain a fascination to him. By the middle of November he was in London, dossing down with friends, doing some interviews and trying to tighten up his thinking despite the attractions of much partying.
He was conscious of going too slowly, and thought he might look for advice from his old chum Martin Kirchoff, with whom he had kept passing contact since they had met in Menton. Destiny, however, intervened before he could make an appointment. His father Lawrence died, a heart attack which dropped him stone dead on the sparse turf of the school rugby ground in the middle of a match for which he was the referee. He was just sixty-eight. David was surprised to find himself badly affected by his death. Father and son had become closer over the past year and as Lawrence had been delighted with David’s degree, David had come to form a respect, if not a warm love, for his father. He admired how Lawrence had stuck at his role and responsibilities, but it was a shock to discover the impoverished state of affairs which he had left behind. Finances had been strained by David’s time at university and this reality added sharply to his need to knuckle down.
David also sensed that without Lawrence, there would be little further contact with his mother or his sisters. He did not blame them, especially not the latter with whom there had been such scant connection since childhood, but he felt a finality when Esther announced to him shortly after the funeral that she intended, ‘after a suitable interval’, to go and settle in France from where she would provide a point of contact in due course of time. From this cold announcement, David gathered that there was another man and another existence for her. It says much about this emotionally dispersed family that he apparently did not enquire further and it seems likely that mother and son never met again.
Approaching Christmas 1965, David was living very cheaply in a remote outpost of London’s western suburbs and pushing coins into a telephone box in order to make contact again with the Kirchoffs. He received a warm welcome and was invited to visit Martin’s office one day in Christmas week. David travelled on the tube up to Bayswater, filled with an excited anticipation which he could not explain to himself.
At first sight, the business of Kirchoff and Son did not impress, being housed in a small, nondescript building sandwiched between two large Victorian houses which had been converted into flats. Once inside, however, his opinion altered as he took in the planning and the style with which the single storey with mezzanine had been laid out to make the most of the space and the natural light, such as was available on a December afternoon.
Martin showed him around, introducing him to three girls at work at their desks spread comfortably around the open plan area, and then settled David in front of his own table which groaned beneath telephones and files in piles. They had not spoken since David graduated so Martin was keen to hear details of the lifestyle after which he had yearned. Then David told him of Lawrence’s death and the ensuing conversation underlined for both of them the gulf of difference between their respective family circumstances.
As if on cue, the front door burst open to admit a great woolly bear of a man who interrupted them with a cry of greeting. Solomon Kirchoff was a real charmer and an enormous extrovert, expansive where his son was diffident and as outrageous as Martin could be shy. The three of them settled to conversation, starting with a reminiscence of the original meeting in Menton when Martin collided with David’s car. It seemed that the incident had caused Solomon huge amusement and he was still chuckling now as they sat together. David thought his humour must be pretty easily aroused but then spotted that the real cause of Sol’s pleasure was that this silly accident might lead to a new friendship and a widening of Martin’s world. He chided himself with the arrogance of this thought but it stayed with him as the evening fell and he was drawn by the vitality of Solomon Kirchoff into revealing more of himself, his current circumstances, his hopes and aspirations.
By now, it was sometime after six o’clock and the girls in the office had
said their goodbyes and left for the evening. The big man rose from his chair and beamed down at them. He was not very tall, but was built like a barrel with great arms, legs and head all in similar proportion and topped off with a beard which fell to his chest. Had that been white rather than streaked black, he would have answered perfectly to the popular vision of Father Christmas.
‘David’, he announced ponderously as if commencing a speech, ‘David, I have so much enjoyed meeting you and I would like for us to speak again soon. I do believe that we could be of help to each other, but first, you must let me think a little further.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kirch....’ David started his reply but the old boy cut him off.
‘David, you must call me Sol just like the rest of the world does — even including Martin unless he is really upset with me’, this said with a guffaw as Martin rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, ‘and secondly, you owe me no thanks as already we value your friendship’. He glanced at his son whose look said to David that he agreed with the sentiment but wished Sol would ease up on the drama language. David understood and his smile said so.
They remained frozen in this tableau as Sol’s smile embraced the younger men. Then the moment was broken by the sound of swish over carpet as the front door from the street was opened. Two men had entered and now stood together without a word, their eyes fixed on Sol. The larger, who was black and very large indeed, looked to be West Indian. His companion was white, slim, smartly dressed with highly polished black brogues and holding a small umbrella. It was he who took the lead. David took them to be customers or colleagues in the business, arrived for a pre-planned meeting, and he sensed this was his moment to leave. He turned to say his farewell to Sol, but was shocked to find that he had become another person. The great shambling bulk had been instantly diminished and reduced in every way. The shoulders hunched, the beard wobbled on his chest, his hands washed at each other but could not disguise their tremble. When he spoke, his voice emerged cracked and reedy, so different from the booming tones of earlier.
