The Soldier who Said No

by Chris Marnewick

  ‘Prime Minister, we have no proof at the moment,’ Henderson explained. ‘And we need our investigation to be kept top secret, otherwise we might never solve this.’

  The Prime Minister considered the timing. Six months is a long time in an election year. The public mood can be turned around in a weekend.

  ‘You have until the end of July,’ she said. ‘Then we go public with it.’

  I can’t lose here, she thought to herself. If they had enough to make an arrest, it should swing the vote dramatically in her favour. And if they didn’t, the voters’ sympathy would be with her anyway. She’d had their hearts and minds ever since she was a teenager, protesting against the Vietnam War and the American military bases on New Zealand soil. Now it seemed they’d turned against her, the same public who used to eat out of her hand, herded along by hostile media, but she’d show them. She wasn’t ranked the thirty-eighth most powerful woman in the world by Forbes magazine for nothing.

  ‘You have until the end of July,’ she said a second time as she showed them to the door. ‘Then we go public with it. We’ll go with either your success or your failure.’

  Henderson was left with no alternative but to return to Macleans Road.

  Marissa stood on the steps watching him park the Porsche. ‘Nice car,’ she said as De Villiers struggled out of the low seat.

  De Villiers played along. ‘Just a souped-up Volkswagen someone told me,’ he said. ‘What are you doing out here? Did you come out for a smoke? I would have thought you would know better.’

  He joined her on the steps. ‘Is the machine playing up again, or will I be in and out quickly for a change?’

  Marissa took his arm as he joined her on the top step, an unexpected moment of intimacy between the forty-ish De Villiers and the vivacious twenty-something girl. She walked him through the reception area straight to the machine. De Villiers sighed as he removed his shoes and belt. Then he undid his trousers and slipped them down to just below the pubic line. He lay down on the gurney as Marissa pulled the protective shield marked with his name from the shelf. De Villiers put his hands behind his back and looked at the machine’s instrument panel. It had a variety of dials and lights. It might as well be Greek, he thought.

  On a shelf running the length of the room there were rows of protective shields marked with the names of current patients.

  ‘We had to call the technician out,’ Marissa said. Her back was still turned to him. ‘He says there’s nothing wrong with the machine, but it takes a bit of time to warm up in the morning.’

  Don’t we all? De Villiers thought. On second thoughts, not the younger generation. It seemed to him they had energy to burn.

  ‘So it wasn’t a good idea for me to insist on a morning slot,’ De Villiers retorted. With twenty-five treatments behind him, the machine had malfunctioned at least once every three times, coming to a halt with a rattling that shook the whole room.

  If it wasn’t for that surgeon in Auckland with his shoddy technique, I wouldn’t be here at all, De Villiers said to himself and closed his eyes. He felt Marissa pulling his trousers and underpants even lower. He could imagine what she was looking at: the penned markings she had tattooed on his lower pelvis to aim the machine at.

  Marissa adjusted the shield – a heavy pad containing a sheet of lead to protect the organs outside of the targeted area – and pulled the barrel of the machine over to the exposed spot, an area the size of a stick of chewing gum just above the pubic bone. She moved De Villiers’s legs, alternately pushing and pulling until she was satisfied that he was in exactly the right position.

  ‘Now lie still. I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said and left the room.

  The machine started buzzing almost immediately and De Villiers held his breath as he measured the time in his head. The machine stopped a moment after he had exhaled. He had the timing down almost to the second.

  Marissa returned to the room and adjusted the machine so that it would give the cancer cells a blast from the side. She left the room again and the machine did its work while De Villiers held his breath again. They completed the procedure with a blast from the other side.

  ‘Okay, that’s it for today,’ Marissa said.

  De Villiers sat up, but Marissa pushed him down again.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ she instructed. ‘I have to redo the markings. They are getting a bit faint.’

  She retraced the lines with a felt-tipped pen.

  ‘Okay, you can finish up now,’ she said.

  De Villiers slid off the gurney and adjusted his clothing. He put on his shoes and turned to face her. Marissa’s interest in Johann Weber’s Porsche had been preying on his mind while the machine was humming. As a Recce, he had been trained never to work alone, always to have a spotter or a back-up. He wondered whether he could use Marissa as a helper, even an unwitting one.

  ‘Would you like a ride in the Porsche?’ he asked. What are you doing? De Villiers heard the voice of his conscience in his inner ear.

  Before he could think of an escape from the consequences of his question, Marissa answered. ‘Of course, but it depends who’s asking.’

  He advanced his plan by one move. ‘Do you have anywhere to stay in Pretoria?’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘I might have to go up there for a weekend soon,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t seen my grandmother for a while,’ she said.

  De Villiers hesitated but was forced to speak. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he said, ‘but it will have to be after I’ve completed the treatment here.’

  Outside he rubbed his beard. It was coming along nicely.

  Henderson and Kupenga arrived at De Villiers’s home. No one answered their persistent knocking. When they walked around to the back of the house, they couldn’t see into the garage. The neighbour confronted them across a low picket fence and immediately added to their sour mood.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, but his attitude said, What are you doing here?

  Henderson held up his warrant card. ‘We’re looking for Detective de Villiers.’

  ‘He’s gone to South Africa.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Kupenga exploded. ‘He’s just getting deeper and deeper into it.’

  Kupenga had to follow Henderson to their car. They drove to the airport. At the Immigration Office, hidden away behind doors requiring special passes, they were eventually led to Chief Immigration Officer Devaki Sharma. She accessed the data on her computer and told them that De Villiers had departed for South Africa ten days earlier.

  ‘He was travelling alone and left on a valid New Zealand passport,’ she added.

  ‘What reason did he give for going?’ Henderson asked.

  The computer quickly gave up the information stored in the database. ‘He ticked the box for Other and was required to give a specific reason. He wrote Confidential.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Kupenga wanted to know. ‘Surely he has to give a proper reason. That’s like saying he is not telling you the reason.’

  ‘It’s a free country, Sergeant. We can’t force anyone to give more specific reasons, unless, of course, there is a police warrant or other prohibition against travelling listed on our system. And for this man there’s nothing.’

  They thanked her and turned to leave. At the door Henderson turned. ‘Did he have to say how long he would be away?’

  Sharma had exited from the database and punched at the keyboard until she had the information on the screen again. ‘Two weeks,’ she said. ‘He should be back in less than a week. Do you want us to post an alert for him and let you know when he arrives?’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘We can, Inspector, but we need an official police request for that.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘You can ask me and I will put it in the system for you.’

  ‘Please could you do that, then?’ Henderson asked.

  She pressed a key and a box opened on the screen. ‘Give me your
phone number and we’ll ring you when he presents his passport at the Arrivals Desk.’

  She entered the number and read it back to Henderson. He confirmed it with a nod and they headed for the door a second time.

  ‘He’s fled, Sir,’ Kupenga said. ‘He’s done a runner. Now we know for sure.’

  The Urewera National Forest

  May 2008 30

  The commander spelled out the details of the operation with great care. They were on the northern shore of Lake Waikaremoana at Hopuruahine Landing.

  ‘You will be split into three platoons of eight with one rifle per platoon. You will take turns carrying the rifle, a day each. If you stumble upon some pig hunters, you pretend you’re on a pig hunt of your own. Only the man carrying the rifle on a particular day will be allowed to use it on the hunt.’

  Behind the commander, the two intermediaries stood silent.

  ‘You will carry no food or water on this operation. You will have no cellphones or other means of communicating with the outside world. You’ll be in the bush for eight days and seven nights, if you read the signs correctly and make good time.’

  There was a murmur of dissent in the ranks.

  ‘Do I hear a mutiny?’ the commander demanded.

  The troops looked past him at their tribal elder, who had talked the commander into leading their training. The intermediary nodded and the troops held their collective tongue.

  ‘The whole idea,’ the commander explained, ‘is to ensure that you are fit enough, clever enough, and tough enough to evade capture for an extended period. If you can survive for eight days in the bush, you can survive indefinitely. Then no soldier in the regular army could capture or defeat you, not even with all their superior equipment. To track and defeat you, they’ll have to be better-trained and tougher than you. And we’ll see in the next eight days whether you have what it takes.’

  He glanced at the elder. ‘I have it on good authority that your ancestors were able to live off the land without any trouble and without having rifles.’

  ‘What happens if we should get lost, Sir? Or if someone gets injured or falls ill?’

  ‘Good question. You’re beginning to think like a soldier, planning ahead for when things might go wrong. But don’t worry. We’ve thought of that. Each platoon will be accompanied by two instructors, one of my men and one of the trainee instructors who completed the course in the intake before you. The instructors will carry satellite navigation equipment and medical supplies. They will also carry cellphones so that they’ll be able to make contact with the command post in an emergency. But they won’t use them unless they are convinced that someone’s life is in danger.’

  The recruits looked across at the instructors. They had got to know them well during the five-and-a-half months of training.

  ‘If necessary,’ the commander continued, ‘you’ll have to carry any member of your platoon who is injured or unfit or ill. We won’t send a rescue mission for one man. You have to arrive as you leave here, a full platoon of eight men. You may leave the instructors behind, if you have to, but I want all eight men of the platoon to arrive at the rendezvous together and on time, understood?’

  The recruits responded as one, ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘That is your test. It is a test for each man as an individual and it is a test for your platoon as a unit.’

  The commander waved towards his instructors. Two stepped forward. ‘These two instructors will accompany Platoons A and B respectively.’ He pointed at the three soldiers standing at ease on his left. ‘And these three instructors, who as you know completed the course last year, will go along, one with each platoon. I’ll be going with Platoon C. I won’t send you, or any of my instructors, on an operation which I’m not prepared to undertake myself.’

  Another murmur went up amongst the recruits.

  ‘Your instructors will now hand out your kit. Each man will receive an identical backpack. They weigh fifty kilograms each, but you’ve been training with heavier packs. Each backpack contains a sleeping bag, a one-man tent, a waterproof tarpaulin to hang over your tent, thirty metres of rope, a cigarette lighter, three pairs of dry socks, thermal underwear, two water bottles, a military compass, a soldier’s knife and some cooking utensils.

  ‘Platoon A, you will go north from here to Tauwharemanuka. It should take you eight days, counting today. Platoon B, you will go north-east to Koranga. And Platoon C will come south-west with me to Tarawera. The distances are more or less equal, the terrain equally difficult in all directions. You’ll be picked up at your respective rendezvous and brought back here for a debriefing.

  ‘Those who successfully complete this exercise will be inducted into the Tuhoe Regiment. The best soldier in each platoon will be offered a paying job as an instructor in the next intake.

  ‘There will be a passing-out parade when we complete this operation and you’ll receive a posting to a unit. You will thereafter report for duty every weekend and will be given duties to perform in your community. Those will include the identification of potential recruits for subsequent intakes. Are you still with me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘On passing out, each man will receive a weapon. It is to be buried in a place known only to you and is to be guarded with your life. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Now on my order, gather around your instructors for final instructions. Remember what I told you at the outset. Your instructors will be following you to observe. They will not lead and they will not help you. If you go in the wrong direction, they will follow you. And they will not participate in the hunt for boar or deer, nor will they fish or gather edible plants. Each platoon will have to gather sufficient food and water to feed the two instructors accompanying the platoon. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ the voices rang out.

  ‘Fall out.’

  The recruits stepped out of their parade ground formation and quickly assembled around their platoon instructors in military fashion, all facing inward with one knee on the ground.

  Platoon C gathered around the commander and he handed the map – Infomap 262-5 issued by the Department of Survey and Land Information East Cape 1:250 000 – to the platoon leader.

  ‘There’s your map. It’s over to you. You have to get us to Tarawera in eight days.’

  The passing-out parade was held a week after the completion of the operation. In the intake of twenty-four, every man had passed, four with distinction. An injured recruit attended on crutches. His ankle had been broken and he had had to be taken to hospital for the ankle to be set in plaster of Paris. As promised, every soldier was issued with a rifle and a full magazine, AK47s, the weapon of choice of all guerrilla forces.

  ‘You arrived here as raw recruits, willing but not able, but today you leave as soldiers. Well done, men. I’m proud of you and your iwi has every reason to be proud of you.’ The captain raised his hand to his cap. ‘I salute you.’

  The Tuhoe Regiment now had seventy-two well-trained men under arms. Of those, twelve were of instructor rank, able to take the programme forward, if need be, without the help of the captain from 32 Battalion or his men.

  THE KILL

  Durban North

  May 2008 31

  De Villiers found the first clue to !Xau’s whereabouts in Voices of the San. Having been inducted into the SADF and having fought alongside the white soldiers of 31 Battalion and other units against SWAPO, the political settlement which saw Namibia gain its independence under a SWAPO government left the !Xun and Khwe Bushmen at the mercy of their erstwhile enemies. In Africa, taking the side of the loser is never forgiven. The result was predictable: under the guise of operations against UNITA, the Namibian Defence Force raided and pillaged the !Xun and Khwe settlements within Namibia to the point where the Bushmen had to flee. Their homes had been destroyed, their women raped while they were forced to watch, their pay packets from the SADF had dried up, and their movement in their traditional hunting grounds ha
d been restricted, the latter in the name of conservation and tourism. The SADF was morally obliged to look after those who had fought in its wars, and large numbers of Bushmen from these two tribes were resettled in the Northern Cape at a place called Schmidtsdrift. It was shown as part of a vast area under the control of the South African military. The problem was that the current South African military had been SWAPO’s allies in the bush war.

  But it was on the internet that Liesl found what she wanted.

  ‘Pierre,’ she had called over her shoulder. ‘Come and look here.’

  They were in Johann Weber’s study. Liesl pointed at the computer screen. ‘Look here,’ she said, her voice high with excitement.

  De Villiers looked closely at the screen. There was a long list of names and addresses.

  ‘Look at the heading,’ she commanded. ‘Then look at the names.’

  De Villiers leaned closer to the screen. The heading read: SANDF War Pensions. He looked at the names. The bulk of the names were rendered in Afrikaans, but there were some Bushman names. Many of the soldiers had been given Afrikaans names from the Bible and some of the spellings were rendered in phonetic Afrikaans or English.

  Abram

  Alfons

  Anneries

  Dawid

  Grootoog

  Kapilolo

  Karango

  Klaas

  Tieties

  Kristoffel

  Kwoksokso

  Petros

  Vaalbooi

  Regopstaan

  Riemvasmaak

  Stefans

  Tanago

  Yiceu

  Together they scanned through pages of names until De Villiers asked, ‘Do you think his name is on this list?’

  ‘For sure,’ Liesl said, ‘but I expected you to see it immediately.’

  ‘Where?’ De Villiers asked. ‘Where do you see it?’

  Liesl tapped on the screen with a fingernail. ‘Yiceu.’

  De Villiers took a closer look. Yiceu. There was no surname attached to it. Could that be !Xau? ‘Do you think that could be him?’ De Villiers asked. ‘Do you really think that could be him?’