Reconciliation for the Dead

by Paul E. Hardisty

  Something tugged at Clay’s sleeve. It was Zulaika. She rolled towards him and placed her lips on his ear. He could feel the humidity of her breath on the cold of his cheek, smell the tears’ enzymes reacting with her skin. ‘It’s him,’ she gasped. ‘O Médico de Morte.’ The Doctor of Death.

  Clay turned to face her, looked into her eyes.

  ‘It is him,’ she repeated.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Eben in Afrikaans.

  Zulaika pulled back her hair, her tears shining like blood in the flare-light. ‘I don’t know what they are doing. But these men they take are never seen again.’

  ‘Did you see the way that oke spasmed out when they injected him?’ said Eben. ‘What the hell are they doing?’

  ‘They’re not dead,’ said Brigade. ‘The doctor is listening to their hearts.’

  ‘No, you are wrong,’ said Zulaika. ‘He is checking that they are dead.’

  They watched as the doctor called over to the soldiers standing near the wire cage. Clay could hear his voice on the night air: gruff, thickly Afrikaner. More prisoners were brought from the cage and lined up as before.

  ‘Maybe they’re military intelligence types,’ said Clay. ‘We know that they fingerprint and catalogue every enemy prisoner – give them medical checks. Maybe they’re just vaccinating them.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ said Eben. ‘Did you see how they reacted?’

  The second group of prisoners was lined up before the doctor. These men had seen what had happened to the first group. Their heads were not bowed. They stared at the doctor, eyes wide with fear. Several were shaking. There was one boy. He was crying.

  Zulaika scrambled to her feet. ‘Adriano,’ she cried. She was about to break cover, but Brigade grabbed her, held her by the shoulders.

  ‘You cannot,’ he said.

  ‘Meu filho,’ she sobbed. Her entire body was shaking. Her lips quivered. Tears poured down her face. She looked at Brigade a moment, and in the time it took to blink she’d transformed. She slapped Brigade hard across the face and pushed him away. Then she pulled her sidearm, and pointed it at Brigade’s face. ‘Don’t,’ she hissed, backing away towards the clearing.

  As she turned and began to run Clay rugby tackled her, his arms around her waist, bringing her down. The pistol spilled from her hand. Clay rolled her over, clamped his hand over her mouth and looked her in the eyes. ‘If you go out there, you’re dead,’ he whispered, knowing that she didn’t care.

  Fury poured undistilled from her eyes as she struggled beneath him.

  ‘If one of us works our way around onto the flank, we could get them in a crossfire,’ said Eben. ‘Maybe scatter them before they realise what’s going on.’

  ‘No,’ said Brigade. ‘We have only four weapons. It would be suicide. And our mission will fail.’

  Zulaika struggled, mumbling something under Clay’s hand.

  ‘As soon as we open up, the pilots will get out as fast as they can,’ said Eben. ‘The whites will leave with the plane, they won’t wait around.’

  ‘That will leave only UNITA,’ said Clay.

  ‘A firefight against UNITA, our allies?’ said Brigade. ‘No. We cannot.’

  ‘If they’re our allies, what are we doing here in the first place?’ said Eben. ‘Fuck ’em. I hate the bastards.’ He pointed out towards the men lying in rows on the ground. ‘Look what they’re doing, for fuck’s sake.’ He grabbed his R4 and stood. ‘I say we take them out.’

  Brigade raised his AK and pointed it at Eben. ‘Stand down, troop,’ he said. ‘If we shoot now, we kill the prisoners in the crossfire, too.’

  Eben stared at the black Sergeant, disbelief in his eyes. ‘What the fok?’

  ‘That’s an order,’ said Brigade.

  Eben didn’t move, just stood there bathed in the fractured flare-light, shadows twitching on his face, chest and hands.

  Clay felt the tension drain from Zulaika’s body. She took a deep breath through her nose. He loosened his grip and took his hand away.

  ‘Brigade is right,’ she said. ‘We are too few. It is too dangerous.’ She rolled away from Clay and resumed her position.

  Brigade lowered his weapon. Eben still stood unmoving in the darkness.

  Clay lay beside Zulaika and picked up the binoculars. ‘They’re probably just injecting them with something that will make them sleep, or make them docile. If they wanted to kill them, it would be a lot easier just to shoot them.’

  Zulaika nodded, looking at the ground. ‘Probably you are right. I am sorry. It is my son.’

  Clay said nothing. He knew the men and the boys were dead, that she knew this, too.

  One by one the remaining prisoners were led before the doctor. This time they were not forced to their knees, but remained standing. Each was injected. This time, the reaction was altogether different. Rather than the almost immediate spasm and collapse of before, the men stood for a long moment after being injected, seemingly unaffected. Clay could see the looks on their faces change as they realised that they were going to be alright, relief flooding into them, only to be replaced moments later with a kind of wide-eyed drowsiness. It took several minutes. They swayed, gently at first, as if fighting off sleep, then more violently, as if drunk. Then their legs gave way and doubled beneath them and they made to sit on the ground and then to lie down. Soon they were still. And in all of this, the movements seemed half controlled, robbed of dignity.

  When it was the boy’s turn, Zulaika turned away. She curled up like a foetus on the ground, whimpering. After a moment, she jammed her right fist into her mouth, stifling her moans. For the boy, slumber came quickly. He collapsed to the ground moments after being injected and was carried away like the others.

  The doctor moved slowly among the supine bodies, examining his work, occasionally stopping to touch a man’s neck, or crouching to place his stethoscope on a man’s chest. His assistant followed, writing in the notebook.

  And then it was over. The enclosure was empty and the doctor and his assistant were walking back to the Hercules. The white paramilitaries and some of the UNITA soldiers slung their weapons, and working in pairs, started to pick up the bodies.

  ‘They’re carrying the bodies to the plane,’ said Clay.

  ‘That’s why we never see them again,’ said Zulaika, her voice strangled. She pushed herself to her knees. ‘We thought that they were being shot and buried somewhere. We never imagined this.’

  ‘Jesus, Zulaika,’ said Eben. ‘Your hand.’

  She looked down. Blood poured from the second knuckle of her right index finger. She shrugged, slumped back to the ground.

  Brigade broke out the medical kit, inspected her hand. ‘She almost bit right through,’ he said, dousing her wound with disinfectant.

  ‘Where will they take them?’ she murmured.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Clay.

  ‘Hold still,’ said Brigade, splinting the finger and wrapping her hand in a bandage.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said Eben, getting to his feet. His face glowed red in the flarelight, the whites of his eyes red, too, everything stained. He wrapped his bandana over his mouth and nose, slung his R4 across his back, broke cover and started walking towards the Hercules.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Clay.

  ‘Come back,’ hissed Brigade.

  But Eben kept walking steadily towards the Hercules. He was in the open now, plainly illuminated by the red of the flares and the silver moonlight.

  Clay didn’t really think about what he did next. By then it was just instinctive, – a pup following the older dog. He grabbed his R4, jumped up and ran after Eben, falling in beside him, slinging his weapon as Eben had and pulling his bandana up over his face.

  ‘Come all the way out here,’ said Eben as they walked towards the place where the bodies were laid out. ‘I’m going to bloody well find out what these assholes are fucking around at. I’m getting so goddamned tired of it all, Clay. You know what I mean, broer?’
r />   Clay was only starting, then, to understand what drove Eben. By the time he had finally worked it out, years later, everything that had made Eben the man he was had been lost forever.

  Now they were close enough to the C-130 for Clay to see the pilots’ faces bathed in the glow of the cockpit. Men scurried in and out of the aircraft’s open rear ramp.

  ‘It’s the same one,’ said Clay.

  ‘The same what?’

  ‘The same flossie that landed in the chana that day we got hit by the FAPLA regiment near Rito. The one they took out all the ivory on.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Eben. And then: ‘What’s that smell?’

  Amongst all the comings and goings, the noise of the Hercules’ engines starting up, the darkness and the swirling flarelight, no one paid them any attention. They walked to the plane, under the wingtip and through the dust of the propwash to the shelter.

  Three rows of men and boys lay in the grass, covered in dust. The smell was overpowering. Excrement pooled around the bodies.

  Clay and Eben merged into the swirling chaos, unremarked, did as the other armed men were doing. Clay grabbed the feet of one of the bodies, Eben the arms. They half carried, half dragged, the naked, shit-covered man to the plane and up the ramp, just one more pair of white men toiling in the red-lit darkness. As they reached the cargo deck, one of the white paramilitaries scrambled past them, jumped to the ground and hunched over, hands on his knees, spewing vomit onto the grass.

  Clay and Eben laid the body out next to the others, two parallel rows forming along each side of the aircraft’s wide cargo deck, feet towards the middle of the deck. Three more times they returned for another body, the other men around them huffing and coughing, heads down in the dark, faces covered, the carrying exhausting, the dead always so much heavier than the living.

  This would be the last one. Clay set the man’s feet gently on the deck, stood and wiped his shit-smeared hands on his trouser legs. The plane was vibrating now as the pilots tested the plane’s inboard engines. He looked at Eben. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he said.

  ‘Not until I find out what the hell they’re doing,’ said Eben.

  Clay turned towards the rear ramp just as a pair of soldiers laid out the last body. They were between Clay and Eben and the exit ramp. The two outboard engines spun to life. Clay nudged past the men, head down, stepping between the shit-smeared legs of the bodies. One of the men jostled Clay as he passed, muttered something. Clay now stood at the edge of the ramp, the trampled grass and safety only a few short steps away. Outside he could see the last of the black UNITA soldiers assembling, moving off into the red-fringed forest from where they’d come. Brigade and Zulaika were out there, too, still hidden, waiting. At any moment, one of the white paramilitaries would do a head count and realise that they were plus two. It was time to go.

  Clay looked back. Eben was still there on the cargo deck, talking to the pair of white soldiers. One of them laughed at something Eben said. The other was fidgeting with his weapon, eyeballing Clay. The inboard engines were spinning up. They were out of time. Clay was about to signal to Eben when the forward bulkhead door that led to the cockpit opened. A powerfully built man in a black t-shirt and combat trousers stood with his hand braced on the bulkhead. Unlike the men who stood facing him on the cargo deck, his face was uncovered. He stood there a moment, surveying the cargo bay. His gaze moved from one man to the next, along the rows of bodies. For a second and a half he looked right at Clay. Then he raised his right hand and made a twirling motion with his index finger. A coiled Cobra flexed on his bicep. Then he turned and closed the bulkhead door. Everyone scurried for their seats. All four turbines roared. The ramp started to close. The aircraft was rolling.

  Commissioner Lacy: We have heard persistent rumours about such activities, Mister Straker. But this is the first time the commission has heard first-hand testimony describing an actual event. Is your colleague – the one you say was with you that day – able to corroborate this testimony?

  Witness: No.

  Commissioner Lacy: Why not?

  Witness: He’s dead.

  Commissioner Lacy: I’m sorry.

  Witness: I’m not.

  Commissioner Lacy: That’s a very strange thing to say, young man.

  Witness: It’s a long story.

  Commissioner Ksole: If corroborated, this testimony could constitute a case for bringing a charge of war crimes against the perpetrators. I will ask this straight out, Mister Straker. Were you a member of Torch Commando?

  Witness: Torch Commando? No. I had never even heard of it at the time.

  Commissioner Ksole: But you did come to know of it?

  Witness: Yes, sir.

  Commissioner Ksole: Surely you realised what was going on?

  Witness: I knew then that something was very wrong. I hadn’t started putting the pieces together, though. That came later.

  Commissioner Lacy: After you were wounded again?

  Witness: Yes, ma’am.

  Commissioner Lacy: At 1-Military Hospital?

  Witness: Yes, ma’am. And after.

  Commissioner Ksole: And where did you think the plane was going? What did you think they were going to do with the prisoners – the men and the boys?

  Witness: I had no idea.

  Commissioner Ksole: It is very important that you answer this truthfully, Mister Straker. This is pivotal.

  Witness: I thought they might be military intelligence people. That maybe they had been interrogating the prisoners, that they were taking them back to South Africa for fingerprinting and processing. Or burial. I had seen them doing that before, on other operations. I could never have imagined what they were going to do.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: Can you provide evidence that corroborates your claim that you were on that plane clandestinely?

  Witness: Sorry, sir. I don’t follow.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: Can you prove that you weren’t actually working with this doctor and his men?

  Witness does not answer.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: The witness will answer the question. Can he prove he was not complicit in the crime he describes, if indeed it actually occurred?

  Witness: _____. You think I was part of it?

  Commissioner Barbour: Please, Mister Straker. You will refrain from using that kind of language.

  Witness: I’m sorry, sir.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: I repeat the question. Can you prove you were not complicit in this crime?

  Witness: Why would I be telling you this if I was?

  Commissioner Barbour: Many are coming forward, Mister Straker, admitting their crimes, seeking absolution, reconciliation. We have heard some heinous things, some terrible things.

  Witness: I came here to tell the truth.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: You helped load the prisoners onto the plane?

  Witness: I … Yes, I did.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: Can you prove that you were not actually one of the perpetrators?

  Witness: No. I can’t prove it.

  11

  Enemies and Friends Alike

  The plane rumbled over the sand of the chana and gained speed. Men scurried to the fold-out canvas seats ranged along the forward bulkhead and the sides of the fuselage, strapped themselves in. Clay grabbed Eben by the arm and pulled him towards the aft-most seats. The two men Eben had been speaking with sat on the facing side of the deck, staring at them. Clay and Eben buckled in, their movements automatic.

  The Herc rotated and climbed into the troposphere. After a while they levelled out. The aft ramp was lowered, and fresh, cool air flooded the cargo bay. In a few minutes the stench from the bodies had dissipated somewhat.

  The plane droned on through a lightening sky, the new sun showing red through the gaping rear exit. As they climbed again, the temperature dropped and soon Clay was shivering.

  An hour and a half in and they were still heading west, the paramilitaries dozing in their harnesses, some
speaking quietly, their words lost in the harmonics of the engines vibrating through the airframe and their own bones. The bodies of the prisoners lay open-mouthed in their slave-ship rows, heads ranked a few inches from the fuselage, the feet of the boys ranged up level with the knees of the men, the two constituencies, the black and the white, the living and the dead, segregated even here, so far above the surface of the earth, the morning sun slanting through, red and pale and magnanimous.

  Clay nudged Eben. ‘Broer,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  Through the aft exit bay, far below, a line of white foam ran like a frontier between wedges of dune-red desert and Atlantic blue.

  Eben jumped out of a shallow doze. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘The coast. Heading west.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘You mean where are we going.’

  Eben frowned. ‘We.’

  ‘Maybe they want to fly south along the coast, enjoy the view.’

  Eben glanced down at the rowed bodies. ‘I’m sure they’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Cape Province, maybe? We should be turning south pretty soon, then.’

  ‘The absurdity of the situation we find ourselves in, my friend, is beyond measure,’ Eben said in English.

  ‘What were you saying to those two okes?’

  ‘I told them we were Special Forces, long-range recon, attached to UNITA.’

  ‘Jesus, Eben.’

  ‘I said we had orders to get to the LZ and exfil with them. It was either that or admit we were spying on them.’

  The two men Eben had been speaking to were staring at them again from across the cargo deck. Clay could see their mouths moving under their bandanas. One of the men pushed his scarf from his mouth. He had a thick black moustache and lambent eyes. His chin was covered in dark stubble. He looked at Clay a moment then nodded, professional. Clay nodded back, his stomach cold.