by Wilbur Smith
‘Get down into the truck, Hendry,’ he ordered.
‘I can see better from here.’ Hendry was standing beside him, legs planted wide to brace himself against the violent motion of the train.
‘As you like,’ said Bruce. ‘Ruffy, you get under cover.’
‘Too damn hot down there in that box,’ grinned the huge Negro.
‘You’re a mad Arab too,’ said Bruce.
‘Sure, we’re all mad Arabs.’
The jet wheeled sharply and stooped towards the forest, levelling, still miles out on their flank.
‘This Bucko is a real apprentice. He’s going to take us from the side, so we can all shoot at him. If he was half awake he’d give it to us up the bum, hit the loco and make sure that we were all shooting over the top of each other,’ gloated Hendry.
Silently, swiftly it closed with them, almost touching the tops of the trees. Then suddenly the cannon fire sparkled lemon-pale on its nose and all around them the air was filled with the sound of a thousand whips. Immediately every gun on the train opened up in reply. The tracers from the Brens chased each other out to meet the plane and the rifles joined their voices in a clamour that drowned the cannon fire.
Bruce aimed carefully, the jet unsteady in his sights from the lurching of the coach; then he pressed the trigger and the rifle juddered against his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw the empty cartridge cases spray from the breech in a bright bronze stream, and the stench of cordite stung his nostrils.
The aircraft slewed slightly, flinching from the torrent of fire.
‘He’s yellow!’ howled Hendry. ‘The bastard’s yellow!’
‘Hit him!’ roared Ruffy. ‘Keep hitting him.’
The jet twisted, lifted its nose so that the fire from its cannons passed harmlessly over their heads. Then its nose dropped again and it fired its rockets, two from under each wing. The gunfire from the train stopped abruptly as everybody ducked for safety; only the three of them on the roof kept shooting.
Shrieking like four demons in harness, leaving parallel lines of white smoke behind them, the rockets came from about four hundred yards out and they covered the distance in the time it takes to draw a deep breath, but the pilot had dropped his nose too sharply and fired too late. The rockets exploded in the embankment of the tracks below them.
The blast threw Bruce over backwards. He fell and rolled, clutching desperately at the smooth roof, but as he went over the edge his fingers caught in the guttering and he hung there. He was dazed with the concussion, the guttering cutting into his fingers, the shoulder strap of his rifle round his neck strangling him, and the gravel of the embankment rushing past beneath him.
Ruffy reached over, caught him by the front of his jacket and lifted him back like a child.
‘You going somewhere, boss?’ The great round face was coated with dust from the explosions, but he was grinning happily. Bruce had a confused conviction that it would take at least a case of dynamite to make any impression on that mountain of black flesh.
Kneeling on the roof Bruce tried to rally himself. He saw that the wooden side of the coach nearest the explosions was splintered and torn and the roof was covered with earth and pebbles. Hendry was sitting beside him, shaking his head slowly from side to side; a small trickle of blood ran down from a scratch on his cheek and dripped from his chin. In the open trucks the men stood or sat with stunned expressions on their faces, but the train still raced on towards the rain storm and the dust of the explosions hung in a dense brown cloud above the forest far behind them.
Bruce scrambled to his feet, searched frantically for the aircraft and found its tiny shape far off above the mass of cloud.
The radio was undamaged, protected by the sandbags from the blast. Bruce reached for it and pressed the transmit button.
‘Driver, are you all right?’
‘Monsieur, I am greatly perturbed. Is there—’
‘You’re not alone,’ Bruce assured him. ‘Keep this train going.’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
Then he switched to the aircraft’s frequency. Although his ears were singing shrilly from the explosions, he could hear that the voice of the pilot had changed its tone. There was a slowness in it, a breathless catch on some of the words. He’s frightened or he’s hurt, thought Bruce, but he still has time to make another pass at us before we reach the storm front.
His mind was clearing fast now, and he became aware of the complete lack of readiness in his men.
‘Ruffy!’ he shouted. ‘Get them on their feet. Get them ready. That plane will be back any second now.’
Ruffy jumped down into the truck and Bruce heard his palm slap against flesh as he began to bully them into activity. Bruce followed him down, then climbed over into the second truck and began the same process there.
‘Haig, give me a hand, help me get the lead out of them.’
Further removed from the shock of the explosion, the men in this truck reacted readily and crowded to the side, starting to reload, checking their weapons, swearing, faces losing the dull dazed expressions.
Bruce turned and shouted back, ‘Ruffy, are any of your lot hurt?’
‘Couple of scratches, nothing bad.’
On the roof of the coach Hendry was standing again, watching the aircraft, blood on his face and his rifle in his hands.
‘Where’s André?’ Bruce asked Haig as they met in the middle of the truck.
‘Up front. I think he’s been hit.’
Bruce went forward and found André doubled up, crouching in a corner of the truck, his rifle lying beside him and both hands covering his face. His shoulders heaved as though he were in pain.
Eyes, thought Bruce, he’s been hit in the eyes. He reached him and stooped over him, pulling his hands from his face, expecting to see blood.
André was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyelashes gummed together. For a second Bruce stared at him and then he caught the front of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. He picked up André’s rifle and the barrel was cold, not a single shot had been fired out of it. He dragged the Belgian to the side and thrust the rifle into his hands.
‘De Surrier,’ he snarled, ‘I’m going to be standing beside you. If you do that again I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?’
‘I’m sorry, Bruce.’ André’s lips were swollen where he had bitten them; his face was smeared with tears and slack with fear. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.’
Bruce ignored him and turned his attention back to the aircraft. It was turning in for its next run.
He’s going to come from the side again, Bruce thought; this time he’ll get us. He can’t miss twice in a row.
In silence once more they watched the jet slide down the valley between two vast white mountains of cloud and level off above the forest. Small and dainty and deadly it raced in towards them.
One of the Bren guns opened up, rattling raucously, sending out tracers like bright beads on a string.
‘Too soon,’ muttered Bruce. ‘Much too soon; he must be all of a mile out of range.’
But the effect was instantaneous. The jet swerved, almost hit the tree tops and then over-corrected, losing its line of approach.
A howl of derision went up from the train and was immediately lost in the roar as every gun opened fire. The jet loosed its remaining rockets, blindly, hopelessly, without a chance of a hit. Then it climbed steeply, turning away into the cloud ahead of them. The sound of its engines receded, was muted by the cloud and then was gone.
Ruffy was performing a dance of triumph, waving his rifle over his head. Hendry on the roof was shouting abuse at the clouds into which the jet had vanished, one of the Brens was still firing short ecstatic bursts, someone else was chanting the Katangese war cry and others were taking it up. And then the driver in the locomotive came in with his whistle, spurting steam with each shriek.
Bruce slung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed his helmet on to the back of his head, took out a cigarette
and lit it, then stood watching them sing and laugh and chatter with the relief from danger.
Next to him André leaned out and vomited over the side; a little of it came out of his nose and dribbled down the front of his battle-jacket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I’m sorry, Bruce. I’m sorry, truly I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
And they were under the cloud, its coolness slumped over them like air from an open refrigerator. The first heavy drops stung Bruce’s cheek and then rolled down heavily washing away the smell of cordite, melting the dust from Ruffy’s face until it shone again like washed coal.
Bruce felt his jacket cling wetly to his back.
‘Ruffy, two men at each Bren. The rest of them can get back into the covered coaches. We’ll relieve every hour.’ He reversed his rifle so the muzzle pointed downwards. ‘De Surrier, you can go, and you as well, Hendry.’
‘I’ll stay with you, Bruce.’
‘All right then.’
The gendarmes clambered back into the covered coaches still laughing and chattering, and Ruffy came forward with a groundsheet and handed it to Bruce.
‘The radios are all covered. If you don’t need me, boss, I got some business with one of those Arabs in the coach. He’s got near twenty thousand francs on him; so I’d better go and give him a couple of tricks with the cards.’
‘One of these days I’m going to explain your Christian monarchs to the boys. Show them that the odds are three to one against them,’ Bruce threatened.
‘I wouldn’t do that, boss,’ Ruffy advised seriously. ‘All that money isn’t good for them, just gets them into trouble.’
‘Off you go then. I’ll call you later,’ said Bruce. ‘Tell them I said “well done”, I’m proud of them.’
‘Yeah. I’ll tell them,’ promised Ruffy.
Bruce lifted the tarpaulin that covered the set.
‘Driver, desist before you burst the boiler!’
The abandoned flight of the train steadied to a more sedate pace, and Bruce tilted his helmet over his eyes and pulled the groundsheet up around his mouth before he leaned out over the side of the truck to inspect the rocket damage.
‘All the windows blown out on this side and the woodwork torn a little,’ he muttered. ‘But a lucky escape all the same.’
‘What a miserable comic-opera war this is,’ grunted Mike Haig. ‘That pilot had the right idea: why risk your life when it’s none of your business.’
‘He was wounded,’ Bruce guessed. ‘I think we hit him on his first run.’
Then they were silent, with the rain driving into their faces, slitting their eyes to peer ahead along the tracks. The men at the Brens huddled into their brown and green camouflage groundsheets, all their jubilation of ten minutes earlier completely gone. They are like cats, thought Bruce as he noticed their dejection, they can’t stand being wet.
‘It’s half past five already.’ Mike spoke at last. ‘Do you think we’ll make Msapa Junction before nightfall?’
‘With this weather it will be dark by six.’ Bruce looked up at the low cloud that was prematurely bringing on the night. ‘I’m not going to risk travelling in the dark. This is the edge of Baluba country and we can’t use the headlights of the loco.’
‘You going to stop then?’
Bruce nodded. What a stupid bloody question, he thought irritably. Then he recognized his irritation as reaction from the danger they had just experienced, and he spoke to make amends.
‘We can’t be far now – if we start again at first light we’ll reach Msapa before sun-up.’
‘My God, it’s cold,’ complained Mike and he shivered briefly.
‘Either too hot or too cold,’ Bruce agreed; he knew that it was also reaction that was making him garrulous. But he did not attempt to stop himself. ‘That’s one of the things about this happy little planet of ours: nothing is in moderation. Too hot or too cold, either you are hungry or you’ve overeaten, you are in love or you hate the world—’
‘Like you?’ asked Mike.
‘Dammit, Mike, you’re as bad as a woman. Can’t you conduct an objective discussion without introducing personalities?’ Bruce demanded. He could feel his temper rising to the surface, he was cold and edgy, and he wanted a smoke.
‘Objective theories must have subjective application to prove their worth,’ Mike pointed out. There was just a trace of an amused smile on his broad ravaged old face.
‘Let’s forget it then. I don’t want to talk personalities,’ snapped Bruce; then immediately went on to do so. ‘Humanity sickens me if I think about it too much. De Surrier puking his heart out with fear, that animal Hendry, you trying to keep off the liquor, Joan—’ He stopped himself abruptly.
‘Who is Joan?’
‘Do I ask you your business?’ Bruce flashed the standard reply to all personal questions in the mercenary army of Katanga.
‘No. But I’m asking you yours – who is Joan?’
All right. I’ll tell him. If he wants to know, I’ll tell him. Anger had made Bruce reckless.
‘Joan was the bitch I married.’
‘So, that’s it then!’
‘Yes – that’s it! Now you know. So you can leave me alone.’
‘Kids?’
‘Two – a boy and a girl.’ The anger was gone from Bruce’s voice, and the raw naked pain was back for an instant. Then he rallied and his voice was neutral once more.
‘And none of it matters a damn. As far as I’m concerned the whole human race – all of it – can go and lose itself. I don’t want any part of it.’
‘How old are you, Bruce?’
‘Leave me alone, damn you!’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty.’
‘You talk like a teenager.’
‘And I feel like an old, old man.’
The amusement was no longer on Mike’s face as he asked.
‘What did you do before this?’
‘I slept and breathed and ate – and got trodden on.’
‘What did you do for a living?’
‘Law.’
‘Were you successful?’
‘How do you measure success? If you mean, did I make money, the answer is yes.’
I made enough to pay off the house and the car, he thought bitterly, and to contest custody of my children, and finally to meet the divorce settlement. I had enough for that, but, of course, I had to sell my partnership.
‘Then you’ll be all right,’ Mike told him. ‘If you’ve succeeded once you’ll be able to do it again when you’ve recovered from the shock; when you’ve rearranged your life and taken other people into it to make you strong again.’
‘I’m strong now, Haig. I’m strong because there is no one in my life. That’s the only way you can be secure, on your own. Completely free and on your own.’
‘Strong!’ Anger flared in Mike’s voice for the first time. ‘On your own you’re nothing, Curry. On your own you’re so weak I could piss on you and wash you away!’ Then the anger evaporated and Mike went on softly, ‘But you’ll find out – you’re one of the lucky ones. You attract people to you. You don’t have to be alone.’
‘Well, that’s the way I’m going to be from now on.’
‘We’ll see,’ murmured Mike.
‘Yes, we’ll see,’ Bruce agreed, and lifted the tarpaulin over the radio.
‘Driver, we are going to halt for the night. It’s too dark to proceed with safety.’
– 5 –
Brazzaville Radio came through weakly on the set and the static was bad, for outside the rain still fell and thunder rolled around the sky like an unsecured cargo at sea.
‘ – Our Elisabethville correspondent reports that elements of the Kantangese Army in the South Kasai province today violated the ceasefire agreement by firing upon a low-flying aircraft of the United Nations command. The aircraft, a Vampire jet fighter of the Indian Air Force, returned safely to its base at Kamina airfield. The pilot, however, w
as wounded by small arms fire. His condition is satisfactory.
‘The United Nations Commander in Katanga, General Rhee, has lodged a strong protest with the Kantangese government—’ The announcer’s voice was overlaid by the electric crackle of static.
‘We winged him!’ rejoiced Wally Hendry. The scab on his cheek had dried black, with angry red edges.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Bruce, ‘we’re trying to hear what’s happening.’
‘You can’t hear a bloody thing now. André, there’s a bottle in my pack. Get it! I’m going to drink to that coolie with a bullet up his—’
Then the radio cleared and the announcer’s voice came through loudly.
‘ – at Senwati Mission fifty miles from the river harbour of Port Reprieve. A spokesman for the Central Congolese Government denied that the Congolese troops were operating in this area, and it is feared that a large body of armed bandits is taking advantage of the unsettled conditions to—’ Again the static drowned it out.
‘Damn this set,’ muttered Bruce as he tried to tune it.
‘ – stated today that the removal of missile equipment from the Russian bases in Cuba had been confirmed by aerial reconnaissance—’
‘That’s all that we are interested in.’ Bruce switched off the radio. ‘What a shambles! Ruffy, where is Senwati Mission?’
‘Top end of the swamp, near the Rhodesian border.’
‘Fifty miles from Port Reprieve,’ muttered Bruce, not attempting to conceal his anxiety.
‘It’s more than that by road, boss, more like a hundred.’
‘That should take them three or four days in this weather, with time off for looting along the way,’ Bruce calculated. ‘It will be cutting it fairly fine. We must get through to Port Reprieve by tomorrow evening and pull out again at dawn the next day.’
‘Why not keep going tonight?’ Hendry removed the bottle from his lips to ask. ‘Better than sitting here being eaten by mosquitoes.’
‘We’ll stay,’ Bruce answered. ‘It won’t do anybody much good to derail this lot in the dark.’ He turned back to Ruffy. ‘Three-hour watches tonight, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant Haig will take the first, then Lieutenant Hendry, then Lieutenant de Surrier, and I’ll do the dawn spell.’
