Moffie (24 page)

At first, as with everything in the army, I question this, but in the weeks that follow I am astonished at the abilities of these trackers. Not only are they good at tracking a person walking, but they can also track people who are equally skilled, for the insurgents are just as accomplished in anti-tracking tactics. For example, they put the treads of their shoes on backwards, or keep to hard ground, or walk in shonas (pans often filled with water in the wet season).

Koevoet tracks with vehicles in small manoeuvrable groups and hunt until they kill, going for a week at a time into the bush, searching for spoor, which is pursued even if it takes them deep into Angola. Our platoon is used mainly as decoys or stopper groups for Koevoet's manoeuvres. We lie in ambush as part of their strategy, or form part of a group that chases the enemy into Koevoet's hands; but we seem to me to be of little help.

 

On our way back to base, at nineteen hours twenty, our convoy is stopped. We hear the corporal repeat the instruction into the radio handset—stay in this position to defend a line; Koevoet is chasing terrs towards us. But even before the order is given, we hear gunfire in the bush north-northwest of us, and almost simultaneously, the crackling static of the radio, ‘Contact! Con­tact! Wait out!'

It takes a split second for reality to hit and drive us through the drills. Corporal Smith shouts, ‘Circular defence! Circular de­fence!' This means we have to dismount by opening the sides of the Buffel. The person sitting opposite the handle must open it. Malcolm's handle won't budge. The corporal goes on shout­ing, ‘Circular defence! Circular defence! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON THERE? GET OUT! GET OUT!' Behind us, the other half of the section is already on the ground, but we're still inside. It feels comical—almost as if we have decided not to play along—sitting in a neat row, while around us everybody is frantically scurrying and leopard crawling for cover.

Someone starts swearing at Malcolm, and then the corporal shouts, ‘Go over the side, go over the side!' He sounds hysteri­cal. It is too high to jump, but most of us do, because climbing down the side, with our backs to the enemy, would make us even more vulnerable. We hit the ground, with rifle, webbing and full magazines, take up our positions and lie in wait.

In my mind, I see black men running towards me, and I strug­gle with the concept of taking aim at them. I am lying on my stomach with my R1 rifle in front of me. Remember now,
Nick . . . two shots, pop­pop, pop­pop.
For the fourth time my thumb slides over the safety catch, making sure it is disarmed.

I start analysing my position. Is it good enough? I leopard crawl towards a tree stump in front of me and take aim. Plotting a V in front of me, I determine my parameters and watch for movement within them. Again I hear the pop-pop sound and the reverberation of machine guns in the distance. The sounds are further away, which is heartening.

We wait. There is no more rifle fire, but I can hear the labour­ing of engines. Then behind us, Corporal Smith and Dorman shout, ‘Get on, get on! Fucking run and get on, GET ON!' We scramble up the side, pushing one another for position. Before we are seated, the motor is running and the Buffel lurches for­ward.

Between talking on the radio and the overwrought sounds of the engine, Corporal Smith spits at Malcolm that he has put the whole section in danger and that he will go on orders.

‘This fucking thing.'

‘What happened?'

‘I don't know, Nick, I guess I pushed it down too far.'

Some of the troops shout that he is a derrick—an airhead—but others are more threatening, accusing him of wanting to get them killed.

The Buffel in front of us veers off to the right and drives straight at a small group of huts surrounded by a fence of rough branch­es. Our driver follows suit, and the troops start cheering. All I can think of is that there might be people behind the fence.

The vehicle bursts through the branches. It hits a large clay pot used for making beer, and it explodes on impact. But the destruction is futile, for the insurgents have fled, and they will keep on running all night.

There is much excitement in the vehicle. The soldiers vow to cut off the terrorists' ears and balls and dry them for jewellery, as they have seen Koevoet do. The boy next to Oscar has a grenade over the end of his rifle barrel, and he is playing with the nipple­shaped trigger on the one end of the device. It looks like an art deco spacecraft, with an arrow that can be set to LIVE or SAFE. If the arrow is on LIVE, the knob is depressed and the rifle is fired, the grenade will explode.

‘Are you crazy?' I lean over Oscar. ‘If that thing goes off, the shrapnel will ricochet inside this vehicle and we'll be in fuck­ing shreds!' He looks at me, smiles and holds his thumb over the nipple, fondling it and then pressing it down. When it can't go any further, he pushes harder, releases it slightly and then presses it down again.

‘Bang, bang, bang,' he says. ‘Hey, Van,' I try not to react, as he no doubt wants me to. ‘Hey, Van!' I glance over and watch him. He is twisting the head of the grenade from
Safe
to
Live
. He does this slowly, looking at me with a half smile. After arming the grenade again, he starts fondling the trigger with his thumb. In my head I rerun the words I've so often heard on the news: ‘
An entire section was killed in an accident when a grenade exploded inside an anti­landmine vehicle. The names of the deceased will be released as soon as the next of kin . . .
'

‘Fuck, are you crazy? I didn't come to the border to be killed in a grenade accident!' I turn to Oscar, ‘Tell him to stop, man, help me here.' I am aware that my reaction is exactly what he wants, but I can't ignore what's happening. Before Oscar can react, he depresses the nipple again. The grenade doesn't go off. Oscar rips the thing from the barrel of his rifle and disarms it.

 

On the next patrol we follow spoor with a vehicle following us, carrying our kit and towing a water trailer. Into the first day they radio us to say the water is contaminated. We carry on, not even allowed to drink water from our water bottles. The trailer's wa­ter is poisoned. Even though we use purification tablets, it's not safe. When we get tired, we lie down in a shady spot, with two men on guard, waiting for water.

My every thought revolves around water. I tell myself stories, but they twist towards water like an addict's urge, frightening in magnitude and persistence. I have no control over it. Every moment drags by like thick glue. After two days, they bring us water.

 

I try not to let my mind wander, watch for the odd shape, some­thing shiny, something other than the natural line of a bush or tree. I think of Ethan, of home, but also of Dylan and Frank­ie, Dorman and Gerrie; incomplete thoughts, unresolved emo­tions.

There is a different kind of boredom on patrol—it's tedium on the move. I look down at my feet and observe the rhythm: one boot showing, then the other; right, then left, then right, then left. The sun bakes down on my shoulders, on my brown shirt, smelling now of old, sour sweat. Is someone following my spoor? Why don't I care? It feels good not to care. We are repeatedly warned against POM-Z booby traps with green tripwire. If you trigger one, your feet and legs are turned to pulp. As the hours drag by, my vigilance wavers. The thought of dying also feels painless in this heat-induced trance. Like a camel, I rock on my feet, my rifle and the medical bag constantly in the way.

My head snaps back as a hard thump drives into my right shoulder. I stumble but don't fall. Then the pain moves down my arm. With the pain comes the jingle of the buckles of Dor­man's rifle strap, the now familiar sound, when he hits me with his ri­fle butt. I lift my head and align my rifle with my chest. Dorman says nothing and walks back to his position in the formation. The pain allows me to nurse my loathing.

In the early evening we establish a temporary base, referred to as a TB. From where we lie in our sleeping bags, I see a black
korhaan
climb into the sky, its call like an underpowered diesel engine. It climbs at an impossible angle, then appears to run out of power and plummet. Malcolm has also noticed it.

‘Is it going to crash?'

‘No, that's how it flies. It opens its wings just before it gets to the ground, but you don't see it land because of the long grass, so it looks like it's crashed.'

‘Crazy, hey?'

 

At the base we do not interact with Koevoet. They don't talk to us; we are low-fat milk and they are jet-fuel.

 

***

 

Malcolm and I are sitting outside the base, on the concrete strip against the wall of a shed that contains spares for the Hippos and Buffels. The bush is beautiful, but from where we sit, we see only parts of cars, a gravel road, a water tower and a kuka shop, with the trees way beyond. It is our time off, and we're talking about the music we like.

‘What's the first LP you ever bought?' Malcolm wants to know. ‘Can you remember?'

‘Neil Diamond,
Hot August Night.
I loved it. But you know, Mal, just because it was pop music, I thought it was evil. I tried not to like it. That's how fucked up I was.'

‘Evil? Neil Diamond!'

I start singing, ‘And the time will be our time, and the grass won't pay no mind . . .' Then, louder, ‘Child, touch my soul with your cries, and the music will know what we've found, I'll hear a hundred goodbyes, but today I will hear only one sound . . .' Now my voice is booming, ‘For the moment we're living is NOW, NOW, NOW! . . . and . . . now . . . I can't remember the words . . .'

We both laugh, but suddenly we become pensive and peace­ful, with an unspoken understanding swaying between us.

‘Imagine, Mal, if I could be lying next to Ethan, kissing him, feeling his hair, feeling him, just being there with him, you know. It's almost unthinkable . . . especially here. Do you think it will ever happen?'

‘You and Ethan?'

‘No, just experiencing that feeling with someone you love.'

‘For sure it'll happen, otherwise what's the point of living?'

A Hippo comes travelling towards us on the road we use for patrols. Dust billows from under the large tyres. Tied to the front grill is something dark. Malcolm and I carry on talking, but then we see that the dark shape is a man and he is alive.

‘It's an anti-landmine tactic, but it will only work if he planted the mine himself.'

The man tied to the bumper dangles from the ropes in agony. I'm sure they wouldn't even hear or see him if he had to shout or wave at them over the bonnet.

A little later an Alouette lands in a halo of dust. Koevoet uses helicopters in what they call a killing partnership. Koevoet is still young, taking shape and finding its feet. But in a short pe­riod of time they have become so strong that they set the record for the most kills per unit and developed hitherto unused tactics for guerrilla warfare.

 

For all my aversion to the war, there are still certain aspects I find interesting—the sound of a turbine when a chopper starts up, for example; the pilot running through the checks; the huge machine lifting off, with all the noise and upset to everything around it.

One day, during our time off, Mal and I hear excited talking from behind a building and I get up to see if our position has been discovered. I see a pilot and six men walking towards an Alouette. The pilot climbs into the machine, and behind him two Ovambo Koevoet soldiers are dragging a black man who is tied up. I notice that it is the same man who was tied to the front of the Hippo. There is an older Ovambo walking close to the pris­oner, talking to him.

Malcolm and I find a position behind an old Hippo engine block and sit down to listen to the muffled sounds coming from the group. The black man is begging, his speech fast, and his eyes darting from the older Ovambo to the two officers who are obviously the decision makers.

The pilot has headphones on and is concentrating on the con­trols between the seats and in front of him, flicking switches and looking at dials. Then he turns and looks at the officers.

The most senior of the group signals to the pilot, twisting his hand above his head as if he too has become a helicopter. The pi­lot applies himself to the controls, and slowly the top rotor starts moving. At the same time the tail rotor starts flipping over and over until the stripes on the blades blur into circles painted on air.

The captive's voice rises with the sounds of the Alouette's mo­tor until it becomes a howling whine. One man signals to the two Ovambo's, who start dragging their captive to the open door of the chopper. One of them takes a bag out of his pocket and tries to pull it over the man's head. He buckles in protest. The down­ward force of the helicopter blades rips at their clothing. One of the men, dressed in browns, runs towards them, bends below the blades, pulls the hood violently over the prisoner's head and ties a rope around his neck. He and the older Ovambo load the hooded man in the chopper and strap him in.

I will always remember that face just before the bag covered it: puffed up, the black and white contrast of the terrified eyes, teeth clenched, neck pulled into his shoulders, howling and writhing to get away.

The pitch of the blades changes, and a mini dust storm de­velops as the chopper lifts off. It climbs a short way, and the pilot tilts the nose down while it moves upwards and forward. Then the pilot flies around the base, pulls the craft into a hover, stabilises it and moves slowly down towards the place where he took off. The Alouette floats just above the ground for what feels like a long time. Something appears from the side and falls to the ground. In its short fall we see that it is the insurgent. It is neither hard nor far but it is bound in terror. There is a dreadful tension in his body as he lies shaking on the ground. The chop­per moves a short distance away and lands.