The Dark Chronicles (21 page)

‘You are journalists?’ he asked when he reached us. He wore a thick, sweat-stained camouflage jacket with a grenade dangling from each pocket, and the word ‘GUNNER’ was written across his helmet in white paint.

‘Yes,’ said Isabelle. ‘I am a reporter.’

‘And I’m her photographer,’ I said, holding up the camera.

Gunner gave me a sharp look.

‘You are English?’

I nodded.

‘BBC?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re with a French agency—’

‘You want interview me?’

I looked at him – he seemed serious.

‘I’m sorry?’ I said.

‘Interview. I give you exclusive,’ he said.

I tried to explain that I was just Isabelle’s cameraman. ‘I don’t do interviews,’ I said.

He didn’t seem to hear, and gestured that I follow him. I glanced at Isabelle, who gave me a nod and passed me up a notebook and pen. I squeezed past her and followed Gunner down the aisle.

He was heading for the rear of the aircraft, which was partitioned
off with a grubby green curtain. Behind it, the seats had been stripped out and the space had been filled with crates of AK-47s and ammunition, lashed to the floor with ropes. Gunner seated himself on the floor between a couple of the crates and waited for me to ask him a question.

I crouched down beside him. The only thing I really wanted to know was how long it would take for us to get to Enugu, and how I could get to Udi from there. But that obviously wouldn’t do. After a few seconds of silence, he gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t impressed with English journalism so far.

‘How long do you think the war will last?’ I said – the first thing that had come into my mind.

He thought about this for a moment, and then replied solemnly: ‘Hopefully, it will end soon. But first we must finish it.’

I dutifully noted down this pearl of wisdom, and tried to think of another question that might satisfy him.

‘Do you think it is a just war?’

He looked up sharply.

‘Just?’ he snorted. ‘Of course. Ojukwu tried to break this country into pieces. But to keep Nigeria one is a job that must be done.’

He was parroting Federal slogans at me – I’d seen the last sentence on a poster on a street in Lagos just a couple of hours previously.

‘So you don’t think the Biafrans have a case for secession?’

‘What case?’ He leaned forward and made sure I met his gaze. ‘I am from the East. But I no agree with this so-called “secession”. It no serve the interests of our region, and it no serve the interests of Nigeria. It only serve Ojukwu and his rebel clique.’

‘You’re an Ibo?’ I said, surprised.

He held up one finger imperiously. ‘Please, Mister BBC Journalist, do me the courtesy of allowing me to finish. I am Ibibio. I no like this Biafra idea from start, so I go leave the East and join the army to help crush the rebel movement.’

‘That’s an excellent quote,’ I said, and he straightened his shoulders a little and jutted out his lower lip. ‘Thank you very much
for taking the time to talk to me.’ He looked disappointed, so I asked him his name and rank to round the thing off for him.

‘Captain Henry Alele,’ he said, proudly, and I noted it down. He looked at me expectantly.

‘And can I just ask, for our readers, how you got your nickname? Were you on anti-aircraft duty?’

He looked at me blankly, and I pointed to his helmet.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Arsenal.’

I looked down at the crates. ‘You make sure the weapons get to the front?’

‘No, no,’ he said, looking at me like I was a fool. ‘I support Arsenal Football Club!’

I started laughing. It must have been a physical need welling up in me, because it wasn’t the funniest joke I’d ever heard and yet tears were soon running down my cheeks. After a few moments, Gunner joined in, nervously at first, and then full-bloodedly. It changed the shape of his face, lighting it up, and I realized just how young he was. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen.

Then, abruptly, he stopped.

‘Why you laugh at me?’

‘I’m not,’ I said, between heaves. But how to explain to him that I found his devotion to an English football team surreal without insulting him? And then something occurred to me. ‘You lost the cup to Swindon…’ But that thought just set me off again, and Gunner’s eyes, which were starting to bulge with anger, only made it worse.

‘Do not mention this word!’ he shouted. ‘I do not want to hear about these Swindon thieves!’

I waved a hand at him to stop, and he actually went quiet until I’d regained some control. Then he looked at me very seriously, and I wondered if he was going to ask to see my press pass.

‘Tell me, honestly, Mister – what is your name?’

‘Robert Kane.’

‘Tell me, Mister Robert, have you ever heard of such a bunch of crooked sportsmen in your life as Swindon Town?’

‘No,’ I said, trying to match his tone. ‘I haven’t.’

My exclusive interview with Captain Alele came to an abrupt close just then, as the curtain was drawn and an anxious face peered out at us.

‘Captain – we have some trouble with the plane. The pilot wants to know how to proceed.’

*

The trouble, Isabelle told me when I had returned to my seat, was that a message had come through from Enugu saying it was not safe to land there. Gunner and the pilot were now locked in heated debate about what to do. Isabelle’s theory was that the Biafrans had coordinated one of their rare air strikes.

‘What other airports do the Federals have?’ I asked her.

‘Not many,’ she said. ‘We already passed Benin City, so perhaps they will have to try Port Harcourt.’

I looked at the map. Suddenly the world wasn’t so funny. Port Harcourt was a good hundred miles south of Udi. It looked like my strategy had completely backfired – we were now heading away from my target.

Things soon got worse. Over the next couple of hours, it began to rain again, after which we found ourselves flying through lightning. We were buffeted about in our seats, our stomachs churning, our fingers gripping the arm-rests. Just minutes before we reached Port Harcourt, the pilot decided to land in the bush.

And so, as night fell, we came down with an almighty bump in a muddy field somewhere in the forests of eastern Nigeria; I noticed a few of the soldiers crossing themselves when we finally came to a standstill.

Gunner moved swiftly into action. He might not have been the world’s greatest interviewee, but he knew how to deal with his men. He picked out five of them to accompany him on a reconnaissance
mission, and gave a short speech to the rest of us explaining the situation.

‘We go see if we can find some transport for us to leave here.’ He gestured at the two soldiers sitting in the aisle seats in the front row, and for a moment I thought he might point out the emergency exits, like in the safety demonstrations. ‘In the meantime, Njoku and Otigbe, keep watch on your windows. If you see anything suspicious at all at all, raise the alarm. Everyone, stay close to your weapons. When we return, we knock four times on the door. Do not let anyone in who no knock four times. Understand?’

Everyone shouted that they understood, sir, and Gunner and his group started gathering up their weapons and backpacks.

‘We’re sitting ducks,’ I said to Isabelle. ‘A fully lit plane sitting in the middle of a field. What’s to stop the Biafrans from attacking us?’

‘Fighting is finished for today,’ she said.

‘You sound very sure of that.’

She nodded. ‘There is a routine, followed by both sides. Usually, they fight in the morning, then have lunch and a siesta and then they fight for a few more hours in the afternoon. They do less during the rainy season – there is too much mud. In any case, it is very rare that there is fighting after dark, so we should be completely safe.’

Siestas?
It seemed I had stumbled into a joke-shop war. Still, if what she said were true, then perhaps there was some hope. We had only been a few minutes from landing in Port Harcourt, which was a Federal stronghold. That meant there should be plenty of transport around. If we weren’t under threat, I might be able to find some. I got out of my seat.

‘What are you doing?’ said Isabelle. ‘Wait for me.’

I found Gunner and told him that we wanted to come along on the expedition. ‘This could be a big story,’ I said. ‘“Captain Leads Unit To Safety After Aircraft Downed By Storm”.’

He considered the idea. ‘You do as I say at all times,’ he said eventually. ‘Otherwise I tell my men to shoot you on the spot.’

*

The eight of us piled down the small staircase into the field. The rain whipped against us; I’d forgotten how strong it could be. Within seconds, my clothes were stuck to my skin.

The lights of the plane cast an eerie glow, but it made visibility easier. The field was surprisingly lush, although there didn’t seem to be any crops in it – looted by soldiers, perhaps. Palm trees swayed menacingly around us, and the air was thick with the buzzing of mosquitoes.

‘Be careful,’ said Gunner, as we stalked through the field. ‘There may be rebels close by. But there may also be our own soldiers – so look before you shoot!’

After about a mile, we reached a small dirt track, which Gunner decided we should take. It was the right move, as it led us straight into the centre of the nearest town.

If you could still call it a town. It seemed completely abandoned, and the unmistakable stench of decaying human flesh hung in the air – we all took care to breathe through our mouths. We walked through streets littered with spent ammunition, broken bottles and the occasional corpse, grey and inflated. The buildings were almost all ruined. One still bore a sign reading ‘Bank of Biafra’, while another had been a cinema: I glimpsed a poster advertising a showing of James Stewart in
It’s a Wonderful Life
flapping from an empty window frame.

There were plenty of vehicles around, but they were either charred to a cinder or missing wheels. The lights of the buildings were all out – it didn’t look as though there was any electricity here at all. My hopes of jumping in a jeep and driving off to Udi were looking pretty slim. The main road had been cut anyway, with trees laid across it at regular intervals, so even if I had found a working set of wheels, I’d have had difficulties getting anywhere.

Suddenly the wind intensified, bringing the rain up off the
ground. As I struggled to keep my footing, I saw Gunner raising his arms and gesturing at a nearby building, which looked like nothing but a small hut with an open entrance. I reached it just after him, with Isabelle following close behind me.

The hut seemed much bigger inside, a dark cavern that receded into nothingness. As I came further in, I was conscious of light, and with a start realized it was eyes: the whites of dozens of eyes staring at me from the silent gloom. The men were stick-thin. Their uniforms, if you could call them that, consisted of torn T-shirts and sweaters dyed green, and trousers that could barely hold themselves together. The women wore ragged cotton sheets and little else, their breasts bare and their ribs exposed so much it almost hurt to look. But it was the children that sent a shiver through me. Naked and pot-bellied, they stood there silently as the rain roared outside, calmly looking at the strangers entering.

‘Nobody shoot,’ said Gunner. But his men were frozen.

‘The camera,’ Isabelle whispered to me urgently. Perhaps Gunner’s words had made her think of it. ‘Give it to me now.’

And while we all just stood there, I handed it over and she crouched down on one knee and began photographing the scene, the sound of the shutter almost obscenely loud.

‘Who is your leader?’ said Gunner.

After a few moments, a stoop-shouldered old man shuffled forward.

‘We just want food,’ he said. ‘We are all hungry.’

Isabelle stopped her clicking.

‘We must take them back to the plane,’ she said. ‘We must help them.’

Gunner didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he nodded, and we started taking them out.

*

‘Order, order!’ shouted Gunner from his position at the head of the aircraft. ‘Now listen, men. I am glad to report that our reconnaissance mission has been a tremendous success.’

I saw a couple of the group glance at each other. There were now eighteen more bodies in the plane, and they were the enemy to boot.

‘We are very close to a town that has recently fallen to our side,’ Gunner continued. ‘This is good news.’ He looked out at us, and seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. ‘This is good news,’ he stressed. ‘This means our soldiers must be close by. Divisional HQ must not be far away. When morning comes, we go locate the HQ and proceed to Port Harcourt. We move at first light. In the meantime, please look after our…’ He looked around at the Biafrans hopelessly, searching for the right word. ‘Our guests. Keep them warm. Pass around blankets and cushions. Share your rations with them, please – there will be plenty of food tomorrow.’

He didn’t say what would happen to the Biafrans tomorrow, and nobody asked. After water and bread had been passed around and some of the most severely affected and youngest children given as much treatment as the plane’s first-aid kits could provide, some semblance of normality began to take hold. Guided by Gunner’s skilful diplomacy, the Biafrans started to talk. One of the Nigerians recognized one of them from his schooldays, and soon they were comparing the fates of friends and family members. As the atmosphere warmed up, I told them how something similar had happened in the First World War – or ‘the Kaiser War’, as they knew it – when British and German troops had played football together in No Man’s Land one Christmas Eve. It wasn’t the same, of course – the men of the group were deserters, and had stayed in the bush when the town, which they told us was called Aba, had fallen months earlier. They had been trying to live off the land since. The field we were in had contained cassava, but it had long gone. But, despite the differences, my historical comparison went down well, and made everyone feel better for a moment.

It didn’t last. A few minutes later, as everyone began preparing to bed down for the night, there was a loud banging on the rear door of the plane.