OUR SINS

Ray. Incident at Tismaria - part I

The air was crisp and cold, and the night sky was clear and cloudless. The moon hung like a bright new silver dollar against a black baize sky - perfect conditions for the parachute drop. Moonlight glinted off the old Dakota’s windows on its headlong rush, only inches above the treetops. The clamor of the low flying vintage World War Two plane was muffled until directly overhead. At such low levels, backwash from the plane disturbed trees and bushes. Birds and night creatures scattered in panic. The plane cut a swathe of surprise and confusion through the sleepy, remote villages on the southern Angolan plain.

A Palmato gecko anxiously watched a family of Elephant shrews dart across open ground, towards his hiding place under a thousand-year-old Welwitschia. They’d almost made it when the thundering plane passed overhead. The panicked rodents dispersed in all directions - the gecko survived another night. As suddenly as it came - it was gone. Deceitful peace returned to the semi-arid landscape. Life went on about its nocturnal business once again.

Lieutenant Raymond Pike glanced over at the line of soldiers seated opposite him. A muddle of local tribes and Baasters - the ethnic group descended from Afrikaaners and the indigenous tribes of the early Cape colony. The name is a derivative of the old Dutch word bastaard (bastard in English). Ray noted the mixture of anticipation, and grim determination etched on their hard faces. Some of the soldiers stared back at him, surprised at the presence of a third white officer. ‘Don’t worry gents, I’m just as confused’ Ray thought.

Ray stood just under six foot in his socks. Curly, light brown hair and sharp features with wide-set green eyes and thin eyebrows. He presented a man some women found boyishly attractive. Yet, there was one feature that marred the boyish façade. A slightly off-set nose; the result of the only two brawls he was ever involved in. The first at a high school rugby match, and the other in basic training. He considered neither encounter a victory - which remained a source of annoyance.

Ray was a member of a covert group. An elite section within the South African Defense Force known as SINS. The unfortunate acronym stood for - Specialist Insurgency Neutralization Squad. SINS operated on the periphery of the official military. Membership was by invitation only. Being ‘invited’ was in itself, an elaborate, clandestine affair. Off-duty soldiers, identified as possible recruits, would find nothing odd at the chance meeting in a pub or relatives wedding.

A stranger would start a casual conversation, which gradually shifted to the war. The peculiar thing with soldiers; they all hate war and never talk about it with family and friends. Put two of them together - add booze - and suddenly women, cars, and sex become irrelevant! The exchange of anecdotes and war stories - over a beer or slice of wedding cake - would fill a pleasant twenty minutes or so. Enough time for the stranger to decide if it was worth pursuing the matter any further. Lefties and Quakers would be left wondering whatever happened to that pleasant guy.

Candidates who made it past first base had further ‘chance’ meetings over the following few weeks. Suitable candidates would receive orders to report to a small, nondescript, office block on President Street in Pretoria. They’d meet their new buddy again and learn about a select group of ‘elite’ soldiers. Joining was voluntary.

Part of the commitment to SINS required the signing of a ‘lifelong’ non-disclosure agreement involving a hefty jail sentence for defaulters. They would become ‘wards of the state’ well into pensionable age. Newcomers were posted to a small town in northern South West Africa called Oshakati! The SINS camp - known as ’the leper colony’’, was far removed from the regular army units.

Nobody ever declined the invitation to join SINS. The aura of being part of the elite has always been a powerful motivator. Members of the British SAS, or the American Special Forces, automatically, garner far greater respect from mere mortals, than regular soldiers. It also attracts a lot of free beers - that’s probably why so many of them seem to hang out in pubs. Considering how few of these specialists are trained; it’s amazing that you can walk into a pub in Broken Bow - Nebraska, or Hay-On-Wye Herefordshire, and you’re sure to meet at least one or two of them - on a slow night!

Ray met his ‘stranger’ after a particularly successful Angolan cross border operation. Once again, narrowly escaping his meeting with the tall, dark scythe toting gentleman. He was in Tsumeb the day after returning from the mission, stocking up on film and other supplies, making ready, for another of his regular hiking trips in the Etosha National Park. The old 1967 Land Rover - bought from a redundant army equipment sale - was packed and ready to go. Looking at the time, he decided to stay over at the Holiday Inn and start off early the next morning.

Sitting in the pub that evening, his old friend Glen Fiddich single malt, reminded him that life wasn’t all shit. A man sat down on the seat next to him. Catching the barman’s attention, the man ordered a double ’fiddi’ on the rocks. “A man after my own heart.” Ray held up his glass.

“Cheers,” The man said holding up his glass, “here’s to the ‘Valley of the Deer’.

“Indeed.” Ray toasted.

“Johan Lutge.” The man extended his hand.

Ray shook hands, “Ray Pike.”

They chatted for a couple of minutes about mundane things. Ray found out that Johan was a captain in the air force. He was doing some surveying work in the Etosha. He was also ’coincidentally,’ stationed on the same base as Ray in Windhoek! Ray usually settled for two drinks a night. He fought the temptation like hell, but when Johan offered him a third - he graciously accepted.

“So, you’re off to Etosha for a few days.”

“Anyone that doubts the existence of the Garden of Eden - hasn’t been there,” Ray replied. “It’s better than any tonic or shrink. Puts things back in perspective.”

Johan nodded. “Pity about the upsurge in poaching in the area. I hear the military are so pissed-off about it, they’re contemplating creating a unit whose sole mandate is to protect the wildlife.”

“If they do, I’ll supply my services free of charge. The problem is all over Africa.” Ray sighed, “this is something the entire world should be worried about. Treating it as a localized problem is a waste of time. The poachers are the arse of the beast - the part that handles the shit. Poor, starving individuals who have no other way of putting food on the table. The battle needs to be taken directly to the head - the brain.”

“Yup!” Johan nodded, “agreed, but that’s where the problem arises. The head is usually somewhere in the Far East. Safe from prosecution. Protected by governments that place as much value on wildlife as they do dog shit under their shoes.”

“The world needs an attitude adjustment,” Ray said. “Governments need to sanction the hell out of these dickheads before there’s not a living thing left in either the Oceans or the wild! The rhino horn junkies need to be made aware of the incredible virility benefits of battery acid - injected directly into the nutsack!”

They chatted for a bit longer until Ray excused himself. “Still got a couple of days hiking to do. Thanks for the scotch captain, perhaps I can return the courtesy sometime back in Windhoek.”

“I’m sure you will,” Johan replied as Ray left. Ray would, ’coincidentally’, meet up with Johan Lutge a few more times over the following weeks. Three weeks after the meeting in the Holiday inn, Ray received a strange order to report to an address on President Street in Pretoria. His commanding officer, at the time, had no clue what it was about either: “Can’t tell you much other than it’s from Army Command, signed by somebody a whole lot higher up the corporate ladder than me.”

It was in that nondescript building, that Ray discovered Captain Johan Lutge was, in fact, Colonel Johan Lutge of army intelligence. A short while later Ray found himself in ‘the leper colony.’ He met the unit commander, Brigadier Ronnie Beck, who in turn, introduced him to his new section commander, Major Fritz Eloff! ‘Hallelujah!’ The last time he saw Eloff was that day, almost seven years ago, when he received his wings. But fate proved to be a right bitch! She took a disliking to Ray and gave him Fritz Eloff!

Ray glanced down; the green fluorescent dial of the Omega Sea Master showed it was 04:36. He snapped the leather cover back over the face of the timepiece just as the Dakota hit a new air pocket. He felt his nuts lodge somewhere between his spleen and liver.

Eloff

Fritz Eloff was the last face in the line of ten men sitting opposite him. He was staring at Ray - smiling that warm friendly smile. Ray knew then what a field mouse felt like under the gaze of a Black Mamba. Eloff’s smile seldom reached the deadpan grey eyes. It wasn’t even a smile - more of a camouflaged sneer.

Eloff didn’t like Ray, which was fine because Ray wasn’t particularly enamored by him either. In fact, Eloff didn’t like anyone who wasn’t white and Afrikaans by at least three generations. The tragic irony was, had he never met Eloff, he would not have been sitting in the back of a dangerously low flying antique plane; led by an incompetent cretin, on a mission from which there was every chance he may never return!

If there was one thing about Fritz Eloff that reflected his cold, hard demeanor, it was his eyes. Ray saw them for the first time, as a young air force recruit, eight years previous, ‘Jesus! Was it only eight years ago?’ Ray reflected with some surprise looking away.

Up until the end of World War One, South West Africa was a German governed colony. Allied forces, under the South African General Louis Botha, invaded the country and drove the Germans out following the war’s end. The League of Nations gave the territory over to South Africa to administer as a trusteeship - at least until it was able to govern itself. South Africa for its part treated and developed the country as an extended province of its own. Vast diamond deposits along the coastal region known as the ‘SPERRGEBIET’ or ’forbidden area’ added strength to South Africa’s vice-like grip on the land.

Following the Second World War, a struggle ensued between the League of Nations (who later became the United Nations) and the South African Government over the future of the country. South Africa intended to annex the territory and incorporate it into the Union. The rest of the world remained determined that South Africa’s role would only be as custodian. All the while nobody gave a crap about what the South West African people wanted.

During the mid to late ’50s, the South West African’s decided to become more vocal about their own future. After several typical apartheid measures were put in place to ′relocate’ black indigenous peoples away from white areas - especially in the cities - the local population started to organize civil disobedience acts and marches.

During one of these marches, a riot ensued, and eleven people were gunned down by the authorities. This incident sparked a lot of controversy and anger. Several, anti-SA guerrilla groups, sprang up. They called themselves ‘revolutionaries’ the world called them ‘freedom fighters’, and the South Africans called them ‘terrorists’. The seeds of war were sown, which would lead to what is today the sovereign country of Namibia. But, in Africa transforming colonies into sovereign nations doesn’t happen overnight - or peacefully - there is always a lot of inconvenient war and misery to get through along the way.

Two years of conscription! All white males from the age of eighteen were eligible in South Africa. With school now behind him, young Ray had options. His parents were British, so he had the choice; stay and fight, or join the avalanche of anti-war refugees descending on Europe. Many young South Africans high-tailed it to Europe, Israel, Australia - anywhere - to avoid serving those two years. A lot of them were genuine conscientious objectors, but most just didn’t like the idea of occupying the same space as flying lead!

Ray chose to stay. Drafted into the South African Air Force, he entered the Air Force Gymnasium in Pretoria to start his two years of military service. He breezed through the first two weeks of basic training. Physically well developed from years of high school rugby and athletics. Competitive almost to a fault, he hated losing at anything, but, did admire and acknowledge, the victor when bested - albeit grudgingly. Then one day something happened that would set him on a collision course with a destiny he could never have imagined.

Shortly after breakfast, the camp siren went off signaling the recruits to gather on the parade ground. The commanding officer and his staff were assembled on the dais; along with another man in combat fatigues standing off to one side. Positioned near the front, Ray had a good view of the proceedings.

The camp commander, Colonel Hatting, was a slight man who had flown F86 Sabres in the Korean War. Shot down and captured by the communist Chinese army, he spent the last seven months of the war, in a POW camp near the Yalu River. The treatment he received or ′indoctrination’ as the Chinese termed it, damaged him mentally. He developed a mild shaking which ended his flying days. Someone thought the unsteady, wrecked man would be an ideal exemplar for the air forces new blood.

Colonel Hatting stood and introduced the visitor - singing his praises to the young men - he had never met Eloff before. A complete contrast to his Air Force host, Captain Fritz Eloff was impressive. At two inches over six foot with an oak barrel for a chest, he dwarfed Hatting. Deeply tanned biceps threatened the stitching of his short-sleeved shirt. His combat fatigues, seemingly old and threadbare, were pressed to absolute perfection. Each crease had a razor’s edge finish. His combat boots had the luster of brown chrome. On his left breast, a pair of silver wings glinted in the sunlight. If his physique impressed; his face overwhelmed!

Steely grey eyes that hardly blinked. Close-cropped sandy blonde hair and a pencil-thin moustache. His jaw looked as if it could easily take a hit from a mountain goat. But the crowning jewel was a white scar that ran from below his bottom lip, to an inch beyond the corner of his mouth, intersecting another thick purple-tinged welt running down from just under his left eye. Somehow the disfigurement seemed at home - in its place. Ray wondered if the man scarred himself for effect! He looked like a mixture between Conan the Barbarian and Attila the Hun.

For what seemed a long time, Captain Eloff stood with his feet wide apart, hands behind his back, surveying the youngsters in front of him. His voice was low and if not for the PA system, would not have been heard beyond the second row.

“Many of you may have heard of the Parabats.” He used the portmanteau of Parachute and Battalion. “You’ll have heard about how difficult it is to make it through the basic training. It’s not difficult; it’s a bit beyond - just difficult! It’s fucking hell!” There was dead silence. The Air Force officers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “But, when you get through it, you belong to a unique band of brothers. You will be part of a legacy that is less than a hundred years old but has completely changed the way war is waged.” He surveyed the silent, young audience with a mixture of disdain and arrogance.

He spoke of the history of the paratrooper. The astounding successes of the German ’fallschirmjäger’ (paratroopers) during World War Two. The battles of Fort Eben Emael, Crete and the liberation of Mussolini at Gran Sasso. Describing the exhilaration of a four-thousand-metre free fall - inserted behind enemy lines with little or no hope of outside help. Having to rely on wits and guts to survive.

At the end of his talk, Eloff’s icy gaze seemed to seek out Ray. “We don’t conscript our men; we don’t have the time, or inclination, to sift out the useful from the scrap that other units can use.” He smiled again at the growing discomfort, audible from the shifting of feet behind him on the dais. “We only take volunteers. But, before you fall over yourselves to volunteer, know this! Unless you have the guts to fight your way through hell; stand toe to toe with the Devil and kick him in the nuts, don’t bother. If you don’t like getting dirt under your fingernails, or you have to brush your teeth twice a day - stay here! But if you have a pair of balls, step out and form up at the end of the parade ground.” Without even a backward glance, or thank you to his hosts, he marched off the dais.

Ray had already made his mind up at the part about a four-thousand-metre free-fall. He and eighty-five boys trotted off and formed up at the end of the parade ground. Eloff marched them away to a secluded area under a Weeping Willow tree.

“I can already see some of you dumb fucks never heard a word I said,” Eloff stood shaking his head. “So, let me help you. If I tap you on the shoulder; trot off back to your air force pals because I can already see, you’ll be wasting your time! But, more importantly - mine.” He walked down their lines, eliminating the smallest and weakest. In the end, there were two dozen boys left.

Eloff looked the group over very slowly. “Last chance boy’os. You bunch are still here because, physically, it seems like there is the very slimmest of chances that you’ll last a week or two. But, get one thing straight you miscarriages; because you look capable of being a bat, it doesn’t mean you can be one. Oh! And did I mention I don’t like Sout Piela (salty pricks).” He used the derogatory Afrikaans term for non-Afrikaans speaking white people. It related to South Africans who maintained dual citizenship; ‘keeping the backdoor open’. With one foot in South Africa and the other in Europe; with their dicks dangling in the Atlantic Ocean. “I suggest you bugger off too. I have a thing about you imports. I tend to be a bit...how shall I put it…fucking harsh on you because frankly, I don’t like you? Feel free to quote me on that to your local member of Parliament.”

A handful of youngsters trotted off. Eloff watched them with obvious contempt. He turned back to the remaining recruits. “Must be more useless turds here! God is selective when it comes to creating bats. Some of you ladies are bullshitting yourselves!” His tone became low and menacing. “If I have to weed you timewasters out myself, I’m going to rip an arm off and beat you to death with the wet end. Then I’ll skull-fuck you to death through your eye sockets! Final chance ladies. After we leave this kindergarten, the only way you get out is if I kick you out! I’ll only do that when death is already tapping you on the shoulder, or the bastard has already slung your sorry arse over his saddle.” Six more recruits decided to take their chances with the air force. Leaving fourteen, including a young, determined Raymond Pike.

Captain Eloff was a man of his word. Within one week of the worst physical and verbal abuse, nine were left! The day Eloff pinned the silver wings on his left breast pocket Ray, stood with only six other men from the initial batch that walked out of the gates of the Airforce Gymnasium, fourteen weeks earlier.

“That’s the easy part over parabats - now the real shit starts!” Eloff said. If the new parabats were expecting any felicitations from Eloff - that was it! Immediately after receiving his silver wings, Ray elected to do an Officers course. Proving himself a strategic thinker with natural leadership abilities. Seven years of combat later, he came to the attention of cagey folk at SINS.

With Eloff, it was definitely a case of familiarity breeds contempt. Ray realized the man was an arsehole! A sadistic, narcissistic prick - to be precise. Events over the week, leading up to the wild ride into Angola, prompted Ray to add ‘dangerously inept’ to that description. The problems with Eloff started almost immediately after Ray’s first successful operation as part of SINS, only months after joining. It was after a massive firefight which became known as The Battle of Epupa Falls.

Layl

The helicopter carrying the exhausted, battle-weary troops returned to the airbase at Oshakati. Ray stepped off the Puma as soon as it touched down. He helped a Bushman scout alight. The wizened little man was still coming to grips with the fact that he had traveled over two hundred kilometres in under a week! The little San Bushman tried in vain to convey his name to Ray, who was unable to wrap his mouth around the sounds.

Khoisan is one of the oldest languages in the world. With over forty-eight clicking consonants and as many non-clicking; it’s also one of the most difficult to master. The click is formed by creating a vacuum cavity with the tongue and the roof of the mouth. Sucking and pulling the tongue away breaks the vacuum creating the various clicking sounds, depending on the shape of the lips, somewhat like pulling a toilet plunger off the floor. Ray settled for Layl which was close enough as far as he was concerned. Layl seemed quite happy with his new name. Each time they had hit a thermal, the Bushman’s grip tightened. Ray was sure he could hear bones cracking above the din of the chopper. It took him twenty minutes of vigorous massaging before blood-flow returned to the hand.

It was the first time Ray included two Bushman scouts, instead of Baasters or Herero’s on an operation. And, the results were phenomenal. Besides a high body count, the wealth of intel and weapons collected alone, made the mission a resounding success. It was estimated that the insurgents’ infiltration efforts in the southern Angolan region were set back by at least six months. But the use of Bushmen instead of Baasters didn’t sit well with either Eloff or the other Baaster scouts in the unit. Luckily, Brigadier Beck approved of Ray’s idea and even introduced Layl for the trial.

That night in the officer’s mess, the merrymaking was in full swing. Ray became particularly well acquainted with Mr. Johnny Walker (Glen Fiddich had other commitments). Spending a good few hours in Mr. Walker’s company. It came time to say cheers to Johnny, and hello to Lieutenant Angie De Vries. Angie was an Air Hostess with the VIP Squadron that arrived earlier that day carrying a certain, General Hercules Ockers, whom Ray would get to know later in his career. The plan was to meet her in the aircraft hangar. She promised to show him around the specially prepared VIP C-47 Dakota. Angie mentioned there was even a bedroom suite on the plane which Ray had every intention of testing for comfort and ride.

Cautiously negotiating the three stairs out the clubhouse, Ray noticed the two Bushman scouts sitting on a bench under an Acacia tree, quietly sipping soda. During the previous week, he had taken an instant liking to the older, ever-smiling Layl. He nodded a greeting to the Bushmen as he walked past. Layl sprang up, giving a stiff-armed salute, “Goodnight Mister Ray.” He said with exaggerated military aplomb. Layl’s younger companion Naxla, sat quietly, giving Ray a curt nod.

“And a very good night to you, Mr. Layl,” Ray beamed back. “The party is inside Mr. Layl,” Ray pointed over his shoulder.

“We do not drink the silly juice mister Ray. I am only waiting for mister Ronnie; we need to greet him before we go home tomorrow.” The little bushman struggled with the “S” sound, since he only had two, or possibly three teeth, in his head. It took Ray a moment to decipher what ‘shilly juish’ meant.

“I see. Well, safe travels Mr. Layl and thank you very much for your outstanding help.” He returned Layl’s exaggerated salute and nodded to the younger man.

As he meandered off, Ray heard what appeared to be Layl giving the younger man a tongue lashing. Two Air Force officers were coming towards the club. Ray saluted them and before he was out of earshot, he heard one of the officers rudely bark at the two scouts. “What are you ’goffels’ hanging around here for? Fuck off you’re making the place look untidy.” He used the rude Afrikaans expression for coloured people of mixed race.

Ray stopped in mid-stride turning around. Layl stood up and placidly moved to a bench ten metres further away. The younger man stood up glaring at the officers, then turned and followed Layl. Ray walked back, “Evening major.” he addressed the more senior officer, “Are you joining the party?” he asked.

“We certainly are yes.” The accent immediately told Ray the man was ex-Rhodesian.

“Great! Welcome gentlemen, but tell me, major; are you aware what the celebration is all about?”

“Of course, we arranged the bash for you guys. The entire country will know about it by the morning, I’m sure. An outstanding success! You boys did a fantastic job, indeed.” He glanced down at the name tag attached by Velcro to Ray’s tunic “Ah! And you’re lieutenant Pike, your name tag’s upside down, by the way. You led the whole shindig. Very well-done lieutenant. I hear there may be a medal in it for you - astounding work, sir!” He clapped Ray on the back.

Noting the officer’s name Ray smiled. “Well thank you, Major Cockroft. I appreciate that but, I can claim very little responsibility for the result. I was merely a passenger - I assure you. The man who made it all happen; who’s skill resulted in such a huge success; he deserves any medals that will be thrown about.”

“Really! Well, I need to meet this man and buy him a drink. Is he inside?”

The man’s clipped, posh Britishness irked Ray. “I’m glad you feel that way major, but no sir, I’m afraid he isn’t inside, he was just told to fuck off by a rude, ignorant sod.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “Lieutenant! You are speaking to a senior officer - how dare you?” Cockroft gathered himself. “However, given that you are obviously drunk and have seen some heavy action over the last few days, I’m prepared to let this indiscretion slide. A simple apology ought to do it.”

“Well thank you so much, Major Cockrot…sorry, Cockroft, I’m sure a simple apology will be more than acceptable to Layl.”

The major’s face changed from mere ‘stern indignation’ to ‘seriously pissed-off’ in a split second. “Who the bloody hell…” He spluttered.

At that moment, Brigadier Beck, accompanied by Major Eloff stepped out of the club. “Evening all, the party is inside,” Beck beamed, “Please join us, gentlemen,” He addressed the two airmen.

“Evening brigadier I am glad you’re here!” The major fumed. “I would like to report your lieutenant here, for rudely addressing me. Showing utter disrespect for my rank.”

Beck stopped beaming and turned to Ray, “Lieutenant?”

Ray swayed slightly. “Brigadier, I was just trying to explain to the major the important role our two San scouts played in our recent successful adventure. I merely mentioned that calling them ’goffels’, and telling them to fuck off, was perhaps not the best way to show our appreciation.”

Beck turned to the fuming officer, “Major?”

“They were loitering; I told them to move along.” he lied.

Ray turned to the second Air Force officer. “Perhaps Captain Carstens could clarify the wording used?” He looked Captain Carstens straight in the eye, daring him to lie.

Captain Carstens stared straight back at Ray. “I think the noise from the pub made it difficult for anybody to hear each other clearly brigadier. Leading to some… misunderstanding?”

Beck turned to the angry major. “I do find it very difficult to believe that a senior officer, and gentleman, would address anyone of colour in the service of our country, in the manner that would be found unacceptable to Air Force Command.” He turned to Ray. “And I find it equally difficult to believe that an officer under my command, would be disrespectful to a senior officer.” He addressed all three of the men in a low, threatening manner. “I have no intention of fucking up a perfectly good celebration! I’m inclined to think Captain Carstens has it right; this was a case of misunderstanding due to the noise from the club. Do we all agree?” The major, looked like he was going to pass a pumpkin-sized kidney stone, but the expression on Beck’s face dissuaded him from any further argument. He gave a curt, sullen nod instead.

It should have ended there, but Johnny Walker needed to have his say. “I would agree brigadier, but that still leaves Mr. Layl, who also misheard the major’s comments,” Ray said.

“Don’t concern yourself about that lieutenant! I will deal with it.” Beck’s response was curt, “So let’s put the matter to rest now, shall we?” Beck clapped Major Cockroft on the back. “Gentlemen, please join our celebrations. Major Eloff will entertain you for a moment, while I have a word with Lieutenant Pike.”

Eloff led them off, and Beck turned to Ray, “It’s Raymond, isn’t it, lieutenant?” he asked.

Ray nodded, “Yes, brigadier.”

“Join me,” he said, walking over to Layl. Naxla had left. Layl jumped up saluting the brigadier with the same exaggerated aplomb. His wrinkled features dominated by an enormous, gummy grin. He looked like a yellow prune with eyes. “Matisa, Layl?” (How are you Layl), Beck greeted the Bushman in the Khoekhoegowab click language

“!Gâia gangans matisa?” (I am well how are you), Layl responded. The two men spoke for a moment, but to Ray, it was just a series of clicks and clacks.

For Ray’s benefit, Beck switched to English. “I come to ask forgiveness for the words of the rude soldier my friend Layl.”

“There is nothing to forgive Mister Ronnie. The unhappy words, of unhappy people, are like the drops of light rain, that fall on the desert. The soil accepts them, and they are gone - but the soil remains - richer than before.”

“I thank you for your understanding and wisdom my friend Layl. Tell me how is the desert blossom - Seeta?”

“Seeta is well thank you, Mister Ronnie, tomorrow I go to her, I will tell her of your interest in her wellbeing.”

“And how are the two Saplings, my friend?”

The little Bushman’s smile grew even wider. “The young bull is nearing his time to hunt, and the seedling blossom is only one year away from her blood.”

Beck patted Layl on the shoulder. “You must be a proud man my friend Layl, please send my wishes for peace and health to Seeta and the two young ones.”

“I am traveling to Etosha in the morning, perhaps I could give you a ride, Mr. Layl? Where are you headed?” Ray asked.

“I thank you for your extreme kindness Mister Ray, but the iron bird was already too much magic for a son of the land. I am afraid of the noisy iron boxes.”

“Actually, Mr. Layl, the iron box is very safe, and I will take special care.”

“That is very, very kind but there is no black path where I live” Layl pointed to the tar road.

“I have a very special Iron box, it can go even where there is no black path,” Ray drunkenly insisted.

Layl shook his head. “Thank you again Mister Ray, but I prefer my feet; they go where I say without the noise and the bad smell.” He screwed up his face in a show of distaste.

“The road to Etosha is long Layl, and I could use the company - if it’s on your way?”

Beck started getting irritated with Ray’s inane persistence, “No point in pushing it lieutenant I have been trying for years to get him to drive in a car.”

Layl touched the brigadier’s arm and said. “I have seen you ride the ka my friend and my ancestors told me if I ride with you, I will meet them much sooner than planned.”

Beck let out a guffaw, “You cheeky little bastard!”

Layl smiled, “Please excuse me now, but I must sleep, an old man like me needs many hours of rest to carry the burdens I have. My friend Mister Ronnie, may your footsteps fall on the pathways of peace.”

“What a load of bull!” Beck smiled, “Sleep well tonight my friend. Travel well tomorrow, and may your footsteps also fall on friendly paths.” Layl gave both Beck and Ray another overly elaborate salute. “Thank you, Brigadier Ronnie, and peace to you, Lieutenant Ray,” He turned and vanished into the night.

Beck sat on the bench and pulled out a big white porcelain Meerschaum pipe. Filling the bowl with tobacco from a packet of Admirals Choice - Black Cavendish Cherry, he said. “Have a seat Lieutenant.” Beck lit the pipe, and soon they were enveloped in a cloud of cherry-flavoured smoke. “That ignorant idiot…” Beck indicated the air force major, “is as big a threat to the world, as these commie bastards we fight every day. Their hatred and fear of Africans is what fuels this war. They have turned Apartheid into a swearword!”

Ray was mildly surprised at the statement and asked: “But, isn’t Apartheid bad anyway?”

“Is nationalism bad? Is culturalism bad? But yes, Apartheid is being used to oppress and subjugate, but that was never the intention. The original aspiration was just. Every other nation in the world has self-determination, so why not the Afrikaaner?”

“Perhaps because we are conquerors, it was the black man’s land to start with Sir.” Ray reasoned.

Beck contemplated Ray. “To some extent we are conquerors, but we did not conquer the Bantu for it. They arrived a hundred years after the Europeans! The Nguni started migrating east out of his home, which today we call Nigeria, three-thousand-five-hundred years ago. They moved east first, and then south. Sesotho; Matabele; Pedi; Zulu and all the other tribes, who now inhabit Southern Africa, only reached this part of Africa a hundred years after Van Riebeck! Yes, we conquered the Khoi - us from the south, and the Nguni from the north. They are the only ones who have a right to bitch about stolen land. Every country on earth has been subject to conquest at one time or another. Almost every nation on this earth is not the original inhabitants of where they live today. All peoples travelled and conquered - it’s in the human gene. The Afrikaaner has as much right to be here, as the Bantu; both need to respect the original inhabitants - and each other for God’s sake!”

Contemplating the bright moon for a moment, he continued. “Europe was our home, but it isn’t anymore. The Europeans have a knack for creating a problem and then turning their back on it. We are their offspring - they came, they saw, and they conquered. They populated the land with their own, just like they did in America, Australia, and the rest of the colonies. The only difference between South Africa and the other colonies - is numbers. Here we are outnumbered ten to one, so we’re forced into this fight for our survival…for a home. We didn’t wipe out the original inhabitants as the other colonies did. The American Indians, South American Indians, Maoris, Aboriginals - all wiped out to the point where they ceased to be a problem. An inconvenient hindrance. Ironically, those new-world nations, are also the most ardent critics of our fight for the same privilege they enjoy today.”

Beck tapped the dead ash from the pipe on the heel of his shoe and relit it. “Anyway, the point is the true original inhabitants of all the lands south of the Cunene River, are the Khoisan.” Beck stood up, pocketing his pipe and matches. “I have known Layl since I was a young man. Our family farm is about eighty kilometres west of Layl’s home. Have you noticed he doesn’t carry a weapon on ops? That’s because he hates killing anything, even the animals he eats. I met him when my father took me hunting for the first time at the age of twelve. After that first hunt, he refused to have anything to do with our family again. It took me many years to find out why. We had killed more than we needed. He taught me much about being human. He thinks we white folk are murderous invaders just like the black man. We are both a threat to his way of life, and they are fearful, that’s why they don’t make a fuss.”

Ray felt himself dozing off. Beck continued relentlessly. “I don’t hate the black man, like us, he can’t be held responsible for what his ancestors did. But we are both obliged to acknowledge the truth and look after these little people. Based on history, I’m afraid the black man won’t; that’s why I fight him. If we fail, these little buggers will be swallowed up by greed and progress - poof!” he gestured with his hands, “A culture thousands and thousands of years old - gone forever. They are already close to extinction in Botswana, wiped out because they were in the way of progress. God forbid the day that happens; humanity will have lost its very own soul.”

Beck extended his hand to Ray. “Anyway, young man, you look like you need a good night’s sleep. I shall go inside and have a drink with that loathsome oaf and do my best not to punch him in the nose. Goodnight lieutenant, get yourself off to bed son, and safe travels tomorrow.”

The next day as Ray prepared for his trip to Etosha, Eloff appeared. “Can I have a word, lieutenant?”

“Sure, major, what’s on your mind.” Ray closed the back door of the beloved Rover, “Can I get you a beer or water?”

“No, this will only take a minute.” He stood with his arms crossed and legs apart – his favourite posture. “I understand you immigrants don’t have the history that we Afrikaaners have with this land. I also understand that it’s difficult for you to grasp the nature of the beast we are dealing with! Your Eurocentric views have no place here in Africa. European morals and standards don’t work here! You, westerners, think you have all the answers. Americans, Aussies, Swedes, and Brits - the lot of you have done nothing but oppress, enslave and exploit every country on the face of the Earth! Yet you feel you have the right to call us, invaders! You European fucks put us here! You put us among people who still believe in witchcraft and human sacrifice! People, who today still use body parts in their medicine for Christ’s sake! Stop telling us we have to embrace that! We have been living with them for almost four hundred years! People like you and Beck, with your liberal bullshit! You are a threat! But so-help-me-God, I will turn on you, Beck, and anybody else who threatens our way of life, our home; with as much vigor as I do these black savages!”

Ray listened calmly to Eloff. When he was sure he had finished, he responded, “I assume you’ll accept straight talk major! Firstly, like you, I was born here! So, to start with, you can take that immigrant bullshit and shove it up your arse. Secondly, I am just as willing as you are, to protect this country from all who wish to harm it - whatever their motive! The only thing we differ on is who we perceive to be the enemy. Anyone - who is not a white Afrikaaner - is your enemy. My enemy is people who want to actually harm my country. You! cannot distinguish the difference, and that makes you as great a danger, to the future of the country, as any terrorist. The Afrikaaner has got a right to existence - I’ll never disagree with that. But no nation has the right to exist by trampling another underfoot! The answer is co-existence, respect, and acceptance. Anything else must be condemned and opposed.”

Eloff nodded, “Very well, lieutenant, it seems we disagree. At least we are now clear on where we both stand.” Ray watched Eloff walk away thinking ‘that went well.’ He finished loading up the Rover, locked the front door of the bungalow and left. The next stop was the Etosha and another meeting that would impact on his life in a way he could never have imagined. It was only as he passed the airfield that he remembered his date with Angie - ‘shit’!