Every time he pulled the trigger the recoil of the AK-47 sent a fresh shot of pain through his body. He was fairly sure he was dying.
Two army trucks were stopped at crazy angles across the road to Divundu in front of him. One was still engulfed in fire, with its burning tyres sending oily black pyres into the clear blue morning sky; the other was a charred, smoking skeleton. There were two bodies lying in the dirt at the edge of the highway and already half a dozen vultures were circling in a thermal high above them.
The last of the assault force of infantrymen from the Namibian Defence Force were retreating. Hans wasn’t sorry that he’d missed the man he’d just fired at. There had already been enough killing. It wasn’t their aim to destroy the NDF – just buy themselves some time.
He looked at the sky and his watch, then surveyed their position for the hundredth time since the sun had come up. Behind him was the long bridge over the Kwando River, with the police and customs barrier post on the other side, closer to Katima Mulilo. His troops had formed semicircular perimeters on either side of the bridge and he had men dug in on both banks of the virtually dry Kwando, upstream and downstream of the bridge. Hans’s men had blocked the bridge by driving an old Volkswagen Golf hatchback and a Toyota bakkie owned by the local veterinary staff at the checkpoint onto the structure and shooting out the tyres. Tactically, the river crossing wasn’t a bad position to hold. He had good fields of fire in all directions and his perimeter was tight enough for his force of a hundred and thirty men to defend against ground attack.
They were very vulnerable, he knew, to air and artillery bombardment, so every second man was digging into the soft sandy soil as if his life depended on it. Until more of the NDF arrived every third man was foraging for timber, corrugated iron and any other bits of natural or man-made material they could find to reinforce their fighting pits.
Hans knew, as did all of his men, that if the Namibian government did not want to negotiate with the CLA and their political wing, the UDP, then they would all die here. His men were confined to a small space, hence their vulnerability to artillery shells and aerial bombardment. But if the government wanted to kill them that way then they would most likely lose the bridge as well, which they’d hesitate to do.
Strategically, Hans had cut a main arterial highway and put an end for the time being to tourist and commercial traffic between Namibia, eastern Botswana and Zambia. His men had already turned back several startled foreigners in rented four-by-fours and a party of rebels had driven in a commandeered Land Rover down to the luxury lodge and campground at Nambwa Island, about fourteen kilometres south of the bridge, and overseen an evacuation of the worried holidaymakers staying there.
It was no longer business as usual in the Caprivi Strip and if the government wasn’t prepared to bomb or shell them out of existence, then they would have to negotiate. Hans was confident his men were well trained, armed and dug in enough to repel conventional infantry attacks for many days to come.
Edison, the young lieutenant and chief’s son, had not been seriously wounded by Steele’s bullet and was walking the line, stopping to talk to his men and offering words of encouragement. He was a good man, and would make a fine leader of his people one day, Hans thought, unlike his pompous oaf of an uncle who had taken control of the CLA after his wiser brother had died.
‘How are they holding up, Edison?’ Hans asked, then coughed.
‘The men are fine, sir. But I think you should rest a little while.’
‘Don’t bloody tell me what to do.’ The pain was making him irritable and he cursed his bad luck. He knew the boy was only worried for him. ‘I’m fine, Edison. Go check on the mortar crew.’ Edison nodded and walked off.
Logistically they weren’t completely cut off, but nor were they assured of support. A network of Caprivian women, children and older men were standing by to ferry more food and ammunition out of Botswana along the Kwando, though the Botswana Defence Force would get organised soon enough and put a halt to any more illegal cross-border movement. Hans figured they had four to six days to wait at the crossroads. By that time they would either all be dead, or a truce would have been negotiated. Hans had told his men they might need to hold on until the United Nations could be forced to intercede, though based on past form that never happened quickly.
‘Radio message from OP Alpha, sir,’ a young Caprivian soldier with a radio on his back said. ‘They want to talk to you.’
‘Thank you, Jonas.’ Hans smiled at the nineteen-year-old boy. Like the others he was excited and still buoyed by the minor victories of taking the bridge and destroying the two trucks, which had been achieved with well-aimed rifle and machine-gun fire. Hans had antitank weapons, but he was saving them for any armoured cars that might come their way, or for use against helicopters that tried to land on the road on the approaches to his position. He had small observation posts set up covering the main road about two kilometres out in either direction.
OP Alpha, covering the road to Divundu, reported that the stragglers from the first attack on the bridge were passing them by, heading back up the road. Kurtz acknowledged.
‘Wait one,’ the man in the concealed observation post said, instead of signing off.
Kurtz licked his chapped lips as he waited for the trooper to report.
‘I hear a vehicle, over.’
Kurtz snapped his fingers to get Gideon’s attention, who had been walking among the troops in Edison’s wake, checking their ammunition. ‘Gideon, get one of the RPG teams ready to move.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Armoured car. One BTR 60, coming around the bend.’ The young soldier in the OP was unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Coming your way, over.’
‘Roger. Keep it under observation, over,’ Kurtz said to the man on the radio, then passed the handset back to the signaller. To Gideon he said, ‘Send a five-man fire squad to cover the RPG – the best you’ve got. I don’t want that BTR 60 getting close enough to do us damage. Catch him on the other side of the hill.’
‘I’ll go, sir,’ Gideon said.
‘No. I need you here.’
‘With respect, sir, I’m the best we’ve got. I can’t send these young men out without someone who has been in battle.’
The teams were already assembling and Kurtz stared hard at Gideon. He clapped him on the arm. ‘All right, you old lion. Go show these young cubs how it’s done.’
Gideon grinned and gave his orders. Three of the men in the fire team carried AK-47s and the fourth hefted an RPD light machine-gun. Together with the two-man team armed with the RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher and spare projectiles, they set off up the hill on the Divundu side of the bridge. Halfway to the crest Gideon led them off the road and they melted into the long dry grass and parched bush on the right-hand side.
Edison had been checking the far side of the perimeter and arrived at a jog as Gideon was disappearing. ‘Sir,’ he said, unable to contain his annoyance, ‘why was I not sent with those men?’
Hans raised a hand to his bloodied side. ‘Because they might not come back, Edison. If we lose Gideon, we lose our most experienced noncommissioned officer. If we lose you, Caprivi loses its future.’
‘I would rather die than send another man to face the enemy in my place.’
Hans nodded. ‘Believe me, Edison, we will all face our enemy today.’
Gideon understood and respected Major Kurtz’s wish to keep NDF casualties to a minimum. He just didn’t agree with it.
He wanted to kill some of the men who had been responsible for the repression of his people and the theft of his homeland. He crawled from man to man, checking their positions, weapons and ammunition.
‘No firing until I give the order, or until I fire first, understood?’
A young volunteer nodded. Gideon could see the mix of fear and excitement in the boy’s eyes. ‘Aim for the centre mass. Here.’ Gideon tapped the base of his own sternum and the lad nodded.
‘You,’ he said, stopping next to the man who had the RPG-7 already balanced on his shoulder, as he knelt behind a stout tree trunk. ‘You know to lead the BTR 60 – to fire just ahead of it if it is moving fast, yes?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the man said.
‘You have fired the RPG-7 before?’
Ammunition was scarce, Gideon knew – or at least it had been until the recent influx of money and equipment that had come from the rich white safari operators in the Okavango Delta. ‘You will get a lot more practice in the coming days.’
The man grinned.
Gideon cocked his head. ‘They are coming.’ He saw them now. The BTR 60 was leading, driving slowly, followed by a Unimog truck with its tarpaulin removed. In the back were fifteen soldiers sitting on bench seats, and all the infantrymen were facing outwards with rifles and machine-guns at the ready. ‘The truck will stop and the infantry will dismount as soon as the RPG fires. Their job is to provide protection for the armoured car – to sweep through the bush and kill us,’ he said loud enough for them all to hear. ‘But we will do the killing first.’
‘For Caprivi!’ one of the men said, too loud, but it was too late to chastise him.
‘Fire!’ Gideon yelled.
The rebels’ RPD machine-gunner opened up, firing low at first. By watching the puffs of dirt kicked up by his 7.62-millimetre rounds he was able to adjust his aim and walk his bullets up and into the truck. One man tumbled out of the back of the vehicle while it was still moving.
‘Fire the RPG!’ Gideon looked at the anti-armour crew and saw the gunner had the RPG-7 off his shoulder and was frantically pulling the missile out of the tube. ‘What happened?’
‘M … misfire, sir,’ the man stammered under pressure.
‘Hurry up. Reload! Keep firing, the rest of you. Aim for the truck – for the infantry.’
The Unimog had pulled over and the soldiers on board were leaping out. A medic had rushed to the fallen soldier, but the rest were very much alive and had shaken themselves out into an extended line and were running towards the rebel position, trying to get off the grassy killing ground as quickly as possible, and into the fringe of bush and trees.
Gideon raised his AK-47 to his shoulder and fired once. A Namibian soldier fell in the grass. He watched the BTR 60 turn to the left so that it was facing them. The turret rotated and the big 14.5-millimetre anti aircraft gun pointed towards them. The sound when it opened up was almost deafening. Leaves, bark and shredded twigs rained down on them as the gun fired high. ‘What’s happening with the RPG?’
‘Loaded.’
‘Well fire the fucking thing!’
‘Firing now.’
There was the pop of AK-47s and the chatter of the machine-guns but no whoosh and roar of a departing rocket-propelled grenade. Gideon looked at the team. The gunner and loader were tugging the second round out of the launcher. ‘Another misfire. Sorry, sir.’
‘Fall back, fall back,’ Gideon commanded them. Two out of two misfires was very bad odds indeed. ‘Reload while we’re moving. Go!’
Black smoke belched from the BTR 60’s exhaust and the armoured car started advancing up the rise towards them, firing on the move.
Gideon felt the punch of displaced air pass him by and when he looked to his left he saw one of the members of his squad had fallen. The heavy-calibre machine-gun rounds had taken almost all of his head off and blood fountained from the gory mess that remained. The young trooper Gideon had spoken with just before the shooting started stopped to look at what remained of his comrade. Gideon grabbed him by the straps of his chest webbing and yanked him away from the gruesome sight. ‘Get moving, I said!’
The boy staggered and Gideon had to hold tight to stop him falling. The trooper looked at his left hand and saw his index finger was missing. ‘Move!’ Gideon yelled at him. Gideon turned and emptied the magazine of his AK-47 at the pursuing troops. One-handed he tore open the waterproof packet of a field dressing with his teeth and passed the bulky cotton pad and bandage to the boy. ‘Tie that around the wound.’
‘R … reloaded, sir. Ready to k … kill this time,’ the RPG gunner called from behind him.
‘Keep going, the rest of you,’ Gideon ordered the team as he knelt beside the RPG man and changed magazines. ‘Steady,’ Gideon said, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Aim well.’
The BTR 60 charged on towards them, flattening grass and saplings in its path. The heavy gun in the turret tracked the fleeing men and Gideon heard another scream of pain amidst the unceasing clatter.
‘Firing now,’ the man said.
Gideon fired two bursts from his AK-47 at the NDF infantrymen who were running to keep up with the armoured car they were supposed to be protecting.
There was no sound beside him. Nothing.
‘Run!’ Gideon stood and fired off the remainder of his magazine. He and the RPG gunner sprinted after the rest of the patrol, who were silhouetted against the crest of the hill. On the other side was the bridge and the rebel position, but for these few seconds they were all perfect targets. Heavy machine-gun fire swept the ridge and two more men fell.
One man was killed instantly when a bullet sliced through his heart, but the other had lost his right leg below the knee. He lay writhing and screaming in the dust. ‘Help me,’ Gideon said to the RPG man. Between them they dragged the wounded man upright and held him between them. The man bellowed in pain, however, as the RPG gunner fell. Gideon staggered and dropped to one knee. The RPG man was dead, having taken an AK-47 round in the back of the head. Bullets large and small hissed around him as he grabbed the one-legged soldier by his webbing straps and heaved him up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Gideon bent and snatched up his own rifle from the grass and staggered over the brow of the hill. One of the others from the squad in front of him paused and turned. ‘Keep running … I’m fine,’ Gideon assured the man.
‘Covering fire!’ Hans lifted his AK-47 and started aiming at the Namibian troops who were coming over the hill. The enemy was trying to kill his men and Hans felt no remorse now when he saw another NDF soldier fall. Heavy machine-gun rounds started ploughing the dirt in front of his position. Hans lowered his rifle and pulled a pair of small Zeiss binoculars from the pocket of his shirt.
He scanned the crest and saw the turret of an armoured car. The commander of the vehicle had cleverly stopped just below the top of the hill and had his gunner train his gun down to its maximum angle of depression. The vehicle was all but impervious to direct anti-armour fire. In any case, it was out of range of his RPGs from here. He guessed the RPG crew he had sent with Gideon had missed the vehicle with every round.
Around him other men were pouring a noisy but largely ineffectual stream of lead at the Namibian troops, whose advance had lost momentum once they saw the fortified bridge. The enemy infantry had lain down in the grass on either side of the partially concealed BTR 60. ‘Mortars … two rounds, high explosive, at that armoured car; fire!’
Hans kept his binoculars trained on the armoured car. It was firing its main gun in short bursts now. He guessed the gunner and commander were conserving their ammunition. By his recollection the car only carried about five hundred rounds and they wouldn’t last long. A movement in the distant grass made him lower his field glasses. He saw another of his men, moving slowly, bent and burdened and lagging behind the other men. He focused again. ‘Gideon!’
Hans looked over his shoulder. ‘What’s going on back there? I said two rounds, high explosive!’
A bare-chested soldier who had been passing bombs to the mortar crew came running over to him and said, ‘There is a problem with the bombs. They are not going off, sir.’
‘Shit.’
He looked back at Gideon’s men who were retreating. The fastest runners were almost at the perimeter of the bridge position. ‘Get those men over here, now!’
Gideon was still staggering after them and Hans could see now it was another man he was carrying, on his back. He was about to send two men out to help his friend when he saw the first green glowing fireball of tracer land at Gideon’s feet. Another followed and he could hear shouting carrying down the hill from the Namibian position.
‘Sir …’ a sweat-drenched soldier panted as he stopped next to Kurtz. ‘You wanted to see us.’
‘What happened?’
‘The RPGs, sir … they would not work. They all misfired. The sergeant major, he told us to run, sir.’
He thought about the misfiring rocket-propelled grenades and the mortar rounds that had just failed to launch. They were all from the new batch of ammunition delivered courtesy of their new financial backers. ‘Steele.’
Kurtz, like every other man at the outpost, watched Gideon, who staggered through the grass along the verge of the wide tar of the B8 highway. He made use of the downhill slope and was keeping up a steady pace. His mouth was open wide, sucking in air as he ran.
‘Come on, come on!’ some of the men urged. Others whistled.
Pah-chunk, pah-chunk.
The BTR 60 fired two more ranging shots and they bracketed Gideon and his wounded charge perfectly; one landed just behind him and the other just in front.
‘Bastards,’ Kurtz said. They were taking their time.
‘Mortar … fire smoke!’ Kurtz yelled. ‘The rest of you … anyone with a smoke grenade, throw it now!’ He hoped that the smoke would at least obscure the gunner’s aim.
‘Misfire, sir!’ a man called from the pit where their sole mortar was dug in.
Edison arrived at Kurtz’s side. ‘The mortar rounds – they’re all duds. We have been betrayed.’
Hans nodded. Martin Steele had played a final doublecross. With no RPG anti-armour weapons and no functioning mortar bombs to deliver their own indirect fire, their available time at the bridge had just shrunk from days to hours.
Yellow and red smoke grenades popped and fizzed into colourful, billowing clouds beyond the perimeter, but Gideon was still further away than the strongest man could throw, so he was left exposed to the gunner’s mercy.
‘Come on!’ Hans yelled. ‘Nearly there!’ The effort of calling out to his friend seemed to rupture something else inside him and he doubled in pain, but shook off the offer of a helping hand from Edison. ‘I’m fine.’
The men around him were all cheering and yelling now and the firing had stopped from the NDF soldiers on the hill. The range was perhaps too far for them, but not so the gunner behind the heavy machine-gun on the armoured car.
Pah-chunk, pah-chunk, pah-chunk.
The explosions of dirt followed Gideon and were close enough to spatter against the man bleeding to death on his back. Kurtz allowed himself to hope. ‘Throw another smoke grenade!’
Kurtz signalled to a medic. ‘Get ready to treat that man as soon as he’s safe. Remember to put on two sets of rubber gloves, hey.’ The soldier nodded. Even in the heat of battle Kurtz had to remind his men to guard against the ever-present spectre of HIV-AIDS. There was no doubt that a significant proportion of the fighters, perhaps even the medic, were carrying the disease.
The smoke canister was thrown and it popped and sputtered into colourful life. Gideon was no more than a hundred metres from them now. The sergeant major dropped his rifle and he readjusted his grip on the wounded soldier and seemed to prepare himself for a final sprint. He lifted his muscled legs and the fall of his boots sounded like clapping as he found a surer footing on the tarmac highway. The men in the rebel camp were silent now. The fresh plume of orange smoke started to take form and rise around Gideon’s knees.
Edison put down his weapon and vaulted over the barricade of sandbags. He started running towards Gideon. Hans tried to protest, but the words were killed by the pain in his side.
Pah-chunk, pah-chunk, pah-chunk.
The grenade had done its job and Gideon and the man on his back were obscured. Edison disappeared into the billowing orange curtain. Not a man dared breathe, until the light breeze carried the smoke north towards Angola.
Edison reappeared first. He stood, oblivious to the bullets that continued to fall around him, and raised two clenched fists to the sky. He threw back his head and bellowed with the mix of rage, remorse and fear as the smoke cleared, revealing Gideon, and the man he carried, lying dead on the road.