CHAPTER ELEVEN

ON THE RUN ACROSS THE CONGO RIVER

It could be said that what happened next was entirely predictable. By the time Kabila’s forces began to close in on Kinshasa, no trained pilots could be found to man the Hinds. There was a persistent fear within Zaire’s military command that its pilots couldn’t be trusted and some generals felt that there might be rebels among them who would take their gunships into combat and end up behind enemy lines. In reality, that would be tantamount to committing suicide as any government asset approaching enemy lines automatically became a target.

Nellis was of the opinion that had it been possible, one or two of the pilots might have been crazy enough to do just that, especially once the situation became critical. However, in the final months of the conflict there was only a single operational Puma and some combat-ready Gazelles.

Nellis takes up events as they happened:

After the meeting, I phoned Mauritz and told him we had the contract and that he needed to get the guys to Kinshasa as soon as possible. That was a priority, I stressed, because Likunya wanted us to deploy to Gbadolite the next day. Mauritz was good to his word, and arrived in the Zairean capital by private jet with a couple of pilots and ground personnel. After a short discussion, Juba, one of the South African pilots who had flown with us in Sierra Leone agreed to stay. JJ Fuentes, the French pilot who had made such a nuisance of himself in the Intercontinental Hotel, agreed to travel with us to Gbadolite as well. He made no mention of what had happened to his two pals.

Initially, the plan was for Juba and Nellis to ferry two of the Mi-24 gunships to Kinshasa. JJ would bring one of the serviceable ground strike jets down and they would then start operations against the rebels.

In checking things over, the pilots found that the Hinds were not in very good shape. In fact, most of the gunships were unserviceable, although a pair of them looked like they could be used in combat, even if there were no spare parts and little ammunition. Juba decided to test fly the one chopper that looked better than the rest, but once airborne it began vibrating so intensely that he thought he wouldn’t make it back onto the ground. Fortunately, he and Nellis were able to land. They then test-flew the second helicopter, which seemed to be relatively serviceable. Nellis commented:

The decision was made that we would try to operate the one Mi24 until we could get one of the Russian technicians to make some repairs. We realised then that the Yugoslavian crews who had been based there before we arrived had deliberately sabotaged the aircraft. Only weeks previously, when Roelf van Heerden and I visited Kisangani, we had seen them in operation.

While we were flying, Mobutu’s son visited the airfield and spoke to JJ. He assured the Frenchman that we would get all the support we needed from his father and that if we stayed to fight, we would be handsomely paid. He also declared that if there were to be a sudden extraction of his father and family, he would ensure that we would be on the aircraft, and that he would get us out of the country to safety. In the meantime, we should let him have a list of logistical requirements which would be dealt with immediately. Ammunition for the gunships was our priority, we told him.

Our plan was to leave as soon as possible for Kinshasa. Mobutu’s son said that everything would be arranged. Unfortunately, that was the last we saw or heard of the man.

While there are conflicting views about what went on during those final days of Mobutu’s rule, much seemed to stem from the inability of the country’s military to communicate internally. It was a fundamental issue, with staff officers alienated from the main body of the armed forces. More significantly, the generals who should have been prosecuting hostilities would sit comfortably on their backsides in the capital and hope that the next day would bring better news.

In their befuddled minds, said Nellis, there was little that prompted urgent attention: ‘it’s out there in the bush somewhere … doesn’t matter now … perhaps later’, one of them was heard to say after a few drinks with the South Africans.

To the majority of these senior military men, Kabila’s rebellion did not appear to warrant any kind of radical action. It was impossible for them to grasp that a crass and untutored clown like Kabila could win a single battle, never mind lead a revolutionary army to victory.

For years Mobutu’s intelligence services, which were immense, utterly intimidating and intrusive, had been downplaying the threat. It got to the point where opportunities arose to assassinate Kabila (twice by poison), but the idea was scotched on the basis of better the devil you know. There was no rationale for any of it, especially the failure of the Zairean High Command to do what was expected of it.

Despite the horrendous hardships suffered by their troops, who had been holding the line in the interior for more than a year by then, these sycophants went on living the good life as if it would never end. Their staff officers would sometimes come back to Kinshasa and try to argue that disaster was only a step away, but it made no difference. For a major or a colonel to infer that his boss wasn’t doing his job wouldn’t have been worth his life. The last person to be made aware of any of it was le grande patron himself. Nobody had the courage to suggest to a visibly ailing Mobutu that things were falling apart in his beloved country. One member of Kinshasa’s peripatetic diplomatic corps commented: ‘You needed a really big pair of balls to bring any sort of bad news to the old man.

When they finally did get things going towards the end, recalls Nellis, they rushed about like proverbial chickens without heads and achieved even less. ‘And that was already late November, with everybody looking after their own interests and fuck the country’, was his wry comment. ‘It certainly didn’t appear to work that way with the rebels,’ he said, ‘they just came headlong at us and nothing seemed to stop them.’ By then, Kabila’s main force was perhaps a few weeks march south of Kinshasa. Nellis remembers:

We all knew that Mobutu could have bought ten squadrons of modern Russian fighter jets with his small change alone. Had he done that, he could have ended the war in a month. The best helicopter gunships were available to him on the international arms market and no government would have minded a jot, not even if he acquired foreign pilots to fly them. To begin with, Moscow would have seized the opportunity and scored billions of dollars in arms sales.

All that stuff was ready and waiting: surplus stocks that lay rotting in dozens of abandoned former Soviet bases in Siberia. The only thing that Mobutu had to do was get hold of some of Kinshasa’s resident biznesmeni and they would have sold him their grandmothers if they thought they could have scored.

It was also a reality that most nations trading with the Congo were desperate for Mobutu to reach some sort of accord with his enemies. As well as exporting diamonds and precious metals, for more than half a century the Congo had been a major producer of about two dozen essential metals, including copper, uranium and cobalt. Zaire alone owned half the world’s reserves of coltan (short for columbite-tantalite—a heat-resistant compound used in electronics to make things like mobile telephones and Sony PlayStations).

Obviously, as the war dragged on the insecurity that resulted from the impasse suited nobody. It was also certain that none of the major powers would have stood in his way, no matter what he did, even if he hired mercenaries. Executive Outcomes had already very successfully established the concept of the private military company, so that precedent was in place. That the country topped the international list in human rights atrocities was no longer an issue. Instead, peace, at any price, was.

As Nellis reviewed the situation facing him after his tiny group arrived in Gbadolite, he saw that there were two options, and both were immediate.

The Hinds could be stripped down and taken to Kinshasa in a couple of support planes. However, Jet A1 fuel would have to be freighted in as, by then, Ndjili International Airport was down to its final reserves and being avoided by all the foreign airlines that usually called.

Alternatively, if necessary clearances could be obtained, the Mi-24s could be routed through Congo (Brazza) and from there, flown across the river to Kinshasa. That option went down when an American military advisory group in Brazzaville commandeered all available aircraft fuel in the state. The Yanks put out the word that permission for the Hinds to transit was, as they liked to phrase it, no longer viable.

The situation in Gbadolite itself was discouraging. The MiG fighter jets were there all right, but they were still in kit form. Russian technicians were assembling them, but that could take weeks. Also, special oils and greases, ordered from Moscow to complete the task, never arrived. Then there were some battery problems. There were none for the MiGs, which meant that even if they were able to fly, it would have been impossible to start the engines. Issues were further compounded when it was discovered that the Jastrebs’ batteries were missing and that there was only one serviceable Mi-24 battery (whereas two are needed for an internal start). It was a shambles.

The crunch came when Nellis was told by Rudi, a Russian technician in charge of the air force base at Gbadolite who spoke passable English, that the ground power units that had been sold to Mobutu’s people didn’t have the correct fittings needed to plug into the aircraft, so they were useless too. Hands in the air, the normally unflappable Nellis asked what else could go askew. Lots, he was to discover. On top of everything, neither the aircraft technicians nor the unit armourer had arrived at Gbadolite, as had been instructed by the head of the air force.

The following day, Friday 16 May 1997, President Mobutu arrived at Gbadolite in his presidential jet. He had a huge throng of family, ministers, wives and children in tow—easily more than 100 people. Kabila was on the verge of taking Kinshasa. Later that afternoon, Rudi quietly cornered the South Africans in one of the hangars and said that he’d had a call from friends. ‘Things are really bad’, he told them. If the government hadn’t already collapsed, it was about to do so.

The news didn’t exactly come as a shock, but Nellis hadn’t expected things to move quite so fast. Most worrying was the prospect of being stuck in one of the darkest reaches of central Africa. An hour later they got word that rebel units were moving towards Gbadolite itself, and that their vanguard might even be there the next day.

Meanwhile, Rudi whispered that he’d heard that Mobutu was intending to leave the country that night on an Ilyushin Il-76. The plane was expected to arrive at Gbadolite in the early evening and the remainder of the ZAF mobile missile systems still positioned around the airfield were scheduled to be removed and returned to Moscow. They should all be sure to be on that aircraft when it left, the Russian warned. If they weren’t, he shrugged and made the symbolic cut across the throat.

Nellis and Juba Joubert met Mobutu later that afternoon and it came as a surprise when the old and obviously ill leader started ambling around the airport with a couple of bodyguards. He stopped to talk to the two South Africans. Nellis was impressed, especially since there were no shared experiences to stoke a conversation. Even at that late stage Mobutu asked them in a quiet, dignified voice what they needed. When they told him what the problems were with the Hinds, he said that everything would be delivered the next day. He confided, too, that he was expecting several arms shipments from Libya. His manner reflected confidence, recalls Nellis.

The relief flights were part of a done deal, Mobutu told them. Therefore, there was no reason to doubt the man, Nellis recalls, although at that late stage, he would have liked to believe just about anything. Mobutu did warn the crew not to return to Kinshasa, and promised that if he had to leave, he’d take them with him. With that he shook hands and moved on.

A short while later they heard that their old friend General Mahele, by then appointed Commander of the Army and Minister of Defence, had been shot by one of Mobutu’s sons, an army colonel. The story was that Mahele had intended to defect to Kabila, or at least that was what a Kinshasa radio bulletin suggested. Perhaps he had, it was an excellent option, although the South Africans doubted it. Everybody was aware that Mahele was professional to his fingertips and perhaps he had been perceived a threat to members of the Mobutu family who were still in Kinshasa. The turncoat general had been ‘dealt with’, Kinshasa Radio crowed shortly afterwards and Nellis thought it was a great pity. Mahele was the only real soldier he’d met during his six-month stint in the country.

Unknown to the South Africans, Mauritz Le Roux at that moment was in the air in a chartered Lear heading towards Gbadolite. He’d told his wife that he intended to pull the two men out, even though he believed he might be too late. When he arrived at Brazzaville, he was not only denied fuel but arrested and his plane was impounded. Having been allowed to refuel the following morning, Le Roux and his flight crew were warned that if they ever returned, they would be jailed. They had no option but to head back to South Africa.

That evening, taking stock of what had suddenly become a critical issue, the three pilots worked out something of a contingency plan should they be left on their own or if Kabila’s army should suddenly arrive. Nellis recalled:

Obviously, we could not get away, although we thought that morning might offer a few more options. Because of our air force training, Juba and I were thoroughly conversant with the essentials of escape and evasion, but we realized it was not the sort of thing to do after dark, certainly not in a heavily forested environment secreting a multitude of threats. In contrast, JJ was all for leaving Gbadolite immediately, but in the end we prevailed.

We were staying in Baramoto’s country house in Gbadolite. A couple of hours after sunset, one of Baramoto’s female servants, who had been friendly to us, poked her head around the door and warned us that we were in the gravest danger. They knew we were at the house, she said, and it was only a matter of time before some of the troops, who by now had mutinied, would come looking for the mercenaires. We settled on the unlikely story that we were all Air Zaire pilots who were stranded there, but it was obvious that we’d already been spotted tinkering with the gunships and the other aircraft.

At about two in the morning, the same night that legions of mosquitoes were devouring Le Roux in the one of Africa’s filthiest jails, Nellis was awakened by the sound of a passenger aircraft gunning its engines. He didn’t have to be told that Mobutu and his entourage were fleeing. A couple of hours later, the thumps of heavy explosions and continuing small arms fire reached the house. The noise came from the edge of town and seemed to intensify as a dismal grey dawn approached.

The two South Africans grabbed their clothes and went outside. The first hint of light had barely begun to appear over the jungle when strings of tracers arched across the sky. There were troops shooting everywhere, seemingly not at any specific target, but in all directions at once. It was impossible to tell whether it was a rebel attack or FAZ troops on the rampage. When they checked the guards at the compound gates, they discovered that they too had disappeared, as had all the Russians.

By now JJ had joined them outside and there they stood, the last three white men in a region almost 1,000km from the nearest civilization, in a country that was coming apart at the seams. Nellis recalls:

There wasn’t an officer in sight. The only troops we saw were on the rampage, many of them drunk and firing their weapons at anything that moved, their own people included. Some were as aggressive as hell, furious at having been abandoned by their leaders, others on liquor and drugs were just going berserk. All we knew was that we had to get our butts out of there, but how to do so? So we got our heads together.

The tiny group had very few options left open to them. At first they believed that they had a remote chance of getting to the remaining Mi-24 at the airfield. While the gunship wasn’t altogether airworthy, Juba said that it had enough fuel to get them into the Central African Republic. The only alternative would be to make for the border on foot. The first idea was discarded when firing picked up again, as this time there was some heavy automatic stuff coming from the direction of the airport. Clearly, had they gone that way it would have been obvious to everybody what they were trying to do and they would almost certainly have been shot.

Having been in those parts before, Nellis knew that the closest border post was at Mobayi-Mbongo, about 60km away. However, that was along a road that would have been packed with Zairean refugees, as well as government soldiers, who were also fleeing Kabila’s people.

The army had mutinied, and already there were reports of soldiers going berserk. Some of the mutineers, including a few who had already discarded their uniforms, had come by the house earlier that day and most were already high. While not hostile towards the mercenaries, they certainly were not their usual smiling selves. If the shooting continued, Nellis realized that things could only get worse.

There was one other possibility, JJ suggested. He was aware of a bush track that led straight north from Gbadolite to the frontier. He’d spotted it in the past when he’d circled the area prior to landing. Although there was no border post at the end of it, the route could be their salvation because it headed in a straight line for the river. The Central African Republic (CAR) lay just beyond.

They made their decision immediately. Meanwhile, Nellis used his satellite phone to call home and tell Zelda of their plans and JJ spoke to friends in Paris. His contacts there said they would advise the Ministry of Defence about their predicament. Also, he was assured that French Army units in the CAR would be watching for them. As it was, in anticipation of a full-scale rebellion in Zaire, France had already deployed troops along the CAR’s north bank of the Congo. At this point, some Zairean soldiers who had stayed behind came into the house, forced open the general’s cellar, and began the party in earnest. More soldiers arrived with a truck shortly afterwards and began loading furniture, drapes, TVs, kitchenware and mattresses. One of them even ripped a bidet from the bathroom floor and carried it outside on his head.

One of the women in the general’s compound then came forwards and said that she was worried for the safety of the three whites. She told them that the word had gone out on the local radio for the army to be on the lookout for three white mercenaries who had infiltrated Gbadolite and suggested that they take refuge in her shack. It was well away from the main house and at least they’d be safe there until the main body of soldiers left.

Also, she promised to divert the attention of anybody who came looking for them. They were in serious danger, she warned, words that were echoed by a priest who arrived shortly afterwards. They would be dead within hours if they didn’t get away, he said

Nellis’ flight from Zaire into the CAR with Juba and JJ, all of it on foot except for the final leg, which was undertaken in a leaking dugout canoe, lasted two days. Along the way they were beaten, spat upon, robbed, shot at and pistol-whipped. They hadn’t even got to the far side of town before they were grabbed by some troops and told that they should prepare themselves for execution. Even today Nellis is not certain why it didn’t happen because ‘the bastards seemed pretty set on it’. Hardly a religious man, he admits to having prayed more in those 48 hours than in all the previous years of his life.

Initially, the woman who had befriended the men instructed her son to guide them out of the town, and they started their escape. Although the firing in the town had calmed down a little, there were groups of soldiers, hyped up on marijuana and alcohol, walking around. Nellis said:

Then they saw us and, guns pointed at our torsos, they stopped and interrogated us. Systematically, they stole any articles of value they found while doing the search: cash, watches, cameras, everything they fancied. That was basically it, as we progressed from one group of thuggish troops to another. They even forced us to remove our clothes and left the others in their underpants. I don’t wear jockeys, so I was allowed to keep my trousers. Fortunately, JJ was able to talk to them in French and calm them down. However, he ended up losing $11,000 and I had $3,000 taken from me, while Juba lost his last $1,000.

Then we ran into a bunch of troops who were totally out of control. After some argument, they instructed JJ to leave and told Juba and me to walk down the road and keep our arms high above our heads. After about 20 paces, they shouted for us to stop and then told us to turn around. Once we were facing them, three of them opened fire with their AK-47s. Fortunately, they were so high on drugs and booze, the rounds weren’t accurate and went over our heads or hit the ground in front of us.

Juba took some shrapnel and fragments of stone in his legs and face. A couple of women who’d been watching this impromptu firing squad with some amusement started shouting at the soldiers, which distracted their attention. I said to Juba, ‘Run’, and we bolted off between some houses on the edge of the road. The guide—the son of the woman who had taken us in tow when we left Baramoto’s house—led us to a building where we met up with JJ and some of the general’s soldiers who hadn’t taken part in the looting.

Our troubles weren’t yet over. Although Baramoto’s soldiers were friendly, we didn’t trust them so we slept in an outhouse, ready to run at the first sign of danger. That night we could hear plenty of firing from drunken troops, and vehicles driving around town with the occupants calling for ‘mercenaires blancs’ to surrender. Fat chance of that happening!

We eventually reached the border between Zaire and the Central African Republic, which was demarcated by the Oubangui River. The only way to cross was by pirogue, and we managed to find an old man who owned one and was prepared to take us to a police post in the neighbouring state, some way down the river. He demanded cash as payment, but as we had none he initially refused to take us.

However, with hostile troops following, he immediately agreed to let us board his boat and when he saw them approach he powered up the motor. Within minutes he’d put distance between us and those drunken louts.

How the three men ultimately managed to escape from Zaire remains a mystery to Nellis. The odds were so heavily stacked against them that they’d all written off the possibility of ever seeing their families again.

After a couple of hours on the river, the men reached a police post in the Central African Republic where local police took them in and gave them food and a place to sleep. Nellis recalls:

As I mentioned earlier, before we’d left the house in Gbadolite, JJ had managed to contact one of his friends in the French security services who, in turn, had managed to inform the French authorities in CAR of our probable arrival. The police at the post were expecting us, so for the first time in a couple of days we were able to relax.

The following morning, we were uplifted by a French Army Puma helicopter and flown to Bangui, where we were confined to the French Army Barracks while our story was pieced together. JJ was flown out of Bangui to France that same evening, while we stayed with the French military for another two days before Mauritz made arrangements to fly us to Brazzaville, the Congolese capital.

Once the French security authorities had established that the two South Africans were who they said they were, the men were looked after quite well.

They were actually very friendly towards us, but we weren’t allowed out of the building in which we were billeted. Two days later, we were put on a flight to Brazzaville, where we were secreted in what I can best describe as ‘a safe hotel’, while Mauritz arranged for us to be flown back to South Africa. Our time in Brazzaville was quite traumatic because the individual appointed by Mauritz to handle our affairs during the stay kept on telling us that Kabila’s people were searching for us. He warned us that we shouldn’t leave the hotel.

We stayed put for three days, each night waiting for someone to barge through the door and kill us. It didn’t help our state of mind that some of the people living there with us were actually refugees from Mobutu’s Zaire, and sympathetic towards Kabila. It was an immense relief when we were finally taken to Brazzaville Airport and able to board a plane to South Africa.