this...where we’re going ...all that time,sir?”
I relented and ploughed through another explanation of Camp-One. “It’s the safest place in the world, Brook,” I concluded. “Probably also the dullest. But you won’t be bored, I promise you. And the place is not what you’re thinking. The last time I saw Camp-One it housed two hundred men in ten portacabins. Two of them with air-conditioning. It had latrines, a dispensary, a cookhouse, and even a parade ground. It’ll be pretty much overgrown now, but three days after we get there you’ll think you were back in Portsmouth.”
“Chatham, sir,” he corrected me, “And thanks for the explanation...” He glared up at the dark nothingness. “Truth told, this place gives me the willies. I thought I’d seen the worst of Africa over in Bogbonga. Now I’m not so sure. The trees there are kid’s stuff compared to these.” He again shot a glance upward. “I joke not, sir...Fair gives me the willies.”
I shrugged and tossed my empty can into the back of the jeep. “Well, if it eases your load any, you’re not alone. How long have you been in Africa - discounting the official stint?”
“Four years, sir. Off and on. Mostly over in Uganda, plus a bit down in Namib...” He looked at his feet. “You know I was DD’d from the Marines, don’t you, sir.” He seemed embarrassed by it. I thought about reminding him that he was not alone in that, either.
“Augarde told me.”
He nodded glumly. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. This is a good life. Been good to me, at any rate. But I regret the DD. I really do. Stupid, I was. In line for a staff posting, too. Pure bloody stupid!”
I said nothing. Personal confessions of that kind had no place in a mercenary outfit.
“All for fifty quid,” Brook went on bitterly, “Fifty lousy quid!”
This was no good. I was beginning to feel like a Father Confessor instead of a mercenary leader. “Brook,” I said, putting some starch in my voice, “This is neither the time nor the place. Forget all that crap. It’s past history.” The Bjorans and the Augardes of this world I understood all too well. The Brooks made me feel uneasy. I added a firm, “Let’s get moving!”
Eight hours later we saw the sun for the first time since leaving the Giri Rapids. It was a setting sun; a great blast of fire in the western sky. And morale lifted noticeably; excessively in the case of the Simbas, who took up some obscure chant I had never heard before, as they marched through the shoulder-high elephant grass - a feature of the landscape bordering the real swamps west of the Zaire River. The chant had only a single stanza, its vocabulary nonsensical to my understanding of the language, and each stanza was punctuated by an arm being flung in the air as the heads turned, tongues poked out, to glance over the shoulder. The meaning was clear: Rain forest! We survived you!
SIX
“The word is,” said Jan Bluthen, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray, “that the Americans are now more than superficially interested.”
The three men; Bluthen, Jean-Paul Winterhoek, and Bluthen’s assistant station commander, a man called Con Benoit, were sitting at one of the patio tables of Casa Bianca. The night was unusually calm and balmy with no clouds to create humidity. Also, it was that changeable time of year when the use of air-conditioners was questionable by day, as was the use of heaters by night; any deficiency in comfort being made up by either the addition or the subtraction of an item of clothing. Winterhoek, more at home with the climate far to the south, wore jacket and tie, whilst Bluthen and Benoit preferred open necked shirtsleeves. The time stood at 9-30, and two of the servants could be heard clearing the table in the dining room, their voices subdued, but the clattering of the dishes noisy by comparison. It was a balance, Bluthen mused, having just returned from a telephone conversation with an American
I relented and ploughed through another explanation of Camp-One. “It’s the safest place in the world, Brook,” I concluded. “Probably also the dullest. But you won’t be bored, I promise you. And the place is not what you’re thinking. The last time I saw Camp-One it housed two hundred men in ten portacabins. Two of them with air-conditioning. It had latrines, a dispensary, a cookhouse, and even a parade ground. It’ll be pretty much overgrown now, but three days after we get there you’ll think you were back in Portsmouth.”
“Chatham, sir,” he corrected me, “And thanks for the explanation...” He glared up at the dark nothingness. “Truth told, this place gives me the willies. I thought I’d seen the worst of Africa over in Bogbonga. Now I’m not so sure. The trees there are kid’s stuff compared to these.” He again shot a glance upward. “I joke not, sir...Fair gives me the willies.”
I shrugged and tossed my empty can into the back of the jeep. “Well, if it eases your load any, you’re not alone. How long have you been in Africa - discounting the official stint?”
“Four years, sir. Off and on. Mostly over in Uganda, plus a bit down in Namib...” He looked at his feet. “You know I was DD’d from the Marines, don’t you, sir.” He seemed embarrassed by it. I thought about reminding him that he was not alone in that, either.
“Augarde told me.”
He nodded glumly. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. This is a good life. Been good to me, at any rate. But I regret the DD. I really do. Stupid, I was. In line for a staff posting, too. Pure bloody stupid!”
I said nothing. Personal confessions of that kind had no place in a mercenary outfit.
“All for fifty quid,” Brook went on bitterly, “Fifty lousy quid!”
This was no good. I was beginning to feel like a Father Confessor instead of a mercenary leader. “Brook,” I said, putting some starch in my voice, “This is neither the time nor the place. Forget all that crap. It’s past history.” The Bjorans and the Augardes of this world I understood all too well. The Brooks made me feel uneasy. I added a firm, “Let’s get moving!”
Eight hours later we saw the sun for the first time since leaving the Giri Rapids. It was a setting sun; a great blast of fire in the western sky. And morale lifted noticeably; excessively in the case of the Simbas, who took up some obscure chant I had never heard before, as they marched through the shoulder-high elephant grass - a feature of the landscape bordering the real swamps west of the Zaire River. The chant had only a single stanza, its vocabulary nonsensical to my understanding of the language, and each stanza was punctuated by an arm being flung in the air as the heads turned, tongues poked out, to glance over the shoulder. The meaning was clear: Rain forest! We survived you!
SIX
“The word is,” said Jan Bluthen, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray, “that the Americans are now more than superficially interested.”
The three men; Bluthen, Jean-Paul Winterhoek, and Bluthen’s assistant station commander, a man called Con Benoit, were sitting at one of the patio tables of Casa Bianca. The night was unusually calm and balmy with no clouds to create humidity. Also, it was that changeable time of year when the use of air-conditioners was questionable by day, as was the use of heaters by night; any deficiency in comfort being made up by either the addition or the subtraction of an item of clothing. Winterhoek, more at home with the climate far to the south, wore jacket and tie, whilst Bluthen and Benoit preferred open necked shirtsleeves. The time stood at 9-30, and two of the servants could be heard clearing the table in the dining room, their voices subdued, but the clattering of the dishes noisy by comparison. It was a balance, Bluthen mused, having just returned from a telephone conversation with an American
Similar Books
