The brigadier considered this question. ‘Those are some of the aims, perhaps, but for the most part each side simply wants to kill as many of its enemies as possible. Sometimes I think it is the only employment open to men around here. War gives them a job, a gun and a life. Well, at least for a while.’
Watching the pitched battles going on between fighters who thought nothing of decimating a line of attackers, slicing off the hands of prisoners or decapitating their enemies with enormous knives, Jimfish was struck by the impeccable logic of the brigadier’s reply.
‘Then at the end of the day, will the side with most men still standing be the winner?’
The brigadier shook his head. ‘At the end of the day no one will be left standing. What we are seeing is not so much war as a long-drawn-out national suicide. That’s why I’m delighted to see you. We think very highly of the fighting skill of South Africans. I’ve seen how good they are in neighbouring Sierra Leone, which is in the throes of a civil war every bit as bloody as ours. Working there is an outfit called Superior Solutions, and it’s full of South Africans. They’re in great demand in many countries north of Limpopo, where their professionalism and their willingness to work for whoever pays them best is widely welcomed. Their slogan is: “To African problems we bring Superior Solutions.” It’s the latest form of out-sourcing. They supply men and materiel and do the fighting; in return, we pay them in diamonds. It’s the perfect marriage.’
Jimfish struggled to come to terms with what he heard. ‘I thought everyone hated the idea of working with South Africans?’
The brigadier shrugged. ‘At one time, yes. Of course, a lot of collaboration with the regime down south still went on. But it was always hidden. Nowadays it’s open season and any strong man worth his secret bank account, who feels a little uneasy about his rival or is in trouble with his people, is ready to cut a deal with the old enemy.’
Jimfish was nonplussed. ‘What can have happened to bring about this great change?’
Now it was the brigadier who looked surprised. ‘Where on earth have you been that you haven’t heard the news?’
‘In Zaire,’ Jimfish and Lunamiel told him.
‘Ah well, now I understand. That hellhole is as mad and as bad and as far from the real world as ever it was when the Belgians ran it — if not further,’ said the brigadier. ‘Let me give you news from home. After twenty-seven years behind bars Nelson Mandela has been freed and everyone knows he will be the next President of South Africa. Instead of being polecats and pariahs, South Africans are fast becoming hot property. Their armaments, muscle, money and business acumen — personified in the military advisors of Superior Solutions — find willing buyers up and down the continent. In fact, if you would consider, my dear Jimfish, joining in this civil war of ours, you would be invaluable. I would promote you to colonel in my own regiment and pay you in diamonds as large as sugar lumps.’
But here he was interrupted. A small boy with a very large gun was waving to him and the brigadier told them he’d have to finish the conversation later.
‘There is a fourth force fighting in this civil war. My own. Now I must run. My troops are waiting.’
CHAPTER 18
With that, Brigadier Washington Truman Roosevelt slipped away, and when he appeared again at the head of his troops he was a changed man. He had taken off all his clothes except for his laced-up leather boots, and he was leading a squadron of children, most of them boys, who could not have been more than twelve years old. They were armed with AK-47s or rocket-propelled grenades, or manned machine guns mounted on pickup trucks, and were wailing and shrieking like demented banshees as they advanced fearlessly on the enemy.
But it was their fancy dress that was as frightening as their firepower. These children might have been the drunken guests at an insane wedding party or a ghoulish college graduation or Halloween frolic: some wore bridal gowns, others tiaras, wedding veils, mortar boards or they sported purple and pink fright wigs. But there was nothing theatrical about their weapons or their fighting abilities. These boys played real warfare like a deadly game that leaked blood, cheering and whooping at every kill, whipped into a frenzy that gave them, in their tatty wedding finery and garish fright wigs, the look of an army of maddened, murderous midgets.
Jimfish and Lunamiel were still shaking when, some time later, the brigadier returned to the safety of the line of burnt-out trucks. He was once again dressed in his military uniform and could not have been further from the naked commander in laced-up leather boots leading his children into battle. He seemed rather amused by the confusion he had caused in the minds of the South Africans.
‘My brigade, as you see, is made up of children, and young minds need something to focus on. I lead my boys on what we call magical military manoeuvres. I use special charms in action, the secret of which I am not at liberty to share with you, but these protect me from enemy fire.’
‘Surely it’s not a good thing to teach children to kill?’ Jimfish asked him.
The brigadier thought this over. ‘Children need a role in life. They want direction and training. I provide those things. Where would these kids find a job if I didn’t take them in my Small Boys Unit? Where would they learn the skills needed to get ahead in Liberia today, except by following Brigadier Bare-Butt, as they like to call me? I teach them to handle a gun and to kill. Essential skills. And career opportunities. Promising fighters can become cooks to the officers, or drivers and bodyguards. And we never discriminate on grounds of sex. Some of the best fighters in my Small Boys Unit are actually girls. It’s the wigs that confuse the issue. The more talented girls have an advantage over the boys because they become companions to the big brass in my brigade.’
‘Why do you take off your clothes?’ Jimfish asked Brigadier Bare-Butt.
‘Tactics. In my role as magical leader I mix the military with the mystical. And if you want to turn enemy bullets to water, then not just any old magic will do. It takes a very powerful sacrifice.’
‘Sacrifice?’ Lunamiel trembled.
‘Before a battle we choose one of the boys,’ said the brigadier, ‘cut him into pieces and dine on his heart. All those lucky enough to belong to the Small Boys Unit know the ropes. We choose for the sacrifice a boy who has not been fighting well. It strengthens morale in the unit and concentrates the minds of the others.’
Jimfish thought this over. He recalled in Matabeland how the North Korean-trained troops of General Jesus slaughtered anyone they assumed were dissidents, as well as the old, the ill and the young. He remembered how remote the dead looked; how so much noise and the heat of the killing gave in return such pale, cold, still results. But he had never seen children trained to kill adults. How he missed, all over again, the counsel of Soviet Malala, who would have been able to explain to him what to make of this murderous rage, when kids as young as ten or twelve, carrying automatic rifles taller than themselves, led by a stark-naked man, slaughtered all who opposed them. Was this another example of the rage that stoked the fires of the lumpenproletariat? And which side of history were these hopped-up young killers on?
He was so confused that he blurted out a question to Brigadier Bare-Butt, which he quickly regretted.
‘Surely, sir, you don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo about magic charms turning bullets to water?’
Brigadier Bare-Butt bristled. ‘Mumbo-jumbo? It’s clear to me that you understand very little of the traditions of Liberia. Ever since the Americans arrived in our country we’ve been a highly religious people and faith is our lodestar. Without this firm spiritual foundation my boys would not be the terrifyingly effective fighters they are. My sacred duty is to fortify their belief in the arms they use and in the magic charms that protect me. So I also prescribe cocaine before a battle, with marijuana to follow, by way of rest and relaxation.’