Bruce looked away.
One horn of the crescent moon showed above the trees; it had a gauzy halo about it.
Bruce lit a cigarette and behind him those gruesome noises ceased.
“Are you okay, boss?”
“Yes, I’m fine. How about you, Ruffy?”
“I got me a terrible thirst now. Hope nobody trod on my pack.” About four minutes from the first shot to the last, Bruce guessed. That’s the way of war, seven hours of waiting and boredom, then four minutes of frantic endeavour. Not only of war either, he thought. The whole of life is like that.
Then he felt the trembling in his thighs and the first spasm of
nausea as the reaction started.
“What’s happening?” A shout floated across from the laager. Bruce recognized Hendry’s voice. “Is everything all right?”
“We’ve beaten them off,” Bruce shouted back. “Everything under control. You can go to sleep again,” And now I have got to sit down quickly, he told
himself.
Except for the tattoos upon his cheeks and forehead the dead
Baluba’s features were little different from those of the Barnbala and
Bakuha men who made up the bulk of Bruce’s command.
Bruce played the flashlight over the corpse. The arms and legs were thin but stringy with muscle, and the belly bulged out from years of malnutrition. It was an ugly body, gnarled and crabbed. With distaste Bruce moved the light back to the features. The bone of the skull formed harsh angular planes beneath the skin, the nose was flattened and the thick lips had about them a repellent brutality.
They were drawn back slightly to reveal the teeth which had been filed to sharp points like those of a shark.
“This is the last one, boss. I’ll toss him overboard.” Ruffy spoke in the darkness beside Bruce.
“Good.” Ruffy heaved and grunted, the corpse splashed below them and Ruffy wiped his hands on the guard rail, then came to sit beside
Bruce.
“Goddam apes.” Ruffy’s voice was full of the bitter tribal antagonism of Africa. “When we get shot of these U.N. people there’ll be a bit of sorting out to do. They’ve got a few things to learn, these bloody Baluba.” And so it goes, thought Bruce, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant, black and white, Bambala and
Baluba.
He checked the time, another two hours to dawn. His nervous reaction from physical violence had abated now; the hand that held the cigarette no longer trembled.
“They won’t come again,” said Ruffy. “You can get some sleep now if you want. I’ll keep an eye open, boss.”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait with you.” His nerves had not settled down enough for sleep.
“How’s it for a beer?”
“Thanks.” Bruce sipped the beer and stared out at the watch fires round the laager. They had burned down to puddles of red ash but Bruce knew that Ruffy was right. The Baluba would not attack again that night.
“So how do you like freedom?”
“How’s that, boss?” The question puzzled Ruffy and he turned to Bruce questioningly.
all?
“How do you like it now the Belgians have gone?”
“It’s pretty good, I reckon.”
“And if Tshombe has to give in to the Central
Government?”
“Those mad Arabs!” snarled Ruffy. “All they want is our copper. They’re going to have to get up early in the morning to take
it. We’re in the saddle here.” The great jousting tournament of the
African continent.
“I’m in the saddle, try to unhorse me! As in all matters of survival it was not a question of ethics and political doctrine (except to the spectators in Whitehall, Moscow, Washington and Peking). There were big days coming, thought Bruce. My own country, when she blows, is going to make Algiers look like an old ladies-sewing circle.
The sun was up, throwing long shadows out into the clearing, and
Bruce stood beside the Ford and looked across the bridge at the
corrugated iron shelter on the far bank.
He relaxed for a second and let his mind run unhurriedly over his preparations for the crossing. Was there something left undone, some disposition which could make it more secure?
Hendry and a dozen men were in the shelter across the bridge, ready to meet any attack on that side.
Shermaine would take the Ford across first. Then the lorries would follow her. They would cross empty to minimize the danger of the bridge collapsing, or being weakened for the passage of the tanker.
After each lorry had crossed, Hendry would shuttle its load and passengers over in the shelter and deposit them under the safety of the canvas canopy.
The last lorry would go over fully loaded. That was regrettable but unavoidable.
Finally Bruce himself would drive the tanker across. Not as an act of heroism, although it was the most dangerous business of the morning, but because he would trust no one else to do it, not even
Ruffy. The five hundred gallons of fuel it contained was their safe-conduct home. Bruce had taken the precaution of filling all the gasoline tanks in the convoy in case of accidents, but they would need replenishing before they reached Msapa junction.
He looked down at Shermaine in the driver’s seat of the Ford.
“Keep it in low gear, take her over slowly but steadily.
Whatever else you do, don’t stop.” She nodded. She was composed and she smiled at him.
Bruce felt a stirring of pride as he looked at her, so small and lovely, but today she was doing man’s work. He went on. “As soon as you are over, I will send one of the trucks after you. Hendry will put six of his men into it and then come back for the others.”
“Oui, Monsieur Bonaparte.”
“You’ll pay for that tonight,” he threatened her. ““Now you go. Shermaine let out the clutch and the Ford bounced over rough ground to the road, accelerated smoothly out on to the bridge.
Bruce held his breath, but there was only a slight check and sway as it crossed the repaired section.
“Thank God for that.” Bruce let out his breath and watched while - the line drew up alongside the shelter.
Bruce shouted “Next!” colod was ready at the wheel of the first truck. The man smiled his cheerful chubby-faced smile, waved, and the truck rolled forward.
Watching anxiously as it went on to the bridge, Bruce saw the new timbers give perceptibly beneath the weight of the truck, and he heard them creak loudly in protest.
“Not so good,” he muttered.
“No-” agreed Ruffy. “Boss, why don’t you let someone else take the tanker over?”
“We’ve been over that already,” Bruce
answered him without turning his head. Across the river Hendry was transferring his men from the shelter to the back of the truck.
Then the shelter started its tedious way back towards them.
Bruce fretted impatiently during the four hours that it took to get four trucks across. The long business was the shuttling back and forth of the corrugated iron shelter, at least ten minutes for each trip.
Finally there was only the fifth truck and the tanker left on the north bank. Bruce started the engine of the tanker and put her into auxiliary low, then he blew a single blast on the horn. The driver of the truck ahead of him waved an acknowledgement and pulled forward.
The truck reached the bridge and went out into the middle. It was fully loaded, twenty men aboard. It came to the repaired section and
slowed down, almost stopping.
“Go on! Keep it going, damn you,” Bruce shouted in impotent anger. The fool of a driver was forgetting his orders. He crawled forward and the bridge gave alarmingly under the full weight, the high canopied roof rocked crazily, and even above the rumble of his own engine Bruce could hear the protesting groan of the bridge timbers.