“You cunt, you stupid bastard,” Olderton said again. “The others will be back to find out what happened.”
I said nothing. We waited.
During the period in which Isobel left us, Sally and I were in a state of continual fear and disorientation. I think it was because this was the first manifestation in personal terms of the real crisis: the breakdown of all aspects of life we had known before the start of the fighting. I knew Sally would not see it in this way; like all children her grief stemmed mainly from personal considerations.
Isobel’s absence induced in me some unexpected reactions. In the first place, I experienced quite distinct pangs of sexual jealousy. In the time we had been married, I knew that Isobel had had both the opportunity and the motivation to take a lover. Yet at no time had I suspected her of doing so. With the present uncertainty, however, I found my thoughts turning to her often.
Secondly, for all the conflict we had endured, I found I missed her company, negative though I had often felt it to be.
Both Isobel and I had been aware of the future, of what would have happened to us when Sally grew up and left us. In practice, our marriage would have ended at that time, though in fact it had never started.
Alone with Sally in the countryside it felt as if the predictable course of our life had ended abruptly, that from this point nothing more could be planned, that life had ended, that the future was the past.
An hour passed, during which Lateef and the others joined us. The night was quiet, with only the faint flicker of light from the wood to show that for a few minutes the war had been conducted around us.
I found myself in an ambivalent position. Though I detected an aura of grudging respect over the shooting down of the helicopter, Lateef and one or two others stated unequivocally that it had been an unintelligent action. Fear of reprisals was always great, and had the other gunships learned of my action at the time, it was likely that they would have attacked the village.
Now that the moment of action, and the subsequent period of greatest danger, had passed, I was able to think objectively about what I had done.
In the first place, I was convinced that the pilots of the gunships had been either Afrims or their sympathizers. And while it was generally conceded that, regardless of racial or nationalistic prejudices, participating Afrims were the one common enemy, in my particular case the firing of the rifle had represented to me a gesture of my individual reaction to the abduction of the women. In this I still felt I differed from the other men, though it was arguable that as I possessed the only rifle I was the only one placed to make such a gesture. In any event, I had derived a curious pleasure from the incident, as it had signalled my first positive participation in the war. From here I had committed myself.
There was some discussion over our next move. I was tired and would have been pleased to get some sleep. But the others were debating whether to visit the wrecked helicopter or to trek across to the wood and examine whatever it was that had been attacked by the Afrims.
I said: “I’m against either. Let’s get some sleep, then move before dawn.”
“No, we can’t risk sleeping here,” said Lateef. “It’s too dangerous. We’ve got to move, but we need barter for food. We’ll have to take what we can from the helicopter, then get as far away as possible.”
It was suggested by a man called Collins that there might be more of value in the wood, and several of the men agreed with him. Anything that was considered a worthy target by the military forces represented to us a potential source of exchangeable commodities. In the end it was agreed that we would break with our normal policy, and separate. Lateef, myself and two others would approach the wrecked helicopter; Collins and Olderton would take the rest of the men over to the wood. Whichever group finished first was to join the other.
We returned to the camp at the other end of the village, repacked our gear, and separated as planned.
The helicopter had crashed in a field behind the burnt-out house. There had been no explosion when it hit the ground, nor had it caught fire. In that respect at least it would be safe to approach it. The condition of whatever crew there had been aboard was the main hazard. If they had been killed in the crash, from our point of view all would be well. On the other hand, if any of them were still alive we could be in an extremely precarious position.
We said nothing as we moved towards it. When we reached the edge of the field we could see the shape of the wreck, like a huge smashed insect. There appeared to be no movement, but we watched for several minutes in case.
Then Lateef muttered: “Come on,” and we crept forward. I had my rifle ready, but still doubted privately whether I would have the guts to fire it again. Lateef’s use of me as an armed assistant reminded me uncomfortably of the incident at the barricade.
The last thirty or forty yards we moved on our stomachs, crawling forward slowly, prepared for anything. As we neared the wreck we realized that if anybody were still inside he would not be in a condition-to present a threat to us. The main structure had collapsed and one of the vanes had bitten into the cockpit.
We reached the wreck unchallenged, and stood up.
We walked round it cautiously, trying to see if there were anything that we could liberate from the wreckage. It was difficult to tell in the dark.
I said to Lateef: “There’s nothing here for us. If it were daylight —”
As soon as I spoke we heard a movement inside and we backed away at once, crouching warily in the grass. A man’s voice came from inside, speaking breathlessly and haltingly.
“What’s he saying?” one of the other men said.
We listened again, but could not understand. Then I recognized the language as Swahili — though I had no knowledge of the language, the sound of it was familiar to me as most radio broadcasts that I had heard in the last few months had been duplicated in Swahili. It is an indistinct language, not easy on European ears.
None of us needed to speak the language to know instinctively what the man was saying. He was trapped and in pain.
Lateef took out his torch and shone it on the wreckage, keeping the beam low in an attempt to prevent from seeing it anyone else who may be in the vicinity.
For a moment we were unable to make out coherent shapes, though on one patch of relatively undamaged metal we made out an instruction printed in the Cyrillic alphabet. We moved in closer and Lateef shone the torch inside. After a moment we saw a Negro lying in the broken metal. His face, which was towards us, was wet with blood. He said something again and Lateef shut off the beam.
“We’ll have to leave it,” he said. “We can’t get inside.”
“But what about the man?” I said.
“I don’t know. There’s not much we can do.”
“Can’t we try to get him out?”
Lateef switched on his torch again and flashed it over the wreck. Where the man was lying was almost totally surrounded by large pieces of broken cockpit and fuselage. It would take heavy lifting-gear to move.
“Not a hope,” said Lateef.
“We can’t just leave him.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to.” Lateef returned the torch to his pocket. “Come on, we can’t stay here. We’re too exposed.”
I said: “Lateef, we’ve got to do something for that man!”
He turned to me and came and stood very close.
“Listen, Whitman,” he said. “You can see there’s nothing we can do. If you don’t like blood, you shouldn’t have shot the fucking thing down. O.K.?”