Naturally, the whites lived in the center of town and ran the mines and businesses that kept the city alive. Their homes were mostly spacious, tree shaded, and expensive.
Many of the blacks in Potgietersrus were single men who lived in migrant-worker barracks adjacent to the mines themselves-one hundred men crammed into each long, one room building. They lived there while fulfilling year-long labor contracts. At the end of each year, they were free to visit families, wives, and children who’d been left behind in
South Africa’s tribal homelands-or even in Mozambique or Zimbabwe. They returned as soon as possible, though. The mines were usually the only work to be had.
Some lucky blacks, either mine workers or laborers elsewhere in town, managed to bring their families with them. They crowded into the same kind of squalid shantytown visible just outside every South African city.
Technically, blacks were not allowed to own land or even live near white-populated areas, but necessity drove them to settle wherever they could-existing as squatters for white convenience and at the government’s sufferance.
Applying the word township to Potgietersrus’s slum gave it a dignity it did not deserve. No water, no electricity, and no sewage system would ever serve the tin and wood shacks that were home to the bulk of the city’s labor force.
Potgietersrus was an important mining center-nickel, tin, copper, and platinum were all found in profitable quantities close by. The Cubans might say they were fighting to liberate their black brothers and end apartheid, but the mines would be their reward if they won. Capturing them would also immediately deny vital resources now flowing to Pretoria.
South Africa’s military mobilization had already reduced mine output by stripping away most white supervisors and craftsmen. Only a fraction of the explosives experts were black. Even fewer of the machinery operators were nonwhite. Black laborers were starting to fill those roles, but they had little training and even less guidance.
Much of the white population had fled Potgietersrus before the Cubans even reached the city’s outer defenses. Most blacks were still there. They had nowhere else to go. The mine workers were actually being held under guard in their barracks whenever they went off shift. Since so many were foreign workers, the Brandwag felt they were a security risk. Considering their treatment, that was probably right.
So mining operations continued, even with Cuban armor and infantry units less than thirty kilometers away. Huge trucks carried refined metals and other valuable ores south toward Pretoria. They moved without interference.
Vega had ordered his artillery and air commanders to avoid firing on the mines and smelters. Leaving them untouched would reduce the time needed to get them back into full swing once they were captured.
In any case, the Cubans had more than enough military targets for their artillery. Potgietersrus sat on the western slope of a rugged mountain more than two thousand meters high, and its defenders had been preparing a new defensive line for several days. There were no shortages of digging tools in a mining town.
The South African garrison contained several understrength infantry battalions, Air Force personnel who’d abandoned the base at Pietersburg, and men of the local commando-a sizable force, though one with little heavy equipment. Defeated farther north, they’d collected themselves in this town, all survivors of at least one battle and hasty withdrawal. This time, though, they were dug in on good ground. This time, they would hold.
HEADQUARTERS, POTGIETERSRUS DEFENSE FORCE
Brig. Piet Boerson had retired from the SADF years ago, but Vorster’s full mobilization had reactivated his commission and placed him in command-defending the town where he had lived for more than half his adult life. The tall, thin man’s face was craggy from a life of hard work. He hadn’t always sat behind a desk.
He’d been perfectly happy as a senior manager responsible for production in one of the area’s most successful copper mines. Now he fought to protect his home, his job, his way of life. Thank God, his wife and children were gone, though they’d only fled as far as her sister’s place in Pretoria. Well, if they didn’t stop the Cubans soon, there wouldn’t be anywhere that was safe.
Boerson stared at the map and sighed, taking another swig of lukewarm coffee. He should be grateful. Considering his country’s disastrous strategic situation, he’d been dealt a fairly strong hand. In the three days since the fall of Pietersburg, he and his men had fended off three separate Cuban assaults, and he was confident he could hold his ground for some time to come.
But he was also sure the Cubans would try again-and soon. Probably at dawn.
Emergency reinforcements, scraped together from God knew where, had arrived shortly after midnight. He snorted. Reinforcements. A battery of
World War II-vintage artillery pieces and two companies of boys barely old enough to carry rifles. Barely enough men to replace those lost during the previous day’s fighting. Still, he’d thrown them into the line. Even boys with rifles were useful.
So far, Boerson’s “composite” brigade had survived air attacks, artillery barrages, and commando raids. And he’d used the last twenty-four hours of comparative quiet to rest his men and bolster their defenses. They’d even managed to fig mining explosives as command-detonated land mines.
The brigadier leaned over his map, studying his defenses for what seemed like the thousandth time. Was there anything more he could do?
Emplaced in an arc facing north and west of the city, his infantry were dug in deep in the stony soil, grimy and tired. Minefields and barbed wire covered the easiest approaches to their lines. He’d deployed the brigade’s single battery of 6-5 155mm guns on a low hill close to his front lines. From there, their shells could reach almost all the way back to Pietersburg. His two remaining missile launchers, each with three
Cactus SAMs left, guarded the guns. The newly arrived
artillery battery, with British-manufactured 5.5-inch guns that were half the size and five times the age of his 155s, covered the highway itself.
Finally, Potgietersrus’s local commando, unreliable as line infantry, were acting as scouts and snipers. They knew the area, and Boerson hoped to use their local knowledge to his advantage.
Yes, they could hold, but not to protect those fools in Pretoria, Boerson thought. They got us into this mess, and if we can survive, those idiots will be the first ones against the wall-Vorster’s brown shirted Brandwag notwithstanding.
Boerson turned to look at the other officers in the room. Two commandants and a colonel, each commanding a battalion, sat discussing the details of troop employment and artillery allocation, while a Brandwag monitor listened to every word, as though one of them were going to stand up suddenly and shout, “Long live the ANC.”
Groote Kempe, the commandant of the local commando, sat quietly in a corner. His men didn’t have radios or any heavy weapons except for some old Lewis machine guns. Their role was simple. Snipe at the enemy for as long as possible, then fall back to the main line of resistance.
The distant rumble of artillery fire served as a constant backdrop to their discussion. Harassing fire had been failing for the past twenty-four hours-small salvos designed to pin the South Africans in their positions, inflict a few casualties, and keep them short on sleep.
The tempo of the Cuban barrage suddenly picked up shells seemed to be raining down at the rate of three or four a minute. At the sound, the
South African officers looked up from their maps and discussion.
Boerson checked his watch: 0527 hours. A little early, he thought, but the Cubans probably plan to give us one hell of a pasting before they attack. Wonderful.