Commandant Henrik Kruger lowered his binoculars. Nothing. No secondary explosions or any other signs that the
artillery fire had had any real effect. The Cubans were too well dug in.
From all appearances, this latest barrage had done nothing more than tear up a few more acres of worthless Namibian soil.
He sighed and turned away, half-walking, half-sliding down the ridge toward his command bunker. Clusters of weary, bedraggled men clambered upright from around small camp stoves as he passed by, some clutching mugs of fresh brewed tea, others half-empty mess tins.
Kruger forced a smile onto his face as he acknowledged their soft-voiced greetings. It wouldn’t do for the battalion to see its leader looking discouraged. Three weeks of hard marching, hard fighting, heavy casualties, and now this endless, wearing stalemate had ground the 20th
Cape Rifles down.
They still attacked with as much courage and expertise as ever, but without the boundless self-confidence and easy assurance of certain victory that had once characterized South Africa’s army. Too many of the best noncoms and junior officers were gone-dead or lying maimed in military hospitals. Those who survived were bone tired. Their rare moments of rest were disturbed by the disconcerting rumors flowing north out of South Africa. Rumors of defeats and crippling losses near Walvis
Bay. Of student riots and police shootings. Of a guerrilla war spreading like wildfire through Natal Province. Of a strained economy beginning to unravel.
Kruger ground his teeth together. Goddamn those idiots Vorster, de Wet, and all their mewling lap dogs In less than three months, they’d managed to drown the country in a sea of troubles-foreign war, civil insurrection, and economic chaos. What disaster would be next?
Scowling, he pushed through the bunker’s blackout curtain into a low-roofed room dindy lit by battery-powered lamps. Several officers and
NCOs filled the small space to capacity. All were working steadily-updating situation maps and logs to reflect the results of the day’s fighting and reports from other parts of the widely scattered
Namibian front. He paused to scan their handiwork.
“Wommandant?”
Kruger swung toward the voice. It belonged to Capt. Pieter Meiring, his bearded, bespectacled operations officer.
“Brigade called while you were up on the ridge, sir. The brigadier would like to see you as soon as possible.” Meiring’s tone was flat, drained by fatigue of any emotion.
Kruger bit back a savage oath. Blast it. It was a sixty kilometer trip to
Rehoboth. What the hell did the man want that couldn’t be discussed over the radio or field phone?
He looked at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock.
“Any word from Major
Forbes?”
“No, Kommandant.
Another irritation. He’d sent his secondin-command back to Rehoboth that morning on a mission to straighten out the battalion’s steadily worsening supply situation. Mortar rounds, rifle ammo, and petrol weren’t coming forward fast enough or in large enough quantities. So he’d told Forbes to go back and kick a little logistical ass. Men could fight for a time without adequate sleep, but they certainly couldn’t fight without bullets or fuel for their vehicles.
Kruger shook his head disgustedly. One more problem piled on his already overloaded platter. He looked up at Meiring.
“All right, Pieter. Get my
Ratel ready to go. I’ll bring Forbes with me and try to get back as soon as I can. Plan for an orders group at… ” He paused, estimating travel times and Brigadier Strydom’s well-known penchant for long winded shoptalk.
“Set it for oh one hundred hours. That should be late enough.
“
Meiring sketched a salute and hurried away.
Kruger turned to check the situation map again and absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers.
“Andries!”
“Sir?” His orderly materialized out of the crowd.
“Bring me my razor and a bowl of hot water.” He smiled.
“I don’t want to shock our rear-echelon warriors, do I? They shouldn’t think we let a few minor problems like bullets and bombs interfere with our grooming.”
It was a feeble attempt, but it worked. Laughter rumbled through the bunker. Most South African staff officers were
veterans of combat in Angola and Namibia, but there were still enough spit-and-polish desk soldiers among their ranks for the old slanders to be funny.
Kruger chuckled with them, glad his men could still find something to laugh about.
82nd MECHANIZED BRIGADE HO, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA
Rehoboth lay nestled among hills marking the southern edge of the Auas
Mountains. The town was home to a conservative, intensely religious, mixed-race group who’d fled north from Cape Town through the Namib more than two centuries before. Their plain, old-fashioned houses were a testament both to their faith and to their poverty. But the darkness and silence behind each window reflected a dusk-to-dawn curfew imposed by
South Africa’s army.
Outside the town, small herds of cattle and brown, black, and gray karakul sheep wandered over widely scattered grazing lands, slowly eating their way closer to slaughter or shearing. Several cows looked up from their rhythmic chewing, momentarily made curious by the sound of an engine growling past along the highway. Dim blackout headlamps briefly outlined them against the hillside and then swept away as the Ratel APC headed south toward a vast, new tent city on the outskirts of Rehoboth.
The cows lowed mournfully to one another for a few seconds before stooping again to the dry grass close at hoof.
The 82nd Mechanized Brigade’s tents, vehicle parks, supply dumps, and maintenance workshops sprawled over more than a hundred acres. Patrolling armored cars protected the brigade perimeter against ground attack, while a Cactus SAM battery and light flak guns offered coverage against Cuban air raids. Enough light leaked out through tent flaps or seams to show that many men were still wide-awake.
All lights were on at the large, peaked tent serving as Brigade headquarters.
Commandant Kruger clambered out his Ratel’s side hatch and stood looking up into the star-filled night sky. He breathed in and out a few times, clearing the sweat-sour stench of the APC’s cramped troop compartment out of his nostrils. He wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out what
Brigadier Strydom had up his perfectly tailored sleeve.
Kruger’s respect for his immediate superior had precipitously declined over the last three weeks. Strydorn had shown himself all too eager to tell Pretoria what it wanted to hear -and not what needed to be said.
He’d also demonstrated a fondness for issuing meaningless and contradictory orders in the midst of battle. In the kommandant’s view, his brigade commander should be up at Bergland seeing the situation for himself-not sitting sixty kilometers behind the front, cloistered with his toadying staff.
The cool, crisp breeze shifted slightly, bringing with it a new smell.
A sickly sweet odor that he recognized instantly. The smell of death and rotting corpses. Kruger frowned at the unpleasant aroma. There’d been no resistance here at Rehoboth, so why the smell?
He turned, looking for explanations, and found them dangling from a gallows erected beside the headquarters tent.
My God. Six bodies swung to and fro from long, creaking ropes rocked gently by the wind. None were in uniform. None were white. And two appeared to be women. Kruger swallowed hard against the bitter-tasting bile surging up from his stomach. What kind of madness was at work here?