19 With a Bullet (37 page)

He put down his huge knife and walked up to us, frowning, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. “Then the next day he caught the other one right here and smashed it against that wall and threw it over there and it lay there and cried while it died.” He demonstrated how the poor animal had been killed.

“He’s a fucking
poes
, this guy. Total cunt, everyone hates him. The cunt runs the camp with an iron fist and these infantry troops are fucking petrified of him. He stomps around here like he’s chief of the army or something. He had all us cooks go for PT with full kit because some of the glasses had stains on them, but it’s the shit water here that stains them.”

I felt murder in my veins. Without a shadow of a doubt, I knew I was going to kill this motherfucker.

“What’s his rank?” I asked, not that it mattered.

“He’s a staff sergeant, but he’s acting sergeant-major of the base.”

“Well, he’s a fucking dead sergeant-major!” I walked calmly out of the kitchen and stood outside. Kurt and the cook exchanged looks. I caught sight of an infantry troop walking past and called him over. He ran up nervously, almost coming to attention in front of me. I asked him where I could find his sergeant-major.

“He’s in the HQ. They’re having a debriefing with your officers.”

I asked him about the cats and he verified the story the cook had told. He relaxed when he saw where I was coming from.

“He’s a real mean bastard,” he ventured in Afrikaans.

“Tell your sergeant-fucking-major there is someone in his tent who wants to speak to him,” I said evenly.

He hesitated, not relishing the thought of having to face the man but when he realized he could play a part in this prick’s demise he smiled slightly and tried without much success to hide a twinkle his eyes. “Okay, okay … I’ll go and try and get him.” He shot off towards the HQ building at a brisk walk.

I walked casually into the sergeant-major’s tent which had been pointed out to me. It was close to the kitchens and I sat down on a high stool next to a table laden with an assortment of what looked like carburettors and takenapart radio sets. There was also a metre-long truck screwdriver with a big red handgrip about 20 centimetres long and a shaft thicker than my thumb. I sat looking out in the opposite direction towards the chopper pad. Through the tent flaps I watched the rest of the company laughing and heading to the showers in twos and threes.

“What are you going to do, Gungie?” Kurt finally asked in his low monotone. We had not spoken since I had sent the infantry troop off to look for the sergeant-major. Kurt sat on the other stool and faced the tent door, with a clear view of the small camp.

“I’m going to teach him a fucking lesson, Kurt. While we are out fighting and getting shot, this asshole is killing our pets. I’ll show him what a big man he is, killing two kittens.”

I felt cold and calm. It was a dangerous feeling. I had only felt it a few times in my life and had quickly learned to stay away from it at all costs. I would force myself to snap out of it immediately on the few occasions that I felt it rise because I knew it would surely destroy me. It was a feeling of following through with absolute destruction, without the slightest thought of any consequences. It was very dangerous but this time I had opened the door and had let it in. It now coldly and furiously rushed through my veins, overjoyed to have been allowed in for only the second time in my life.

I sat and coolly inspected the many pieces of dismantled equipment on the fold-out table, lifting one up to examine it.

“Here he comes, Gungie! Jesus, he looks like he’s about to take off and fly his arms are out so wide.”

I didn’t bother turning around and continued inspecting the piece of radio equipment in my hand, turning it around and peering at the dozens of little wires and tubes that were now exposed. It took him half a minute to strut across the tent square.

I felt detached from my body and casually watched Kurt’s chubby, deadpan face for a signal. As he lifted his eyebrow I put down the radio I was idly inspecting and turned around to face a short, mean-looking acting sergeant-major glaring at us as he entered the tent.

He was stocky and powerfully built. Kurt was not lying; he stood with his arms out like fucking Popeye the sailor man. He looked at both of us but composed himself quickly and glared at me as I stood up. He had the face of a pit bull with the square, jutting jaw of a fighter that he thrust out at me under a thick moustache drooping over his top lip. He had small, beady, dark eyes set deep in his head, with a nose that looked to have been broken a few times and small scars around his eyes that must have come from boxing. He glared at us with his little black eyes and was just about to open his mouth to roar at us when I turned to fully face him.

I got straight to the point. “Are you the guy that killed the cats?” I asked quietly, in English.

He stopped for a second, not sure what he had heard but he quickly got the message and emphatically snapped back in Afrikaans. “
Ja ... en wat daarvan
?”
¹⁹
He glared at me defiantly, his black pit bull eyes locked on mine, sparkling in anticipation.

The three weeks in the bush living on dry rat packs had made me skinny and light; at that very moment I actually felt as weak as a kitten. In a microsecond I realized that if I punched this man he would probably laugh at my weakness and then turn on me and fuck me up. He looked very powerful with his legs planted firmly on the ground and his arms puffed out wide, with the broad stripes of a staff sergeant clean and new on his sleeve. He glared at me. Nevertheless, as he finished his sentence, I threw a right-hand punch that came all the way from Angola and as fast as an RPG-7. It hit him square in the mouth. He fell back onto his haunches into the tent flaps. I remember being surprised that he went down so easily. I charged forward, blind with white rage and punched him three or four more times in his unprotected face as he struggled to get up. I was digging in my knuckles as I landed, and already I saw a flash of blood from his mouth. Suddenly I was as strong as a leopard and he as weak as a kitten and I wanted to see his blood run and feel his bones break under my boot. He fell forward onto his hands and knees and I slammed my knee as hard as I could into the side of his face, then grabbed hold of his head with my hand and slammed my knee into his face again and again and again. I felt my knee strike home and he collapsed to the ground in a foetal position, covering his face with his hands as he howled a muffled scream of genuine terror.

“You kill my cats, you motherfucker, I’ll kill you!” I roared as I stomped hard into his face with the heel of my boot. My senses lost, I looked around and snatched up the heavy metre-long screwdriver that was lying on the table and in an instant of madness held it high above my head like a dagger, preparing to run him through like the knights of old.

“Gungie, no!” Kurt shouted sharply.

I looked at Kurt’s shocked face for a split second. In one fluid movement I flipped the big screwdriver around in mid air and snatched the shaft, bringing the heavy handle crashing down on his back and shoulders as hard as I could, three or four times. He screamed, high-pitched like a girl, as he held his arms tightly over his face, still crouched in a foetal position. I tossed the club across the table and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and, for some reason, dragged him out of the tent like a sack of maize.

“You’re the main fucking guy, hey? ... Main fucking guy, killing my cats! Main fucking guy! Stomp on my cats, motherfucker! I’ll stomp on
you
!”

I dragged him several metres from of the tent as he shrieked like a banshee about to be bludgeoned to death. By now a crowd had come running and stood silent, watching mutely. I dumped him on the sand like a sack of shit, stood back and kicked him squarely in the face and felt the fingers that he held tightly against his face for protection, crack. A deadly flood of pure hate was rushing through me. I had lost control. I leaped up and with both feet in the air, landed squarely on his neck and shoulders. I wanted to feel him break. I did it again as he tried to cover his neck with his arms, howling, squealing.

“Jump on my cats, hey? ... I’ll fucking jump on you ... jump … on … you!” I shouted hoarsely, almost falling as I lost my balance on his head.

Suddenly, in a giddy blur, I came to my senses and stood back and glared down at the pathetic figure crumpled in the sand. He was lying in a tight foetal position, sobbing loudly. He had thick, sweet blood all over his face and hands and down his shirt. His staff sergeant’s stripes and the castle above them hung torn around his elbow, splattered with blood. Thick snot hung from his jaw that seemed to be at an odd angle. I caught a whiff of shit as he sobbed loudly in the silence that had suddenly fallen.

“Piece of shit ... big man that kills cats! Come on, let’s see how big you are now! Come on, let’s see! Stand up, fuckwit ... I see you’re not so big now, hey?”

I stood over him with my fists clenched like rocks, daring him to move, but he lay quiet, still curled up, sobbing. A pin could be heard dropping in the white sand as I turned around in disgust and walked towards my kit that was lying by the chopper pad.

A sea of shocked, and delighted, infantrymen parted, making way for me as though I was Moses. I strode mumbling that I should have given the motherfucker some more, to really teach him a lesson.

“Piece of shit …”

The group of about 20 troops stood gobsmacked, not believing what they had just witnessed. A seriously fucking pissed-off paratrooper with a beard, dressed in a torn-up uniform, had pulled their mean-ass company sergeant-major out of his tent by his hair and kicked the living shit out of him. The whiff of shit was still thick in the air to prove it.

All heads turned to watch me as I strode to my kit with deliberate steps. Still not a word was said. I turned my back on the scene and sat down on my kit bag. With very shaky hands I fumbled for my cigarettes, took one out, but was barely able to light it. I sat alone in the mountains of kit. No one dared come near me.

I smoked quickly, threw the butt down half-smoked and lit another one. My hands had started to shake violently and I suddenly felt exhausted. I felt as weak as a skinny kid, like I was about to faint. I took some slow, deep breaths and told myself to calm down and not worry. They couldn’t shoot me. I sat alone for four or five minutes, undisturbed, not once looking back at the scene behind me. I gazed over the sand walls of the camp and out across the open
chana
towards Angola and the thick bush beyond. A picture of the SWAPO cadre we had ambushed, propping himself up on his elbows, looking at me and calling for his mother as John the Fox blew his brains out came into my mind. The dying SWAPO from the ambush showing me a ‘fuck you’ sign with his fingers on his chest as he died. I then thought of the poor, white-haired old man we had shot and left to die. His leg was clean and bandaged. He was smiling up at me with a slow, morphine-induced smile, clutching weakly at my wrists, looking into my eyes, nodding and thanking me for saving his life.

“Korff!”

Captain Verwey, our company OC, yelled at the top of his voice as he walked across the parade ground towards the chopper pad where I sat.

“Do you think you’re the God of Owamboland, or what?”

I had never heard Captain Verwey shout before. He was usually a very quiet and reserved man. This might have been the only time anyone had ever heard him shout. I quickly got up and went to meet him halfway.

“What in the name of hell do you think you are doing? You can’t beat up a fucking sergeant-major from another unit, man! What’s wrong with you? Do you understand what you have done?”

I had no words and decided it was best to keep quiet.

He was angry and stood looking at me and the gawking troops with disbelief. He, too, seemed at a loss for words. He had had a deep frown which slowly grew into the hint of a smile and I thought I caught a flash of humour in his eyes as he surveyed the scene with all the infantry troops still milling around, talking among themselves in hushed tones. Even the Parabats who had now gathered were, for once, quiet.

Troops rapidly gave way as Captain Verwey and I calmly walked back across the parade ground to the small, whitewashed brick buildings of the HQ.

I stood at ease outside the HQ door with my legs apart and hands behind my back, staring straight ahead over the sand walls of the small camp and into the bush. I had gained control of the violent shaking that had overcome me but still shook my one knee continuously to conceal my tension. I stood like this for a couple of minutes as infantry troops walked by, gaping. One small troop walked hurriedly past and, satisfied that the coast was clear, flashed me a huge grin and a thumbs-up, and then quickly went back to deadpan as a short, fat, red-faced infantry major came barging out the HQ doors like a bull, almost tripping in his haste to get to me.

He rushed at me furiously, stopping only a few centimetres from my face. His round, red, boozy face was contorted with genuine rage. “You’re the troop who beats up sergeant-majors, eh? You want to try me? Eh? Eh? Why don’t you try me, you
soutpiel
!”

It crossed my mind that, seeing I was already so deep in the shit, perhaps I should just head-butt this stupid fucking idiot on the nose right now and get it over wit, but I decided to ignore him and stared straight ahead. He was about to try and provoke me further when our little Parabat staff sergeant, our acting company sergeant-major, Greyling, came in, elbowed the idiotic infantry major aside and took my arm. He led me away and made a show of holding my arm like I was a captive as we crossed the opposite way across the parade ground to the small camp
kas
, the jail. As we turned our backs and were a dozen paces from the group of rank that had come out the HQ to eyeball me, he looked straight ahead and gave a huge grin.

He did not turn to me but spoke out the side of his mouth. “Korff, what did you fuck up the sergeant-major for, hey? You can’t do that, man! Why did you do it? What happened?”