He knew he had to get the leaders out of the crowd, for violence was only seconds away. Some of the black youths in front of the crowd were already shaking the mesh and heaving against it.
With his men behind him he marched to the gate and pointed at Raleigh Tabaka. 'You,' he shouted. 'I want to speak to you.' He reached through the square opening beside the gate lock and seized the front of Raleigh's shirt.
q want you out of there,' he snarle& and Raleigh pulled back against his grip, jostling the men behind him.
Amelia screamed and clawed at Lothar's wrist. 'Leave him! You must not hurt him.' The young men around them saw what was happening and hurled themselves against the wire.
'deeY they cried, that long, deep, drawn-out war cry that no Nguni warrior can resist. It made their blood smoke with the fighting madness, and it was taken up as others echoed them. 'dee/' The section of the crowd behind where Raleigh struggled with Lothar De La Rey heaved forward, throwing themselves upon the fence, humming the war cry, and the fence buckled and began to . topple.
'Get back!' Lothar shouted at his men, but the back ranks of the crowd surged forward to see what was happening in front - and the fence went.
It came crashing over, and though Lothar jumped back, one of the metal posts hit him a glancing blow and he was knocked to his knees. The crowd was no longer contained, and the ranks behind pushed those in front so they came bursting into the yard, trampling over Lothar as he struggled to get to his feet.
From one side a brick came sailing out of the crowd in a high parabok It struck the windscreen of one of the parked trucks, and shattered At in a shower of diamond-bright chips.
The women were screaming, and falling under the feet of those who were borne forward by the pressure from behind, and men were fighting to get back behind the wire as others thrust them forward, uttering that murderous war cry 'Jee. that brought on the madness.
Lothar was sprawmd under the rushing tide, struggling to regain his feet, while a hail of stones and bricks came over the wire. Lothar rolled to his feet, and only because he was a superb athlete he kept his balance as the rush of frenzied bodies carried him backwards.
There was a loud and jarring sound close behind him that Lothar did not at first recognize. It sounded as though a steel rod had been drawn rapidly across a sheet of corrugated iron. Then he heard the other terrible sounds, the multiple impact of bullets into living flesh, like ripe mdons bursting open from blows with a heavy club, and he shouted, 'No! Oh good Christ, no!' But the sten guns rushed and tore the air with a sound like sheets of silk being ripped through, drowning out his despairing protest, and he wanted to shout again, 'Cease fire!' but his throat had closed and he was suffocating with horror and terror.
He made another strenuous effort to give the order, and his throat strained to enunciate the words, but no sound came and his hands moved without his conscious Volition, lifting the sten gun from his side, jerking back the cocking handle to feed a round into the breech.
In front of him the crowd was breaking and turning, the pressure of human bodies against him was relieved, so he could mount the machine pistol to waist height.
He tried to stop himself, but it was all a nightmare over which he had no control, the weapon in his hands shuddered and buzzed like a chain saw. In a few fleeting seconds the magazine of thirty rounds was empty, but Lothar had traversed the sten gun like a reaper swinging a scythe, and now the bloody harvest lay before him in the dust twitching and kicking and moaning.
Only then did he realize fully what he had done, and his voice returned.
'Cease fire!' he screamed and struck out at the men around him to reinforce the order. 'Cease fire! Stop it! Stop it!' Some of the younger recruits were reloading to fire again, and he ran amongst them striking out with the empty sten to prevent them.
A man on the roof of one of the troop carriers lifted his weapon and fired another burst and Lothar leapt on to the cab and knocked up the barrel so that the last spray of bullets went high into the dusty air.
From his vantage point on the cab of the truck, Lothar looked out over the sagging fence across the open ground where the dead and the wounded lay, and his spirit quailed.
Oh, God forgive me. What have we done?' he choked. 'Oh, what have we done?' In the middle of the morning Michael Courtney took a chance, for there seemed to be a lull in the activity around the police station. It was, of course, difficult to make out exactly what was happening. He could see only the backs of the rear ranks of the crowd, and over their heads the top of the wire fence and the iron roof of the station.
However, the situation seemed for the moment to be quiet and apart from a little desultory singing the crowd was passive and patient.
He jumped into the Morris and drove back down the avenue to the primary school. The buildings were deserted, and without any qualms he tried the door which was marked 'Headmaster' and it was unlocked. There was a telephone on the cheap deal desk. He got through to the Mail offices on the first try, and Leon Herbstein was in his office.
q've got a story,' Michael said, and read out his copy. When he finished he told Leon, 'If I were you, I'd send a staff photographer down here. There is a good chance of some dramatic pictures.' 'Give me the directions how to find you.' Leon acquiesced immediately, and Michael drove back to the police station just as another convoy of police reinforcements pushed through the crowd and entered the station gates.
The morning wore on and Michael ran out of cigarettes, a minor tragedy. He was also hot and thirsty and wondered what it was like standing in that mob out there, hour after hour.
He could sense the mood of the crowd changing. They were no longer cheerful and expectant. There was a sense of frustration, of having been cheated and duped for Sobukwe had not arrived, nor had the white police made the promised announcement to abolish the dompas.
The singing started again, but in a harsh and aggressive tone. There were scuffles and disturbances in the crowd, and over their heads Michael saw the armed police take up positions on the cabs of the trucks parked beyond the wire.
The staffphotographer from the Mail arrived, a young black journali(t who was able to enter the township without a permit. He parked his small brown Humber beside the Morris and Michael cadge a cigarette from him and
