'I'll drive, Mike.'
'Okay.' Mike slid across the seat and Bruce stepped up into the cab. He
started the truck north down the Avenue du
Kasai.
'Sorry about that scene, Bruce.'
'No harm done.'
'I shouldn't have lost my temper like that.' Bruce did not answer, he
was looking at the deserted buildings on either side. Most of them had
been looted and all of them were pock-marked with shrapnel from the
mortar bursts. At intervals along the sidewalk were parked the burnt out
bodies of automobiles looking like the carapaces of long-dead beetles.
'I shouldn't have let him get through to me, and yet the truth hurts
like hell.' Bruce was silent but he trod down harder on the
accelerator and the truck picked up speed. I don't want to hear, he
thought, I am not your confessor - I just don't want to hear. He turned
into the Avenue I'Etoile, headed towards the zoo.
'He was right, he had me measured to the inch, persisted Mike.
'We've all got our troubles, otherwise we wouldn't be here.' And then,
to change Mike's mood, 'We few, we happy few. We band of brothers.' Mike
grinned and his face was suddenly boyish. 'At least we have the
distinction of following the second oldest profession - we, the
mercenaries. 'The oldest profession is better paid and much more fun,'
said Bruce and swung the truck into the driveway of a double-storeyed
residence, parked outside the front door and switched off the engine.
Not long ago the house had been the home of the chief accountant of
Union Mini&e du Haut, now it was the billet of V section, Special
Striker Force, commanded by Captain Bruce Curry.
Half a dozen of his black gendarmes were sitting on the low wall of the
verandah, and as Bruce came up the front steps they shouted the greeting
that had become traditional since the United Nations intervention.
'U. N. - Merde!'
'Ah!' Bruce grinned at them in the sense of companionship that had grown
up between them in the past months.
'The cream of the Army o Katanga I He offered his cigarettes around and
stood chatting idly for a few minutes before asking, 'Where's Sergeant
Major?' One of the gendarmes jerked a thumb at the glass doors that led
into the lounge and Bruce went through with Mike behind him.
Equipment was piled haphazardly on the expensive furniture, the stone
fireplace was half filled with empty bottles, a gendarme lay snoring on
the Persian carpet, one of the oil paintings on the wall had been ripped
by a bayonet and the frame hung askew, the imbuia-wood coffee table
tilted drunkenly towards its broken leg, and the whole lounge smelled of
men and cheap tobacco.
'Hello, Ruffy, said Bruce.
'Just in time, boss.' Sergeant Major Ruffararo grinned delightedly from
the armchair which he was overflowing.
'These goddam Arabs have run fresh out of folding stuff.' He gestured at
the gendarmes that crowded about the table in front of him.
'Arab' was Ruffy's word of censure or contempt, and bore no relation to
a man's nationality.
