Dead at Daybreak

them to me – you, one of the great untouchables from years gone by?”

“I’m not going to steal them, Orlando. I’m going to get them back for the widow of the deceased.”

“She’s no widow. They weren’t married.”

“You know a lot.”

Shrug of the shoulders. “I read the papers.”

“The money belongs to her.”

“And to you?”

“You know me better than that.”

“True.”

“She can’t do anything with the dollars. We’ll have to convert them into rand.”

Orlando Arendse tapped his reading glasses, which hung on a chain round his neck, with an expensive fountain pen. “But what’s in it for you, Van Heerden?”

“I’m being paid.”

“PI fee? It’s peanuts. As it should be. I want to know what’s in it for you.”

He ignored that. “I’m looking for soldiers, Orlando. They threatened my mother. I’m looking for someone to protect her.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Threatened?”

“Yes. Said he’d burn her with a blowtorch. Kill her.”

“It can’t be. She’s a national treasure.”

“What do you know about my mother, Orlando?”

Orlando smiled, like a patient parent with a naughty child. “You think I’m trash, Van Heerden. You think I’m a Cape Flats gangsta without style but good enough for a favor here and there. Well, let me tell you, just for the record, there are two of your mother’s originals on the walls of my house. My real house. Paid cash, I wish to add, at an exhibition in Constantia. Every time I look at them it touches me, Van Heerden, it shows me there’s another side to life. I don’t know your mother. But I know her soul and it’s beautiful.” And then, as though annoyed at himself. “How many soldiers?”

“How many do I need?”

Orlando thought. “You want her protected at her house?”

“Yes.”

“Two should do it.”

He nodded. “That’ll be fine.”

“For your ma, only the best. But it doesn’t come for free.”

“I can’t pay you. That’s why I’m offering you the dollar transaction.”

“Suddenly become a player, Van Heerden?”

“I no longer have the Force behind me, Orlando.”

“Too true.”

“Will you help?”

Orlando closed his eyes, the clicking of the fountain pen against the reading glasses continuing, opened his eyes. “I will.”

“And I’m looking for weapons. Firepower.”

Orlando looked at him in disbelief.

“You?”

“Yes. Me.”

“Heaven help us. I’d better throw in an instructor on the deal.” His soldiers laughing at their table, loudly and mockingly.

¦

He sat at his mother’s kitchen table, the women in the living room, Hope not there yet. He read the letters in chronological order, the unsensational story of an Afrikaans boy brimful of patriotism who was going to serve his country. Rupert de Jager, called up to the First Infantry Battalion in Bloemfontein, grateful for the familiar city, the short distance home, surprised by the mix of people in the army, the city slickers, the farm boys, the graduates, all together now, all equal, all cannon fodder. Taking pleasure in his physical achievements, believing in his chances for the Recces.

Selection at Dukuduku, the hell of testing physical limits, the euphoria of success, naive writing style, conversations with the father he obviously idolized, then, systematically, among long, sometimes boring descriptions of activities and weaponry and ideas for the farm, with the curiosity of a country-bred boy about origins and natures, the names of brothers in oppression.

“Hofstetter is a joker, Pa. He comes from Makwassie…”

“And then they allowed us to sleep…We were very tired but then Speckle took out his guitar. His real name is Michael Venter. He’s very short, Pa, and he has a birthmark on his neck. So they call him Speckle. He comes from Humansdorp. His father is a panel beater. He wrote a song about his town. It’s quite sad…”

“Olivier says no one can spell his name. They write it with an ‘S’ but it’s spelled Charel, because he’s named after a Middle Ages king. He’s as mad as a hatter and never stops talking but I think he’ll make it. He’s as strong as an ox.”

Van Heerden made notes as he read, a column of names that became longer and longer, realized not all would be applicable. Some were only mentioned once; others popped up time and time again in the descriptions. He made an extra column with their names, from one base to another, diving course at Langebaan, parachutes in Bloemfontein, explosives at First Reconnaissance Command in Durban, nine months of learning, suffering, and growth and then, a full-fledged Recce in South West Africa.

“And everyone here is being redeployed. Only Speckle and I are left of the old group. Our squad sergeant is Bushy Schlebusch and they say he’s completely bush crazy because he’s been in Angola twice. His eyes are crazy, Pa, but I think he’s a good soldier. He swears better than anyone else…”

He looked at the date. Early in ’76. He read faster, knew he was getting warm, De Jager and Venter and Schlebusch and five others, supply line to Unita in Angola. He made a new column for the squad. His eyes searched the written lines, looking for more Schlebusch, found very little, frustration, because De Jager’s letters were sometimes vague and wandering, paragraph after paragraph of descriptions of the landscape and politics and bush-war tactics and propaganda about the efficacy of the Recces. Casual references to the Thirty-second Battalion, but the squad’s main task was to keep supply lines open between Rundu and somewhere in Angola, to ensure supplies – “I’m not allowed to write much about it, Pa. I’ll tell you about it when I get home” – with occasional skirmishes here and there.

“Last night Sarge Bushy almost drilled Rodney Verster to death because he didn’t have his rifle’s safety catch on…”

“Gerry de Beer’s father farms with angora goats near Somerset East. He says we don’t know what drought really is but their market prices are far more stable.”

“Clinton Manley can barely speak Afrikaans. He’s Catholic, Pa, but he’s just like us and a good guy. He’s thin and he doesn’t know about giving up and he shoots better than any of us, even if he is a city guy from Rondebosch.”

Eight names eventually, on a list with added detail:

1. Sergeant Bushy Schlebusch: Durban? Natal! Surfer.

2. Rodney “Red” Verster: Randburg. Son of a dentist.

3. Gerry de Beer: Somerset East. Father an angora goat farmer.

4. Clinton Manley: Rondebosch. Western Province Schools rugby.

5. Michael “Speckle” Venter: Humansdorp. Father owns a panel-beating firm.

6. Cobus Janse van Rensburg: Pretoria.??????

7. James/ Jamie “Porra” Vergottini. Father owns a fish-and-chip shop in Bellville.

8. Rupert de Jager.

There were three letters left when Hope came back.