Synopsis
The incessant potholes sent paralyzing jabs along my spine and head—all but rendering futile any attempts at rest. We have been out for almost fourteen hours. We’ve reformed ourselves three times already, steadying our formidable column of Olifants, Elands, and Légionnaires—we were on safari.
The sheer excitement of battle coursing in my veins alleviated all exhaustion along the eternal road. It has only just begun, my friend. Fortify your will. I began itching around my neck. The same French Légion songs were playing again for the twentieth time.
Reading my agitation, Bjorn changed the music to Warduna. It began with the stringing of a harp-like instrument, it was ancient, melodic, smooth as butter yet ringing with my heart. My spirit fell into an eminent peace, a vitalization. . .The rhythm of the ocean, the eternal tide, under the sun of war. I took a deep breath, then stuck my head out of the window as the vocals began, an eerie, longing lament for the fallen of the impending battle. The salt, ash, and sand filled my lungs with a coarse determination.
We were fighting a war of absolution. There would be no prisoners taken on either side. We were fighting not for ideology nor money, but the land itself—blood will determine our future.
This is a great blessing to die well, is to be granted immortality. For alas, I seek conquest and when the day emerges, a Warrior’s Death. There is no greater aspiration for men. In my heart a fiery will erases all of the tears of the past.
I had now abandoned the goosebumps as we distanced ourselves from the smoldering shithole that once was proud enough to be called Pretoria. The broken roads east were quiet. Nothing but rolling hills and burnt plains as far as the eye could see. It was nothing more than ashes of a nation.
You own only what you’re willing to kill and die for.
There were still scattered civilians, some remnants of white militias, running around frantically—the final holdouts of a long war. Like birds they dissipated into the sky as we flushed them from the yellow rolling hills of the countryside.
I tightened my eyes and clenched my fingers around my steel. Cold, pure, ecstatic violence—our mind must be a complete singularity. Freed from strain, loose, natural. . . our instinct.
It has been our collective foolishness, a vain morality, a naive belief, an ideological error that we could bring civilization here. We have built upon quicksand.
“Lieutenant, look, a lot of militiamen in the road, do we slow down?” Bjorn yelled to the back of the P4. I leaned forward in my seat looking around. Most of the vegetation was gone—treaded over—and there were narrow dipping ditches on either side of the road.
“Slow down, I want to talk to these people.” They were easy pickings from enemy drones or patrols—they should know better.
At first I sensed six, but as the steps continued I knew there were at least 15 men surrounding us. Three wrapping each at 4 and 8. I turned my head slightly to the left.
“Keep weapons low, do not aggravate.”
“Hallo, where is your Kapitän? I need a sitrep on the fields of …”
Two in the front pointed their rifles at the truck, while two more went to point at Bjorn. This is bulletproof plexiglass. Even a 7.62 won’t break it.
The entire convoy tilted to a halt. Did they really want to mess with us? But we let them keep their sense of security.
“Vhere you men from!” The Afrikaner demanded with deep suspicion.
“Bring me your Kapitän now. I do not have time for idle chat.” My curt voice demanded.
Easily enough, he appeared from the ditch side. He was a ragged-looking bastard with rips in his khaki field shirt, and blood all over his holed cargo pants. His face was a smoldering mess, unshaven for years, and misleadingly human as he harbored the rest of his soul in his hollow yellow eyes. The green beret on his head was a mockery to his true reality. Nonetheless, he was a soldier, he was a type well known. I could feel it in his bloody gaze.
“Kapidän Jan Luds. Predon Pumas.” I got a weak salute and a glimpse into extreme exhaustion.
In the corner of my eyes. I saw a man being carried, with his head wrapped in white bandaging, followed by some others, sporting blood in other chest and legs. Wounded bunch.
“At ease Luts. Were your men the ones who sent the distress signal?”
He paused to think for a second then shook his head.
“We don’d know who dhee hell yous are. But dhere are some men in the valley of death. Nod doo far ahead. Dey’re making a lassd-sdand in the drenches around an old blockhouse—eidher too wounded or dired do keep marching.”
“Very well. Do your men have transport? You’re a forty minute drive back to Pretoria.”
“We’re nawd going to Predoria! My men are blootet and wountet and cannod go on for much longer, we will march away undil we die.”
“March to your death? The enemy is not defeated and the city will not be lost! We need every rifle with us, now, your strongest men, we can organize transportation, we are gathering more forces at—” I bit down on my teeth to keep my own nerves from rattling. We have no air support, no reinforcements, the enemy strength is unknown. . . asides from fanatical confessions about their God-king.
“Ya dond ged id. Nodhing ledf for us here. . . bud deadh.”
I squinted at him. Was he abandoning all he fought for? Is this not everything to him? There is no excuse for desertion? Perhaps even the men with the most to fight for, break spirit, break faith, it is only a matter of time.
“Deserters are to be court-martialed and shot. Partisans don’t even deserve the trial.”
He knew the rules well. He had carried out the punishment himself. As did his body that was too tired to escape my disgust.
“Son, you don’d know what it’s like. While you been dwiddlin’ you dwats in the Cape, we been drying to do everydhing to sdop dhis horde. We have hat success, but nod againsd dhese ones, dhese basdarts, dhey’re possesset, by temonic fury, dhey are mat, fearlessly raving for war, craving budchery and the delicacy of flesh. . . We can’d beat em.”
I acknowledged nothing. There was an aura of fear, my men, these men, the land itself reeked of it. People are willing to move and leave everything to escape. The sense of something existential is upon them. They know this is no western army. They will burn, pillage, murder—but with ferocity and organization.
“I know enough. That surrender is a terrible dishonor. I am still marching, and this land is not even my own. Yet I fight the menace that plagues this land. You disgrace yourself and all those who have died here. Run coward, you are of no use to me or my army.”
I unbuckled my pistol, the dismay in my heart was incredible.
“Lieutenant we have to keep moving. These are just militia men, not worth our time, especially not worth a firefight. No more killing our brothers, even if they’re mistaken.”
I snarled at the deserter then turned my face to Bjorn.
“Get off the fucking road. . . I’ll see you all in hell.”
The engine geared up once more as we began to storm past the country. An hour later, the monotonous hum began to breakup the landscape into familiarity. Yet, I could never manage to break my sight. I always stared out the window as a kid, not in wanderlust, but in this gradual vigilance, a sort of perception, noticing these little subtleties, always understanding the constant flux of everything. The birds, the water, the trees, everyday they changed. . .
What seemed monotonous, what sent my mind into a sort of an automatic state, still continued to pick apart reality. Constantly. Always working. Never a break. Never a surrender. Restless. Steadfast.
What is honor, but sacrifice for the greater self, for what is worth living for. This sort of sincerity to the self, to one’s honor, is what is revealing of what we are. When the will is fused with body and mind, we achieve a state of greatness of soul that resembles the great heroes of the past, the legends, those that have transcended the self and the banality of the human condition. Dancing with gods, a proper ordering of rank of this world.
You must mentally prepare.
If you conduct yourself with honor, you must realize that you don’t want to die, but you are willing to if called upon by necessity. Everyone that wishes to go on this route to greatness, must be willing to die, only through this self-transcendence can you achieve mastery of the art. Duels were conducted with metal and wooden swords. But both parties knew the chance of death or permanent injury was certain. But they still entered the ring. Because it is the only way to test your honor and temper your skill.
What is this? Who the fuck are you talking to. Is your rant to ease your mind? Some sort of poor attempt at glorification of your inevitable death?
You will fight hard, it will be futile. You either die, or burn out, exhausted, withered. I am afraid. I don’t want to die. And all the lies and righteous talk only distract that anxiety for a few seconds. I don’t know what to expect.
Ssssshhhh.
Is this our road to hell? Upon the entrance of the western side of the valley, we stopped. There was a mass horde of refugees blocking the entire road alongside a dozen buses. My heart raced, not in expectation of battle, but in fear of their fate. They didn’t look like militants.
“Slow down Bjorn.”
“What the hell do we do?” Bjorn asked. Upon approach, the crowd gravitated as a singular mass towards us, quickly surrounding our car. I rushed to open the door before they would block us in.
“Radio it in, I’m going to get out and see what is going on.” I said as I picked up Brunnhilde and walked out towards them. The crowd was mostly white, chinese, with a few other coloreds, but they all collectively greeted us. A woman kneeled, as the crowd gathered around me, I felt alert, but not in danger.
“Please, please! You have to save us.”
“My angel! My angel!” Another women screamed as she kissed my boots. I lifted her up with my spare hand and brushed her away. Various men all began to talk to me all at once.
“One at a time, one at a time, stop!” I tried to silence them.
“Please, my children, take my children!” A woman pressed both of her newborns to my chest, I held both with one arm as I slung my rifle over my shoulder lest they hit the floor. I looked back, and Bjorn was out of the car, alongside most of the other legionnaires in the other cars, they were rushing to try and calm the crowd.
“Popular man.” Bjorn remarked, only to have his own crowd consume him. There were so many people, it was nigh suffocating.
Eventually, Napoleon arrived and climbed onto an eland, shooting his pistol into the air.
“ATTENTION! ATTENTION!” The crowd slowly quieted down as there was a new man of power, they quickly gravitated towards him, leaving Bjorn and I behind.
“We are the the 2nd Infantry Company, Third Foreign Infantry Regiment of the French Foreign Legion. Who is in command here?”
An older Afrikaner was pushed forward.
“That would be me.”
“And who are you?” Napoleon replied with bitterness in his mouth.
“Zande van Blek.” He nodded his head.
“Why are your people blocking the road? We are on a mission, and you are in our way.”
“Apologies ser, but our buses have run out of fuel, and the women and children cannot walk much longer; let alone fast enough to escape from the Nomadu tribe. Please can you help us?”As he asked, various women and children and other men rushed towards Napoleon, hands out in alms, begging for him to save them.
The little Capitaine looked at me with big eyes and a confused expression. Did he not know what to do? He was red and silent.
“Enough, enough. Back up. I must discuss with my men. Clear the people from the road still.”
Zande nodded and yelled at the crowd to assemble out of the way. Napoleon went up to me.
“We must signal Gaultier now. This was his operation. He will give the order.” My heart sank. Gaultier doesn’t give a fuck about civilians. I grabbed Napoleon by the hand.
“This is your operation Napoleon. You are the commanding officer on the ground here. There is no escaping from conscience. You choose what we do, whether we push forward with the recon and help the SANDF, or we stop to help these people.”
Zande approached us, bowing deeply to Napoleon.
“Please sir. There are 5 hundred of us, all we ask for is some spare fuel. Help us get west of Pretoria.” I looked at the ground, feeling chills. Were we just prolonging the inevitable? If they can get to Rustenberg at least, they could make it. Remember Sammy.
Napoleon looked down at his boots silently.
“LT, SANDF on the radio again!” Patrick yelled out to us. We both sprung at the stimulus.
Napoleon and I ran over. The man was screaming over the microphone.
“We’re—being overrun—there’s too fucking many of them! Nuke us! Stop them. Please!—”
“Where are you? Repeat. Where are you soldier?”
We were met with empty static.
“How far were the men supposed to be?” I asked Napoleon.
“Probably fourteen kilometers further northeast. Other side of the valley.”
“If the horde is on foot, it will only take a few hours at most to reach us. Less time if they are mechanized.”
“Whatever we decide on, we must do so now.”
Napoleon was deep in contemplation.
“Patrick, how much spare fuel do we have. If we give them some fuel, we can escort them back to Pretoria and get reinforcements.”
“We only have half a tank or less in most of our vehicles. The two olifants are running low as well.” Patrick added.
“We can try to stop the terrs, but if we fail all of these people will be overrun, alongside Pretoria, before we can get more to defend it.” Samo joined in, not looking amused at the situation.
“Lot of fucking civs. We could use them as bait to amb—”
“Silence Mongol!” Napoleon dismissed. Samo bit down on his tongue. Walking over to me, whispering.
“You know damn fucking well they’re gonna die here, and wherever they go. Look at them, sickly old men, women, children, they’re weak. We have to slow down the enemy, these civs right here, slow us down—they are our enemy as well.” I shook my head at him, refusing eye contact, he dug his hand into my shoulder now.
“We both know, neither of us want to die for them. If they can not fight, they do not deserve to live. We need every ounce of fuel, so we can carry out the recon mission, kill a bunch of keffirs and then get the fuck out of there. We will win this war if we stop them—we lose it if we die here for nothing.” My heart was chilled.
“And if we win the war. We save a thousand times more than we do today.” I finished.
Samo gave a devilish grin.
“See. Always knew you were the smart one. You should be the lieutenant, not this arab-looking mutt.” I bit down, shoving Samo away from me. I was about to chime in, when Napoleon scratched his chin, he lifted his head up in announcement.
“Patrick, give them as much fuel as we can, leave us with just enough to reach the valley. We will fight on foot and retreat by it if we must.”
“Légionnaires, prepare yourself for battle. Look on, on these people you save, remember their faces, all of your sacrifices, all of your lives will be redeemed for your sins. Now move. Vite vite. No-delay.” We all saluted and ran to our vehicles.
This will be our final road.