Task Force Retriever: Out Of Angola

By Len Kloosman

Based on a rescue operation during the Angolan civil war in the deeply divided African continent in the 1970s, Task Force Retriever - Out of Angola explores love, war, the politics of hate, apartheid, international intrigue, the involvement of Cuba in African affairs and one man's sense of duty when his country is under threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781742843377

Book preview

Task Force Retriever

-

Out of Angola

Len Kloosman

TASK FORCE RETRIEVER - OUT OF ANGOLA

Copyright © 2012 Len Kloosman

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

Author: Len Kloosman

Edition: 1st

ISBN: 9781742843377 (pbk.)

Published by BookPal

www.bookpal.com.au

PO Box 3422

Sunnybank Hills LPO

QLD 4109

Acknowledgement

The late Brian Faull: friend, film-maker, writer, producer-director with ABC TV Channel One for his unstinting encouragement and advice.

My friends and acquaintances:

Koos and Bettie van der Watt, Michael and Hillary Sheriff

Ewart Stronach, Gregor Stronach, Terry Bebbington, Dr Peter Arnold and Maree Pullé who served (reluctantly or otherwise) as readers and error detectors

Contents

Prologue

HARRINGTON

CADIMA

OUT OF ANGOLA

Prologue

Angola’s colonial history began with the first Portuguese landing on the west coast of Africa in 1483. The Portuguese laid claim to the land as the first in a chain of colonies that would eventually stretch as far as the outer reaches of China. They also idealistically pursued the romantic dream of finding the legendary Prester John, generous Christian patriarch and king, said to rule over a mythical kingdom of riches and strange creatures somewhere in the Indies.

The initial annexation of Angola by the Portuguese asserted possession of the area as a full colony. The Portuguese knew that if they did not colonise the land, the British, Germans, French, Dutch, Belgians or Italians certainly would.

In many respects, the colonial history of Angola is similar to that of other colonies in Africa. Initially, the goal was to find, establish and maintain a sea route to the East with its spices and riches. It is for this reason that the first European colonies in Africa were situated along the coast. The landlocked countries were targeted as prizes only at a much later stage.

The explorers were the sea captains and navigators of the day, whose expeditions were financed by the reigning monarchs of the time. Through their work, a map of Africa emerged as countries struggled to overtake each other in their race to reach the East.

Land acquisition was often viewed as a source of assets to fund or assist further exploration. In this context, the West African coastline was an immediate, rich and unending source of slave labour. The exploitation of natural resources and agriculture followed at a later stage with the arrival of the first missionaries and settlers.

Missionaries served as the first teachers in the settlements and began ad hoc recording of the local languages in written form, even without the aid of the International Phonetic Alphabet which was not developed until later. The limited Christian teaching and civilisation brought by a small number of dedicated missionaries was only of minor importance. However, as a significant concession to the Roman Church, it was expected that the local church would gather as many convert souls through the written word of the Gospel.

Settlers were generally tradesmen, fortune seekers, adventurers and their families.

With settlement, came the need for parent countries to introduce some forms of local administration, funded by various locally imposed taxes. These local administrative bodies were initially modelled on existing homeland provinces or shires.

The Portuguese colonies were ruled by a royal appointee with near-absolute powers who was directly answerable to the monarch. Far from home, these officials viewed their posting as a prison term. It appeared their only solace was to make themselves as rich and as comfortable as possible in this primitive country by the simplest means available to them: bribery and corruption became a way of life.

The arrogance, oppressive rule and corruption of these and later, high-ranking officials served to alienate the indigenous people. Because of this, Angola’s history is scarred by a series of long wars against the Portuguese.

Between 1641 and 1648, the Dutch administered the colony, managing it as a caretaker government. They didn’t try to settle or control the land. Despite their experience and success as a colonial power, they were only too grateful to award control of the colony back to the Portuguese.

The Angolan slave trade continued almost till the end of the nineteenth century, and it seemed that Portugal’s system of colonial government was rooted in the past. Recorded history shows that the black people, as with many other African colonies, were regarded as second-class citizens – a status they were not allowed to forget.

In 1951, Angola was elevated from the status of a colony to that of an Overseas Province of Portugal under the old repressive Estado Novo* dictatorship of Antonio de Oliviera Salazar. Although the change in status and title may have appeared grandiose in the Angolan statute books, the conditions in the country remained unaltered.

Growing unrest and militancy amongst the natives of the country prompted the Portuguese Government to undertake a large-scale settlement program. The plan was doomed to failure from its very inception as the greater majority of immigrants were army conscripts fulfilling their compulsory National Service obligations. As such, these young men found themselves far from family and home in a strange, developing country much against their own will. They could not identify with the idea of Angola being a province and part of their homeland. They lacked national identity and pride. The few career soldiers stationed there were unable to arouse the morale needed to fight a succession of wars against the indigenous armies, which were becoming more sophisticated in terms of equipment and training. In the early 1970s, it was estimated that its wars in Africa (Angola and Mozambique) were costing Portugal as much as 40% of its annual revenue.

The black peoples of Angola were divided into three rival groups based on regional, tribal and partisan grounds. To the north were the National Front for the Liberation of Angola (FNLA) and the Popular Liberation Movement of Angola (MPLA). To the south was the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA). Each of the three factions had armed forces in the field, but none made any headway until the Carnation Revolution** in Lisbon on April 25, 1974.

The revolution started as a coup organised by military officers opposed to the regime, but was soon supported by a campaign of civil resistance. The near-bloodless coup – four deaths only, at the hands of the PIDE*** – sounded the death knell for the Portuguese Empire, leading to the fall of the Estado Novo and the eventual withdrawal of Portugal from its African colonies.

The new regime in Lisbon granted Angola full independence on November 11, 1975. In doing so, Portugal relinquished its colonial rights and obligations in almost criminal haste; there was no orderly handing over of power, nor was there any concern on the part of the Portuguese for the well-being of their former charges.

The withdrawal of thousands of army conscripts and the repatriation of several thousand white Portuguese citizens seemed to serve as the impetus to what would become the Angolan Civil War. With the Portuguese Army out of the way, both the MPLA and UNITA laid claim to the government of the newly independent state: the MPLA controlled the north of the country, and had the city of Luanda as its capital; UNITA controlled the south, and had Huambo as its capital. The Soviet Union and Cuba considered it in their interests to support the MPLA in the north. UNITA, on the other hand, had a strong pro-western bias and received its aid from South Africa and the United States of America. The FNLA, initially left in the middle, joined with the MPLA when it became apparent to them that the Soviets would only support one of the factions. So it was that the MPLA, with its overt backing of close to forty thousand Cuban troops, gained recognition as the official government. Their first leader and president was Agostinho Neto.

The land was polarised: the stage had been set for civil war. The war-torn country was destined to remain in a state of turmoil for many years to come.

********************

* Estado Novo – ‘New State’ authoritarian regime instituted in 1933.

** Carnation Revolution – no direct violence was used and citizens and soldiers carried red carnations, which were in season at that time of the year.

*** PIDE – Policia Internacional e de Defesa do Estados, essentially the Estado Novo’s political police who persecuted, imprisoned, tortured and often executed opponents of the regime

On February 22, 2002, Jonas Savimbi, the leader of UNITA, was killed in action fighting government troops. Without his leadership, UNITA gave up its armed wing and took on the role of the major opposition party. In its new capacity, UNITA signed a peace accord with the government on April 4, 2002, after 26 years of conflict. Thus, Africa’s longest-running war was formally brought to an end.

HARRINGTON

Chapter One

Harrington came to his senses in darkness. He found that he was spinning. He was also swinging back and forth. His arms dangled loosely past his head. It dawned on him slowly that he was hanging upside down by his right leg. His left leg was bent back uncomfortably at the knee and hip. He was aware that his spinning motion would slow to a halt for a moment or two before it started again in the opposite direction. For reasons which he could not fathom, he was still in his parachute harness.

Gradually, he recalled tying one end of a rope to his right ankle and the other to his kitbag. In the dark, he could not see where he was, nor could he see what was below him. He feared it to be a long drop. He tugged gently on the webbing of the chute’s harness and felt the weight of the collapsed canopy as it hung from him. He stretched out his arms and groped for something to grasp. There was nothing within his reach.

The spinning slowed gradually and finally ceased. He still swung back and forth like a pendulum as a chilly, strong up-draught tugged sporadically at the collapsed parachute canopy. He remained motionless as he allowed his head to clear before planning his way out of his predicament.

The faint sighing of the wind was all he could hear no matter how much he strained his ears. There was a growing ache in his right ankle, which carried his weight as well as the collapsed parachute. He felt as though he was being pulled slowly apart. A gnawing and growing pain bored into the small of his back.

He reached for the harness snap-buckle on his chest with both hands, took a deep breath and released it slowly. Gingerly, he wriggled out of the harness and let it fall away into the dark. It was a relief as the burden of the canopy and its lines fell free. The pain in the small of his back also eased slightly. He held his breath and listened. Moments later he heard a rustling sound as the chute and its harness landed on something below. The ground, he realised, was indeed a long way down.

Relieved of the burden of the chute, he craned his neck and looked up towards his right foot. He was able to discern the outline of his boot and the rope that stretched above it into the dark. He also saw the stars, but they were scattered over only half of the sky. It was now obvious to him that he was hanging upside-down over the side of a precipice.

He began to swing himself in an arc that gradually widened as his momentum increased. He reached out with both hands while trying to face the cliff-face in his swing, hoping to find a hold.

As he spun around, the back of his helmet struck something hard. The sound of the impact exploded painfully in his head. On instinct, he whipped around and grabbed out with both hands. He was just able to grasp at the rock face, but the momentum of his swing pulled him away, the rough surface of the rock tearing the skin of his fingertips. Again, on instinct, he propelled himself out and away from the rock wall and prepared himself for the return swing. This time, he managed to hold on.

Desperately, he clung to the rock while he fought to catch his breath. Slowly, he started to claw his way up the crag, seeking even the flimsiest of hand and finger‑holds. His muscles ached under the strain and he thought his arms would tear out of their sockets.

He was finally able to pull himself into an upright position, desperately clinging to the rock-face. Then, by shuffling his feet along the rock face he found a foothold. He gasped for air as he clung to his frail hold. Despite the cold night air, he was perspiring profusely and sweat ran off his brows into his eyes. His eyes smarted, but he could not risk wiping the sweat away for fear that he would lose his tenuous hold.

He rested and debated the wisdom of undoing the rope around his ankle. It was his safety line and his only feeble insurance against a certain fall into the abyss. He rejected the idea. The pain at the base of his lower back was now agonising.

He groped warily in the dark and moved up the cliff using a succession of perilous hand and footholds. From time to time, he took up the slack on the rope. After what felt like an eternity, he reached a wide ledge and crawled onto it. Exhausted, he lay there gasping. The burning sensation in his back simmered down to an annoying twinge as he managed to relax slightly.

Once he could breathe more easily, he tried to roll over. An object caught him across the shoulders and obstructed his movement. Bloody rifle, he cursed silently. He released the clips and laid it aside on the ledge. Then he rolled over and sat up cautiously. Slowly, he leaned forward and untied the noose around his ankle while fighting his pain.

For a while, he rested. Then he carefully looped the rope around his waist and tied it securely once more. From the length of the rope, he estimated he was now three metres below the level where the other end was secured to his kitbag. A firm tug on the rope satisfied him that it still held fast above.

With some confidence, he slipped the AK-47 over his shoulder and resumed his slow ascent. Within minutes, which felt like separate eternities, he reached another ledge. He rested again to allow the backache to subside slightly. Once more, he took up the slack on the rope and checked its position. It surprised him that it stretched away from him at a slight downward angle and to his left. It struck him that he had climbed to a point higher than the bag. It was also obvious that the bag was some distance from the cliff face. Once more he tugged firmly on the rope. The far end did not budge.

He cursed under his breath; his torch was in the bag. He crawled and groped his way down the gentle incline of the ledge and bumped into a slender tree trunk which barred his way. The roots of the tree, he found, were firmly anchored in the rock. He gauged the trunk to be some ten centimetres thick. He jerked sharply on the rope and it whipped along the length of the trunk with a solid ‘thwack’.

He removed his rifle and laid it on the ground and then with care, he leaned out along the trunk as it bent out over the abyss. With his free hand, he followed the rope to find his bag wedged firmly in a fork of the tree, only a metre from the rock shelf. Careful not to lose his balance, he struggled to release the bag as the tree bent and creaked ominously under his weight. With equal caution, he dragged it back to the safety of the ledge. Relieved, he leaned back against the rock face and wiped the sweat from his brow.

He tried to take stock of his situation once more. He knew that he was on a ledge somewhere up a cliff. There was no knowing how far he had to go to reach the top. If he climbed further, he would now have to do it without the reassurance and security the rope had afforded him. The idea of continuing the ascent for an unknown distance in the dark worried him. He realised that there was no other choice. He shuddered involuntarily. Then he remembered the torch in the kitbag. He would use it to see what lay ahead.

First he held the torch pointing down and switched it on. Then with his free hand shielding the top and sides of its beam, he examined the rock face. The sight of yet a further ledge at chest height almost disheartened him. How many more ledges like this did he have to climb to reach the top? He heaved his bag and the AK onto the ledge and then pulled himself up. He flicked the torch on again and discovered to his relief that he had actually reached the top of the cliff. The ground rose steeply to disappear into the star-studded blackness of night. It was plain that he was on a hillside, but it was not possible to see the top of the ridge in the guarded beam of the light. The fear of advertising his position stopped him looking around further. If no-one had heard him climbing, he was not going to attract attention with a light show.

He glanced at his watch for the first time. The glass was smashed and the hands were missing. There was no way of telling how long he had been on the cliff.

********************

Shit! Right now, that’s precisely what we need. I warned that bloody Colonel Verster. I told him that bloody rookie was the wrong man for the job. Major Stanley was making no effort to disguise his frustration and anger.

It’s not his fault, he probably weighs only half as much as any of us. Maybe it’s our fault in the first instance. We should’ve loaded him with ballast.

Sam Crenshaw’s calm manner riled the major even more, but he held his tongue. Stanley knew his captain was correct, but he was not going to admit it. Wilson, he turned on the sergeant, you should’ve swapped jump positions with him. That way, you’d have been the last out. You could’ve kept an eye on him.

Sir, I can’t see that it would’ve made any difference. As it was, I couldn’t see where Pieters, the captain or yourself were in the dark. There’s no way it would’ve been any different in the lieutenant’s case. I’d still have been looking for a black chute in the dark. Besides, being much lighter, it’s obvious he’d have ended up above and well behind me, sir.

Wilson’s quite right. If it was anything to do with the jump order, which I doubt, he should’ve jumped first, Crenshaw said quietly.

Well, it’s practically bloody hopeless if you ask me, Stanley growled. He could be any-bloody-where for all we know. We need to go galloping around the countryside looking for a lost rookie like a bloody hole in the head! The major hesitated and managed to quell his rage slightly before continuing in a softer voice. That’s to say, if the poor bastard’s still alive.

The chances are, he is, Crenshaw said confidently.

Okay, but dead or alive, we’ve still got to find him.

Yeah, and remember, he’s got the radio, Pieters added.

Here, let me look at the map, Crenshaw said holding out his hand. I’ve got half an idea. I’m sure there’s a chance we can work out where to go looking for him.

I’m glad you’re so bloody confident, the major grunted as he thrust the map into Crenshaw’s outstretched hand. The meticulous manner in which the captain unfolded the map irritated him.

Crenshaw remained calm as he studied it briefly in the beam of his torch. Next he checked his compass reading and the direction of the breeze. Right, I think I’ve got it. He’s obviously drifted with the wind.

It doesn’t take a genius to work that out, Stanley muttered.

Crenshaw ignored the major’s comment. That would’ve taken him in the direction of these hills. He pointed on the map and the major grunted again. About two kilometres east of here. With any luck, he’d have landed on the flat ground just short of the hills.

I’ll still say you’re a bloody optimist, dear Captain! the major interjected. With our present bloody-minded luck, you can bet he’ll be sitting slap on top of those bloody hills. Look at these contour lines here, he said as he traced his forefinger along the map. This is nothing but one long cliff face. Crenshaw’s eyes followed his finger as it traced the contour lines on the map.

Hmmm, yes, I see what you mean. But it’s definitely worth a look, even if we have to get up there to find him. We need him. And we need the radio and medical kit.

Okay, it sound’s like a fair enough plan to me.

With your permission, I’ll take Sergeant Wilson with me.

Permission granted. You’ve got four hours to make your search and to meet us here. He stabbed the map at a point short of the UNITA rendezvous area. Okay, get moving. We can’t waste time. We’re on a bloody tight schedule as it is!

********************

Harrington was acutely conscious of a dull pounding throb in the back of his head. With the boring ache in the small of his back slowing his movements, he had struggled up the rock face to reach the top ledge. His initial inclination was to continue his climb to the crest of the hill, but he immediately had second thoughts about it. His pain, on its own, was enough excuse not to climb the ridge. Every movement that he made seemed to aggravate his backache. Instead, he decided to sit and rest where he was. First, he reasoned, he needed to rest his over-stretched and strained muscles. Second, he argued with himself, he needed more time to sort out his present predicament. Third, he wished the throbbing in his head and the boring pain in his back would go. Considering what had happened to him, he was relieved he had not sustained any major injuries. Thankfully, he was in one piece and still functional.

He unclipped his canteen from his belt, opened it and drank a few sips slowly. The taste of the tepid water made him shudder. Pity it’s only water, he thought, as he toyed with the canteen. A straight scotch would have been far more pleasant. A dozen more thoughts flooded his confused mind simultaneously. Each idea fought for his full attention. It needed extreme effort to sort them into a logical order.

Painstakingly, he pieced together the sequence of events leading up to this moment. Subjectively, his logic made sense. He forced his mind back to the time when he had first met the others in Verster’s office. Somewhere, someone had made a mistake. The others were trained Parabats¹

, he had been told. He also recalled thinking to himself they were built like rugby forwards. Each stood at least six feet tall and probably weighed some ninety kilograms. Perhaps being built like a rugby player was a prerequisite to becoming a Parabat. With wilful effort, he stopped his thoughts at that point. He realised he was thinking in circles.

Gradually his mind drifted back to his problem. It became clear to him that the weight factor was the main cause of his plight. At forty-five kilograms, his kit weighed the same as that of the others. He knew that he himself would be lucky to weigh sixty kilograms. Strange that no-one had thought of loading him with more to make up for the difference.

At the top of the cliff, the chilly breeze blew even stronger. He shivered in the cold. It was the very breeze, he decided, which separated him even farther after their leap from the plane. Surely someone should have taken the winds into account, he thought. He should have jumped first, not last. If he had jumped first, he reasoned, he would have landed closer to the rest of the team, if not in the middle of the group.

He licked one of his fingers and held it up in the breeze. As one side of his finger became colder, he concluded that the wind was blowing over the plain where they had been dropped. That was it: he had drifted away from the others with the wind. The wind must have blown him straight into the cliff face. Try as he may, however, he could not recall crashing into the rock face. Concussion and amnesia, he mused. To his relief, his thought processes were becoming more coherent with time. He huddled closer to the ground and wished that he could light a fire to warm himself.

He fished around in his still clouded memory for more clues. It was with difficulty that he managed to recall a few details of the map the major had shown them. He remembered that Stanley had pointed out the plain as their target zone, but that was all. Why the hell didn’t Stanley stress that more strongly? More to the point, why hadn’t he taken more notice at the time? He cursed his lack of attention.

Slowly at first, some fragmented features of the map fell into place in his mind. Suddenly, it was as if the fog in his brain had lifted and he could remember the details with surprising clarity. The drop zone was over a large plain bordered by a river in the east and a range of hills in the west. The hills formed a sort of escarpment to a plateau. It was now clear to him: he had been blown across the plain to land on the face of the escarpment.

He allowed his mind to circle back to consider the order in which they had left the plane. Eureka, he fought the urge to shout the word out to the world at large. I’ve worked it all out, he grinned, as he basked in his own pride.

It then crossed his mind that working out the possible causes of his predicament was a waste of time. The reasons would not serve any purpose in resolving it. If anything, it would add a few extra pages to his debriefing report.

Annoyed, he brushed other thoughts in that direction aside. His short-lived elation gave way to a contemplative moodiness. Why was he in this invidious situation in the first place, he wondered. The more he tried to find the answer, the more elusive it seemed to become. It was as if fate itself was teasing him.

********************

He jerked his thoughts back to the present and instinctively glanced at his now-useless watch and then at the lightening morning sky. Must be about oh five hundred, he thought. He decided to wait for daybreak before moving. No way was he, Harrington, going to try climbing down the cliff face in the dark. Safer to find a route down in daylight.

Idly he decided to check the contents of his bag. A quick examination showed a gaping rent in the canvas on one side. Gleaming metal showed through the tear.

Fearing the worst, he unpacked the medical kit first. The box was unmarked. He opened it and glanced at the contents. He was relieved to find that nothing was damaged. Next he pulled out the radio, which had been packed directly under the tear. The metal case was badly dented. On impulse, he shook it. Several pieces rattled inside. Carefully, he opened the set in the light of his torch. Even Harrington, with little knowledge of electronics, could see that it was smashed beyond repair. It had obviously taken the full impact of his weight and the bag when it jammed in the fork of the tree. That it carried most of the strain of his climbing the cliff probably damaged it further.

He checked his rifle to make sure it was not damaged. Short of a test firing, all seemed to be in order.

********************

In the growing half-light of dawn, Harrington took his black jump suit off to reveal the green and brown mottled battledress underneath. He tucked the bundled-up suit under his arm and searched for a place to bury it. He found the ideal place in a small clump of bushes. The ground was soft and he soon scooped a hole out with his hands. He stuffed the suit into the hole and was about to remove his helmet. On impulse, he changed his mind. It could protect my head if I go clattering down the cliff, he thought. He covered the suit and then spread some loose grass and leaves over the disturbed earth.

Gazing out from his elevated position, he could see the details of the vast plain as it extended away to the west. There were no signs of habitation that he could see. Time to move, he thought, and slipped his bag over his shoulders. With his rifle at the ready, safety catch off, he struck south on impulse. He skirted the rim of the cliff searching for a gully as a way down. After ten minutes, he found a narrow gully which appeared ideal.

He climbed down into the head of the gully and followed its tortuous path down. Its steep and uneven floor was strewn with loose rubble and thorn scrub bush. In the silence of the morning, each step he took sounded like an exploding cannon shell to him. Combat boots, he thought, were not made for stalking game. The bulky kitbag on his back was an encumbrance as it scraped and got caught in the overhanging branches. At times he was forced to sling his rifle over his shoulder allowing him the use of both hands to negotiate sections of the descent. He slipped three times in the descent, adding to his extensive collection of bruises. The falls aggravated his lower back pain, forcing him to rest from time to time.

While resting, his thoughts would wonder back to Verster. The man had introduced him to Sandra Johns. What had started as a subterfuge had blossomed into a serious love affair. Both she and Verster had admitted as much when confronted. Somehow that did not seem to matter at this moment.

Intermingled with his thoughts on Johns and Verster, he would wonder what plans the rest of his group had in action. Were they simply going to leave him to his own devices, or were they searching for him?

After an hour he emerged from the gully. He moved at a low crouch along the base of the cliffs which towered above him. He kept to the scrub and avoided the open ground of the plain. Foremost in his mind was to find his parachute and bury it together with his helmet.

Twenty minutes later he spotted the parachute canopy limply draped over a small bush a few metres ahead. He dropped to the ground to survey the scene. There was no sign of anyone around. He kept his distance as he circled the bush slowly. Satisfied that he was alone, he moved up to the bush.

He craned his neck, looking up the precipitous rock face, and tried to see where he had dangled helplessly in the dark. He spotted a lone forked tree jutting out from the ledge some thirty metres above. He shuddered when he saw that it was on the lowest of the series of ledges he had climbed. Although he was not a religious person, for once, he thought that ‘someone up there’ liked him.

With his curiosity satisfied he went to work. First, he slipped his bag off and placed it on the ground within easy reach. Then he laid the rifle against the bag. Next, he disentangled the parachute from the gnarled branches of the thorn bush. It was a tedious task as the lines were twisted around some of the cruel thorns. He was horrified to see that one of the canopy panels was torn down its full length. It must have been ripped on a rock on my way down, he thought, as he stared at it.

At the foot of the cliff he found some soft earth. It was the ideal place to bury the parachute and helmet. He went down on his knees and dug a hole using the helmet as a scoop. Once it was large enough, he stuffed the bundled chute, the helmet and his damaged watch into it and then covered them with earth. Last, he scattered the site with loose stones and dead leaves.

He pulled his hat out of the bag and placed it on his head at a rakish angle. A hat was ideal protection against the sun and being bitten on the head by dangling tree snakes. Once more he pulled the kitbag harness over his shoulders and picked up his rifle. With his finger resting lightly on the trigger he set off to seek the rest of the team.

********************

Crenshaw and Wilson struck out at a fast pace in the direction of the cliffs shown on the map. The scattered flat thorn scrub, which appeared as dark smudges against the pale background of the grassland even in the absence of moonlight, did not impede their progress.

For sure the major’s hopping mad over this, Wilson commented as they strode towards the cliffs.

That’s an understatement, if ever there was one, Crenshaw replied laconically. Our luck is that we’ve got enough time to pull this jaunt off and still meet UNITA in time.

I’m sure that changing the jump order may have helped, Wilson said thoughtfully.

I tend to agree with you.

Are you aware of the fact that it was his first night jump? Wilson asked.

Crenshaw stopped briefly in his stride as he recalled Harrington asking him about the ropes. Yes, I gathered that when we collected our kit. Didn’t know what the rope was for.

He also didn’t know how to clip his static line onto the rail, Wilson added.

Well, Colonel Verster assured the major and myself at our last meeting that he was the ideal man for the job and had been given a pretty thorough training, Crenshaw said and shrugged.

Let’s hope that it was enough and that he hasn’t come to harm as a result of his lack of full training, Wilson said thoughtfully. But, there’s still something odd about the man.

What do you mean?

He doesn’t strike me as a fighting man, Wilson said. It worries me, Sam.

Oh, I’m sure things will work out. I know he has some medical experience and skills, but never qualified and that’s the main reason why he’s been added to our group. To take care of any medical emergencies we may run into.

A good idea, but it sounds very vague to me.

Well, do you know how many bridges you have to blow up on this trip? Crenshaw asked with a broad smile.

No, Wilson replied. But I’ll do it if we come across one.

Well, that’s why we’ve got him with us, Crenshaw said with a laugh.

Approximately half a kilometre from the cliff they halted briefly to survey the area and to plan their search.

The rising sun had turned the few wispy clouds in the eastern sky into a variegated spectrum of red, pink and orange while the cliff rose as a dark and irregular foreboding bastion.

Bob, let’s move closer to the cliff and then split up. You go south and I’ll go north. We’ll keep going for the next hour. Keep your eyes open for any gullies going up to the top of the cliff. We may have to get up there. Then get back here to meet me. Just be bloody careful how you move, he may be trigger-happy and mistake us for enemy.

Okay, see you later.

********************

Harrington decided to head south. He kept close to the base of the cliff where the taller trees and bush provided him some cover. He moved instinctively while also relying heavily on his Snake Valley training.

He paused briefly at irregular intervals to scan his surroundings. Occasionally he would crouch down briefly to survey the ground ahead. Any regular movement on his part, he knew, could give his presence away and make him an easy target.

Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to move out over the plain and away from the relative protection of the cliffs. He reached the edge of the tree line and stopped. He settled down on his haunches and ran his gaze over the savannah. There was no sign of movement, habitation or smoke. It was only the occasional tall tree that punctuated the scene, appearing as lone sentinels. He was, it seemed, alone.

For a few moments he stared at the plain in deep thought. He had solved one problem only to be faced with another. He knew the UNITA contingent and his own group were out there somewhere. The question was how to find either. He knew that he could not shout, make smoke signals or fire shots into the air: all out of the question. In his circumstances, as he saw them, his actions were correct.

He knew that he was no closer to solving his problem. His actions seemed counter-productive. On the one hand, he had to avoid being seen by the enemy. Yet he needed to be located by his own team, assuming they were looking for him. His own men also had to avoid detection by the enemy while searching for him. He realised that his problem was almost as circuitous as his thoughts. On impulse, he wanted to laugh out aloud. It would have been simpler to have stood on top of the highest hill and called them aloud.

Maybe he had seen it. Perhaps he had sensed it. He froze where he was and scanned the area as far as he could. Then he moved his head around slowly to get a better look. His search revealed nothing. For the space of an eye-blink, at the very edge of his field of vision, he thought he had seen a movement in the thorn scrub to his right. He could not be entirely sure he’d seen anything. It could have been a bird flitting through the bush. He cursed silently that he had not been issued with binoculars. Feeling the weight of the pack on his back, he reasoned someone had to decide on the limits of the kit. He supposed there were physical limits to what a man could be expected to carry on a jump and still land safely. Perhaps that was why they had not weighted him down with extra equipment.

He eased himself into a crouching position and then rolled over onto his stomach. He lay still for a moment and listened. He heard nothing. Slowly, he crawled back into the cover of the bush. Rather be the spotter than the spotted. He laughed inwardly at the phrase.

Once back in the thicker bush, he stood up cautiously and moved toward the point where he imagined he had seen the movement. He had no intentions of making himself an easy target by exposing himself as a silhouette against the light.

His instincts screamed that he was not alone. Once more he scanned his surroundings minutely but in vain. At a rational level, he was beginning to doubt that he had seen any movement at all. Perhaps it was merely a trick of light.

He was about to move off when his train of thought was suddenly interrupted. Directly in front of him, some fifty metres away, he saw a man dressed in jungle greens moving cautiously along the edge of a small clearing. The way he held his rifle made it obvious he was on point.

********************

With his own words ringing in his ears, Crenshaw moved north as fast as the terrain allowed. The man could well be trigger-happy as he had pointed out to Wilson. He had no way of guessing how Harrington would react in the circumstances. The hunter hunted by the hunting hunter, he thought. Or was it the other way around? Circuitous thinking, he nudged his thoughts with a laconic smirk. There was no guessing.

With the increased likelihood of being spotted and him spotting Harrington, he slowed his stride. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that caused him to freeze in mid-stride. He was not alone.

********************

The man suddenly stopped and stood dead still. Even as Harrington watched, the camouflaged battledress melted into the dappled background of the surrounding bush. The daubs of greasepaint broke up the features of his face and made recognition difficult. He narrowed his eyes and tried to follow the lines of the man’s face. The man moved his head slightly. Aided by the movement, he recognised the man to be the captain.

Here, Captain Crenshaw, it’s me, Tony, he called out in a strained whisper. Not taking any chances, he held his rifle slightly down but on the ready.

It felt like an eternity before Crenshaw replied. Thank God, we’ve found you. You can come out, it’s safe here. Crenshaw swung his rifle aside and Harrington heard the reassuring click as the safety catch engaged.

God, am I glad to see you, Harrington said as he slipped his rifle’s safety catch on and moved forward cautiously along the edge of the clearing. I was beginning to worry I’d lost you chaps completely!

I’ll say the same. The major’s spitting bricks over it though, Crenshaw told him and then flashed a broad grin. He wants to blame the whole bloody army for it! Says it’s their fault they never considered weighing you down with extra gear. He seems to forget the point that he never considered it himself!

That’s my conclusion even if I do feel like an overloaded pack-mule!

Wilson’s out here with me, he’s not very far away. I’d better let him know I’ve found you. He whistled three times using a low note as a calling signal. Seconds later they heard the answering whistle. Good, he’s heard me. A few minutes later Wilson stepped out of the bush to join them.

Wow! Glad to see you’re safe and sound, Lieutenant! Wilson said with a friendly smile.

You’ll stop smiling when you see our radio, Harrington said earnestly.

Why, what happened to it?

Here, take a look for yourself, Harrington said and pulled the smashed radio out of his bag.

Christ! What d’you do with it? he asked as he opened the dented case.

Call it a long story.

Well, it’s stuffed to hell, he said as he stared at the shattered circuit boards. He closed the case and handed it back. I need a fag after seeing that, he said and started fishing around in his pockets for his cigarettes.

Forget your fags for now, Bob. We’d better get moving, Crenshaw said. The major hasn’t allowed us much time to catch up with him. Besides, he’ll want a detailed report from Tony, sooner or later. Just keep your ears flapping and we’ll hear everything.

Yeah, you’re right.

Okay, Crenshaw said. Better fan out, we don’t want to take any chances, even if it’s supposed to be a UNITA controlled area. Keep an eye open and ears flapping for spotter planes. Come, let’s move.

Just as Harrington moved away, Crenshaw noticed that Harrington was limping. Halt! Crenshaw commanded and moved over to a nonplussed Harrington.

Tony, you’re limping. You hurt? Crenshaw asked with obvious concern.

Oh, it’s not much. I think I must have twisted my back when I landed, though I can’t remember landing. It’s okay, I’ll manage, Harrington said.

Where does it hurt? Wilson asked as he stepped closer.

Right at the base of my spine, Harrington grimaced slightly.

Get your bag off and lie face down on the ground, here, Wilson instructed as he brushed some of the longer grass aside with his foot.

Harrington did as he was told and Wilson kneeled down beside him. Using both hands and his weight he started pressing and twisting several parts of his back. Each application of pressure evoked a loud crack and a grimace on Harrington’s face.

Raising himself, Wilson asked, Okay, how’s that feel?

Wow, that was magic! Harrington responded as he stood up. Where’d you learn chiropractic?

From my brother. Has a big practice in Cape Town, Wilson replied.

And you never took it up yourself? Crenshaw asked bemused.

No, I could never put up with the complaints of patients, Wilson replied gruffly.

Okay, let’s move. We’ll see how Tony goes, Crenshaw said and they set off again.

As the sun rose, it took the temperature soaring with it. Despite Wilson’s manipulations, Harrington was still acutely aware of the lingering pain in his back. It’s only a back strain and will go away, he thought, as he goaded himself on. His mishap had already caused enough trouble, he decided, and he could not allow his pain to hamper the team any further.

********************

What the hell’s that? Wilson asked in a hoarse whisper as he