Whispers in the Wind

By Zac Hardman

An astonishing tale of James Harvey, a young boy soldier swept up in a blood-soaked saga during the Rhodesian War of Independence.

It is the 1970's in Africa. Eleven-year-old James is a happy carefree boy revelling in the wild Rhodesian bushveld. One fateful summer's day his idyllic lifestyle comes to an abrupt and tumultuous end.

As the winds of war envelope this small African Nation, James's life is reshaped by tragedy, manipulation and betrayal. A violent chance encounter with "freedom fighters" initiates a series of life-changing events where James learns the true power of his own will to survive. An increasingly desperate regime recruits, and cynically uses James as a sniper and child soldier, propelling him into a whirlwind of covert military-sanctioned operations.

This epic war fiction story is a poignant saga framed by intense political upheaval and the final stages of the Bush War.

A fast-paced action thriller that transports the reader to a unique era of African history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zac Hardman
• Release date: Oct 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215034217

Zac Hardman

Zac Hardman was born and raised in Southern Africa. While living in remote rural environments he experienced first-hand the magnificent splendour and diversity of the African bushveld. A lifelong curiosity about the natural world led to a Bachelor of Science degree and a teaching diploma. Living by his maxim: “Life is an unfolding adventure” he is a committed outdoor enthusiast and conservationist. Zac is a dedicated family man, raising two daughters to adulthood and custodian to a houseful of assorted pets. Zac, his wife and ageing Labrador currently reside on Auckland’s North Shore where he enthusiastically teaches Science and explores the wonderful Hauraki Gulf. In his free time, Zac and his family roam the New Zealand countryside in search of new delights and places of interest. Zac’s novels resonate with a gritty realism of human conflict underpinned by his astute and unique observations of Nature.

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter One: The Chase

Chapter Two: My Captured Prize

Chapter Three: Cowling House

Chapter Four: Marksman in the Making

Chapter Five: Learning to Cope at Home

Chapter Six: Honing My Shooting Skills

Chapter Seven: The Hunt

Chapter Eight: Trying to Find My Voice

Chapter Nine: The Kill Zone

Chapter Ten: Inspector Hearst

Chapter Eleven: Trying to Return to Normal

Chapter Twelve: Recovery and the Truth Comes Out

Chapter Thirteen: School Again

Chapter Fourteen: Rebuilding Time

Chapter Fifteen: Recruitment

Chapter Sixteen: Blackmail

Chapter Seventeen: A Child Soldier

Chapter Eighteen: Murder

Chapter Nineteen: The Funeral

Chapter Twenty: Looking for a Way Out

Chapter Twenty-One: High School Begins

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Political Assassination

Chapter Twenty-Three: Operation Big Pork

Chapter Twenty-Four: Taken

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Island

Chapter Twenty-Six: Escape from the Island

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Home Again

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Inspector Ties Up Loose Ends

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rarotonga: A Place of Healing

Chapter Thirty: A Chance for Revenge

Chapter Thirty-One: Reflection

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Join the Conversation

FOREWORD

HELLO, DEAR READER. My name is Zac Hardman and I have a story that needs to be told. It concerns a broken, battle-weary man I recently met by the name of James Harvey.

Upon meeting James, it was clear that he was carrying a massive burden from which he desperately sought a release. The events that he related to me over a period of nine months resonated in my soul to such an extent that I actively sought him out, making time to meet him regularly so I could listen and take notes as he told me about his childhood as a young boy in Rhodesia. I hope and trust that I’ve played some small but significant part in James being able to lay down this crippling emotional burden that he’s carried for most of his adult years.

Every individual has a unique and special story to tell; however, when we listen closely, there are times when an extraordinary tale unfolds before us in the most unexpected way. James’s self-told tale exploded before me over the months like some giant, shattering mirror, with each shiny shard holding fragments of memories and images which he incrementally revealed in his typical hesitant and considered way.

I make no claim to be an accomplished writer or storyteller, so forgive me if James’s life story is told less than perfectly. As time passes, events can be subject to a degree of interpretation from the person recalling them. On top of that, these same events are also subject to my own personal understanding, so James Harvey’s tale may have been unintentionally altered in small ways. The truth about what really occurred may have been smudged through the interpretation of two minds, like a game of Chinese Whispers.

All I can promise is that I’ll relate what I’ve been told as accurately as my limited talent will allow. Although the words are mine, the tapestry of this story was passed to me by Mr. James Harvey, a man shaped by a violent past that testifies to the spirit of survival and his ability to overcome any obstacle.

I’m a born and bred New Zealander who, after much reflection, decided to opt-out of the busy, frenetic Auckland lifestyle to teach English in Rarotonga at Nukutere Secondary School. It was from this base that I began attending the Assemblies of God Church, where I offered to help with the social outreach programmes that the congregation had initiated. People in need would be visited and helped in a variety of ways that eased the physical and spiritual burdens that they often carried. It was during one of these visits that I first met James.

He was managing a small, intensive hydroponic farm that specialised in growing fresh vegetables as well as free- range chickens and tilapia bream. The pastor of the Church had informed me that James had been in Rarotonga for well over twenty years, living a solitary life with two dun-coloured dogs as his only companions. For much of this time, he never spoke, until five years ago when he unexpectedly began to utter the odd word, with an occasional complete sentence easing out of him in a sad sigh. The Pastor thought that I might be able to offer James an empathetic ear and to thereby encourage him to practice his speech while offering companionship to this solitary man.

On a sunny afternoon outside his modest, well-maintained cottage, a reed-thin, slightly dishevelled man of indeterminate age shook my hand in a surprisingly firm grip. As I clasped his hand, a feeling of intense melancholy enveloped me. His piercing green eyes shone with intelligence as his mouth softened with the hint of a smile.

Hello, I’m James. Very pleased to meet you. His halting, hesitant voice was characterised by a distinct South African intonation and hung in the humid air.

Likewise, James, I replied. I’m Zac Hardman. Pastor Paul Molefe told me that you’ve managed this farm for some time now and that you chose not to speak for many years. May I talk to you? I’d like to find out whether the Church can assist you in any way.

An awkward pause followed, with James seemingly searching for words.

Yes, he said, eventually. His lined, weathered face creased into a self-deprecating grin. I’ve just started to find my voice after many years of silence, so please excuse my deliberate way of talking. The last time I spoke with any fluency was before the age of eleven, so my choice of words can sometimes be child-like and limited.

This awkward first interaction began an extraordinary relationship that I’ll treasure for the rest of my days. I visited James every single day for a period of nine months and during this time, he recounted a truly amazing tale that both fascinated and appalled me.

Using a recording device and a notebook, I tried to detail everything he told me. I have no way to check the veracity of this tale, but I sensed that the process was intensely cathartic for James. He never contradicted himself and nor did he attempt to self-aggrandize. If anything, he played down the drama of the events, so much so that I’ve made an explicit attempt to relate this story in a more personal way by writing as James himself, rather than as a narrator.

This is James’ story.

CHAPTER ONE: THE CHASE

I LAY stretched out in the late afternoon sun, head propped up on my elbow as I squinted at a porcupine quill rising and falling in a repetitive, wave-induced rhythm.

My rusty metal keep-net, which was attached to a small, forked branch, held two olive-green bass. Their gaping mouths flashed white as they circled the net, probing for an opening. The scattered afternoon light was reflected as though a giant mirror had exploded into countless shards and lay bobbing on the water. The air was heavy with the perfume of waterlilies mixed with the mustiness of bull rushes and the wet, decaying vegetation that lined the water’s edge.

It was my favourite fishing spot; close to the dam’s spillway, the bottom shelved away steeply, offering the fish depth and abundant cover from the floating hyacinth lilies and the dry tree trunks that tapered out of the water like reaching limbs. They stood as sentinels to the changing seasons, their broken ends pasted with the whitish-grey patina of cormorant droppings.

The earthen wall of the dam stretched out to my right, carrying two parallel, narrow tracks of flattened grass that straddled a raised central section. Under this, the wall gradually sloped away to meet a steep-sided valley that cradled the wall against the immense volume of water above. Great strands of slender thatching and turpentine grass swayed in the gentle breeze on either side of it, and the pastel colours of the Msasa woodland spilled over the horizon and stretched their patterned fingers over the land in front of me. Three yellow-billed teals swam purposefully along the reed line, their heads bobbing in unison. The chirping of crickets and the haunting, metallic call of an emerald-spotted dove hung in the afternoon air. The familiar, comforting sights and sounds of my beloved Rhodesian bush lulled me into a state of restful focus as I continued to fish.

I was alone that day, without my two young African friends, Shepherd and Kandulu. The three of us were inseparable, often spending days on end exploring the local rivers and dams in our quest to catch large-mouthed bass, tilapia bream and barbel. These were the most edible species that inhabited the life-giving Makaholi and Umshagashe rivers. Collectively, we were well-known for bringing home fine catches of these fish, hanging them from the handlebars of our bicycles.

On the days we weren’t fishing, we normally hunted birds and small mammals in the koppies and woodlands that dotted the savannah landscape. We’d grown up together and been friends since I learned to walk, sampling the delights of the Rhodesian bush. We knew every metre of the landscape around us, from plants offering seasonal feasts of succulent, edible berries to rivers bursting with fish and the abundant animal life that formed part of the rich ecosystem around us.

They would have enjoyed that day, as the weather was great and there was enough bass to supply our families with sumptuous meals. I thought about the meal that Shepherd’s mother would cook and started to salivate. Christina made delicious fish stew, which she served with wild spinach, onions and traditional sadza. I smiled, thinking about the times we’d sat in the cool of the early evening with Shepherd’s family, chatting about the day and rolling the sadza into bite-sized balls, dipping it into fish sauce and munching away.

Shepherd was a tall, angular boy with an open face and a huge smile that lit up for the smallest reason. He was talkative and good-natured, with an effervescent zest for life. His interest in the natural world was infectious, which led him to constantly discover new plants and animals for me to share. He was also the bravest of us. One late evening, when walking back from a rock rabbit hunt, we came across an antelope carcass from an old lion kill that was ringed with scavenging hyenas. One massive male detached itself from the group and loped towards us with his ears forward and his eyes fixed. With no hesitation, Shepherd sprinted straight towards the animal, waving his arms and shouting. This show of confidence was enough to cause the hyena to bound hurriedly away, uttering small shrieks of alarm over its hunched back.

Kandulu was a small, timid boy who followed Shepherd like a shadow and often had to be prompted to speak. He had an amazing talent at making traps for small mammals and fish using natural materials like reeds, twine and rocks. His uniquely-designed drop fall traps, which worked on rats, pheasants and guinea fowl, were nothing short of genius. He also had a great sense of humour when relaxed, and I remembered how hilarious he’d been when the three of us liberated some African sorghum beer from his father’s supply. Kandulu was a natural-born mimic, so on that day, he went through his full repertoire, even imitating my father laying down the law to a hungover mechanic.

Both boys attended a school that had been constructed for the farmworkers’ children by the local landowners. There were three teachers and a principal for approximately 120 pupils. Shepherd, Kandulu and six older boys had recently been abducted by a group of unknown gunmen. It had been a month, and no one had heard any news of their whereabouts despite an extensive, week-long police search. They’d spent several days following tracks into the bush, but a heavy downpour had washed away any further indication of where the boys had been taken.

As I reclined on the sunny dam wall and mused about my friends, an aching sadness weighed on my mind. They’d probably been taken out of the country to be trained as freedom fighters in some faraway place. They were my closest companions and I missed them fiercely.

If I closed one eye and looked along the line of my legs between my veldskoen shoes, I could focus on my quill float, which had started to slide across and beneath the water’s surface. A firm lift of my rod and a solid hook up resulted in an explosion of spray surrounding a gill-flaring mouth. After a brief energetic tussle, another bass was in my keep net.

I wiped my hands on my floppy bush hat, then threaded four wriggling vlei worms onto a number three hook and cast out again, reeling the float to rest near a large mass of floating hyacinth plants. Only fifteen minutes of fishing remained, as the sun was less than two hand-spans above the horizon.

As I sat, a pinched upper thigh reminded me of the small, .25 calibre Baby Browning I carried on the inside of my khaki shorts. Being smaller than the palm of my hand, I could easily carry and conceal it. It wasn’t accurate and would only be effective at close range, but it was nevertheless a deterrent, which I dutifully carried with me at my dad’s insistence. I even became proficient at consistently hitting targets within a ten-metre range. It had a six-round, spring-loaded magazine, so it could be fired rapidly if needed. In an enclosed space, it made a hell of a noise. Mom and dad had been discussing the escalating insurgent infiltration into Rhodesia through neighbouring border areas, so I reasoned it would be wise to carry the pistol.

The egrets flying in to roost on the dead trees reminded me that I needed to bicycle the ten kilometres home before darkness fell, otherwise mom would have a kitten and I wouldn’t be popular with dad.

Out of the periphery of my vision, I noticed two African men walking towards me along the dam wall. I wasn’t alarmed because the dam serviced a mission school, so I reasoned they were probably students or family members from the nearby subsistence farms. As they approached, I greeted them in Shona and observed that they seemed nervous and that their return greeting was muted and stilted.

They were wearing blue overalls with black, smooth-soled combat boots. One was a coal-black, lean, hard-looking young man with wide shoulders, square scarred hands and a direct, intimidating stare. The other man was short and stocky with a bald head. The whites of his eyes were unusually yellow, and he appeared to have a slight limp.

The stocky man slumped down to my right while the taller one walked behind me and remained standing to my left. A cold finger of fear snaked into my belly and up the back of my neck. I sensed that they weren’t locals, and that revelation almost made me bolt over the back of the dam wall.

"Masikati akanaka shamwari, I said nervously, surpressing my apprehension. Iyi ndiyo nzvimbo yandinofarira kubata hove uye nhasi ine mamiriro ekunze akanako kudaro."i

"Ah ndirikuona uchitaura Shona?"ii the tall man growled. He’d inserted his right hand into his pocket, where he appeared to be grasping something.

"Kwete nyatso zvakanaka Shamwari,"iii I stammered in return.

"Unogara kupi mukumana uye nei uri wega?"iv

"Ndinobva KuVictoria farm uye ndinoda kubata hove ndega,"v I replied.

The guerilla looked at me impassively.

Iwe unotsigira hutongi hwaSmith? he said. Munofungei pamusoro pekusunugugurwa kwenyika ino nevanhu?vi

I shrugged and said, Ini handisi kufarira zvematongaerwo enyika uye handinzwisise zvizere kuti mapato akasiyana ari kurwisana pamusoro pei.vii

Waizoita sei kana varwi verusununguko vakauya kuVictoria farm vokumbira chikafu?viii

Handikwanise kutaura ndichimiririra baba vangu asi dai zviri izvo zvandaifunga ndaizovapa chikafu.ix

Suddenly, the taller man pulled a stubby black pistol from his pocket and flicked the safety catch on and off as though agitated.

"Regedza isu tora chino chena nguruve ne ipa iye ku nyoka!"x he bellowed, crashing his fist into the side of my head and knocking me to the floor.

I lay there bleeding and in shock as I tried to comprehend my predicament. Through a blur of tears, I noticed the stocky man picking up my fish in the net and examining my Samson bike that was on its side near the spillway. Straddling me across my chest, the pistol-wielding man slapped me repeatedly across the face, muttering darkly that I’d be dead soon.

I lost control of my bladder and felt the warm spread of urine across my upper thighs and back. I blubbered in alarm as I lay there, stunned into terrified immobility. The pressure across my chest lessened as the man on top of me swivelled his torso to bark orders at the one collecting my belongings and wading thigh-deep into the water to toss my net out of sight.

Without moving my torso too much, I reached both hands into my shorts while his head was turned and cocked the small pistol in my pocket, placing it in the palm of my right hand. The tall man wrapped both of his hands around my neck, shaking me and bringing his face directly above mine. Hissing like a snake, he pressed his pistol against my right eye and shouted at me to stand up. I tried to obey but my legs refused to work, and so he placed his pistol flat against my chest so he could use both arms to lift me up.

That was when I jammed the Baby Browning deep into his right ear and pulled the trigger twice.

My assailant’s body convulsed as though he’d been electrocuted. His eyes rolled back as blood rushed out of his nose and mouth. Kicking out from under him, I had just enough time to be aware of the stocky man exiting the water and rushing towards me with his hands outstretched. He slipped on the slanted bank and fell against me, grasping the back of a leg and an ankle. In one motion, I pressed my pistol against the bridge of his nose and fired twice.

He screamed and clutched his bloody eye socket as he began to gurgle and choke. Wailing in terror, I moved the barrel against his temple and fired twice more. His body went limp, with only his twitching foot to suggest he’d once been alive.

I couldn’t process the scene in front of me. In an instant, I’d killed two fully-grown men with a tiny pistol. An acrid stream of vomit spewed out of me as I squatted on all fours, trying to gain control of my limbs. I lurched to my feet, coughing and crying, then hurriedly yanked up my bicycle and overbalanced, collapsing onto the ground in an untidy tumble down the back slope of the dam wall. Forcing myself to stand, I desperately scanned for help.

Out of the tree line about 500 metres away, a group of six men squatted in a semicircle, paused for a moment and then rose as one, jogging purposefully towards my position on the wall. After focussing on them for