The Lark At Break Of Day

War was not pleasant. It was sweaty, dirty, and boring. Not like working in a bank at all.
Grant had finally taken the oath as a Police Reservist and now he was on Active Duty
with a fair chance of being shot at or blown up. Or dying of boredom. You could actually die
of boredom. Johan said so. One second of inattention at the wrong time could kill you stone
dead.
The most tedious job of all was the early morning sweep of the dirt runway outside
base camp. Just after sunup Grant’s five-man stick of Reservists lined up across the width of
the runway and walked its entire length as the early sun gained strength, looking for signs of
disturbance of the red stony soil. Mines were cheap and easy to lay.
Cristos was lead man. He always took the most dangerous forward position on patrol
and Johan took the rear, ready to assume command if Cristos was scribbled—killed—in an
ambush.
On the third day, Jocko suddenly yelled “Cristos”, and they all froze, eyes sweeping
the nearby bush and rifle barrels traversing, hunting a target.
“What have you found?” Johan asked.
“Nothing,” said Cristos at last. “Just a lark’s nest. No disturbed earth. No mine.” He
trotted back to his position at the edge of the runway. “Walk on.”
“Bloody stupid place to build a nest,” said Jocko. “Why did she choose the middle of
a runway?”
“Because it’s bare,” Cristos explained. “The mother bird can see a snake coming.”
“But there’s planes landing half a dozen times a day. Any one of them could smash
the nest and eggs or kill the chicks.”
“She doesn’t know about aircraft, or war, or even wheels. But she hopes she can save
them from snakes.”
“Is that why she runs away from the nest when we get close? Trying to lure us away?”
Cristos grinned and nodded. Grant took a quick look at the nest. It was dead centre of
the runway, just a small scruffy bundle of grasses with fine soft feathers lining the inside.
Four eggs, mottled green and brown. With a dozen takeoffs and landings every day they were
doomed. It was merely a matter of time.
Later that morning they moved with another stick to a fly camp twenty miles out. Fly camps
were more dangerous than base, usually just a bulldozed earth embankment with two big tents
in the middle, one for each stick. And enough room for a Hyena or a lorry to park overnight.
As their truck left base camp Cristos said, “Put one up the spout, lads, and make sure
the safety is on.”
The lorry was an Isuzu five-tonne mineproofed with two layers of sandbags on the
bed. The men sat on the sandbags facing outwards, back-to-back, each braced against the man
behind him with their boots against the side wall, rifle barrels resting lightly on the wall.
Cristos sat up front with the driver, both of them protected by sandbags under the seats,
armour plate under their legs, and a piece of conveyor belt wrapped around the rear window
of the cab. The crude mineproofing worked, they’d been told. Nobody talked about the
possibility of a double mine, one on top of another, which would certainly kill some of them.
And nobody mentioned the Soviet jumping mines. They were certain death.
“Tune in, my sons. Stay alert, stay alive,” warned Johan as the truck accelerated along
the road. Their rifle barrels, four on each side, rose and fell gently with each variation of the
grassy verge, like a ship’s broadside. Grant was aware of low-level adrenaline singing in his
veins.
The lorry dropped them off one by one at half-mile intervals along a stretch of road
being carved out of the bush, and the outgoing reservists clambered in to take their places.
Grant was second last man, and Johan last. Grant was suddenly all alone with his rifle, the
only man on foot within a one mile stretch. The only easy target.
The machines—the dozers, belly-dump loaders and scrapers roared along on their
self-important business, the racket meaning that there was no way he could hear danger. It
was all down to the Mark One Eyeball.
To the east was a deep monsoon ditch, then a thin screen of trees in front of a tall wire
mesh fence. Beyond that was the border minefield. On the other side of a second fence over
there was Mozambique.
He walked along the road and checked the other direction, west. Beyond the monsoon
ditch was fairly thick bush and some open patches with the occasional Baobab tree standing
like a lonely scarecrow. The other trees avoided them, adding to their mystique as “Devil
Trees”. There was no wind. It was burning hot with the sun nearly overhead and he was
thankful for his kepi-style bush hat. Grant was very aware of just how little training he’d
received—a grand total of two afternoons on the rifle range, and two days’ intensive anti-
ambush drill. He hoped that was enough.
The day ground on, hour after hour in the searing African sun and the red African
dust. He kept moving, changing direction constantly, walking far enough each way to see and
wave to Johan at one end of his beat, and to “Ben” Gunn at the other. As the shadows finally lengthened
Grant watched a huge belly-dump loader thundering towards him. He stepped to the edge of the monsoon
ditch and raised his hand in salute. The African driver grinned and pointed to his watch as the machine roared
past and enveloped him in its dust cloud.
Five o’clock at last. The drivers could make those monsters fly when it was time to
finish for the day and head for the overnight laager and safety. The rig rumbled off round the
curve, the engine noise dying swiftly as the thick bush blanketed sound. The dust settled in
yet another layer coating the leaves of the grass and bushes by the roadside.
He walked back and forth and waited for Johan. Last man of the stick, furthest from
safety, Johan was big, solid and confident. Grant watched the bush, looking for movement,
the glint of sun on metal, angular shadows, anything unnatural. His rifle felt warm and heavy
and comforting. But there was only an hour till sundown and the fleeting tropical twilight, a
good time for the enemy to hit, with all night to escape the follow-up team and their trackers.
As his ears cleared and natural sounds filtered through, Grant heard a rustling in the
grass ahead. The new grass on the far side of the road moved. A bush rat or a snake. He
scuffed his heels and the rustling stopped immediately. A snake, then, feeling vibrations. As
he drew abreast he saw it, motionless but unafraid, simply waiting for him to move on.
Egyptian cobra. Very nasty.
Johan appeared round the far bend. He was walking steadily, rifle held low, casual but
alert. A hornbill swooped across the road between them and flew over the wire-mesh fence
into the minefield beyond.
“Everything quiet?” asked Johan softly as he approached.
“Yes. Cobra over there.” Grant pointed. “You?”
“Same here. Very quiet.” The grey eyes were slitted against the low sun slanting
through the sparse foliage of the mopani trees. Flies sat on his shoulder blades drinking
sweat. Portuguese Budgies. They didn’t bite.
“You lead,” Johan said. “Take the east side. I’ll be at least ten yards behind you.” He
was taking the more dangerous position for himself. “Stay tuned,” he said. “Watch and
listen.”
Grant nodded. The back of his neck chilled suddenly as the hairs rose. According to
Johan that was good. It meant the adrenaline was flowing, stringing nerves taut, ready for fast
action.
The small sounds of the forest registered now, leaves rustling to a vagrant breeze,
voles scratching among the tree roots, the faint buzzing of the tiny stingless mopani bees
around his eyes and nose.
He’d once asked Johan, “How will I know what to do in an emergency”?
The older man had smiled. “The brain has millions of years of experience behind it.
Nie worry nie. Keep the nerves twanging and that ancient relic of a reptile brain just above
your spinal chord will do the rest automatically”.
Grant hoped that was true.
The road, raw and crude, stretched ahead in a gentle curve with the low sun striking
flashes from broken quartz and mica. The ditches were becoming grassed over already. A
tiny chink of pebbles told him that Johan was still there, guarding his back. A batteleur eagle
sailed silently overhead.
The road straightened and a lonely figure a quarter of a mile away waved an arm.
“Ben” Gunn, waiting for them. Grant waved back.
A natural clearing in the bush opened up to his right, about eighty yards across, with a
huge old Baobab tree dead centre. The road had been curved to avoid the sacred devil tree. A
good place for an ambush.
A Go-Away bird called suddenly to warn of intruders and his spine crawled. Johan
hissed, “Stay tuned.”
Something moved at the very edge of his peripheral vision and a thump came from the
monsoon ditch to his right. Not a loud noise, but out of place.
He found himself flat on his belly in the left-hand ditch, rifle aimed across the road
with the safety off already and his finger taking up first pressure on the trigger and the barrel
tracking, looking for a target. He couldn’t remember getting there, or thinking, or diving for
cover. Johan was right. Reptile brain was very good at its job.
Nothing moved.
The far ditch exploded in a cracking bang, sharp and shockingly loud. Grenade. He
cringed as something whimpered over his head to slice into the leaves behind.
Pebbles rained down all around him and a thick cloud of dust hung in the air but the
adrenaline was sizzling through him now as he ducked into the ditch and scuttled along a
good twenty yards.
A couple of AKs on full automatic opened up, a crackling roar, from the far edge of
the clearing onto the spot where he had dived for cover. The bullets tore up the road and
thumped into the trees beyond, with the occasional terrifying howl of a miss-shapen ricochet.
He slid the rifle barrel up onto the road surface. He lined up roughly on the sound of
the guns and pulled the trigger, the butt jarring into his shoulder and the barrel jumping off-
target. He settled it and fired again, and again, remembering now to squeeze the trigger,
swinging the barrel to pump rounds into the fringe of bush, aiming low into the grasses. The
sharp smell of cordite made his nostrils twitch. Aphrodisiac for men, the training corporal had
called it. Where was Johan?
He ducked back into the ditch as the enemy shifted their aim to his position and he
crouched there listening to bullets snapping overhead. He hadn’t heard Johan return fire.
The firing stopped abruptly as the enemy realised there was no target.
He had to move. They had this section of ditch in their sights now, waiting for him to
reappear. In the silence he heard his ear singing from the concussion of his own shots.
Always the left ear, he thought inconsequently, why not ever the right? He ran doubled over,
back the way he’d come. They wouldn’t expect that—he hoped.
What the hell had happened to Johan? Ben would be on his way to help, and he
prayed there wasn’t another ambush set for just that.
He pulled off the magazine and squinted into it. Nearly empty. He fished out a fresh
magazine and snapped it home. Sweat dripped from his nose and fell on the wooden forestock
where it spread and instantly evaporated. His head was clear and thinking was easy and fast.
Time itself had slowed down—Johan was right again. Reptile brain was working overtime
trying to stay alive. With the minefield at its back it had decided the only way to survive was
to fight.
He lunged up to the edge of the road and fired, steadily, raking the rim of the clearing
low down, the rifle butt thudding solidly into his shoulder. His cartridge cases flew off to his
right and tinkled musically on the road surface. A shadow moved between the trees and he
swung and fired, knew he had missed but the man went down anyway. A gun opened up with
a wild burst that brought bits of leaf and twig showering down on him. The air crackled
overhead with enemy rounds. He shifted his sights and fired at the dust blown off the grasses
by the enemy’s muzzle blast.
Then from deep in the bush to his right front came the more solid measured bang of
the heavier FN rounds. Johan was in action, taking them in the flank. He heaved a sigh of
relief and slid backwards.
The FN sounded again, slow unhurried shots, deeper than the enemy AKs with their
lighter charge.
Firing stopped.
He moved to a new position and crouched, listening.
Nothing.
The whole world had gone quiet.
Boots pounded on the road. Ben was coming, swerving into the ditch and staying low,
red in the face and streaming sweat, determined to be in the action. Away in the distance he
glimpsed the Hyena swaying dangerously round the far bend and heading towards them.
At last he heard Johan call his name.
“You all right, Johan?”
“Ja, man. I’m fine. I’m coming out of the bush to your right. Hold your fire.” He
stepped out of the trees, jogged through the monsoon ditch, and strolled towards them,
apparently unconcerned. “It’s all over,” he called. “They’ve pulled out.”
The Hyena crunched to a halt on the roadway above him and rocked on its springs,
ridiculous with its high mine-proofed body. The tinny sound of the radio demanded
information about the contact; Sunray, back in base camp, fretting over his microphone.
Grant carefully set the safety catch, laid down his rifle, and sat on the edge of the road
with his feet in the ditch, staring at the minefield. Johan pulled out cigarettes and offered them
round. Grant refused, then changed his mind. He’d stopped a couple of years ago, but the
tremors were starting in his legs and he needed the nicotine hit. He sucked in smoke as the
shakes began.
Johan had told him about that, too. Shock. Coming down from an adrenaline high.
You could get hooked on adrenaline. Some men did.
Grant wiped cold sweat from his forehead. Not for him. Once was enough.
Early next morning the follow-up team with their tracker and dog flew in by helicopter, went
straight to the ambush site and set off through the bush. Then Grant’s stick was back to the
grind of road patrol, hour upon hour of walking and watching and baking slowly in the dust
and heat. And, incredibly, it became boring again.
After seven days in fly camp they rotated back to base.
Every morning they lined up at one end of the runway, spread out across its width, and
walked to the far end. The nest was still on the runway, untouched. Each morning they
checked on the progress of the eggs and the chicks. It was a welcome distraction from the
war.
“I still think it’s a bloody stupid place to build a nest,” said Jocko.
The morning they were due to return home, one chick was missing from the nest.
“Bloody snake,” said Ben Gunn. “Bastard got the poor wee chick.”
“No,” said Johan. He pointed at some marks in the red dust. “There’s the snake’s
track. It heads for the nest, then veers off that way. And there’s the marks of the mother bird’s
wings as she drags herself pathetically just ahead of the snake. And there,” he flicked the end
of his cigarette a few yards further on, “Is where she takes off, leaving the snake mad as hell,
and hungry, and confused.”
“So one chick has left the nest already, the mother is successful, and the snake has to
find something else to eat,” said Cristos. “AWA. Africa Wins Again.
He waved them into line. “Walk on.”
“Tune in, my sons” said Johan. “There’s still a war on. Watch and listen.”
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