When two lives collide, p.21
When Two Lives Collide, page 21
“We’ll keep at 500 feet for short while then take her up to a thousand. Want to keep out of visibility.” Gelda informed as though to a stranger she’d never met as we floated eerily through early morning mists, covering patches of the Southern Rhodesian low lands.
“When we get to the airstrip, your man will be waiting. No time for small talk Mike, collect the package and we dash back across the border, understood?”
A reply was unnecessary. For what I thought to be a simple postal job was now turning into an undercover mission, with rapidly increasing inherent risks. Even the nocturnal pleasures provided by my pilot could not compensate for risking my life. Now back at one thousand feet, the rolling countryside was forming a pattern. Below the expanses of once productive fields began to show an increasing state of inactivity. Once the bread basket of Africa, now turning to an endless dust bath. Wherever Gelda practiced her art as a pilot, she was expert in unconventional unlogged flight plans. I felt a growing sense of a pilot, well experienced in low level clandestine flight patterns.
As though attracted by magnetism, the farm strip showed up dead ahead. Two marker drums had been placed at the farthest end of the strip indicating its limit. Gelda had no intention of a formal circuit approach, diving in from under five hundred feet to touch down using less than half the available runway.
Alongside the approach to the runway, parked near the wide expanse of woodland we had skimmed close on approach was an open top Series 1 Land Rover. Its driver standing in its open back, waving at Gelda to aim the Piper in his direction.
“Mike, behind your seat, bring the canvas bag,” Gelda ordered, as she closed down the Piper’s twin engines. “We’ve got little time; let’s get moving.”
Gelda moved as someone trained for military insurgence ready for any eventuality. The Land Rover driver, a round-faced black man, jumped from the Land Rover snatching the canvas bag from me, pitching it into the Land Rover. As the bag crashed against the floor of the Land Rover, its zip burst open, exposing two automatic rifle, which I knew to be AK-47 assault rifles, together with several packages of ammunition. What was originally a simple courier job, had rapidly turned into something unacceptable. Ahead of us, all I could sense a quasi-military mission taking on increasingly dangerous possibilities. Urgently, I needed to understand exactly what risks we were facing. Obviously, the black driver was not our courier with a broken leg.
Gelda jumped into the back of the Land Rover, beginning what appeared to be a heated argument with the driver. Resulting with Gelda shoving him back against the cab of the Land Rover before jumping down to impart the latest stage of this increasingly hairy saga.
“OK Gelda, straight now, what the hell’s going on, now guns. Where’s our courier?” I grabbed her armed, pushing her against the Land Rover.
As I moved close to her, she was no longer the sex goddess I’d shared memorable hours with. Her back against the Land Rover, here was Gelda the front line fighter, Gelda the mercenary, Gelda the pilot. Gelda who’d taken her pleasure from me, prior to preparing for the probability of a fire fight, which now looked to be now on the horizon.
“Get in the fuckin’ truck, he’s taking us to the courier. Used one of these before?” she pulled the two AK-47s from the torn bag, which also contained two canvas ammunition belts.
“Just do as I say Mike and all will be well, just a couple of miles to the pickup. Now get yourself fixed up with the gun.” With that she expertly tested the gun’s mechanism, before belting up with a fully-loaded ammunition belt.
Our transport, the aging Land Rover, jolted along the dust track within the cover of the wooded area, adjacent to the runway. Nothing further was discussed as we left cover, continuing on a rutted dust track. Whatever danger Gelda had brought us into, there was a feeling her interest was growing to face a fire fight head on. I could almost smell the excitement oozing from her magnificent structure. This was a woman who lived life with all its available dangers on parade whilst pushing physical pleasures to the absolute limit.
I had spent several years training aging British Territorial reservists, the indelicate arts of unarmed combat. Much of my training honed by Special Forces units, occasionally amongst the Brecon Beacons, or the wide open spaces of Exmoor. On many rain soaked weekends, I’d passed on my skills to reservists during manoeuvres to rekindle their fading military proficiency. Although understanding a wide range of weapons, I had yet to fire live weapons against a real foe. Unlike Gelda, I knew how and when to sense danger; unlike the cavalier attitude towards danger expressed by Gelda. Already her behaviour was beginning to scare me.
After a short time, the Land Rover bumped from the potholed track into open bush, immediately losing our cover. No more than a mile distant, farm buildings came into view. As we approached, there were no obvious signs of the farm’s inhabitants. Within fifty yards of the farm buildings, our line of sight brought into view a single storey farm house. Outside, stood another Series 1 open back Land Rover. Making no comment, our driver stopped our Land Rover alongside the other. Like a frightened animal, he leapt from the driver’s seat, scampering away without comment, hurrying toward the apparent safety of the farm buildings.
“Come quickly…inside,” Gelda urged. “Let’s find your man and get out of here.”
Like many colonial style farm houses, a full length veranda extended the front of the house. Along which rattan chairs had been arranged, set up for groups to meet, shaded from the African sun. A mesh-netted outer mosquito door was secured shut, leaving the glass inner door open to allow the flow of clear air into the un-air-conditioned property. Once through the inner door, it opened into a corridor that extended towards what appeared to be a kitchen, leading towards the back of the house.
With our AK-47s raised ready for potential danger, Gelda pushed ahead as she aimed towards the kitchen. As we approached, we became aware of moaning together with scratching of wood on wood. Gelda pushed fully open the kitchen door rushing forward, AK-47 cocked ready for action. Directly ahead, taped to a kitchen chair with heavy silver duct tape was an overweight grey-haired white man. His clothes ripped away, hanging in shreds, dried blood covering most of his face. More duct tape was crudely affixed over his mouth, so tight forcing his cheeks to distort. I grabbed a knife from a drawer in a painted Welsh Dresser, gently easing the duct tape away from his mouth; entering the knife carefully between skin and tape.
“For Christ sake get out, they’re still around,” our contact gasped, “the package is under the plates on the dresser…now take it and get out. Forget me, I’m on a PATU list, so I’m dead. Now go. Listen my friend, those papers are dynamite. It’ll blow open where the money’s disappeared too and much more. Now for Christ sake go, and young man, don’t trust anyone, they’ve all got their trotters in the trough—now go, please!”
I moved to the dresser and began opening the doors searching for the plates and a package that had already caused so much grief. Eventually behind a pile of soup bowls, there was what I assumed to be what all the fuss was about. Maybe twenty or thirty lose pages, just loosely stuffed in the back of the cupboard. There was no package, no envelope, just a random selection of what appeared to be bonds and bank statements.
“For Christ sake, fuckin’ get out of here. I can’t move; they’ve already broken my legs—now go,” the badly beaten contact screamed.
Outside, the sounds of a powerful engine roared towards the house. A mixture of excited voices screamed out, swamping the sounds from the approaching vehicle. Gelda moved from the kitchen at lightning speed, back towards the front of the house. It appeared my task was in reach. If my contact, now freed but still sitting as though affixed to the chair, was to be believed what I’d just collected was worth the fire fight and certainly his life.
“Mike, it’s a Tusker with a least six PATU. I’ll deal with them,” Gelda screamed as she began pumping away at the approaching Tusker.
Four died, following her first well placed fusillade from her hidden position within the house. With unidentified incoming fire, the Tusker driver swung the converted Land Rover away from the house towards the double doors of the farm building. Not considering the outcome, the Tusker crashed through, broken timber showering in all directions. At the front of the house, Gelda continued blasting away, ensuring the PATU were under the utmost pressure.
“This way my friends,” the wounded courier shouted from the kitchen. “There’s an old truck in the hay barn at the back of the house. Keys are under the driver’s seat. In the cupboard, just there give me the shotgun, then go……please. Don’t let those bastards get the papers Mr Gilbride; its dynamite.”
I stared at him as I stuffed the crumpled documents inside my shirt, shocked that he knew my name. I had to understand what he knew and exactly who he was. As I moved towards our contact, Gelda grabbed me. With extraordinary strength she hauled me towards the backdoor, aware the courier was one hundred percent correct. He was a dead man, and if we wished to survive, his truck was the only escape. As requested, I tossed the double-barrelled shotgun with a box of cartridges in front of our un-named contact. Nothing more could be said. Gelda was away through the backdoor and already thirty yards ahead before I exited the house. Gelda made it first to the truck parked out of sight, under a Dutch Barn which was half-filled with hay bales. As I clambered into the truck, its engine was already running. Behind us, the contact’s house exploded in a fire ball; the blast rattling against the corrugated tin of the Dutch Barn.
No response was needed. My only consideration after the bloody fire fight was to make it safely back to the Piper. I glared into her eyes which conveyed sufficient fear to trigger Gelda back into action. As the truck bounced its way out from the cover of the woodland, the airstrip came into view. Our Piper stood waiting our approach. At present, luck seemed to be riding with us. There appeared to be no further PATU patrols following us. Close by the Piper, Gelda aimed for a small opening into another group of trees, sufficiently wide to park the truck out of sight.
Fully aware of the potential dangers, we ran from the truck to the Piper. As we pulled open the doors, we heard the sound we had been dreading. A heavy vehicle approaching through the trees at high speed. With the cavalry arriving, pre-fight checks were abandoned as Gelda fired the Piper into action. Its wheels quickly moving as the propeller speed reached optimum revolutions. Wind speed directions irrelevant now, our only thoughts to hit the start of the grass runway as fast as possible. As the Piper gained ground speed, it was obvious the available runway was fast running out; our chance of rotation before hitting the bushes already looking decidedly improbable.
Just ahead, rushing from the wood, another Tusker carrying yet more PATU soldiers burst into view. Being a sealed unit, the Tusker having no windows, the driver was forced to stop, allowing his comrades to prepare their attack on the escaping aircraft. Even worse, the driver having discharged his gunmen made the decision to continue across the runway.
Knowing every effort to rotate was required. I grabbed the dual controls. Together we strained against the trembling joysticks as the Piper struggled to achieve rotation. Eventually, our landing gear eased from the runway. Now on an imminent collision course, forcing the petrified driver to throw himself from the moving Tusker. As we gained height, one of our port landing wheels bounced off the roof of the driverless Tusker. Soaking with sweat, I glanced across at Gelda who smiled back before collapsing against the joystick. Blood already pumping from a bullet hole through her right shoulder, another having grazing her temple. Now unconscious from her wounds, Gelda slumped sideways as our climb flattened out. Before I could pull her off the joystick, I could feel the Piper beginning a spiralling descent. Gelda’s left foot now wedged against the left rudder control.
“I can assist,” a cultured African voice came from behind my seat. “Let me pull her back, I’ll find something to retain her,” the voice commanded. “You concentrate on flying us out of here.”
With Gelda secured against her seat, with her left leg secured back from the pedal, I was able to level out and continue our climb. I now had control, taking the Piper to a little over two thousand feet and south back towards the South African border.
“Please let me introduce myself. Edwin Mullato, senior member of the main black opposition party, seeking a lift to South Africa. Sure you don’t mind?”
From his rear seat, my unscheduled passenger continued to explain how he was seeking to assemble a group of mercenaries. His plan that these brave soldiers of fortune would train his country’s inexperienced freedom fighters. That he’d heard of such a group now working in the many seedy bars and unregulated security firms in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth. As I levelled the Piper off at our cruise height, I could once again see in the distance the gentle curve of the Limpopo. It felt we had crossed the river border a lifetime ago. Eventually Gelda regained consciousness as Edwin cut away her blood soaked clothing and stemmed the flow of blood with two tight sterile bandages from the aircraft’s first aid kit.
I was flying a course directly south, having crossed the Limpopo without any navigational aids and in total radio silence. I needed help as the endless bush offered up no visual assistance. Daylight was beginning to fade with the sun slowly seeking to hide in the western sky. In the distance, light from an unknown township held small hope that I could find somewhere to land the Piper before darkness cloaked the night.
“English pilots, no use,” Gelda’s breathy words came as a surprise. “Turn twenty degrees to port pilot, then I’ll talk you in,” her voice fading. “Twenty minutes, maybe less. Can you keep me alive that long?” she smiled. I touched her hand returning her smile, knowing we now had a reasonable chance of landing safely.
I pulled the Piper within twenty yards of her brother’s Nissen hut. By the time we landed, Gelda had slipped back again into unconsciousness. Her brother laid Gelda out on the double bed she had shared with me the previous night. Stored away within his personal quarters, Thomas located a large box emblazoned with a red cross.
“If I can please, I’m not a medical doctor, but I was trained as dental surgeon, so I’m sure I can help the lady. Now if you please,” Edwin smiled easing us away from his patient.
Throughout the night, Gelda brushed between consciousnesses. Sometimes calling out in an indecipherable tongue, then silence would reign as she collapsed back into a deep sleep. Thomas knew finding medical help through the night was impossible. Medical facilities in Louis Trichardt were limited and certainly not available after six in the evening. Moving Gelda to Pretoria General Hospital was at least a three hour drive, facing uncertain roads after dark. Moving her at present could prove detrimental to her health, as many of the roads were no more than tracks, before making it safely to the main highway south.
Edwin never left Gelda’s side for one minute throughout the night, making the most of the limited contents from Thomas’s emergency medical box. As the African sun brought light and fresh hope, Gelda slept on having ceased chanting obscure and sometimes obscene ramblings. No one slept; Gelda being our priority, all aware that a pilot carrying fresh gunshot wounds would cause unwanted questions to be asked of the authorities.
As the sun warmed the dusty ground around Thomas’s rusting Nissen hut, Thomas and I took a stroll together. Both of us seeking solace from the medical odour pervading throughout the hut. It was clear, we both needed to carefully consider our present predicament. Apart from keeping Gelda out of sight whilst she healed sufficiently to be moved, somehow the flight record of Gelda’s Piper must be modified. Having discussed the conundrum with Thomas, he smiled at me, his face expressing gratitude and amusement. Thomas would accurately fudge a flight plan, proving beyond doubt the Piper had never left his airfield. He could easily feign mechanical problems which would leave all in the clear.
However, Edwin was another topic, which Thomas refused adamantly to be drawn into. Left together, Edwin rapidly allayed Thomas’s concerns explaining he had no intention of calling for refugee status. For those controlling South Africa, friends of Ian Smith, had little sympathy with political dissidents attempting to destabilise a friendly country. Edwin explained his plans were to make it back to the States, from where he would continue raising awareness of the fight against Ian Smith’s illegal regime.
I had already flown the twin engine Piper back from our ill-fated escapade several hundred miles north into alien territory. How events would have panned out without Gelda’s guidance whilst she lapsed between reality and unconsciousness was impossible to calculate. But there were further complications after checking the aircraft. Seven bullet holes had penetrated the under belly of the port side. Four bullets had exited through the upper port side of the fuselage, two wounding Gelda on route. A further bullet was now resting somewhere within the bodywork or maybe the engine compartment. Fortunately, all seven shots missed the fuel tank, which would have terminated our mission within hostile territory. Gelda and her aircraft could not be parted or left with Thomas at his wilderness airfield. My decision was simple. Once Edwin decided she could walk, I’d fly her back to her home airstrip on the western outskirts of Johannesburg.
For three days, Thomas dealt with several flights arriving at his grass air strip. Ensuring that refuelling was dealt with swiftly, leaving no opportunity for air crew or passengers to dawdle around his airstrip. Thomas kept his guests discreetly and carefully hidden away from his passing customers. On the fourth day, Edwin was satisfied with Gelda’s progress. With obvious care, Edwin helped her from bed, assisting her to take her first steps since her lucky escape with death. We all watched, as eventually unaided, Gelda walked slowly the fifty yards to her deserted Piper. Gelda stroked the damaged skin of her precious aircraft, running her long brown fingers along the damage taken from hostile fire. For some time, Gelda wandered the length of the fuselage, peering closely for signs of further damage. Satisfied with her inspection, wearing a broad smile, she eventually wandered back to join us. Nothing was said as she edged past us, mouthing “thank you” as a collective gesture to us all.
