Stories by Roger Barnes

[John Dean]

Roger Barnes left school before he reached 15. He writes: “I was the kid who was always last to be picked for the football team, you know the one; he had to carry the jumpers for the goalposts, that was me.

“My working life started when I was about thirteen, all the other kids had paper rounds, I worked two hours a night grinding shears. My first real job was as a trainee wireman, followed by a Young Postman, telegram messenger boy to you.

“Then it was a stint in the Army, where the only fighting I saw was on a Friday and Saturday night, then a heavy plant fitter and subsequently a Steel Mill Superintendent.

“A career move to a company supplying the furniture industry followed. Finishing as Operations Director, which provided the background to start my own company. At present I’m Taxi driver, after become a victim of the credit crunch.

“During this rather chequered life, I’ve gained a very understanding wife, and two fantastic children.

“My hobbies and interests include building a model railway, collecting stuffed animals (all road kill victims) which caused a fair amount of consternation when the children were younger, and having sleepovers, and their friends woke during the night to find the room crawling with Badgers, Foxes, and Hedgehogs.”

KEEPERS

The heat was already shimmering off the tarmac as Jacob Lomsela slowly drove his dusty battered Land Rover into Windhoek International Airport. After parking at the short stay car park, he strolled in to the air-conditioned arrivals lounge, looked at the overhead screens and noted British Airways flight BA 2395 from Heathrow was on time and due to land at 08.45. He had arranged to meet his friend Andrew Matheson in the arrivals lounge. Time for a coffee and catch up with the news from one of the national dailies. He collected a complimentary copy of “Africa Today” and made his way to the seating area and thought about Andrew.

They had met in the late 1980’s when he had been a Guerrilla Commander in the Namibian Army fighting the South African Defence Force for Independence from South Africa. For Andrew it was his first assignment as a junior war correspondent for a London broadsheet – a profession he’d taken up after being invalided out of the Army at the young age of 22.

It was an unlikely friendship and over the years had deepened and blossomed. His visits had become an almost annual ritual, coming out to write follow up articles of the war’s long aftermath, and for them to go walking and climbing together.

Andrew’s flight landed at Windhoek twenty minutes early, walking in to arrivals he spotted Jacob immediately. He was difficult to miss standing so much taller than most people. As their eyes met, Jacob’s lit up, and the men shook hands warmly.

Putting his holdall in the Rover, Andrew was not surprised to see coiled climbing ropes and camping equipment. Before driving off Jacob said, “I’m going to take you to a rather unusual place in Damaraland its 150 miles and should take about five hours, camp overnight, then back to civilisation and hot showers tomorrow night. Ok with you?”

“Sounds great to me”.

As they drove, Jacob kept up a running commentary. “If you look to your left you can see The Brandberg, which is its official name. I prefer the Bushman one – Fire Mountain – because at sunset it reflects the sun and glows. It is also Namibia’s highest peak and well known for its rock paintings.” He continued, “A hundred metres ahead are two red boulders and they mark the start of the trail we use.” It wound its way on to the crest of a hill where Jacob asked him to stop. Below an immense crater at the centre a huge egg shaped rock. Looking towards it he was struck by the eerily panorama of desolation surrounding them.

The track in to the crater was narrow with a drop one side, at the bottom it was a relief to be back on flat sand. Reaching the rock Andrew saw it was black basalt, its surface polished smooth by windblown sand. Jacob slowed to a walking pace studying the face intently as he drove. Eventually he stopped and said smiling, “We’re here.” The only difference Andrew could see was it had small luminous green flecks in it, as an experienced climber he went and examined the face and saw no hand holds anywhere. Jacob collected rucksacks, then fetched a climbing rope and laid it carefully on top. Andrew turned back and saw Jacob putting on climbing boots and thought perhaps he’d better do the same, not that he could see where they’d be climbing.

Jacob looked across and said, “It is not as bad as it looks”.

“Ok, I believe you,” he replied smiling.

“I’ll go up first then throw the rope down, and then if you tie on the rucksacks, I’ll pull them up. It is only about a 30 foot climb”. Jacob put the rope over his shoulder and went to the face. Andrew watched fascinated as he stood in front of a long green fleck put his hands 12 inches either side then slowly slide them up, all the time feeling for something. Suddenly the fingers of his right hand disappeared in to the rock, and then his left did the same.

Andrew watched his body tense as he lifted himself of the ground using only his arms, watched him support all his weight on his right, then move his left upwards, searching for the next hold. He watched this series of manoeuvres repeated several times until Jacob was able to put his right boot in what had been the first handhold. Then it became like climbing a ladder.

He realised the handholds were small pockets in the rock, and because the face inclined inwards and the first were above eye level, if you didn’t know it would be impossible to see or find them. The question in his mind was how Jacob knew.

One second Jacob’s was on the face, and the next was gone. His head appeared over a ledge and he called out. “You ok down there Andrew”

He waved back.

“Ok, I’ll throw the rope down; can you tie the first load on?” Andrew did as asked and repeated it a second time. Jacob asked if he wanted to rope-up himself. He declined as much because he now understood the technique to use and out of pride. Jacob was twenty-five years older than he was and if he could do it, he was bloody sure he could. It was sheer brute force requiring no finesse at all. It ended at a ledge cut in to the face and slopping inwards under an overhang, which like the handholds, meant it was impossible to see from ground level. Jacob passed him a bottle of water and said, “Like most things in life, it is easy when you know how”.

They left the ledge on a narrow path that threaded upwards, seeming to pass through the rock itself. Andrew saw it was following a natural fault line, until realising parts had man-made steps cut in to it, and wondered who had cut them and more importantly, why. The path ended at a circular patch of pure white sand he estimated about 15 meters in diameter, surrounded by a continuous rock wall, and was immediately struck by the solitude. Looking closely he saw the sand was pristine, not a mark or footprint anywhere. It was as if nothing had ever disturbed its surface.

Jacob stood next to him and said smiling, “Give me your rucksack I’ll sort it out while you look round. Do not worry; the sand’s quire safe to walk on”. He took both rucksacks and Andrew watched him walk to a cleft at the other side, and saw near it a ring of stones he assumed was a hearth. He looked up at the wall, covered in paintings and carvings, of animals, fish, birds and even insects. He walked slowly, overawed by the beauty, the colour and the detail. He stopped to admire a painting of a giant Dragonfly the blue and green colours iridescent in the sunlight. The detail exquisite, he could easily imagine its fragile wings start to beat and flying of the rock.

Some animals he recognised, a few he’d seen at zoos but a lot were alien to him. He recognised a Woolly Mammoth from a book at school, and tried to remember when they became extinct. He continued his slow walk, this section mainly carvings, some painted to highlight details. One a life-size Crocodile, but it might have been an Alligator he’d could never to tell the difference was so realistic he subconsciously shied away as he passed.

He remembered reading about other cave paintings, including the ones on Fire Mountain Jacob had mentioned, and knew they were nowhere near as well preserved or detailed as these were. He looked up at the wall and saw it sloped slightly inwards, and wondered if that stopped direct sunlight playing on the paintings and that helped preserve them.

He walked back to Jacob, who passed him a bottle of water and suggested he sit on the sand, humorously apologising for the lack of chairs. Then watched him enter the cleft and come out carrying a smoke blackened clay bowl and two crude cups. He picked up a bag of wood shavings; put a handful between two flat rocks inside the circular hearth, then added twigs and small branches. Once alight Jacob put the bowl on the rocks and filled it with water from a plastic bottle, and while it was boiling said, “I expect you have one or two questions you’d like to ask”.

Andrew thought that was probably the most masterly understatement he’d ever heard, and said, “I think it’s more a case of where to start, not what to ask”.

Jacob smiled. “I can anticipate some of them. I imagine they will be much the same as mine when I first came here. But I must warn you, some I won’t be able to answer”.

“Ok. How did you find this place? It’s not the sort of place you stumble on by accident, is it?”

“My father brought me on my twelfth birthday, as his father had, and his father before him. How far it all goes back, your guess is as good as mine. The way he told it, it has been happening for always, but who really knows?”

The water was now boiling and he picked up brown paper bag, put a handful of tea in the cups and filled them with water, apologised for not having milk or sugar and continued speaking, “This is the third time I’ve been here. The second was after my father was taken by the SADF and murdered. I came here to think and decide what to do, it’s good to come and think here.”

Andrew looking round asked. “What is this place?”

“I’m sorry, that’s one question I can’t answer. I simply just don’t know”.

“You must have some idea, or at least thought about it”.

“Yes I have many, many times. All I can tell you is, it once came up in a conversation I had with an old San Bushman and somehow he knew I had been here. I get by speaking San but I am not fluent, the best I understood, he called it a gateway.

He now stood, went in to the cleft, returned with two small lamps, filled them with oil, lit and passed one to Andrew then led the way back in to the cleft. It opened in to a cave, large enough to lose the light and from the echoing of their voices Andrew reckoned it must be big. Like the wall outside it was adorned with pictures and carvings, and he wondered how high they went and how the artists had painted in such detail using only lamp light. He asked Jacob if he had ever explored the cave or brought in a torch or a camera.

He replied, “I brought a torch once but it wouldn't work, just like my camera didn’t”.

Andrew could hear the slow steady drip of water. Jacob held up his lamp and he saw a tiny pool, water dripping in from somewhere in the roof, beside it two small beakers. They made their way outside, the light already fading. Jacob collected camping mats and blankets and took them in to the cave, laying them either side of the entrance. He came back, sat near the fire and they continued talking. After an hour Jacob stood, relit a lamp and went back in the cave. He returned carrying the two beakers, passing one to Andrew said, “A nightcap complements of the house”. Andrew sipped the contents. It was water with a slightly metallic salty taste, he supposed from passing though rock. Jacob finished his and still holding the lamp, said he was off to bed, and Andrew followed.

* * *

He was woken by the dawn light reflecting off the sand on to his face. Jacob was still in shadow and his breathing continued evenly as he slept on. He dressed, went outside and saw the fire still smouldering which surprised him, put on more wood, added the bowl, filled it with water, put tea in two cups and sat watching the flames. And that was when he began to remember...

At first he couldn’t work out what he was remembering, nobody really remembers dreams, but he was remembering something. The difficulty was accepting it was only a dream, he could remember it all with such vivid clarity.

He could remember the feel of the sun on his neck, the smell of the dust, even the breeze on his face. He remembered walking through long grass, some of it waist high, and an old stunted Baobab tree. He remembered climbing it and sitting amongst the branches, and now he stopped remembering and began to relive it. He watched it playing out as a mixture of a dream and watching a film at a cinema, and now could not distinguish between the dream, the film, or reality.

He felt the tree shake as the ground beneath began to tremble and in the distance saw a dark shadow crossing the landscape, recognising an immense herd of elephants, stretching from one side of the horizon to the other. He watched this river of elephants for two days and a night as it flowed beneath him, and thought it must combine every animal ever born. He watched them eat the lush grass, defecate, and tread the manure in, ready to fertilise the land when the rains came.

The river became a trickle and the last animal came in to view. It was old and limping, surrounded by Bushmen firing small arrows and throwing spears. Eventually it fell and a Tribal Elder went to it. He drew a long bladed knife and talking quietly, felt for its neck and then as the tribe watched and started a haunting chant, he brought the knife down and its life blood flowed into the earth. The tribe had honoured its dying and he saw its spirit leave on its final journey heavenwards.

The carcass became a hive of activity – men butchering it, women putting the meat on racks and children collecting dry elephant dung. This was lit and the resulting hot smoke cooked and preserved the meat. He saw choice cuts of raw offal sliced and given to children and the older generation, males and females alike and slowly the carcass disappeared. When the meat was removed, the bones were worked into tools, spear points and arrow heads. Beads and bangles made from teeth and the ivory becoming ornate jewellery and trinkets. When everything had been used the group left, continuing their endless quest for food.

From his perch in the tree Matheson watched the summer pass, the grass gone leaving only an arid dusty plain. It ended with the crash of thunder and vivid streaks of lightning criss-crossing the landscape announcing the start of the short but violent rainy season. Rain lashed the landscape with a vengeance, the water refreshing the dry earth and washing the Elephant dung in and revitalising it. He watched the first green shoots of spring develop in to the lush grasslands he had walked through the previous year. And he watched the seasons pass and the years go by.

He felt again the familiar feel of the tree shaking, and watched with pleasure the returning elephants, but realised something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t a river led by a magnificent beast with long tusks denoting its age and stature, it was a small stream led by an emaciated animal too young and inexperienced to be leading even this small herd.

In less than half a day he saw the last of the herd approaching, but this time there were no Bushmen following with spears and arrows. Only white men armed with high powered rifles indiscriminately slaughtering it. He watched animals fall, and men hack out the tusks with bloody machetes often before the animals were even dead, leaving the bodies to rot and pollute the ground where they lay.

He watched the summer pass, and again the rains came and with it the start of spring. And where the animals had died nothing grew, just patches of bare earth marking their graves. The years passed and the patches joined and became one. Slowly it became a desert and nothing grew. Then the rains stopped, and it was almost over.

He kept looking for the herd but it never came again. All that did come was one immature animal, pursed by men in helicopters with machine guns that blasted and killed it. One landed and a man in uniform got out, walked up to it, looked down at the small tusks and contemptuously kicked it, returned and took off, it was over.

He was startled back to reality as a shadow passed and saw Jacob standing there, looking down at him he said, “You slept well my friend, but I suspect the morning has brought more questions than answers”. Andrew looked at the bowl he’d filled with water, realised it had boiled dry and wondered how long he’d been sat there. He continued to say nothing trying to collect his thoughts, then looked up at Jacob and asked hesitantly, “When you’ve been here have you ever had... had odd dreams that border on reality?”

Jacob ignoring the question began to pack up their gear and said, “We need to make a move. I’d like to get back in daylight we can talk on the way”. Reaching the face Jacob lowered the rucksacks, and then climbed down. Andrew following easily, now he could see the handholds.

By the time he arrived at the base, Jacob had recoiled the rope and put it and the rucksacks in to the pickup and getting in the driving seat. Andrew took one last look up at the face and also got in, expecting him to drive off after his comments about wanting to get back. But he just sat there looking out the windscreen, and then he turned and said, “There is something I have to tell you. When I first came here my father told me I would eventually have to pass on the knowledge of this place to somebody honourable and trustworthy. I have chosen you to be that recipient”.

He was shocked and it showed when he replied, “You are joking? Don’t be bloody silly. I’m not family, I’m not African, and in case you hadn’t noticed I’m not even the same colour?”

Jacob smiled at this last comment and replied, “I had noticed and it’s of no consequence. What is, is you are an honourable man, not prone to irrational actions and keeps a secret. It is not the colour of a man’s skin that’s important, but what is inside”. He was speechless. He had just been praised by somebody he admired and respected, and keeping it a secret wouldn’t be a problem, he doubted he could find it again anyway even if he wanted to. If he was truthful the dammed place frightened him.

Jacob saw his concern smiled and added, “One day you too will have to pass it on, but for the time being you’re its Keeper. Trust me when I say there is nothing to be frightened of here, it is just a little strange at first.” With that they headed back to civilisation.

* * *

After the two men left, a diminutive figure emerged from the cave where he had taken refuge when he sensed them coming. He was dressed in a worn hessian sack found during his wanderings. Then using a flint knife had cut three holes and now wore to protect his bent and tortured body against the ravages of the endless sun. His wizened face and thin creased arms burnished black by windblown desert sand.

As always, he was carrying his few possessions in a canvas satchel, and using a wooden staff to help him cross to the stone hearth; his bare feet leaving no impressions at his passing. He saw the men had carelessly left a small fire burning, so sat against the rock, put on a few twigs and let the smoke gently waft up enjoying the fragrance, long since having any need of fire for warmth.

Where he sat the sand was marked by the boots of the men, as he looked at each desecration the grains moved as if of their own accord and the prints slowly dissolved and disappeared. Before leaving if they had been more observant they might have noticed where he sat was polished smooth by the constant rubbing of the sack, as he eternally stood and left with the setting sun, returning as it rose each morning, to sit again and rest from his labours.

He has been doing this since the dawn of time, when Africa was the birthplace of mankind and the cradle of humanity. Each night he roamed this land, forever searching for the souls and spirits of his charges.

For eternity he had guided those that die of disease or old age, or now more tragically needlessly slaughtered by man, to The Sanctuary, where at night they become the tiny pinpricks of light mankind believes are stars. But he knows are not, for he knows the truth.

The Old Man watched night approach, stood, went to the cave and exchanged the hessian sack and staff for a black cape and a scythe, which is what he wears and carries on his forays into the night. On the rare occasions he is seen by man, they call him Death, which like their belief in the stars is also mistaken.

For he is The Guardian, who guides and protects the spirits and souls of his beloved departed charges – the animals, the birds, the fish and the insects, that over the eons he saves and depicts on the walls of this strange, desolate and beautiful place.

[John Dean]

A SPRIG OF SHAMROCK by Roger Barnes
Dawn broke and Kevin McVeigh heard footsteps echoing down the stone corridor towards his cell, the light slanting through the bars forming stripes of shadow across the cold floor. He heard a key in the lock. The heavy steel door slowly opened and Warden Anderson came in. Kevin had known for two years this day would eventually come. Anderson said, ‘It’s almost over McVeigh, you’ll soon be free’.
Kevin stood and thought about his family: his wife Siobhan and the children. Little dark haired Megan, so like her mother and baby Dewey who’d been born after he’d been sentenced and saw only when the Prison Authorities allowed Siobhan to bring him on her monthly visit. He knew they, and his parents would be at the gate to welcome him when he went home.
Now walking down the damp stone corridor, accompanied by the Warden and flanked by two Prison Guards he thought back to what had brought him here, and the inevitability of the consequences. After his older brother Liam was murdered by the Black and Tans, the mantle of family responsibility and the demand for revenge had fallen squarely on his shoulders. He’d joined the same Command as his brother and over the years worked his way up to Brigade Commander and that was when the Brit bastards put a price on his head, and he’d gone in to hiding.
Continuing down the corridor, prisoners in the cells called out encouragement, ‘Good on you Kevin, you showed the bastards’. ‘You did the right thing mate’. Approaching the last cell he slowed and the guards moved closer, but Warden Anderson with a slight shake of his head motioned them back. This prisoner was older than most of the men here. He was Kevin’s mother’s brother, Uncle Seamus. As the two men looked at the other, both smiled and then Seamus said, ‘Well lad it’s almost over. When you get home give our Morag my love and your father my best. Tell them I’ll be seeing them soon’.
Approaching the door to the prison yard, Kevin thought back to when he was on the run and seeing little of Siobhan or Megan. He’d arranged to meet them in Glasgow for a few days, a city with a large Irish population so they’d go unnoticed. And that was when he first met Major Hackworth.
Kevin was under no illusions, as the campaign for independence intensified and the atrocities – as the press called them – increased, the bounty for his capture mounted. He knew it was only a matter of time before the temptation would be too great and somebody became an informer. But he had not expected it to happen in Glasgow. Few people even knew he was there. Going for a drink one night on his own and away from the fighting his defences were down, so he didn’t notice the four men approaching, but did when a gun was pushed in his side.
“Don’t do anything stupid McVeigh, just get in the car”. He’d been forced into the back of a large black saloon. Two men in the front covered him with pistols. In the back was Major James Hackworth. He was a tall man, with a thin face, a cut glass accent and a manner that could best be described as languid. He said, ‘Ahh, McVeigh. Good of you to join me. Perhaps I should explain why we need this little chat. Your misguided campaign of civil disobedience is causing embarrassment to HMG in London and, for my sins I’ve been given the job of stopping it. In the short term the easy way would be just too eliminate the likes of you, but as I said that would only be short term. I’m looking for something more permanent.
What I want from you is a list of the Army Council and Brigade Commanders, is that simple enough for you? If you choose not to help, then, shall we say an unfortunate “accident” might happen to your family, I trust I’m making myself clear? You have five days and then I want that list. When you have it, contact me on this number. You can go McVeigh, remember five days’.
The men in the front waved their pistols at the door, Kevin had not spoken a word. After leaving the car, he still went for that drink and thought long and hard about what to do. Somebody had betrayed him. So without telling anybody he took Siobhan and Megan to Dublin, put them in lodgings and returned to Belfast.
Seven days later a friend called to tell him his parents were dead. Killed the authorities said by an accidental gas explosion at their home in Londonderry. Kevin didn’t believe a word of it.
It was cold in the Prison Yard and he was shivering, dressed only in a thin prison uniform. Looking across at the eleven men standing opposite he wondered what they were thinking. He’d thought long and hard about his parents’ murder – for that was what it was – sheer bloody murder. The decision made, he contacted Hackworth and said he had the information. A meeting was duly arranged.
Arriving at the rendezvous two hours before it was to take place he saw Hackworth’s protection team getting into position an hour later. At the appointed time, the same black saloon as previously pulled up to the kerb. Three men in uniform got out and took up station nearby. Kevin approached the car slowly, ensuring his hands were in view. All the soldiers had drawn guns and looked nervous. One came forward and cursorily frisked him, opened the door and motioned him in.
Kevin passed Hackworth the list, suspecting he already knew some of the names on it and had included the better known ones, the rest were fiction. Hackworth skimming it said, ‘Well done McVeigh. I’m sorry about your parents. If I were you, I’d take that pretty wife and daughter of yours and leave the country. Ok, you can go’.
Seeing the satisfaction on Hackworth’s face the two men in the front relaxed. Kevin opened the door and started to climb out, his left hand on the door, his right fumbling in his trousers pocket. Appearing to stumble slightly, with his right leg still inside the car he pulled a cord and two primed grenades fell from the bottom of his trouser leg. Now outside he slammed the door and started running desperately away from the car, zigzagging to avoid the gunfire coming from behind.
The blast from the explosion flung him to the ground, then he was back on his feet running for all he was worth. After this his reputation went cosmic, as did the price on his head and it was a foregone conclusion somebody would inform on him again. When he was caught and with the number of witnesses available, so was the Court’s sentence. Death by Hanging.
As the small procession moved towards the prison wall it was joined by an old priest, looking out of place in this cold forbidding yard. He was mumbling prayers and kept touching a small wooden Crucifix hanging round his neck, believing it would protect him from the savage brutality to come. After the sentence was passed, Kevin’s solicitor made an appeal for clemency, which not unsurprisingly was rejected. At the same hearing the Army made a request to have the sentence changed to Execution by Firing Squad, and this was approved.
Kevin intended to appeal against this ruling, and his defence team had high hopes of getting it overturned. But ten days before the hearing, Warden Anderson came and informed him, his home had been bombed and there were no survivors. Siobhan and his children were dead. After that he instructed his solicitor to drop the appeal. He didn’t care, he just wanted it over.
Approaching the wall, Kevin saw sandbags had been placed against it, no doubt to absorb the bullets. He noticed sand had leaked from holes from previous executions and the post he would be tied to was splintered and stained with dried blood.
The guards strapped him to it, supervised by the Warden. When finished they stood back and the old priest came forward to give him forgiveness and a blessing and to make the sign of the cross one last time. He too then stood back and the Warden asked, ‘Do you want the hood, McVeigh?’

Kevin shook his head. The Warden pinned a small white paper patch over Kevin’s heart then also moved away. Kevin watched the officer call his squad to attention and heard him say, speaking in the same languid tones as Hackworth, ‘Pay attention lads. In case any of you are feeling squeamish about what you’re about to do, let me remind you all, some of the rifles are loaded with blanks and that bastard murdered a fine Officer and five good men. Just think about that as you pull the trigger. And don’t miss either, or I’ll have to finish the job and we don’t want that do we? Remember the honour of the Regiment is at stake here’.
He stopped speaking and approached Kevin, Ripped the patch from his chest, replacing it with a small sprig of Shamrock and hissed. ‘Now my lads know what they’re firing at, a piece of Irish scum’.
He went back to his men, and shouted, ‘Take, A-I-M. FIRE’. Kevin heard the ragged report echoing round the yard, and realised he hadn’t been hit. The Officer walked back smiling, not seeing Warden Anderson coming up behind and hearing him say, ‘Well McVeigh, looks like it’s just you and me. I’m going to enjoy this. You see all the rounds were blanks, and it was my brother you murdered in that car. It might interest you to know the explosion that killed your parents in Derry was a genuine gas explosion and my brother had nothing to do with it. I’ll admit the one at your home was different, that little bit of handiwork was mine’.
He slowly and deliberately opened the leather holster and took out his service pistol, looked round and suggested the Warden move further away, if he didn’t want to be covered in blood and brains when he delivered the coup de grace to complete the sentence. He forced the gun barrel brutally in to Kevin’s forehead and said sneeringly, ‘May your soul rot in Hell McVeigh’ and pulled the trigger.
Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing. He continued trying to fire the gun until the Warden came, stopped him and said, ‘You’ve botched it Captain. Totally bloody botched it, guards release the prisoner’. He looked at Kevin. ‘I shall attest the sentence was duly carried out. You’re free to go Mr McVeigh’.
Kevin flexed his arms and walked towards Captain Hackworth, who stood bewildered still holding the gun. Kevin seized it, put it to the man’s head, pulled the trigger and watched him crumple to the ground. He put it to his own and on the verge of pulling the trigger when a final thought struck him. It would terrify little Megan, Siobhan and his parents if he arrived home disfigured, so put the gun against the sprig of Shamrock, and went to meet his family.
Date Line Jerusalem
A special report from our Senior Middle Eastern Correspondent
Moses El-him-pissed
It was Sunday morning; I was having my first cup of coffee and reading the horoscopes in the Jerusalem Herald when the phone buzzed. Checking the callers ID and seeing it was the Editor-in-Chief himself, I answered, “Morning Boss, how can I help”, he replied “Right son, I want you at the top of Mount Sinai, toot sweet, ok!”

“Hold on boss” I said, “it’s Sunday”.
“Toot sweet I said, and toot sweet I mean, I’ll see you there”. And with that parting shot the connection was broken. What was it my horoscope had said, a monumental day awaits you.
Arriving at Sinai, I looked up, stone me it’s a bloody long way up I thought, it’ll take hours to climb that. Then a strange thing happened, I heard a voice speaking to me, but looking round I couldn’t see anybody, but it continued to say “Get a bloody move on, I don’t have all day son”. Strangest of all it appeared to be coming from a bush that was on fire about ten yards off to my right, not possible I thought and started to climb.
Two hours later and still well less than half way up, I stopped for a drink and take a breather, and that was when the thunder and lightning started at the top, oh no I thought, not again I just don’t need this.
Eventually, after almost six hours I reached the top, hot, tired and I’ll admit in a foul mood, to find an old bearded man sitting coolly and calmly on a rock next to a pile of paving slabs. He must be going to lay a patio I thought. By way of greeting he said “You took your time I don’t have all day you know”.
“Listen pal” I said “I’ve just had a bloody awful climb and I’m knackered. I can’t just materialise when and where I want to, some of us have to do it the hard way, OK”.
“I suppose so” he said, “anyway you’re here now, better late than never, but I’ll tell you something son, this job it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, not by a long chalk. Trying to keep you lot in order and at peace with each other is a full time task in itself. It’s taking a heavy toll on me, and worst of all, not all my colleagues are singing from the same hymn sheet. These are the parts you don’t see son”

“Yer, Yer it’s a hard life. Anyway what am I doing here?”

“I’ve got some instructions for the masses, I’ve chiselled them on these tiles, I want them back to your place and published in the local rag any problems with that?”

“I’m not carrying that lot back down, why can’t you use memory sticks like everyone else?
“Because I’m not everyone else, and anyway I don’t hold with all this new fangled gadgetry.” Don’t understand it more like, I thought but kept quite.
“Right son, I’ll dictate them I assume you’ve got pad and pencil you are supposed to be a scribe”. I nodded at this insulting enquiry, and relied, “No problem Boss.”

He rabbited on for quite a while, it all seemed a bit OTT to me, and I didn’t think many people will take much notice anyway, but there you go I’m only a reporter.
“That’s it, have you got it all down son?” He asked.
“Yea no problem Boss?”

Twelve hours later the mighty presses rolled and his instructions winged their way across the awakening world.

[John Dean]

THE QUAYSIDE by Roger Barnes
Dan Swanson could smell the sea on the stiff breeze blowing up the Tyne as he stood on the balcony of the seventh floor Baltic Quay apartment. Christ its bloody cold he thought looking across the river at the Newcastle Law Courts on the opposite bank. He wished he had his old camouflage smock that would have kept the cold out – well it had when he’d been with the Task Force that went to take the Falklands back.
He looked down at the rifle that had lain in its unopened box for so long and now to be used one last time. He looked at his watch and saw it was two hours to daybreak and another three until 09.25. Show time. He pulled the fleece tighter and thought, ‘Well at least it’s not raining’. He went back inside, poured a coffee, and took out the ring binder that held the press cuttings. His Mum started collecting them when he’d joined the Parachute Regiment and began winning Medals for shooting at Bisley.
It didn’t mention his acceptance into the Regimental Sniper squad, but in the Births, Deaths, and Marriages columns it did announce his Dad’s and younger brother’s death, and his marriage to Rachel Wells six months later. She had provided more than soft words of comfort while he was on leave for the funerals. When the column announced the birth of their first daughter Emily four months after the wedding, his mother prayed nobody would work it out. Of course everybody had but just didn’t talk about it.
He’d joined the Army to leave the poverty of the docks and gaining the coveted maroon beret put the icing on the cake. He’d seen his share of fighting and was in some god-forsaken desert country when the news came. Coming off guard one morning, a mate called out, ‘Hey Geordie, the OC wants you’.
‘What for?’

‘How the hell should I know? Nobody tells me anything’.
He went to the tent that served as Troop HQ. His Sergeant said, ‘Come in lad’. The Troop Officer came straight to the point, ‘Corporal Swanson. I’m sorry to say I’ve a spot of bad news. Your father and younger brother were killed last night on the Quayside. We don’t know all the details yet, but it looks like a hit-and-run. I’m truly sorry Corporal’.
The Sergeant shepherded him out and sat him on a jerry can. Geordie couldn’t take it in. He was numb with shock and the tears he knew would come later. His father and baby bro – he was only eight for Christ’s sake. The Sergeant started speaking, not that he was making much sense. Need to go home to be with your Mum and Sister. Big Sis. Christ she’d be in bits. She doted on little Mikey. Need to help sort things out. Sort what things out? Compassionate leave, flying home with the RAF. Why was he going home?
He didn’t really hear the Sergeant tell his mate Wingnut, ‘Get Geordie’s gear together will you, and don’t leave anything behind or the bloody rag-heads will nick it’. It was all a blur. His friend packed his kit, which included pulling a wooden gun case from under the bed and putting in the Sniper Rifle he’d been issued.
The Forces are good at looking after their own in this sort of situation. Wingnut made sure he got on the plane and threw his kit to the Load Master. An Army Liaison Officer met the plane at RAF Lynham, had him escorted to Kings Cross and arranged the Military Police to meet the train at Newcastle station and take him home.
The front door was opened by an Aunt who said, ‘Thank God you’re home Geordie. Your Mam and sister are in a terrible state’. As he went in the RMP pushed the kit bag and the box into the small hall, then from behind the closing door he heard a Paratrooper start to weep.
Later Geordie took his gear to his room and unpacked the kitbag; the boxed rifle automatically went under the bed, just as it had back in the desert. Over the next weeks his mother regularly hoovered, and the box was slowly pushed towards the wall.
At the funeral Geordie met Rachel Wells a distant cousin. One thing led to another, and when his leave was over and he returned to his unit his mind was more on her and the bed, than the box under it. Realisation came when the Sergeant asked, ‘Where’s your rifle Corporal?’

‘Err, I don’t know Sarge, I left it here’.
The Sergeant filled in a chitty, an Officer signed it and the matter was closed. Two weeks later he was sent to help take back the Falkland Islands.
Corporal Geordie Swanson was part of the force that attacked and over ran the Argentinean position at Mount Longdon. An event that would change his life. He was a good soldier and an excellent sniper, but it was a job he didn’t relish as he often saw the man he was about to kill, but at 500 yards or more it wasn’t personal.
The assault on the Argentinean position at Longdon was another matter. They’d charged and secured it using bayonets and trenching tools. It had been defended by Argy recruits, some of them only about 16 and he would never forget the pleading look on the kid’s face he was about to kill. Little Mickey if he’d lived, would have been about the same age.
It was all too much for Geordie, he couldn’t bear the thought of what the boy’s mother and family would suffer if he drove that bayonet home. So he simply put the gun down and walked away. For him it was over. As a civilian he faced the age old problem – what is there in Civvy Street for an ex-army sniper? Not much, as he quickly found out.
Rachel’s brother Frank worked for Newcastle City Council and he came up trumps, getting him a job in the Refuse Collection Department. Not much, but a start. Within a year he was made a driver, later in to a Foreman and promotion to Collection Superintendent followed.
After the birth of Emily and twenty years later her marriage to Allan Hackworth and the birth their son of Jamie, little went into the scrap book until two years ago, that cutting read, ‘Child Fights for Life – A tragic accident will almost certainly put little eight year old Jamie Hackworth in a wheel chair for the rest of his life’.
The article went on, how when driving home late the previous afternoon from a Civic reception, Raymond James the Member of Parliament for North Tyneside hit a child that, as he told the police had run straight into the road. Initially he’d been charged him with Dangerous Driving, but later reduced to Careless.
After the accident nobody realised Geordie was the boy’s Grandfather. When it became the main topic of conversation in the council offices, he began hearing comments regarding the MP,
He was probably half pissed.
He likes a couple of lines at lunch time to keep him going.
He regularly plays golf with the Chief Constable you know.
I didn’t know he was so high up in the Masonic, did you?
Geordie attended the Court proceedings and watched him dressed in a smart suit and sober tie, always looking concerned and contrite. He watched him closely and when the mask slipped, the arrogance and smugness was there. He pleaded guilty and made an impassioned speech to the court of mitigating circumstances, pleading the young lad had run into the road. He’d braked and tried to avoid him. He was so, so sorry. It was simply a tragic accident and there was nothing he could have done.
The drink driving test results the prosecution intended to use as evidence unfortunately went “missing”, so were never read out in court. Found guilty he got nine points on his licence, an £800 fine, and a two month suspended sentence. ‘No wonder he looked pleased with himself’, thought Geordie. At least the driver that killed his Dad and brother had gone down.
Geordie’s first reaction was to kill the bastard, but logic prevailed and he did nothing. He began to take an interest in the man, keeping all the press cutting about him and eventually this paid off. The release in question announced Raymond James was to open a new Disabled Toilet facility in the Law Courts on the Quayside, and gave the time and date. Geordie knew the man would pause on the steps leading up to the Courts for a photo opportunity, and this would be his chance.
Dawn was breaking and he could see the Court. Its pink granite and stainless steel frontage glimmered in the early morning light. The chocolate bar wrapper he’d glued to the steps last night fluttering nicely, indicating the wind’s speed and direction at the point of aim. The range he’d found studying Google Earth at an internet café in the city.
Gaining entry to an apartment overlooking the courts had been easy. An estate agent had shown him round as a potential tenant late one afternoon. He’d come back twice more accompanied by junior assistants. On the final occasion, two days ago he told the girl his wife was coming to view it but had been delayed, so if she wanted to get away that was fine with him. As the flat was empty and she had a date that night, she agreed. As soon as she left he changed the locks, changing them back was his first job when he’d returned last night.
He looked at the rifle, later he’d weight it and drop it in the river. He had no illusions about his chances of getting away with it, but had no intention of making it easy for the Police if he could help it. When he’d viewed the apartment he’d used a false name and address and had already wiped down all the surfaces he thought he’d touched. This time when he came in he’d put on surgical gloves and was still wearing them now.
It was show time, and he picked up the rifle. Every time he and Rachel had moved house he’d taken it with them, kept it clean and didn’t think she even knew it existed. He loaded and chambered a round, opened the door to the balcony and took up the familiar prone position, the rifle protruding only slightly from the room.
He made the final adjustments to the telescopic sight for range, elevation, and wind deflection. Did the calming exercises he’d been taught at sniper school, brought his breathing under control, and waited. At 9.25 a car pulled up outside the Court, he saw the MP get out watched by a small pack of journalists.
Geordie tracked him with the scope as he ascended the granite steps, and as predicted he stood facing the reporters, flash bulbs went off and the photo opportunity ended. He watched the man turn. Time stood still as the MP walked into the building. He thought of Jamie and very gently squeezed the trigger. It was a perfect shot, and it was over.
Quickly he broke the weapon down and along with the flask and ring binder, put it in a rucksack. Taking a last look round, he left the apartment, dumped the rifle as planned and watched it sink into the muddy waters of the Tyne. Without speeding he drove to the airport and met Emily, her husband Jack and little Jamie. The airport staff helped put the specially adapted wheelchair on the flight for Tenerife.
The following afternoon, sitting in a café with a cold lager and an English newspaper Geordie read, ‘Assassination Attempt on Popular Northern MP – Yesterday morning Raymond James was shot but fortunately the killer botched it. A spokesperson at the Royal Infirmary where the MP was taken said, “His condition is stable and he should make a full recovery. He’s a very lucky man to still be alive. The bullet missed all the vital organs, but it did shatter his lower spine and pelvis”. The spokesperson added, “Mr. James will almost certainly spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair”.’

Geordie stopped reading and tore the article out. Satisfied and smiling, he put it in his wallet.

[John Dean]

DAMP SQUIB by Roger Barnes
“Take us to periscope depth Chief.”

“15 degrees incline on bow planes Coxswain.”

As the planes took effect U396 glided up through the dark freezing water of the North Atlantic. With the boat rising, the Coxswain read out the reducing depth from the Papenberg glass, this had been fitted only four weeks before she sailed on her commissioning trials in August 1943, from the Kiel Shipyards in Northern Germany.
“30 meters, 20 meters, 10 meters”, he intoned, “5 meters, Periscope depth Captain.”

“Reduce speed to three knots Chief.”

Minutes later he reported, “speed, three knots sir.”

“Up Periscope.” With a soft hiss of compressed air it quietly rose coming to rest a half meter above the surface of the icy slate grey sea, the tube throwing up a thin plume of spray. If they had surfaced faster it would have been larger, and possibly seen by ships or aircraft in the vicinity. He adjusted the lenses to maximum and rotated it through 360 degrees, scanning surface and sky, “Old habits die hard” he thought to himself. Completing the scan he called out.
“Targets 5000 meters, bearing green zero three zero.” Moments later the control room heard him mutter. “Magnificent.” He sensed the atmosphere in the boat change, the tension tangible with the crew’s realisation the mission was now operational, and easily could involve loss of life. As they pondered this, Captain Otto Phrommer picked up the microphone, clicked to transmit and said.
“This is the Captain; we have made contact with the targets, there are eighteen, not the twelve we had been expecting which means people, we will all have to work that little bit harder.” This caused a ripple of laughter through the boat as he hoped it would, and reduced the tension a little, he continued. “You, like me volunteered for this mission and for that, I thank you. Within the next few hours we will be in action again, and this could be our last time. May God bless you all.”

Still watching the targets through the attack scope, the telephone buzzed. “Control room, Captain speaking.”

“Hydrophone Operator Sir, engine sounds to port, range eighty kilometres but too much background noise to distinguish individual ships.” Twenty minutes later he was informed they had identified one large twin screwed oceangoing vessel accompanied by two small escort craft running defensive patrol patterns ahead of it.
“Course and speed”, he queried.
“Speed ten knots on an intercept course with our targets, and too accurate to be a coincidence Sir, it’s being vectored in by an aerial observer.”

“Estimated time to intercept?”

“At current speed about five hours for the large vessel, but if the escorts are what we suspect, they could be there sooner.” Replacing the handset he instinctively scanned the sky. Fortunately visibility was now reducing after entering a fog bank effectively concealing the boat.
Reaching for the microphone he keyed the transmit button. “This is the Captain, I am pleased to inform you the waiting is over, the enemy has been located and steaming an intercept course to our targets,” then ordered. “Chief, take us down to thirty meters. Coxswain, six knots for fifteen minutes, then reduce to four. Pilot, give me a course to intercept the enemy and our estimated time of contact.” With this flurry of activity U396 slid beneath the waves, into the cold solitude of the sea.
Thirty minutes after submerging and creeping at four knots towards the enemy, Captain Phrommer asked, “Time to interception Pilot?”

“At present course and speed, three hour’s Sir.”

“Chief, any indication of the enemy’s nationality?”

“In these latitudes I think Norwegian the most likely sir.” As they spoke an Operator handed him a clipboard. Thanking him and glancing down he said, “We’ve identified the larger vessel as Norwegian Sir, the 20,000 ton Kristiansand Star, commanded by a Captain Olaf Larsen.”

“What do we know about him?”

“Intelligence says he joined the Kristiansand Line as a deck hand, working his way up to Captain, and at 42 was appointed the lines Flag Captain, a formidable achievement Sir.
The Captain ordered thoughtfully. “Raise the Snorkel Chief, group up main engines; give me revolutions for twelve knots, batteries to charge while in transit. Pilot, plot a course to veer us away from the enemies tracks, I don’t want to risk detection by the escorts, and then bring us 2000 meters astern of the Star.”

This manoeuvre completed, U396 still using the Snorkel was matching the Star’s course and speed whilst remaining undetected at periscope depth. The telephone buzzed, “Captain speaking.”

“Hydrophone Operator Sir, patrol craft have increased speed to eighteen knots, they will intercept our targets in fifty minutes Sir.” Phrommer picked up the microphone, clicked to transmit and said. “This is the Captain, we have established the identity of the enemy and as we suspected is Norwegian, the Kristiansand Star. She has ordered her escorts to the attack.” Then after calling the boat to action stations he raised the periscope for a final check before ordering it to surface. Going on to the bridge he was joined by the Chief Engineer, Radio Officer and Coxswain then ordered the Snorkel lowered and speed increased to seventeen knots. On the forwarding casing the 88MM deck gun was manned as were the twin Bridge mounted Machine Guns. He ordered, “Coxswain, put us one thousand metres off the Star’s port beam, when I’m talking to Larsen, I want him to see at my guns.”

“Aye-aye Sir” he acknowledged, trying to hide a grin. Ten minutes later U396 was in position, the time 09.45 and at this latitude a bright clear cold morning.
On the Kristiansand Star the first indication of a problem was when the telephone in Captain Larsen’s day cabin buzzed. It was only ten minutes since he had despatched his hunter killers and would be another forty before they commenced their attack. Larsen lifted the telephone, “Captain speaking”.
“Duty Officer Erickson, could you come to the bridge immediately Sir.” Entering he saw the watch stood on the port side staring through the reinforced windows and casually asked. “Is there a problem?”

“We have a submarine on our port beam; it’s hailing on radio and using a signalling lamp, requesting us to stop Sir.” The Duty Officer reported.
“Have you established contact?”

“Not yet Sir, we were waiting for you.”

Before leaving Norway, he had discussed this possibility and his options with the Directors, but nothing had been resolved. Even after discussing it with Jan Peterson, Captain of the Kristiansand Comet a sister ship he was no further forward. Petersen had stopped his ship and it had been sunk. When asked what he would have done differently in retrospect, he’d replied. “There was not much else I could have done.” Well he was dammed if he was going to roll over that easily. “Never” not Olaf Larsen the line’s Flag Captain.
On U369 Captain Phrommer watched an increasing number of people assembling on the Star’s decks, this didn’t concern him, but what did was time was running out. The small attack craft would commence their slaughter in less than forty minutes.
Both his Radio Officer and Coxswain were still trying to try raise the Star, and being studiously ignored. After three minutes of continuing silence Phrommer ordered them to transmit.
“Kristiansand Star, if you do not acknowledge my signals, I shall open fire in 60 seconds.”

Larsen studied the Submarine, considered his options and decided to do nothing when the threat to fire was signalled. He recalled the intelligence briefing from the description Captain Peterson gave they thought it was a type VII Boat, with a maximum surface speed of 17 knots, so he could not outrun the dammed thing. The previous sinking took place after responding to threats it would be fired on if it didn’t stop. But no shots were ever fired, and only after the crew was evacuated was the abandoned vessel sunk.
The intelligence people believed it had little firepower and the threat was a bluff, so Larsen decided to call it, but did instructed his Radio Officer to inform Head Office the ship’s present position, course, speed and circumstances.
Captain Phrommer looked at his watch, saw three minutes had elapsed, picked up the handset and ordered the deck gun crew, “to put a round over the Star’s bridge”, adding, “Over, not into.” Concerned at this range it would be more difficult to miss than to hit it.
Larsen was also looking at his watch, it was four minutes since the threat, he’d been right, just a bluff and he Olaf Larsen had called it. At that moment a puff of smoke floated up from the gun on submarine’s foredeck, followed by a scream as the shell just cleared the bridge, taking rigging and flags with it!
Before the shot was fired, Lieutenant Erickson had been listening to the Radio Officer’s one sided conversation with a Line Official, and heard him say patiently, “Yes, we have a submarine 1000 meters off our port beam”, then more patiently. “No, I don’t know what type it is they all look the same to me, all I can tell you is it has a bloody big gun.” The next answer dripped with sarcasm, “How the hell do I know if it’s in working order!” At that moment it fired, and he yelled “Jesus Christ, the bastard’s firing on us!”

After the shelling, the message being transmitted changed to, “Captain Larsen, you will order your hunter craft to stop their attack and return immediately. You have 30 seconds to comply or I shall fire again, and not instruct my gunners to miss this time!”

Taking hold of the bridge telegraph Larsen rang down for maximum speed, almost immediately feeling the motion of the boat change becoming more urgent.
Captain Phrommer saw the wash from the Star’s stern increase, 30 seconds later he ordered the Machine Gun crew to rake the Star’s water line, knowing it would cause little damage, but the noise would concentrate the crews’ thoughts on their own mortality.
The noise in Star was mind-numbing; sounding like the hull was ripping apart at the seams. Larsen insisted no real damage was being done. But no one was listening; alarms started screaming adding to the panic and confusion through the ship. He knew it was over, again taking hold of the telegraphs he rang down, “All stop”, then, “Finished with Engines”, turning to the Radio Officer he ordered, “Instruct our hunters to return immediate.”

On U369 a cheer went up when the Hydrophone Operator reported the Star’s engines stopped and the Radio Operator monitoring the radio announced hearing the recall. Taking the microphone Captain Phrommer said.
”Captain Larsen, this is Captain Otto Phrommer of the submarine on your port beam. You will now evacuate your ship; you have 30 minutes to comply. Anything other than full compliance will trigger an immediate torpedo attack. I shall move off to 5000 metres to enable them to arm if I need to fire.”

There was no response, but already Life-Boats were swinging out, and he felt this was acceptance. This was the dangerous part of the operation; he had no torpedoes left and only a few rounds of ammunition, probably enough to sink the escorts, but certainly not the Star.
On the Star’s bridge Larson ordered a May-Day sent and Head Office informed of the ship’s circumstances, then sounded the alarm and ordered his crew to abandon ship!
Phrommer watched the evacuation, including the Captain leaving in the last Life Boat. He then ordered an inflatable to be launched. The crew, led by the Chief Engineer, were dressed in black rubber dry suits and carrying three rucksacks between them. These held powerful magnets and radio receivers connected to explosives and would be attached to the Star’s hull along the water line.
When completed and the inflatable had returned, he ordered the decks cleared, picked up the radio detonator and flicked off the safety, took one final look at the Star and taking no pleasure in it pushed the plunger. He heard three simultaneous explosions and saw fountains of watery foam erupted along the ship’s side. The explosions ripped massive holes allowing thousands of tons of water in, causing it to roll over and sink. It took less than three minutes for a once proud ship to die. Then he gruffly ordered. “Give me 17 knots, and put us 2000 metres behind our targets.”

The sinking of the Kristiansand Star provoked different reactions around the world. On U369 it was euphoria and in London the Lutine Bell rang, signifying a ship lost at sea. Now surfaced and shadowing the targets Captain Phrommer looked up and watched his Coxswain again painting pictograms on the side of the conning tower. This time eighteen spouting Whales arching above three wavy lines depicting the surface of the sea, below the outline of a ship impaled on a giant whaling harpoon. This seemed a very apt way of recording the events of the last hours Otto thought to himself.
In America the headlines were about Baraka Obama’s election to the Presidency, and news of the sinking was relegated to the inside pages in the papers. In Norway it was front page and demands being made for the Navy to hunt down and sink the Pirates, as he and his crew were called in the press. Unfortunately, as the Norwegian Government well knew, it could raise little support from fellow NATO members; they had all ratified the moratorium on whaling proposed by the International Whaling Commission.
In the West generally, governmental criticism of the sinking was muted, it was felt to be politically expedient to say very little, due to the underlying ground-swell of public support for the action. Conversely in University campus there was ecstatic satisfaction for this aggressive environmental protectionism. The loss of a second whaling factory ship under these circumstances caused insurance premiums on all vessels connected to the industry to go cosmic. Some said it would be “The Death Knell of commercial whaling”. Many sincerely hoped it would be.
Captain Phrommer still thought of them as the targets, but his crew thought of them as what they were, a School of Humpback Whales. The school comprised twelve females and six calves slowly swimming south to warmer waters in the Azores to breed, having spent the last six months in their Arctic feeding grounds gorging on krill, ready for this annual migration. It had been them the whaling ship Kristiansand Star had been relentlessly hunting and preparing to slaughter, and ex-U-boat U369 was tasked to protect.
Otto Phrommer, ex-United States Naval Submarine Service watched, and thought back to when he had commanded a diesel electric boat in the early 70’s. His thoughts turned back still further, to his Great Grandfather, he had been the first Phrommer to go to sea, leaving Hamburg on a Clipper Ship, he rose to Captain and sired two sons one, Otto’s Grandfather became a WW1 Destroyer Captain. The families association with the sea contained when Otto’s Father also joined the Navy and saw action during WW2.
But Otto was the last in this maritime line, and as he watched the graceful motion of the Majestic beasts swimming in front of his boat he wondered what his ancestors would think of his actions. Would they understand it was his love of the sea and the lives it supported, and believed should be protected and nurtured at all costs, or would they turn in their graves in utter condemnation? At that moment the rays of the setting sun bathed the Whales in soft golden light and for Otto Phrommer that was vindication enough!

[John Dean]

MEN OF CONSCIENCE by Roger Barnes
Mathew Lomsela looked across the desk at Helen Lewis his opposite number here in London and asked, if she would like to accompany him to the Gala Dinners on the following two nights. They’d been to a number of these previously and got on well, but only at the friendship level as neither wanted the complications of a long distance romance.
When she said yes, he mentioned an old friend was attending and asked if he could join them. She said, great, and would bring her older sister Dawn to keep the numbers even. Mathew had met her a few times and knew her to be a bright, attractive and thoughtful freelance journalist in her early forties, so readily agreed.
Poverty Action Group World Wide or PAG as it was better known, was an International Charity that raised funds by hosting Celebrity Gala Dinner’s to solicit donations from the Good and the Godly on one night, and lobby large industrial organisations from the moral high ground the next. Over the years it had built an enviable reputation for responsible fund raising and unlike many of its contemporaries, 96.5% of the donations and bequests actually went to help fight poverty in the third world.
Mathew was the Charity’s “Hands On” Operations Director in Southern Africa and due to report that afternoon to conference. Helen listened to the bland statistics of the previous year, looking forward to the passionate description of his plans and hopes for the next. Mathew was an accomplished speaker and soon had the audience’s full attention with graphic slides of wells dug in remote areas and wide-eyed children enjoying abundant clean water for the first time in their young life. At the conclusion and after his request for donations, few cheque books remained closed.
In contrast Helen Lewis was the Charity’s London Public Relations Officer, a part time position she’d held for four years. Fortunately her professional career as a Corporate Solicitor allowed her the time to devote to what she called, her ethical calling, and gave direct access to many of her target groups.
The Gala Dinners were held at the same Hotel as the conference on the last two nights, guests stopping were encouraged to mingle with the delegates, most of who like Matthew came from different parts of the world. He had arranged to meet Helen and Dawn in the bar and introduce them to his friend. All three were sipping drinks waiting for him to arrive when Matthew looked up, grinned, and stood with his hand extended.
Helen saw a tall, slim, dark featured and smiling middle aged man, dressed in the traditional white flowing robes of an Arab. The two men embraced warmly, spoke briefly in Arabic and then Matthew introduced him. Ladies, this is my friend that I was telling you about from Windhoek, Akmed Suleiman. Akmed, this is my colleague Helen Lewis from PAG, and her sister Dawn, be careful what you say to her she’s a journalist he added laughing.
During dinner the talk flowed back and forth, covering many topics from the legal scene in London to the poverty in Akmed and Matthew’s homeland, Namibia. Akmed elaborated at length on his adopted country, telling them in detail about the San Bushmen, the desolate Skeleton Coast, and the Wild Life Safari Parks. Then invited them to come and visit as his guests, saying if they did he would act as their personal guide. Both women looked at each other, grinned, nodded, and said if he was serious they’d love to come.
Matthew laughed and said they’d have to be careful if they went, as there was no guarantee they’d be safe given Akmed’s occupation before becoming an Hotelier. Before he could elaborate Akmed interrupted, looked at his friend, and then shook his head and smiling said.
“I think perhaps I should answer that dreadful allegation. My old friend here never misses an opportunity to tell this tale, but for once I’ll tell my side first. I left school before taking my final exams so gained no formal qualifications and eventually became a minor member of a gang that got involved moving people. Then Almighty Allah, May His name be forever blessed, set my feet on the righteous path to peace and fulfilment”.
The two women had watched Matthew grinning and shaking his head throughout Akmed’s story.
Dawn said, “I get the impression Matthew you don’t fully agree with all Mister Suleiman has told us?”

“All good stories should be close to the truth, and Akmed’s story is essentially true, he did leave school with no qualifications, he was expelled for trying to sell hashish in the school playground”.
Akmed had a look of sorrow on his face, almost a look of contrition Dawn thought, Matthew continued.
“This movement of people as Akmed puts it was people trafficking or what used to be called Slaving, and yes he did give it up but it was more to do with the South African Police closing in than any divine revelations by Allah. And don’t be misled by the minor member bit either, he was number two in a crime syndicate that stretched the length and breadth of Africa”.
“I will admit Matthew’s version of events is no less true then mine, perhaps a little more detailed.
Dawn turned to Akmed and said,
“Mister Suleiman, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course, if you will call me Akmed, I think Mister is far too formal on such a pleasant occasion, would you not agree?”

“Ok, then I’m Dawn and this is Helen”. Indicating her sister, then asked.
“Akmed, you and Matthew talk about Slavery or people trafficking as if it was a current problem, I thought it was abolished in the mid 1800’s”

Akmed looked at the two women thoughtfully; it was Dawn that had asked the question but both were eager to hear his reply. He smiled a little forlornly and asked, are you sure you want hear this? It is not a nice story. Both nodded, and he began speaking.
“What ended in the 1800’s was the method of transportation, Slaves leaving African ports in three masted schooners bound for the Americas. The reality was brutal, people were packed in to these ships with less space they would occupy in a grave, and when they sailed Sharks followed. As the slaves began dying they were thrown overboard to make more room for the living. It was not unusual for a vessel to carry upwards of 700-800 men women and children, and quite normal to lose 25-35% of its cargo before it was landed to work on the Sugar Plantations of the Caribbean, and the Southern Tobacco and Cotton States of America. That’s what ended in the 1800’s, the method of transportation”. He stood and looked at his watch.
“I hope you enjoyed the history lesson, you might like to consider which British and America Financial Institutions made their money from Commerce originally connected to this evil trade. Its ending is a myth perpetuated by the white majorities of Europe and America turning a blind eye to its continued existence because of their inability to truly abolish it. Euphemistically it is now called people trafficking, but it is still slavery and still prevalent around the world, but now I must retire”.
“Are you joining us for dinner tomorrow?” Asked Dawn.
“If you can suffer my company for another night, then yes I would look forward to it”. And with slight bow, he left.
His comments about the myth of Slavery ending left little room for others and a difficult silence ensued. Dawn broke it.
“Matthew, was Akmed really a Slaver, or was that just local colour for our benefit?”

“Oh no he was the real thing, but it was a long time ago. He really has atoned and continues to do so. He is a genuinely caring man. Now I’m off too, I’ll see you in the morning, goodnight both”.
“Do you believe all that?” asked Helen.
“Heaven-only-knows, Akmed seems to know his stuff and he’s certainly passionate about it, so yeah on balance I probably do”.
“What do you think of him?”

Dawn’s casual reply of, he’s ok I suppose, didn’t fool her younger sister one bit.
X X X
Dawn’s sleep was haunted by a nightmare of three masted schooners packed with dead and dying children laying in the reeking filth of their own vomit, urine, and faeces. It was a relief to be woken up by the alarm going off.
As she showered she mulled over what Akmed had told them about the existence of a still active slave trade, and decided she’d ask this enigmatic and rather interesting man to explain its significance in the modern world. Even convincing herself this was the only reason she was keen to see Akmed Suleiman again.
The final session of the conference went as expected, Delegates giving up-dates as Mathew had on the continuing fight against poverty. The Directors which included Helen reported on the Charities current finances and expected revenues for the forthcoming year. When the last delegate finished speaking, the proceedings were wound up and most people went sightseeing in the late autumn sunshine.
That night after dinner when coffee was served, Dawn looked at Akmed and said.
“Last night you talked about Slavery as it was, and the modern equivalent people trafficking, would you elaborate a little, it’s not something I’ve come across before”.
Akmed pondered this request, took a breath and smiling started to speak.
“This will sound like a lecture; perhaps I should use a slide projector like Matthew does. Today Slavery takes different forms, one is Debt Bondage. Poor people are tricked with promises of well paying jobs and then have to borrow against future earnings to pay to be transported. Often they are isolated and made to purchase food at extortionate prices from their employers. The workers are forced to work until the debt is paid off, but punitive rates of interest ensure it never will be. The debt keeps mounting so the employee is a slave for life”.
He looked at the two women who were following his every word.
“Traffickers to day use the same methods as Slavers did centuries ago, kidnapping, threats, beatings, and killings are used to force men, women, and children in to labour and sexual exploitation, this extends world wide including the USA. It is estimated over 800,000 men women and children are trafficked annually across international borders. If you count the thousands held on the farms of India, the brick kilns of Pakistan and the international sex trade, the number of victims runs in to millions”.
“Are any of the figures verifiable”, asked Dawn.
“Yes they are, in 2005 The United States Secretary of State, Colin Powel and the CIA estimated 50,000 people are trafficked into the US annually as sex slaves and domestic servants. And the USA is a country genuinely fighting slavery; many others aren’t even trying”.
Akmed was becoming emotional about a subject he obviously felt very passionate about, his voice was getting louder and other diners began to listen.
“I consider the worst is Child Slavery. In Brazil they pick cotton and work in the charcoal pits, in Burma they harvest sugar, in China they make fireworks, in Sierra Leone they mine diamonds, in Thailand children are sold to paedophiles. Children in India are used as beggars, the more deformed the child is the more sympathy they attract, some are deliberately mutilated to make them more successful. And so this dreadful evil goes on”.
Matthew gently put a hand on Akmed’s shoulder speaking to him softly in Arabic, and then said.
“I must apologise, it was rude to speak in anything other then English, but I needed Akmed’s permission for what I’m going to tell you”. He continued.
“An American named Isaac Hopper in 1787 began to help slaves escape from the South. Opponents of slavery allowed their homes to be used as shelters, donating food and money. To confuse the authorities a code was used, escaping slaves were called Passengers, safe houses were Stations, and guides and couriers were Conductors. This network of escape routes stretched from the Deep South right up in to Canada, and became know as The Underground Railroad because of the terminology it used. By 1850 over 50,000 slaves had escaped from the South using The Railroad”.
“Are they facts?” Asked Dawn interrupting again.
“Most certainly, last night I told you Akmed had atoned, well he is now the Director and main supporter of the modern African equivalent of the Underground Railroad. Many of his Hotel staff are ex-slaves; after training and with the experience they gain, they’re well placed to get employment in the leisure industry. Over the years he has helped hundreds people to escape and find proper work”.
Akmed looking embarrassed and quietly said.
“Now it is Matthew who is being economical with the truth, I just play a very small part in it. Matthew is also involved; he will not have told you but many of the escaped children he has placed in the villages he takes aid to. He approaches local benefactors for support and on occasions we get people work through them. We simply do what we can to help”.
Akmed looked at the two women a little embarrassed after his earlier emotional revelations, and shyly said, that is all I can tell you, I’m sorry if you did not find it pleasant, but that’s just the way it is. Dawn looked very directly at him.
“Akmed, I’d like to thank you for being so open and frank about what is as you called it, a dreadful evil. We didn’t realise the scale of this problem, either in the vast numbers of victims or people involved. Once again, thank you”. She continued.
“After what you told us last night, I had a word with a couple of Editors I know. If I can use that and what you’ve just told us, I think I can persuade them to run a feature on Slavery, I’ve already got a working title, “Slavery in the 21st Century”. It would help bring this problem to people’s attention, and it might prick their conscience a little. I may even get it syndicated world wide. What do you think?”

“Anything that raises awareness relating to theses people’s plight can only be helpful. It would be an honour and pleasure to work with you”.
When the evening broke up and Helen and Dawn were walking back to their rooms, Helen asked.
“Is it your Journalistic or your Womanly instincts that are being aroused by Akmed and his story?”

Dawn had the decency to blush slightly at the question, and felt a delightful little tingle of anticipation go though her as she replied.
“What a very stupid question Helen, at 42 my Journalistic ones, of course”.
“Of course”. Is what Dawn had said, but Helen wondered if they went and visited Akmed, if she would end up as a chaperone to her sister or more likely the gooseberry.

[John Dean]

D DAY by Roger Barnes
It was exactly 6 am when Dan Granley woke; he knew the time he’d been waking at 06.00 since he’d joined the Royal Marines on his eighteenth birthday way back in 1943. You learnt fast on the Commando selection course if you wanted to be accepted. Now, 65 years later he lay awake in the Laurels Care Home with an estimated fourteen days to live.
The Local Council had placed him in the Laurels some years previously for he had no immediate family to look after him.
So here he was, laid in bed waiting to hear the infernal sound announcing the start of another day. The sound of Douglas McPhee slouching down the corridor in his dammed rubber soled slippers, he hated that sound almost as much as he loathed and detested the man himself.
Dan had been here a year when McPhee arrived and he well remembered first meeting him. His thin reedy voice and patronising manner, Christ, he’d loathed the slimy little shite from the moment they’d met. With his creepy, I’m Douglas McPhee, everybody calls me, Dougi. Not that Dan let his loathing show; he was good at hiding his feelings.
After Dougi started things began to go missing, the odd £10 note here, a pair of gold cuff-links there. Dan brought it up with the Administrator and was told, you probably forgot where you put it, a person’s memory’s not so good when they get to your age, it’ll turn up. Like hell it did. So Dan put his mind to find a secure hiding place. The idea came to him, his Health Service walking stick was made of
Aluminium tubing, as expected it was easy to remove the rubber ferule and insert rolled up notes and other small items in to it.
Over the years Dan had found the most reliable of human vices was greed, after Dougi started he asked him to get him some beers, this was strictly against the rules but regularly flouted. He gave him a £10 note, told him to keep the change and the little bastard was hooked.
One of McPhee’s jobs was to wash deceased residents before the Doctor arrived to certify them dead and issue a Death Certificate. Some weeks earlier Mrs Alexlby had passed away and McPhee was called for, he’d entered the room, locked the door, and reappeared flushed with his clothes in disarray. Later as he walked past the administrator’s office, Dan overheard the Doctor say.
“John, you’re going to have to speak to McPhee, if a resident end’s up on the Coroner’s slab his handy work is going to be noticed. He’s now doing it to males and females; you know we only just got away with it last time”.
“Allan, it’s your job to ensure no bodies do end up on slabs, and just remember you’re well paid for your services here”.
Two weeks previously a vicious pain had lanced through Dan’s abdomen so painful he’d passed out. An ambulance was called and within twenty four hours he’d been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer and given about twenty eight days to live. The following morning a Macmillan nurse visited him to discuss pain management, she said the pain would peak in about five days and then be constant to the end. The dosage she prescribed was one pain killer every six hours and told him these would be enough to fell an ox if all taken together. Dan began to plan his exist strategy.
The Nurses changed shift at 10.00 pm, at 9.30 he started moaning loudly and buzzed for a nurse. She appeared and he explained he was in agony and asked for something and she gave him two pain killers. He pulled the same scam at 11.30 and on the next four nights, hiding the tablets in his walking stick.
Last night, Dan was walking past Old Flossy Driscoll’s door, old that was good, she was four years younger than he was, deaf as a post and confined to a wheel chair, when he heard McPhee’s voice and stopped to listen.
“How are you Flossy? I don’t know whether you realises it love, no you probably don’t, but I maybe coming to visit you in a week or so, to give you your final wash and brush up”.
“Unfortunately you won’t experience any satisfaction but I will, you have my word you won’t feel a thing, I’m always very, very gentle, especially if I get to you and your still warm and supple”.
“It could be a busy week for me, your neighbour Danny Boy will probably be passing as well. I much prefer it with you ladies, I do still service the men, but it’s not the same for me though”.
Dan moved to look through the partially open door. Flossy was sat in her wheel chair facing a mirrored dressing tablewith McPhee stroking her hair while he talked. Dan watched horrified as he began to unbutton Flossie’s cardigan and blouse, then slide his hands down and start to fondle her breasts. He could see her violently shaking her head, a look of abject terror on her face. She might not be able to hear what was being said, but could well comprehend what was going to happen to her.
Dan went to his room, collected his stick and started back down the corridor making plenty of noise. McPhee came out of Flossie’s room, throwing a casual, “Good-night Flossy, sweet dreams”, over his shoulder as he closed the door.
Bloody nightmares more like thought Dan. He made his way to the kitchen thinking, the problem is not what to do, but how. On reaching it he saw the knives were locked away as usual, he’d asked about that once and told it was Health and Safety Regulations. All the other utensils were still on the racks, he liked to fantasise about one of the Residents running amok with an egg whisk, or a collective suicide attempt using cheeses graters.
Looking round he just knew the answer to his problem regarding McPhee was here. The thought struck him, a flash-back to an incident that occurred in 1944, the day before what later became know as D-Day.
x x x x
Dan had been embarking an Assault Boat for a raid on the French occupied coast. Climbing aboard he’d noticed his Troop Sergeant, Big Billy McQueen carrying an unusual item clipped on his belt, pointing to it he’d asked, why are you carrying that Sarge?
“That’s my Equaliser lad, very useful bit of kit, you can use it to force doors open or wedge them shut, snapping padlocks, and you can use it to”, and he demonstrated.
Dan looked at the utensil rack and saw an Equaliser hanging there; he smiled, lifted it down, and surreptitiously took it back to his room. When he’d completed his preparations he went to find McPhee. Dan gave him a conspiratorial wink and asked him to come to his room later, for a little bit of business. When McPhee walked in he saw Dan hunched in a chair, a blanket over his knees looking very dejected and a bulging wallet by his left foot. Dan watched McPhee looking greedily at the wallet; he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.
McPhee opened the conversation with.“What do you want me to get you Danny Boy, some beers?
“No a bottle of Scotch, single malt, something decent”.
“You must be joking pal, beer is one thing, Scotch is something else, I could lose my job for that”.
“I’ll make it worth your while, Dougi”.
“I don’t know”.
“I’m sorry I’ve dropped my wallet, do you think you could you get it for me please? Look you’ve always been square with me Dougi; just take what you think’s fair for the Malt and the risk”.
“Ok, but I’m taking one hell-of-a chance”.
He started leaning towards Dan’s left foot.
Time slowed for both men.
As McPhee started to bend forward he saw movement in Dan’s lap, it looked as if he was getting a huge erection, and rationalised that’s impossible at his age.
Dan held the Equaliser pointing it up towards McPhee’sdescending head.
Both men’s heads were level when the blanket fell away;
Dan savagely thrust the Equaliser upwards in to the soft underside of McPhee’s jaw. It easily passed through the flesh and the thin bone in the roof of his mouth, and in to the soft pinky grey brain tissue, coming to rest against the top of his scull.
For an instance both men’s eyes met, McPhee saw triumph in Dan’s, Dan saw realisation in McPhee’s, then fear and terror and finally death.
The impetus of McPhee’s body carried him forward; the handle of the Equaliser hit the floor driving it through the top of his scull.
Dan looked dispassionately at the body sprawled at his feet;
it reminded him of a First World War German soldier, the Butchers Sharpening Steel protruding out the top of McPhee’s scull like the spike on an old German helmet.
Dan continued to look at the corpse, satisfied McPhee would never visit any residents again. He stood and found his walking stick and recovered the pain killers. He hoped there would be enough to kill an 83 year old with cancer, if there wasn’t so what he thought, and took them. As he drifted towards unconsciousness and oblivion he heard the clock in reception chime the first stroke of Midnight.
Then he heard another sound, this time outside his open window, it was a sound he remembered well, the sound of an old WW2 Assault Boat approaching. He could just make out it was being piloted by a big man wearing a torn and bloodstained Battle Dress uniform. He immediately recognised him, it was Sergeant Billy McQueen waving for him to come and join him in the boat, and shouting.
“Come on young Granley, you’ve done a good job here but it’s over now, I’ve been sent to collect you lad, get a bloody
move on we’re going home”. And with surprising agility for a dying man of 83, Marine Daniel Granley jumped in to the Assault Boat just as the clock finished chiming midnight. It was 6 June 2008, Dan Granley’s, own personal D-Day.

[John Dean]

THE STAG PARTY by Roger Barnes
When Andrew Matheson announced his intention to marry his long term partner Fiona Woodall, Simon Evesham and John White couldn’t have been more pleased for him. His later request for them to join him on his stag party didn’t come as a great surprise, but the venue did. They’d been expecting perhaps a couple of days in Prague or Amsterdam but when he’d told them to get inoculations for a short Safari in Africa they assumed he was joking.
Andrew Matheson was a successful London property developer that never did anything by halves, so it shouldn’t really have come as that big of a surprise. He’d told them that he’d always wanted to go on a Safari but had never found the time. So this was probably the last opportunity he’d get, as Fiona hated snakes and creepy-crawlies.
Andrew had few friends and couldn’t abide hanger’s on, so the only people he could invite were his two fellow Directors. They’d formed London Property Rentals five years ago, and with Andrew’s small inheritance, Simon’s accountancy back ground and his own extensive experience in the building industry; it was going well for all of them.
Andrew had asked John, when the arrangements were being made, if he thought they could get away with defraying the costs to, an investigation in to an overseas investment opportunity, adding he thought they all deserved a few days away to relax. So here they were in Namibia on an all expensive paid mini Safari.
They’d landed at Windhoek early that morning and taken a private charter to a small local airstrip, where they’d met Matthew Lomsela their Guide and driver for the next three days.
Driving up a side road leading to Bushman Lodge, the accommodation booked by the Safari Outfitters Mathew ran, they were astonished to see the trees softly illuminated, giving the African night a fairy tale feeling. Also their head lights picked out small nocturnal animals that scampered away on their approach. At the entrance a small dark hawk featured man stood waiting, dressed in the traditional white flowing robes of the Middle East.
Mathew, the Safari Guide got out and the two men smiled and embraced. He brought the man over and introduced him as his old friend, Akmed Suleiman; who bowed formally then spoke in perfect English.
“You are most welcome at my Lodge, I trust your stay will be pleasant and interesting, someone will show you to your Cottages. I hope you will join me for dinner as my guests once you have had time to rest and shower after your dusty and tiresome journey. I ask only, that you do not offer gratuities while you are here, they are not required. If there is anything you need, please ask. As guests of Matthew you are honoured guests of mine. If you could register, that will be the formalities completed”. The men did as he requested.
When they’d finished Suleiman clapped his hands and Bellboys in smart uniforms appeared, grinned at the men, and took a bag each. They lead them out of the foyer on to a stone flagged path illuminated by small lanterns hung on either side; as they walked they saw Squirrels and Monkeys playing among the trees and bushes. The Bellboys warned these paths are sometimes used by Kudu and Zebra, so to be careful when moving around at night.
Coming to the first Cottage the Bellboy carrying Simon’s holdall opened the door, to his left was a large bathroom with a walk-in shower appointed in green slate and polished white marble. He walked into the bedroom and was confronted by a king size bed fitted with a wrought iron frame supporting a fully encompassing mosquito net, the overall effect enhanced by polished mahogany furniture and lit bedside lights. His guide put the bag on a low table, went to the back of the room and opened a door, switched on lights and he realised the Cottage had its own private veranda.
The Bellboy indicated him to follow him on to it. Standing there listening he heard the chirruping of Crickets, then in the distance a deep primeval roar that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, the Bellboy seeing his reaction, smiled and said, Lion, but it is many miles away.
Entering the Lounge for dinner they saw Matthew sat at the bar chatting to the bar-man, they’d only been sat a few minutes when Akmed Suleiman joined them. Immediately asking if the cottages were satisfactory and was there anything they required.
The five men strolled in to a small comfortable restaurant, as in the cottages the furniture was polished mahogany, silver cutlery and crystal glasses shining in the flickering candle light, gave the table an intimate air.
Dinner commenced with bowls of Omajova mushrooms, Akmed explaining these had been harvested from termite hills only a mile from the Lodge. It was a lavish and convivial meal with a selection of good South African wines being served.
Over coffee they discussed what they could hope to see the following day, eventually Matthew said. “We’re up early so I’m off to bed”. The Safari party had a further coffee with Akmed then they too made their way back to their cottages.
X X X
“5.30. Morning Game Drive”.
“5.30. Morning Game Drive”.
John had been awake since 5 O’clock, so was already up when the bellboy gently knocked on his door with the early morning call. After showering and dressing he left the cottage and made his way to the main Lodge building. It was still dark and surprisingly cool, almost cold and he wished he’d brought a sweater to put on. When he strolled in to the foyer he saw cheerful smartly dressed staff laying tables, setting out jugs of tea, coffee, fruit juices, baskets of rolls and trays of toast and croissants. Matthew joined him, and when Andrew and Simon arrived he said.
“Normally guests come back about 8.30 after the morning drive for breakfast, but as we’re here only a short time I’ve arranged for breakfast and lunch to be sent out, that will allow us to spend all day in the reserve”.
He looked pointedly at his watch. “When you’ve finished your coffee we’ll be off, we’re using one of the Lodge’s vehicles, they’re better suited for game viewing”.
The four men approached a Nissan people carrier with a roof section that could be raised to allow the occupants room to stand, and give an all-round view of the country side.
When the men were seated and instructed where to find the first aid kit, radio, water, and binoculars the vehicle left. Within 200 meters it turned off the road and started driving across country on sandy trails. The Savannah was covered in sparse dry grass, broken only by occasional tall Tambotil trees. While he drove, the driver kept up an incessant unintelligible conversation on his CB radio. Matthew explained all the drivers were in constant touch with each other, so if anyone saw anything interesting everyone would know where to find it.
The vehicle slowed, Matthew pointed and whispered, Dik-dik, the one with the longest horns is the leader. The men looked and saw eight tiny Antelope like creatures, walking on stick thin legs, no bigger then small dogs. They watched as the tiny animals walked slowly between bushes delicately nibbling on the lower leaves. Suddenly they all stopped eating, looked around, and bounded off, within seconds it was if they had never been there.
As they drove Matthew pointed out a herd of Eland, the vehicle stopped and the men watched the animals browsing. John commented he was surprised at the condition of them, they all looked so healthy. Matthew said natural selection plays a big part in that, any animal not in prime condition does not survive long out here, then added.
“As I said, I’ve arranged breakfast to be brought out to a designated water hole. I’ve told the driver I want to arrive before the truck or we’ll miss any game that’s there”.
They were heading towards an area greener then the surrounding terrain, the men supposed this was the water hole they were going to. Matthew instructed the driver to slow down and scanned the trees, then told him to head towards one in particular, and suggested the men use binoculars to study the lowest branch, they did and saw nothing. Matthew asked, do you see the straight branch hanging underneath it? Good, that’s a Leopard’s tail.
The men now saw the Leopard laying motionless, sunning itself on the branch and studied its beautiful markings, as the vehicle drew nearer, its tail started to twitch in agitation as it sensed their approach. The vehicle stopped and the men watched the spotted feline head with its luminous yellow eyes slowly turn, watching them in return; suddenly it flexed its muscles, and was gone.
The Nissan was already parked when the Lodge’s vehicle arrived; the crew set out, tables and chairs, white linen cloths, cutlery, primus stoves and cooked a full English breakfast.
The high point of the morning came just before lunch, Matthew had been studying the road about twenty meters to the front of where they’d parked, he touched his lips, pointed at John and indicated him to have his camera ready, then out of the grass and on to the road stalked three adult Cheetahs, followed by three cubs, nobody spoke as they watched the animals walk up the road, each absorbed by the gracefully way they moved, then they disappeared back in to the Savannah. Matthew said. You’ve been very lucky; it’s rare to see a family group on the move between hunting areas; normally you only see a solitary animal or sometime two if they are hunting larger pray as a pair.
After an alfresco lunch brought out to them, the rest of the afternoon was rather an anti-climax by comparison to the morning. They saw Kudu, Zebra, Wildebeests, and Giraffes all as John said, they could have seen at Whipsnade. Andrew agreed, adding yes but here we’re seeing them in their natural habitat, and in a bloody sight better condition than the one’s they’d seen when he’d taken Fiona to a Zoo last year.
It was almost dusk when they returned to the Lodge to shower and change for dinner. After another pleasant meal, over coffee Akmed joined them and asked about the day and what animals they’d seen. That led naturally to a discussion regarding the following day’s planned visit to the Etosha National Park. The talk then drifting on to more general topics as it had the previous night.
X X X
The journey to Etosha took less then fifteen minutes as Bushman Lodge was only six miles east of the Von Lindequist Gate. Matthew paid the entrance fee, and they drove to a low wooden building about a hundred yards inside the park. Matthew instructed the driver to pull up in front and they read.
ETOSHA NATIONAL PARK RANGER STATION
Mathew took from his pack a carton of 200 Marlboro cigarettes and walked in to the building. He emerged minus the cigarettes but accompanied by an old man wearing a tailored green uniform with gold Sergeant’s stripes, carrying a rifle. From the boisterous conversation, they could see both men knew each other well. Matthew got in the rear of the vehicle, the older man in front with the driver, as they drove off, Matthew said grinning.
“This gentleman is Jambo; he’s The Senior Game Warden here at Etosha, we’re very lucky he’s going to accompany us today. If it works out as we hope, you’ll see sights you’d never otherwise see outside of a nature film”.
Driving over the same arid scrubland as the previous day, they saw many of the side trails had tree trunks put across to stop access. Matthew explained this was to allow the trails to recover from over use and to restrict access to areas where certain species were breeding. Simon asked.
“What’s to stop anybody driving round them?”

“Nothing, but any driver that did would be banned from the Park for life, and so would the Safari Outfitter that employed him”.
John noticed the track narrowing, Jambo told the driver to stop, and asked them to help move a tree that was blocking a side trail. After the vehicle passed, he had it he replaced.
The Nissan continued until Jambo instructed the driver to stop and turn off the engine. They sat waiting; the only sounds the creaking and cracking of the cooling engine. Jambo joined them in the back and stood looking out pointing; they saw an indistinct dark shape obscured by trees and bushes. Eventually the shape moved in to the open and resolved itself in to a full grown male Rhinoceros. They watched as it snorted and pawed the ground, then from the other side of the clearing another slightly small Rhino appeared, Jambo whimpered, that’s a female, they watched as they almost coyly approached each other, then their noses touched.
Matthew also whispering explained, you’re seeing the courtship ritual, it will last about twenty minutes, but I’m afraid we must leave before she’s covered. If anything frightens them it won’t happen and we can’t risk that, Rhinos are precious and such a desperately endangered species.
Jambo instructed the driver to slowly reverse out of the clearing and rejoin the trail. Now heading north east towards a range of low hills, they followed the trail until it petered out halfway up the slope of the first one. Jambo got out and asked them to stop in the Nissan while he went to reconnoitre. The party watched as he strode up the hill. When he got to the crest he went on all fours and crawled the last few feet, then lay for a long time watching. He slid back, stood, and bounded down the slope with a huge grin creasing his wizened old face.
Jambo instructed the men to ensure they had a hat and two bottles of water and then to follow him to the crest, adding, please keep very quiet. Approaching the hill top, he indicated the men to stop and went forward, again on his hands and knees to the rim. After looking round, he waved the men to join him. They saw grassland stretching away to the front; to their right about a quarter mile away was a small herd of Zebra cropping the lush grass.
Jambo pointed left, the men looked, and even using binoculars saw nothing of interest. John was the first to see it, he grinned and mouthed, Lion, Jambo nodded with satisfaction, Simon and Andrew now also saw it lying in the long grass. Jambo pointed to the right, the three men looked and saw a second Lion lying motionless.
The Zebras became restless, sensing the presence of men and Lions and moved closer together. Suddenly the wind changed direction, Simon laying next to Jambo felt him stiffen, then turn and wave them off the hill’s crest, while he stayed watching, listening and smelling the breeze, then he too crawled back grinning and pointed over the top of the hill, and with a smug satisfied look, mouthed, Full Grown Lioness.
Simon’s immediate thought was. Christ, we’re thirty meters from a Lion with no guns and that bloody idiot thinks that’s good news.
The silence was shattered by a dreadful roar that to the three men seemed perilously close, but didn’t seem to faze either Matthew or Jambo. The old Game Warden turned and said.
“The Lions on our left and right are youngsters, the old girl to our front is their Mother, she’s teaching them to hunt, it was her that roared to alert the Zebras and get them moving so the youngsters learn how to single out the weak ones and hunt as a pair. We can go back up now; they won’t be bothered by us”.
The five men sat on the hill’s crest, the Stag party using binoculars to see the unfolding drama better. They watched as the herd milled about aimlessly trying to decide where the attack would come from. The young Lion on the left broke cover, the herd saw this and was galvanised in to action, running in the opposite direction. The second youngster on the right, also now broke cover and the herd swerved again to avoid this new threat.
The men watched and listened as the Lionesses growled and roared, John wondered if she was giving instructions and encouragement to her siblings. The two youngsters were slowly circling a limping Zebra that was becoming further separated from the main herd. Simon commented, it hasn’t got a chance. Jambo studied the apparently one sided conflict and said. It’s an old buck, I think he may stand and fight even if as you say, he hasn’t got a chance.
As if to bear out his words the Zebra stopped trying to escape and turned to face his pursers. The young Lions were disconcerted by this change of tactic, but continued to circle unsure of what to do. The Lioness roared and the slightly larger one stalked round to the Zebra’s rear and started its attack, obviously intending to spring from behind and over its right side. A split second before it sprang, but way too late to stop, the old buck sensed the attack, turned, reared up on its hind legs and beat the air with his front hooves, even at this distance they heard the crunch of breaking bones as the hooves came in to lethal contact with the young Lion’s chest.
While the Zebra stood panting, the Second Lion started his attack on the winded and distracted animal, again from behind leaping on to it’s back and secured itself by digging its claws deeply in to the neck and hind quarters. The Zebra tried to shake it off, even rolling on the ground trying to dislodge it, but its movements were weakening as the Lion bit in to the neck and raked its throat with it’s claws, the men saw droplets of blood being thrown in the air every time the Zebra shook its head in a futile attempt to rid itself of the attacker. Eventually the Zebra slowly sank to the ground, exhausted by exertion and blood loss. The fight was over.
The Lioness went and sniffed the wounded animal, and with a swipe of a forepaw with the claws extended she ripped the stomach wide and started to gorge on the still hot bloody contents.
Now the hunt was over the Lion himself appeared, he roughly cuffed away the young Lion that had made the kill and the Lioness slunk back in to the long grass, returning with a tiny cub held gently in her mouth, followed by two others.
The Lion feasted at one end of the carcass, the Lioness at the other, she tore off strips of meat passing them to the three small cubs, before starting to eat herself. When she’d finished she went and sniffed and nudged the sibling that had been killed in the attack, after a second nudge she walked away with out a backward glance. It wasn’t until the older Lion left, could the younger one claim his share.
The men watched a succession of animals coming to feed, including Hyenas, Jackals, and Vultures all squabbling and fighting over the fresh meat. Jambo told them; by the following night nothing would be left to mark the site.
After eating plated salads and drinking cold beers from the vehicle’s cool box they left the hills driving through the same arid savannah, opening and closing a succession of tree trunk gates, making their way thorough the less frequented parts of the Park. Jambo told them they were going to a small waterhole that was not on the tourist route, where he was hoping to find Elephants.
Their approach was quiet and slow, stopping about a hundred meters from it; both Jambo and Matthew studied the surrounding area, eventually both nodded and said the areas looked safe. They walked to the edge of the pool and on the opposite side saw Elephants, and watched the huge animals’ splash and spray muddy water over themselves and each other. Then the Matriarch trumpeted and they formed up in a long straggling line and left. At its centre was a loose group Matthew explained were the nursing mothers and pregnant cows. Amongst these protected from predators were three babies less then a metre high, coming only about half way up their mother’s legs. John marvelled that the tiny offspring were not trampled underfoot by their huge mothers or older relatives.
The herd started to move slowly and ponderously round the edge of the pool in the direction of the watchers and Jambo suggested they made their way back to the Nissan. Explaining that with babies in the herd it would be nervous and protective, and could consequently be dangerous.
They sat in the Nissan while the herd passed by, having seen it so many times it was part of their landscape.
It was getting dark when they dropped Jambo back at the Ranger Station, after handshakes and thanks all round Andrew saw more cartons of cigarettes and a bottle of whisky change hands. Arriving back at the Lodge, Akmed Suleiman came out to greet them and asked if they’d care to join him for dinner again.
Sitting in the lounge later the conversation was about the events of the day. It was interrupted by a receptionist indicating Akmed had a phone call, after taking it he said.
“I must leave you, I’m afraid something has come up that I must attend to personally, but I will see you tomorrow before you leave, goodnight”.
Matthew said he was off to bed as did Andrew, John and Simon had another coffee, then also made their way back to the cottages for an early night ready for the long journey back to London in the morning, and the wedding in five days time.
The return to London was uneventful but tiring, and the Country House Wedding in Northampton went off with out a hitch after all the meticulous planning by Fiona and her mother. Over lunch on the Sunday after the Happy Couple had left on a Caribbean Honeymoon, Simon, and John sat with their respective wives, Sara and Chris relaxed and chatting. This was the first real opportunity they’d had to talk since the men had returned from Africa, and Chris said.
“Well come on then Simon, tell us all about it, what were the high lights of the trip?
“Bushman Lodge, where we stayed is a phenomenal place; you had to have been there to see it and all the animals. The highlight for me had to be seeing a Lioness training cubs to hunt; it was incredible, talk about life in the raw”.
“Did you see the actual kill?”

“Yes we saw the whole thing, John got loads of photos. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world”.
“John, what about you?”

“Like Simon said, the cottages we stayed in are really fabulous, mind you and so is the food and service. We saw a couple of Rhinos courting, not actually doing it if you know what I mean, just the preliminaries. Then a herd of Elephants at a waterhole, I never realised the babies are so small, to me it’s a marvel the poor little sods don’t get trampled to death, their mothers are so bloody big. It’s really is a stunning place from every aspect”.
After they finished explaining in detail about what they had seen, both men went to the bar for more drinks, while they were away, Chris said.
“I don’t know about you, but from what John’s told me since he got back and the enthusiastic descriptions from Simon, I think we’re missing out a little don’t you?”

“Definitely, I agree completely. We haven’t booked this year’s holiday yet, have you?” asked Sara.
By the time the men returned, the matter was decided, and the ladies had their diaries out. Never a good sign Simon commented later, as he and John signed cheques made payable to Matthew Lomsela from the Safari Outfitter for the deposit on their forthcoming holiday.