CHAPTER TWO -- Fuel Run


It had been a long day; I was a little tired as I turned the corner into the car park at the Western Castle Hotel. I had been in St Austell all day on observation and it had been hot. Although I had equipped myself with plenty of water and the car was air-conditioned, I couldn't keep the engine running all that time. Some of the time I had spent out of the car walking a discreet distance behind my target and noting their stopping points. Now it was time to have a refreshing shower, change and enjoy once again the fine cuisine of the hotel restaurant.

For a few minutes as I approached my door, I reflected on the recollections I had experienced the night before, of the swift departure from South Africa and the journey back to Lusaka in Zambia. I wondered what I would be doing if I was still there. Would I still be the bank clerk I'd started out as, but then, no, I'd already changed from that early job to one of negotiator for a Chinese land survey company before I'd been sent to South Africa.

I thought of many things I could have done and many roads I could have taken. I shrugged, after all, I had no personal axes to grind and having no particular direction, had jumped at my father's offer to return to England with them just a few months after my expulsion from South Africa. This had enabled me to build a new life, I had found a lovely girl, Sara, married her, raised children, and was now settled in my ways. Sara was a manager in a busy hotel a mile or so from their house and she would later quiz him about the hotel and its service and so-on. As I closed the door of the room and went towards the stairs I thought about my past again. My life in the 21st century was far removed from the events that changed me from a boy into a man almost overnight.Some of those events were beginning to surface in my mind.

I made my way once again down to the hotel's well turned out dining room. In doing so I passed by the main car park. A dark green Landrover with all kinds of add-ons caught my eye. It was a Series II; I'd seen many of those out in the 'bush' and it sent my mind racing and I began to relive an event back in 1966, when I was eighteen years old, hot blooded, outspoken and always looking for trouble. I recalled that this was not long after Ian Smith had declared Southern Rhodesia as unilaterally independent, and cut off the only supply route into Zambia from the South. This was during the time I was working for a branch of a mainstream bank in the Northern Province of Zambia within the area known as the 'Copperbelt'.

I had been there about six months and was as usual making quite a noise in public about the difficulty in obtaining supplies of petrol. One night in a bar near Chilalabombwe, emboldened by a few pints of Castle Beer, I had once again given vent to my feelings on the subject. As I turned toward the other drinkers in the bar I was approached by a very fit looking man, with something of the military about him. I eyed him up and down; he had very well cut clothes and his bare arms showed rippling muscles. A small scar below his left eye told of a past skirmish and his eyes sparkled with life and alertness. He called himself simply 'Mitch'. Later I learned that he was Lt Col. Harry Mitchell, a mercenary hired by many different armies in those tumultuous years.

Mitch would have been about thirty five years old with hair cut very short and his well cut clothes and shoes were impeccable showing the years of discipline with which he had worked. His tanned face had a severe look about it and yet there was a slight hint of what could be described as a cheeky smile elusively fleeting around his lips. His left hand carried a tattooed snake entwined around his fingers and wrist and his right hand was out stretched towards me.
I looked at it. Why was this hand thrust out towards me? What did this tough soldier want with me? A fight maybe? I hoped not. I would most certainly be the loser.

Mitch smiled; he could see the hesitance in my eyes.
"I'd like to shake the hand of a young man who reminds me of my own youth"
I looked down at the hand again and thrust out my own.
We shook and looking hard at me, Mitch gave a slight flick of one wrist and told me "I've been paid by people who are not going to let this country grind to a halt for the want of fuel. Now as some of you know, I am a soldier. Some might use the words 'soldier of fortune', others 'mercenary', but whatever you call me, I get the job done. The Zambian government has asked me to use my men to secure safe passage of fuel into Zambia from Zaire to North, and also from Tanzania in the extreme north east. This has brought me into this bar tonight."
"So what are you going to do?" I was hooked on my own pet subject.
"I am going to send trained drivers across the northern border into the Congo, to bring back fuel. I need people like you, now, today!" He swung his hand around the room, following it with his eyes. The young men shifted slightly, dropping their eyes in embarrassment.
I had proved to be the exception and regarded the others with a mixture of disdain and disbelief.
As an eighteen-year-old with a desire for adventure, I was easily recruited to the band of 'drivers'.
"So what's in it for me if I join you?"
"You can take home enough fuel to run a family car for a month, free, that's got to be better than cash in hand."
"I'm up for that!" I said positively, still wincing from the crushing blow Mitch had dealt my fingers. Even though I was a fit rugby player, this man was far stronger than me.

Mitch looked around the room at the others, who now dropped their gaze again, and then brought his piercing black eyes back fully to mine. His eyes were blazing as he looked at me, a talkative outspoken teenager.
"It isn't going to be a little jolly over the border, a bit of fun, bring back a bit of petrol - this is danger man, real danger! There are bands of robbers on both sides of the border, eager to steal whatever they can, at gunpoint and ready to kill. Can you handle that kind of danger?"
"'S'my middle name" I laughed and stood to attention with mock salute, "Show me where to go . . . I'm not afraid of anything!"

The others all laughed, relieved that the pressure had been taken off them, for the moment.
"Report to this address next Monday, O.K.!?" Mitch didn't join in the laughter; he just turned and quickly walked out of the bar.

I looked down at the piece of paper Mitch had handed me and nodded to the disappearing back, "O.K. - I'm in!"

On the Monday, I walked hesitantly up the driveway of the suburban house with its wide veranda and banana groves making it impossible to see if the front door was open or closed. I glanced around me as I walked, the sparse but green lawn gave me no clues, there were no vehicles or garden workers to help him either. What was this place, just someone's house? Who's?

I stepped up onto the veranda and into the shade, now I could see the front door. It was open. As I stepped towards it the twin barrels of a shotgun appeared in the black opening, just visible in a shaft of sunlight.
"Business?" The voice was flat and commanding.
"Mitch told me to come!" I replied with boldness and not showing the fear that had welled up inside."Inside!" the flat voice commanded.
Stepping inside I was pulled quickly by the arm through a curtain and found himself in a room full of men, young and old, some smoking, some lounging, some standing. In the centre of the room stood Mitch, now in full battle dress, his eyes turned toward me, the young newcomer.
"Good, the men are all here, now we can begin training!"

I was given two weeks 'training' which mostly consisted of fetching and carrying for everyone else. Then one day I was greeted by a toothy grin as Mitch entered my room. He handed me a dark beret and, "for your protection should the worst happen", an old ex-army Lee Enfield .303 rifle was thrust into my hand.
"You know how to use that?"
I looked down at the rifle, and wished I had one of my own instead but nodded. "Yes, I have my own rifles back at my folks' place."
The keys to a battered Landrover were tossed at my feet. The brief? Go into the Congo, get as many of the fifty gallon drums on the back of the Landrover filled with Petrol (of any grade) and get it back to Zambia as quickly as I could without getting attacked by freelance bands of black-marketeers.
"How and where do we get this petrol?" I had asked as I reached down to pick up the keys.
Mitch rolled his eyes, "By whatever method needed - beg, steal, borrow or buy, what do you think? We have several suppliers there who are willing to sell the fuel they have stolen themselves, for a little profit. There are also little stores, the bush 'corner shops' we know so well, who have a sideline of supply, some of these have stolen the fuel from me; in those cases we shall just take it back. I will tell you where to get it at the time."
"OK, I understand that, but why do I need the rifle?" As someone who preferred not to carry a weapon for combat, though not a pacifist, I would not take up arms deliberately. I remembered what it felt like to shoot a man. I had done just that when he was a few years younger. I remembered that sickening feeling in the pit of the stomach. I remembered the violent retching before the very soul comes to accept the enormity of the act committed. I remembered the panic as I realised this was the ultimate criminal offence. I remembered that day.

"In case those who see the drums decide to help themselves, shoot over their heads - make 'em think you mean business! In fact you DO mean business - don't you?"
"Er, well yes, I suppose I do!"
"Well. Just have it there, in case - You may be glad of it when the time comes."

I was satisfied and made my way outside to the Landrover. It had been camouflaged and had also been stripped of many of the extra bits so that the weight of the fuel drums could be accommodated. There were six drums in the pick up area at the back, a total of 1500 litres capability. I climbed into the cab and familiarised myself with the controls. I was joined in the passenger seat by a member of the Bemba tribe, nomads that regularly wander in and out of Zambia, and neighbouring Zaire, so that any challenges could be met by someone who spoke the various dialects, I only spoke Bemba out of the possible five dialects they might encounter. I could therefore converse fluently with his companion and issue any instructions needed without fear of misunderstandings. I much preferred this to trying to simplify English so as not to confuse. Together we looked at the map of Zambia and the Congo (Zaire), a piece of Zaire pokes down into Zambia like a long scraggy finger, so that it comes very close to Chilalabombwe. It was there that a main road runs across the border, part of the original Great North Road, into the town of Kusumbalese, on up to Lumbumbashi and eventually, after splitting off into three main roads, on into Rwanda and on up eventually to Cairo. We would not even be going beyond Kusumbalese. I jumped back down out of the cab and went back into the house.
"Is it to your satisfaction?" Mitch asked with a sarcastic smile.
"Perfect."
"OK, we'll do some real training, follow me."
For two nights I was 'trained' by Mitch to do the petrol dash over the border, then at three a.m. on August 17th 1966, I crossed the border into the Congo. My training had included driving fast without lights along dusty roads, now that training had to pay off as we rushed headlong towards a small village west of Kusumbalese. The Landrover even had the brake warning light bulbs removed so they wouldn't light up when the vehicle braked.

My target was a petrol storage unit behind a garage/filling station at the edge of the town. I had been briefed that the owner was not co-operative, that he had in fact stolen the fuel himself from the Zaire government and therefore Mitch was not going to pay for the fuel, he was leaving it up to the Zambian government to compensate Kinshasa for their loss. No doubt there would be some sort of reward out for the recovery of it, but they would not see that. The fuel was not legally the property of the person who currently had it, and that was the crux of the matter. I was to just help himself to as much as I could pump, and leave, quickly. This didn't sound like a very bright idea at the time and I'd voiced my opinion on it to Mitch.
"I'm not that happy about helping myself in the middle of the night - sounds like robbery a bit."
"You can give me the keys back now then and piss off home, but if you say one word, just one, you'll be dead! If you do leave, you had better not be around anywhere that I might run into you."
"I'll go, just not happy about it that's all."
"O.K. listen - my men are all out around the border, they'll be your fall-back team. - - Now piss off if you�re going!"
"Sorry, I was thinking out loud, a little scared you know!"
"Scared! By the time you start filling those drums scared will have a different meaning. You don't know what it means to be scared. You heart will be thumping, your guts will get all knotted up, and you'll physically shit yourself. Now, it's time to move. Here are your maps and stuff, stick them on that clip board and clip it behind the sun visor; see you in the morning. Go on, you'll be o.k.!" Mitch broke into a grin and waved us out to the Landrover.

The information sheets included details of the terrain and Mitch had explained that village is at the bottom of a gentle slope, and I should approach in silence. The border crossing was smooth with no challenges; no-one cares at that time of night. Once over the border the main road runs straight as a die northwards. According to our map, we needed to head at an oblique angle to the north-west. I swung the wheel and left the highway about 800 metres into Zaire. There was no jungle yet, just that low scrubland interspersed with tall grass that is so common in Central Africa. There was no moon and as the Landrover plunged into the bush it was if a velvet glove had been pulled over my eyes. I wished I was a cat.

After driving somewhat recklessly at high speed through unlit bushveldt without lights, we approached the village. I cut the engine and coasted slowly down the slope until the Landrover was outside the fuel store behind a small garage and motor workshop. We sat motionless in the cab for a few minutes. There was a glimmer of light from a solitary street light about 100 metres away, casting long shadows and partially illuminating the front of the fuel store. I gestured to Zeb, my accomplice to get out and I too slipped out of the cab, leaving the door open. There was no bulb in the interior light, so the cab remained in darkness. We walked across to the pumps. There was no domestic electricity in this village and the pumps were not powered in any way.

Filling the drums of petrol necessitated hand pumping from the storage tank below. It seemed to take forever. Grasping the upright pump handle, I pulled it down; it made a gurgling sound as the chamber pushed out its air. I then pushed it back up with more gurgling as the amber fluid was sucked into the glass chamber, only to pull it down again, each stroke delivering just a few litres of fuel. Every second that passed brought risk of discovery.
I felt my heart thumping in my chest.
My guts began to knot. Somewhere a dog barked and a screech owl cried out. I nearly dropped the pump nozzle, and I did shit my pants.

Every second I was waiting for a voice to challenge me out of the darkness. My pulse was racing. My eyes were wide as I frantically pumped.

My accomplice, Zeb, was muttering to himself. He quickly screwed down the stoppers into the lids of the full drums. He knew that any second could be one second too long. We could find themselves looking at the end of a gun. He'd been there before! He didn't like it one bit. He was scared of being caught. He too had shit himself.

Discovery could be just a moment away. Should that happen, I had been told I was to put up my hands, admit it was a 'fair cop' and then Mitch would 'bust' us out later.
{A week later when one 'driver' was discovered pumping the fuel, he and his companion were shot on the spot, without discussion!}

Having filled the six drums, I considered that the weight was probably too much for the Landrover. I was right. I had instructions to continue rolling down the last few hundred metres of the slope until we left the northern end of the village, then to start the engine by placing the gear-shift into second gear and 'bump starting' it. I knew that I then had to drive about half a mile and turn right into another road, which would travel at an angle away from the village, and eventually back to the main road near the border. It seemed forever before the Landrover started to roll down the slope, and ages before the engine burst unto life.

The sound of the Rover vee-eight engine was like a Jumbo Jet in the stillness of that night, even though the mufflers had been specially modified so as to give maximum noise suppression. I felt the fear creep up into my throat. Having the over-muffler fitted reduced power at the same degree that it cut the noise, and I was sure we'd not get away. The huge three and a half litre engine seemed to falter a little, and then, like a faithful 'Sherpa' in Katmandu, just seemed to get into stride. All the while I was waiting for the sound of shots or even an engine bursting into life. Nothing happened, no lights came on. No-one was following.

I stamped hard on the accelerator pedal and with a slight rush of loose gravel from under the wheels; the Landrover plunged into dense Congo jungle. The moon was now rising above the horizon, but offered little comfort under the trees. For several minutes we followed a track almost by instinct in the dense darkness. Then all of a sudden, we burst out of the trees into a moonlit clearing and I hit the brakes, skidding the Landrover to a standstill, all the while wrestling frantically to keep it from keeling over with the weight. Right in front of us and blocking our path, were six shadowy men pointing automatic weapons at the Landrover, one had a grenade launcher and another was holding a portable anti-tank rocket launcher. All six of them were clad in black jungle night attire with full face scarves, so that only a slit for their eyes was visible. They stood in a slightly curved line, motionless, their weapons trained on either me, Zeb or the front of the vehicle. My heart missed a beat. I almost froze in terror. This was not what I'd had planned. I didn't want to die, not out here in the jungle. Not now.

What were we going to do...? How was it possible that these men could be standing there, on our pre-set escape route, between us and the border? I wanted to call out, but was frozen to the spot.

"Get out of the vehicle" commanded one of the men in Bemba, the local dialect I understood.
We got out and placed our hands on our heads.
"Name?" snapped another of the men as he gestured at me with the end of his rifle.
"Michael Mouse" I replied, and bit on the rifle butt that was thrust at my mouth.
Putting his face close to mine he demanded "This is your last chance. Give us your names and tell us why you are here, on this road. Quickly."

Zeb rattled off some quick sentences. I caught only the gist of the words. He was telling them who they were, why they were there and emphasising the need for them get back on the move quickly. The leader of the group said only one word and all the men suddenly stepped back, huddled together for a moment, and then, with a gesture which implied "you'd better be who you claim to be, and don't be here when we come back", melted into the jungle. It was just as if they had never been there!

"So......?" I asked with my hands upturned and shoulders in a hunch as I looked at Zeb for an explanation. I'd not recalled being quite so scared in his life, and now I'd wet myself as well and smelled like a sewer.

Zeb looked at me for a moment and then said softly, "Mitch's people - his elite squad, they are angry now because they hadn't been told about us. We nearly died here man; they were going to take us out. Lucky I knew one of them and he confirmed to the others that we were also Mitch's people. It's not good to stay here. Maybe we should get moving again, please." He hastily drew a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one to calm his nerves. He offered me one, I declined, I just wanted to get moving too.

As I started up the Landrover again and shoved the gear stick forward, I couldn't help thinking what nice people I'd now brought into my circle of friends. I pressed the accelerator pedal hard to the floor and as the four-wheel drive bit into the earth, the Landrover lurched a little and one of the drums moved, hitting the bar that runs along the top of the pick-up. The lid, which Zeb hadn't screwed down properly in his haste, popped off and petrol was splashing all over the deck.
"Damn." I cursed as I once again slammed on the brakes. More petrol splashed out as the drum reeled around.
"Zeb, while I stand guard with this rifle - get into the back and find that stopper and screw it down, and throw that cigarette well away first!"
"Yes Rob."
Zeb leaped out, his eyes wide with fear, urine trickling down his legs as he ran round to the back.
As he climbed into the back, there was a sudden burst of gunfire from the bush nearby and there followed five metallic thuds as bullets hit the side of the Landrover.
Zeb fell into the back and crawled around on the floor with his backside in the air, looking for the stopper.
"Get your arse down Zeb!"
Although I hadn't wanted to, I was going to have to use that rifle, at least until Zeb could find that stopper. I swung out through the window and stood on the top of the cab. I checked the rifle mechanism and magazine, it only held a maximum of five bullets. It was full, and I had ten more in his pocket.
There was another burst of gunfire, and this time I saw the flashes. I raised the old Lee Enfield and took careful aim, and fired five rounds in slow deliberate succession, pulling back the manual eject and cocking mechanism each time. Each shot was carefully placed within the area of the flashes.

The response was another hail of bullets, this time wild, whistling over my head and missing us by several metres. I crouched as I fed another five cartridges into the magazine. It seemed like an eternity. Then, as I stood up once again, I saw two figures crouching low, emerging from the bush and running slightly at an angle towards us. I raised the rifle and took aim at the leading figure.

"Akomo!" A shout came from the bush to my left and very rapid automatic fire followed. I looked back at the two figures, who were now sprawled motionless on the ground. I looked again towards the bush on my left, and saw one of the men they had encountered earlier raise his hand and turn back into the bush. I was grateful that the six men that had nearly killed us both only minutes earlier had stayed around.
"Zeb, you OK?"
"Yes, I found the stopper too; I have screwed it back on."
"Good get down here now, let's move!"
Zeb needed no further encouragement and fairly fell into the cab as I gunned the engine once more and we rocketed into the bush. Three times more as we hurtled towards the border and the main road we heard gunfire and felt the thuds of bullets hitting somewhere on the Landrover. If one of them was to hit the petrol, we wouldn't stand a chance.

The two guards at the border post were startled into life by a Landrover with Lusaka plates hurtling past their window at top speed, and they barely got a chance to think about it before it disappeared down the road to Chilalabombwe.

"I don't think I will do this again."
"Me neither."

The two of us were just glad to get back alive. I wasn't cut out for this and reflected for a few minutes on how his mum and dad might have reacted had they known what he had just been involved in. They were over 800 kilometres away, down near Lusaka, tucked up in their beds, unaware that their son, the bank clerk, had just 'stolen' 1500 litres of fuel from a Zaire garage and ran the gauntlet of border robbers to get it back.
I sighed with relief and patted Zeb on the shoulder. Zeb gave a wide toothy grin.

"Good evening Sir, did you have a good day?" - the waitress brought me back once again to the present. She smiled and handed me the maroon folder containing the day's menus.
"Yes, thank you, I'm a bit tired now but really hungry - what's the Chef's choice tonight?"
"Well, I think he's pretty pleased with his Melon Rosette starter, and there is a really tasty Salmon grill tonight, with a generous salad on the side."
"That sounds wonderful - I'll go with that."

I looked around the room at the other guests, they were quite a mixture of people, from business people just like me, to holiday makers from the North and even tourists from overseas places. I always enjoyed trying to imagine what part of the country or of the world my fellow guests had come from, what they did for a living and why they chose that occupation. I wrote notes and took little bets with myself as to this and then compared how close I'd been later when I learned the truth. Sometimes I was surprised to learn I was miles out in my guesses, which always taught me that first impressions do not always tell the truth.

In a few moments the waitress returned with my starter, and caught my gaze out of the window.

"You'd enjoy a walk up there, really, I go up there most afternoons, I could show you the best walk if you like"...She had a lovely smile and he been a bit younger and not married to the beautiful Sara, he'd have taken that offer up without hesitation. However, he just smiled as his eyes briefly flicked across from hers to her body. She was slim, Latin looking with a blouse that was a little smaller than her well rounded breasts would have preferred.
"Thanks", he said, "It sounds like a wonderful idea, if I wasn't working I might take you up on that, but I shall not be back tomorrow until after dark."
"Never mind," she beamed back, "your main course will be ready in a few minutes, enjoy your starter." I watched her wiggle her way back to the kitchen door. She obviously enjoyed flirting with the guests. Sara would have had a little talk with her had she been the girl's manager.

I looked across at one of the other guests, the man I'd christened Bony, possibly another businessman on stop over. The man grinned and made a rude gesture at the departing back of the waitress. That gave me no doubt as to how that man viewed waitresses.

I laughed as he recalled how on one occasion Sara was helping out in the Restaurant and an inebriated rugby player had put his hand up her skirt as she was serving the soup, only to end up wearing a bowlful of piping hot soup in his lap. The businessman grinned again, thinking I was responding to his gesture. He made another gesture which confirmed his lecherous intent. The waitress wasn't there to see it.

At that moment she returned with my salmon grill and placed it before me, she bent very close to me. I could smell the delicate perfume she had chosen, I could see the lecherous 'Bony' leering at her rising skirt hem as she leaned over to add his salad and a portion of fries.
"Table 15 - by the door. . ." I started to say.
"What? -- no you mean table 20, the lecher you mean?"
"You've worked him out already then?"
"Oh yes!"
"O.K. well don't be alarmed I'm going to do something that may trigger a heart attack".....
With that I reached up to her neck and pulled her head down quickly so that it looked as if I kissed her, she played along with the right reactions.
She giggled and smartly turned and headed for the kitchen. 'Bony' was all flushed and was drinking his ice water in huge gulps.

"That'll keep him going for a bit" I grinned as he tucked into my salmon grill, while 'Bony' mopped his brow with his handkerchief and loosened the button on his collar. I looked out of the window as I chewed the delicious salmon, recalling my earlier encounter with the Landrover that had triggered my journey into the past. I found it strange how vividly I could recall such events, nearly forty years on. I looked down at my hands, their palms were sweating. I was reliving the fear once again.

(c) Steve Goodings/Bob Curby 2007