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Start ReadingLength: 279 pages4 hours
- Publisher:
- Rodney St Clair Ballenden
- Released:
- Jul 7, 2015
- ISBN:
- 9781310174087
- Format:
- Book
Description
In !975 a rebel ZAR force invades South Africa, crossing the Tugela River to carve out a chunk of land and proclaim an independent state for the Afrikaner people. The Afrikaner leadership is split by internal wrangling between detente and warfare threatening the stability of the newly proclaimed state. Brik Taljaard joins the rebel forces and in so doing chooses freedom and independence over family. This decision destroys his family and costs him the only woman he ever loved, but connects him to a friendship born out of the very essence of the conflict; hatred and mistrust.
Book Actions
Start ReadingBook Information
Zar
Length: 279 pages4 hours
Description
In !975 a rebel ZAR force invades South Africa, crossing the Tugela River to carve out a chunk of land and proclaim an independent state for the Afrikaner people. The Afrikaner leadership is split by internal wrangling between detente and warfare threatening the stability of the newly proclaimed state. Brik Taljaard joins the rebel forces and in so doing chooses freedom and independence over family. This decision destroys his family and costs him the only woman he ever loved, but connects him to a friendship born out of the very essence of the conflict; hatred and mistrust.
- Publisher:
- Rodney St Clair Ballenden
- Released:
- Jul 7, 2015
- ISBN:
- 9781310174087
- Format:
- Book
About the author
Rodney St Clair Ballenden was born in Nairobi, Kenya, in 1947. In lieu of an academic career he traveled extensively through Europe, the United Sates of America and Greece. He married Colleen and returned to South Africa to farm, but the call of the wild drew him into a hermit existence placing him in extreme situations exposed to danger and the vagaries of storm and wind. From his observations on man and his relationship with the wilderness he began to write, and his books are available on the SmashWord platform as well as at Amazon.Rodney will relocate to Greece at the end of 2020 to work with the Syrian refugees.
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Zar - Rodney St Clair Ballenden
ZAR
by
Rodney St Clair Ballenden
Copyright © cover © text and story by Rodney St Clair Ballenden.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission from the copyright owner. This book is a work of fiction and licensed for your personal enjoyment. All characters were derived from the imagination and do not refer to any person living or deceased. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
dedicated
to those who imagine the impossible
and then go out and do it.
The making of a story
I often ask a question beginning with what if?
What if there were no sports teams to support? No players to drop or choose, and no cup to win? What if I had done this instead of that? And, of course, what if a country had decided not to invade their neighbour or meddle in their neighbour’s affairs? Imagine that?
Living in South Africa today, in the year 2019, in all the horror of the farm killings, the rape of so many women and children, the theft of our wealth, and most abhorrent, the erosion of a people’s hope for a better future, I hear myself expressing the same negative thoughts expressed by so many white people. And when I speak to the black people, the poor have already given up; those who have a job couldn’t care; and those with money bury themselves in the comforts of their wealth. The moral decay of the South African society is palpable.
Every one of us yearns for something that never was. A kiss. A word. If only, I had done this instead of that? What if the South African Army had invaded its own territory in 1975 and declared an independent Zuid Afrikaner Republiek? The Israelis did it in 1947. Okay, only with the help of a blatant racist signature by Britain, so why not the Afrikaner in 1975? When the Afrikaner had the power, and controlled all aspects of the South African landscape, save one, the burgeoning numbers of Black Nationalists, they had the chance to wrest a portion of the country free. They could have secured a territory to govern over according to their laws, beliefs, and social norms without having to wrap it in the cloak of apartheid.
Instead, the SADF invaded Angola.
The reality is, we’ll never know what could have been. But, we all remember the past, and looking back we feel that twinge of nostalgia for a future we could have had, if only…
VERKEERDEVELI
An army jeep drove at speed along a dusty farm road, the ploughed lands on either side, neglected and barren. In the distance, the mountains too spoke not of life but of rocks, balanced one on top of the other, in a useless heap of rubble.
Brik Taljaard, clutched the steering wheel, his jaw set against the dust. His stare fixed on the road ahead. He knew this road by heart, having walked it all his life, and driven it in every kind of vehicle; tractor, truck, car and bakkie. He even rode it several times, back in the good old days, when his father had saddled a pair of horses. One mare and one stallion, but those were the old days, and today the horses have gone.
He had lived here for twenty two years, and only left to join the army, a mere year and three months ago. Now, he returned. He returned to a place he no longer called home, the desolate landscape his witness to a barren future. The march of the soldier and the growl of a diesel engine, his call to a promised land.
Down into the valley he sped. He crossed the dry river bed, changing down a gear, and up the other side, accelerating towards the foothills of the mountains. He flew in the face of the soft sand and the loose gravel that made up the greater part of the road, his foot flat, and pushing the aging jeep to its maximum effort.
The flag on the front a homemade affair, the staff bending against the wind, the edges already frayed, but the JOC emblem of Brik’s command defiant against the odds.
Ma saw him coming.
She stood at the kitchen window, clutching the curtain, hiding in the deep shadows, and not wanting to admit the reality of Brik’s unexpected appearance back home.
And Franette saw him too.
She raced from the shed, squealing and giggling, anticipating the fun, and across the yard and into the mielie fields behind the house. The fields had long been abandoned, the stalks withered and dying, many already fallen, their pathetic lives wasted even in death. Franette’s dress a splash of colour as she leapt the rows, running deeper and deeper towards the centre of the land, and caring not if she fell or stood.
Brik followed, smashing everything in his path.
The jeep heroically withstanding the test, holding all parts together, even the bonnet, the engine growling its approval of the chase as it hauled in Franette.
And Brik skidded to a halt as Franette jumped aside, the jeep coughing to a standstill some distance away.
He tackled her. They rolled over together, each holding the other, rolling into a trough and lying there, their breath hard, their eyes wide and staring, and their hair a mess, the sweat on their faces lined in dirt.
Got you,
Brik exploded.
Do it,
Franette wheezed. Now….please,
and she tore at Brik’s uniform. All of you…please. Quick…oh please, please.
Not so fast. Nicely,
Brik said, and slowed things down.
He lifted her skirt and kissed her thigh, kissing deeper. And Franette growled. Brik slid her panties off, and unbuttoned his uniform, tossing his shirt aside. Franette pulled his pants off, and took him in her hands, kissing along the length of his shaft and around the head. Then, she wriggled from her skirt and lay naked on top of him.
They kissed.
Their lips wet, their urgency swamping their shyness.
Franette lowered herself onto him, arching her back, her one hand clutching the stalk of a dead mielie plant. And they rocked together. Slow and rhythmic, their eyes still locked, their urgency gone. Franette opened herself for him, feeling his power and surrendering to his want, his groans now her beat, pulling him out of himself. Pulling and pulling…
He came.
She felt it. A rush, deep inside her, pouring up into her cavity, threatening to explode through her belly button.
Then she too came.
She pressed down hard, closing herself, holding him in, wanting to keep him there forever.
Ma snapped the curtain closed, and turned back into the darkness. Her eyes wide, not seeing, determined to wipe the memory of her son from her mind. She ran from the kitchen and bumped into Pa in the passage, and gripped his collar pulling him into her.
He’s here,
she hissed.
Pa brushed passed and flung open the kitchen door.
He could see the jeep in the mielie fields, and Brik and Franette standing nose to nose, their fingers doing something down their fronts.
Bitch,
he snarled, and turned away.
It’s him,
Ma said. He’s no good…that boy of yours.
And yours.
Not anymore.
Ma, lifted the lid from a heavy saucepan simmering on the stove and stirred vigorously, dropping the lid as the heat got to her. She turned back to the window and pulled the curtain aside, just an inch, wanting to see her shame.
You keep looking,
Pa said.
Ma stared out, stoic in her silence.
Brik lifted Franette into the jeep, leaning against the door post, his hands on her breasts, touching softly, feeling the hardness of her nipples.
That was good,
he whispered.
Because we’re good together,
Franette whispered back. She gathered herself, speaking slowly, her voice firm in the conviction of her desire. And we can have it all…forever…each turn as magical as the first.
Brik smiled, drawing breath, as he too basked in the belief of Franette’s desire, wanting just as much to be in her sacred space, wet all over, and smothered in the power of their love.
Tonight,
he said, his voice firm and convincing.
Tonight?
She whispered back, thinking of doing it over again.
He nodded, his lips firm.
And Franette pulled back, understanding the meaning of his look.
Then, you’ll be gone,
she managed to say.
Yes.
Franette, at a loss, her anger boiling, and her voice crackling, What about…you promised me,
she stuttered. Remember. Not just a fake promise, something you meant…for real.
Everything’s changed. I’m not in control,
Brik replied. I promised you, because things were different then…
Franette, walked away struggling to accept Brik’s reply. In one week….everything’s changed in one week,
she stuttered. Even you…you’re not the same. That look of yours.
Maybe not.
How is that possible?
To change?
In one week?
We can still get married,
Brik assured Franette. That hasn’t changed. I still love you. It’s just…just that—
That’s for nothing,
Franette snapped. Once you go, you go. I know you, the stubborn part of you. You can only love here…in a mielie field. Not over there in some nice place.
Brik grabbed Franette by the shoulders, twisting her to face him. Listen…listen, Franette. This is for real. It’ll never be over between us. We’re going in tonight…going in hard. We have to…to make it last,
he said. For the better.
Franette shrugged him off: You’re a dreamer, dear Brik…just a dreamer. I liked that about you…in the beginning I liked that a lot, but not now. Now, you dream without me.
Brik kissed her, a gentle brush of the lips. I love you for who you are…not for me and will always love you.
They kissed again, getting hotter and hotter.
We both are,
Franette managed to say. Silly galumphs.
Thank God.
And they held each other in the promise of their future, their heads rocking, but their feet so still.
THE INVASION
The flags of the ZAR Army fluttered at their posts, straining to be free, and testing their whip for the given moment of their release. And the troop of the Eland Corps waited too, the excitement of going over now dimmed by the all night wait, frozen in the gloom of the same old sun rising on another wasted day.
Brik stood in the turret of his Eland tank, exhaling in short bursts, his breath a white vapour, like wet tobacco from the butt end of a fag. A single Eland vehicle stood idle in the eerie light ahead and several behind, all of their 90mm cannon pointed horizontally to the front. The clink of metal on metal sharp in the brittle chill of the early morning. Every man, and every vehicle a dark silhouette, their bravado sullen in the numbness of their wait.
Inside the Eland of Brik, Spoefie, bounced a 90mm round against the floor plates, catching the round as it spun towards him.
Brik watched from the hatch, his frustration at the delay evident. What the hell,
he muttered. Let’s go! Let’s go…please…
He tapped a cigarette from his packet and held it in his lips, but did not light it. The orders were specific; no lights, silence, and total blackout. Brik’s face was painted black, his balaclava drawn down tight over his head. He wore half gloves to darken his skin, only his fingers showing, because a white skin shone in the night. Even the Eland had been scuffed up to dull any reflective bits, and every soldier, to the man, looked the same, like dark apparitions, psyched up to dish out their quota of death and destruction.
A combi truck pulled into a lay-by on the other side of the road, and turned around facing back the way it had come. It stopped in the middle of the road and a two men hurried about, pulling off equipment and setting up a base at the head of the Eland column. And through the midst of this commotion Brik saw Kommandant van Vuuren walking briskly towards him.
Gideon’s head appeared in the narrow gap between Brik’s legs and the sky. Psst,
he hissed.
Get back,
Brik ordered him.
Gideon tugged at Brik’s leg and signalled for a smoke, holding up his finger, and begging for just one. Brik broke his cigarette in half and handed it down to Gideon.
And Gideon stared at the broken fag, the tobacco falling out the one end, and looked up at Brik, his face contorted in disgust.
Brik leaned in and pinched Gideon’s lips together.
Ssh!
he snapped. Here comes the Kommandant,
and Brik straightened, saluting into the darkness, a smart clip to his forehead. Kommandant,
he said, and relaxed.
We wait,
Kommandant van Vuuren informed Brik. The politicians drivel over the issues. Until then we wait.
Sir.
Keep tight. Your orders stay the same.
Sir,
and Brik saluted again as Kommandant van Vuuren walked away. Then, he leaned down and snapped at Gideon. Stay inside. You smoke here. You piss here. You crap here. Nothing’s changed. Get it, and make that fuck wit Spoefie understand.
We’re all going mad,
Gideon hissed back. Just all fucking bad. Bad, bad, bad.
"
Brik watched the two Eland commanders behind him jump to the ground and meet in a huddle in the shadow of their vehicles. He thought of joining them, but sat astride the turret, surveying the scene, wondering if they would ever move or if the whole operation had been called off. Maybe, it’s too risky? Maybe, the moment was not right or worse, that a political settlement was the only option?
Brik jumped from the turret and walked towards the front of the queue. A group of his fellow soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder around the lead vehicle, their cigarettes cupped in the palms of their hands, their heads craning forward, every one of them spellbound by a civilian man squatting on his haunches in the middle of their circle. And this man held a microphone in his one hand. He pointed it at the soldier in front of him, and moved steadily around the circle as each spoke, one soldier at a time. Another civilian stood immediately behind the man with the microphone, and operated a small camera, cutting back and forth from the Eland column to the soldier speaking.
The hackles on Brik’s neck rose.
This was not good.
It was obvious to Brik what was going down here. He may have been raised on a farm, but not in the ignorance of the outside world. Somehow, there had been a breach of security. But by whom? And why? And what would be the consequences of this?
That was the big question raging in Brik’s mind. What were the consequences? The question of why, was not the first in Brik’s mind, but the question of how did this come to happen? A breach in security? And Brik decided that the breach had come from within his own command. Perhaps, even Kommandant van Vuuren himself had allowed this to happen. Of course, that made sense. Only the Kommandant could have allowed a civilian to film the events of this night. But surely the Kommandant had not acted alone. He was a soldier, a professional, and would not step out of line without an order from his superior. That’s how the system worked. From the top down to the bottom. And every soldier on the chain would salute and go out and do the job so ordered. It was the only way. Man had too many opinions. His mind so fragmented that the enemy would come pouring through the gate before the debate had reached a common consensus.
A soldier’s job was to do and not to think.
Especially on the front line, and Brik now stood on the front line. As the gunfire opened and the bullets flew, the true soldier would act. His brain would ignite. Not in a thought. In an instant. An action without thought. He would not hide. He would not cower in safety. He would grab the initiative and charge into the hail of fire. The soldier well trained, and well led, would do so, and never think twice about his safety. Each and every one of them would rely instinctively on the man charging alongside him, their common purpose their shield, the determination of the one feeding the courage of the other. And so they would overcome the obstacle. So, they would stand on the crest of their objective and raise their flag. And so they would gain the victory that was theirs the day they committed to this race. First to the crest would be the first one home.
Brik shouldered his way between two soldiers, his stance in sharp contrast to the others, upright and stiff, the formality of his bearing a signal to the civilian man in front of him to be weary, here stood a man not to be taken lightly, a man who would not swallow the bullshit of another man’s ambition without him first proving himself, and proving himself on a flat table, the table of honour.
And you, sir,
the civilian snapped, pointing the microphone at Brik.
What’s the question?
Brik responded.
Are you a rebel or part of the South African Defence Force?
Who are you?
Brik demanded to know.
There’s my van,
the man said, and indicated the blue and white Volkswagen parked under the trees some distance away. Dented and dusty but a noble servant.
I am a private documentary maker, the man introduced himself.
Just making my way, and this is the first scene of a story that maybe does not end."
And your name?
Brik continued, nonplussed by the microphone stuck in his face. Here’s my name,
and Brik tapped his name tag stitched above his heart. See, nothing sinister. And this my command,
and Brik tapped the JOC emblem on his shoulder. Joint Operation Command, South African Defence Force.
A clandestine unit,
the man continued to dig, his voice cutting, his intention obvious. My name is Garth Oldman, and your name may be the only transparent aspect of your mission. There is no record of any JOC. No previous operations on record. No background. I’ve done my research—
Then you will know, call us rebels, whatever you wish. We are an elite group on an elite mission the details of which have got nothing to do with you or your presence here,
and Brik drew a deep breath. We are the men on the ground. We do what we are ordered to do, and the JOC give us the orders. It’s as simple as that.
I am not here on subversive grounds, Lieutenant Taljaard,
Garth explained. In fact quite the opposite—
Get fucked mister,
Gideon hissed, popping up from nowhere.
And you sir,
Garth said, swinging to face Gideon. What are your orders?
To kill you.
And Gideon’s face told the story of his intentions. A story of truth, and not one to be taken lightly. He drew his finger across his throat, his tongue already stuck so far out it touched his chin. His eyes looked like ticks threatening to pop should this imposter so much as swivel on his haunches or so much as dare oppose him. He was such a prick. He thought he owned the place. He owned nothing, especially not one of the men before him. And to claim them he stuck this thing in their face.
Damn you,
Gideon snarled. These are my buddies. I’ll die for them, you prick. Call them men, sir, just men and no more and no less,
Gideon warned Garth.
What if we are both on the same side?
Garth replied, standing his ground, and the microphone steady in his hands.
I’ll kill you anyway. I kill all kaffirs, especially white kaffirs,
Gideon said, equally firm in his conviction.
Spoefie elbowed his way forward to support his buddy. We were raised to kill the kaffir,
he snarled. It’s our promise.
Who’s a kaffir?
Garth asked. He looked around the circle of men, his manner comical and provocative. Are we not all—
Listen you cunt—
Kaffir now cunt. You give me titles above my status,
Garth said, his amusement obvious.
We get it at birth,
Gideon continued. We don’t have to think about it. There’s no description….it’s instant,
and he snapped his fingers. We are born to hate.
Crap like you,
Spoefie added. We rub out.
And Spoefie twisted an imaginary cockroach into oblivion.
The black man is our enemy,
Gideon hissed, his face contorted in his fanatical belief. Look at the fucking animals, you idiot. The hyena hates the lion—
Eternal enemies, boetie,
Spoefie added, sticking the fuck sign in Garth’s face.
White and black never mix…ever,
Gideon said, his spit wetting his words.
Ask God,
Brik interrupted. He knows.
He did it,
Gideon reminded Garth. Remember, you doos. He created everything, what we like and don’t like, and who’s on top and who’s at the bottom.
And since the beginning evolution has kept it in place,
Brik added. God first and the rest after.
But there are a few good fellows on both sides,
Garth said, fuelling the fire. And these good fellows are equally determined to erase the inherited burden of this enmity.
Huh,
Spoefie spluttered. You talk rubbish.
They will never succeed,
Brik scoffed.
Because of the kaffir bastards,
Gideon added.
What about negotiation?
Garth, now the reporter, asked, swinging the microphone around the circle. And the men backed off, fearful of speaking their
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