Behind enemy lines

Short Story by Cuthbert Mavheko
IT was 25 August 1979 and the doomed colonial regime in Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, which was at the end of its tether had now resorted to butchering innocent civilians and apportioning the blame on nationalist forces. A few days back, members of the infamous SAS raped and brutally murdered eight nuns at Dendera Mission near Fort Victoria (Masvingo) and newspapers were awash with reports that the atrocities had been committed by nationalist forces.

At a secret military base in Mozambique, Cde Hokoyo, the chief intelligence officer of the Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army (Zanla) was addressing five female guerrillas, being deployed on a secret expedition in Zimbabwe-Rhodesia.

“A few days ago, Rhodesian forces murdered eight Catholic nuns near Fort Victoria. Father Aleximus, the priest-in-charge of the mission escaped death by a whisker and, according to our intelligence reports, is hiding in the mountains in Chief Bwabwa’s domain, where the Rhodesians have a huge airbase. Dear comrades, you are being deployed on a dangerous and highly sensitive operation — one that will take you behind enemy lines to rescue the priest, who witnessed the killing of the nuns. He is the only one who can tell the world the truth and exonerate us,” he said.

Silence fell for a moment or two, then he continued, “You have been selected for this mission because of your courage and heroic exploits on the battle-front, I have no doubt whatsoever that the mission will be successful,” Cde Hokoyo said.

Clad in denim jeans and armed with AK 47s, SKS rifles, an RPG 7 bazooka and a 16-millimetre mortar the five of us: Cdes Maidei, Ndlovu, Muchaneta, Nyathi, myself and Cde Nyembezi, left our base in a military truck and arrived at a secret crossing point on the Bakayawo River towards sunset. What we did not know then was that one of us was a Selous Scout and had already informed the Rhodesians about the expedition.

While waiting for the canoe that was to take us across the river, Cde Ndlovu decided to take a swim in the river. She discarded her clothes and jumped into the dark waters. None of us saw the huge crocodile that lurked in the long grass on the banks of the river. The giant reptile had seen Cde Ndlovu plunge into the river and had slid quietly into the water. As Cde Ndlovu swam towards the bank the crocodile attacked her from behind. She let out a blood-curdling scream as the crocodile clamped its massive jaws around her torso and dragged her under the water. Everything happened very fast, giving us no chance to save her.

A few hours after canoeing across the Bakayawo River, we sneaked into Zimbabwe-Rhodesia. We travelled at night and slept during the day. Four days later, we arrived at Chief Bwabwa’s kraal. It was around midnight and a thick umbrella of darkness enveloped the entire land. After introducing ourselves to the chief, he led us to the cave where Father Aleximus was hiding. The priest told us what had happened at the mission, “I hid in a ditch when the soldiers arrived and I photographed them shooting the poor souls. Please take me with you.

The Rhodesians are after me; they want the photos,” he said, giving me photos, which showed bearded white Rhodesian soldiers shooting the nuns in the back of the head. As we trudged back to the village, a moment later, Cde Nyathi disappeared and we never saw her again. That night we had a “pungwe” at the chief’s kraal, which was attended by hundreds of people. We sang revolutionary songs and preached the gospel of independence till daylight.
As dawn broke over the land the roar of fighter jets rent the calm morning air. One moment, they were dots in the blue sky above, and the next they were diving out of the sky and streaking towards the village, their rockets leaving dispersing smoke trails as they horned in on their target. The village burst into smoke and flames as the rockets exploded. Pandemonium reigned supreme as the crowd scattered in all directions.

The fighter jets streaked away with a deafening roar and helicopter gunships, which flew at tree-top level, swooped down on the village. Hordes of soldiers, armed with FN and G3 rifles; UZI and MAG machine-guns jumped from the hovering war machines. The stutter of machine-guns, the crack of exploding grenades, the screams of wounded people, the shrieks of terrified beasts and the clutter of helicopters made a discordant symphony of war. One of the helicopters was hit by an RPG 7 rocket, it hurled to the ground and exploded in a mushroom of smoke and fire.
Cde Muchaneta lobbed a smoke grenade at the advancing Rhodesian soldiers and a thick cloud of smoke cascaded through the trees, reducing visibility down to zero. I ordered a tactical retreat; we regrouped and launched a counter-attack from the right flank, our guns belching fire and brimstone. As the fighting intensified, I soon ran out of ammunition and dived into a pit toilet.

When I crept out of the pit, a few hours later, it was sunset; the shadows were lengthening and the western horizon had assumed the classic golden haze so accurately depicted by landscape artistes. The shooting had stopped and a terrible, empty silence hung over the countryside. The stench of burnt human flesh was overpowering and the smoke and flames crackling out from the downed helicopter showered the air with an indefinable horror. My entire body was spattered with blood, urine and human excrement.

Gasping and moaning, I staggered to my feet and hobbled slowly among piles of corpses. Everywhere I looked, my eyes rested on the horribly disfigured bodies of men, women and children who had been butchered by the Rhodesians. Cde Maidei lay stretched in a ditch; I could tell by the awkward angle of her head that her neck was broken. Next to her lay the bullet-riddled bodies of Cde Muchaneta and Father Aleximus.
PS: This story was written in memory of all the guerrillas, who willingly sacrificed their precious lives for Zimbabwe’s freedom and independence.