Andrew Dawson - MiG-23 Broke my Heart

Skeletor’s voice boomed out over the map. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Toilet.’ Grabbing his crotch, Thomas mimed the pain of a full bladder. He had been sipping water from his canteen all day, so the act wasn’t too difficult.

‘Hurry up.’

Thomas scampered out of sight behind the tree. He unzipped his trousers, took aim and wrote his initials, TG, in urine on bark. After finishing up and hastily wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pink envelope.

Held up to his nose, it still smelt faintly of perfume, promising an escape from the universe of sweat, sand and shoe polish he had been living in for so long. He wanted to rip it open right away, but knew he had to restrain himself, take care not to damage his most precious possession. So, carefully, he slid a fingernail under the triangular fold, began to work it open. The glue came unstuck without much pressure, a sign that the army had been there before him. But Thomas had expected this and he focussed his attention now on the single sheet of ice-white paper exposed within. Hoping that the censors had been kind, his stomach churning in anticipation, he lifted out the letter.

‘What are you doing?’

Thomas looked up to see Skeletor leaning against the side of the tree, rifle slung over his shoulder.

‘Nothing.’ Thomas quickly stuffed the letter back into the envelope then shoved both into his pocket, trying not to wince as the paper crumpled.

‘Wait. What was that? What were you reading?’

Thomas shrugged, casually as he could, hoping the bass drum of his heart didn’t give him away. ‘Just a letter from my parents.’

‘We’re not supposed to bring anything from South Africa.’

‘It’s been censored.’ Thomas had already seen that the return address had been left intact on the back of the envelope, and knew that if challenged he would have to give it up, let it be destroyed.

But Skeletor didn’t seem interested. He stomped across, unzipped his trousers and pissed all over Thomas’s initials. ‘Do you know how to fix a compass?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘I don’t know, surfer boy. That’s why I’m asking you.’

On the other side of the tree, in a section of sand past the truck, Thomas found Maxwell walking in slow circles with the compass held out like a divining rod.

‘This thing,’ Maxwell explained, ‘is too sensitive for its own good. The ground here is so full of metal, it doesn’t know which way is up or down.’

Thomas took the compass and had a look. The silver needle was spinning around the dial, directionless.

‘I reckon he’s lying.’ Skeletor stomped out from behind the tree, zipping up as he came closer.

‘No, Maxwell’s right. This thing’s stuffed.’ Thomas shook the compass, hoping to calm its jittery nerves, but still the needle spun. ‘Anyway, why would he lie to us?’

‘Thank you,’ Maxwell said, ‘but I can speak for myself.’ He seized back the compass then turned to stare at the orange orb, all that was left of the sun, hanging behind the gnarled branches of the baobab. ‘We will have to camp here tonight. Get our bearings from the rising sun.’

Skeletor stormed across and loomed, his neck bent down like a streetlight, over Maxwell. ‘And how do we know you don’t have friends arriving tonight, to kill us and steal our things?’

Maxwell held his ground. ‘Do you think my friends would be stupid enough to come all this way to rob two conscripts like you?’

‘Watch it.’ Skeletor stubbed a finger on Maxwell’s chest.

Maxwell didn’t flinch. ‘Without me you would be unarmed, as defenceless as a baby.’

‘Who are you calling a baby?’ Skeletor backed off a few paces, but he wasn’t going anywhere, merely giving himself enough room to raise his AK-47 and stare down the barrel at Maxwell.

Maxwell stared right back, bringing up his own rifle in reply, holding it at waist height.

Thomas realised that if he didn’t do something, soon, it would all end in tears or worse, blood. He rushed in between them and pushed aside their rifles. His own weapon was somewhere, forgotten, in the truck. ‘Come on, guys. Peace.’

‘Stay out of this, hippy.’

‘Yes,’ Maxwell said, ‘this is not your business.’

But Thomas had made up his mind and wasn’t going to back down. He was going to redeem himself in Maxwell’s eyes, prove that he wasn’t some spoilt white kid, but a nice guy, a good oke, a friend. ‘Skeletor,’ he said, making himself sound reasonable, like an adult, ‘I really think we should listen to Maxwell. I mean, he’s got more experience than both of us out here.’

Something hard smashed into Thomas’s side, in the exact spot Skeletor had kicked him the night before. He fell to the ground clutching his ribs, gazing up in incomprehension at his attacker.

‘I told you, I can speak for myself,’ Maxwell held his rifle butt ready to deliver another blow.

‘I was just trying to help. Jesus, man.’

Another bolt of pain shot through Thomas, this time from the other direction.

‘And that’s for blasphemy.’ Skeletor’s boot hovered in the air.

Lying there in the sand, curled into a protective ball between his attackers, Thomas didn’t just want to leave the army. He wanted to travel back in space and time, track down his ancestors and tell them not to bother coming to this hard, harsh continent, where they would only end up in buffer zones between armies and be used as punch bags, their every good intention misunderstood.

‘Stop being a girl,’ Skeletor said. ‘Stand up.’

Making an effort not to wince, Thomas got to his feet.

‘Are you crying?’ Skeletor’s top lip was curled in disgust.

Thomas wiped his wet cheeks. ‘No.’

With a shrug, Maxwell started back to the truck.

‘You, boy,’ Skeletor said. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’

Maxwell stopped.

‘Who do you think you are, hitting a white man?’

‘I’m fine.’ Thomas rubbed his side and forced a smile. ‘He didn’t hit me that hard, really. It was more of a tap than anything else.’

‘I’m done with you.’ With the side of his rifle, Skeletor shoved Thomas away.

Letting kinetic energy carry his body, Thomas staggered to the truck, sidestepping Maxwell along the way, then turned and fell back heavily on the bonnet.

Skeletor, red faced and indignant, came after his prey. ‘Answer me, boy. What gives you the right to hit a white man?’

‘It was the only way he would understand,’ Maxwell said.

Skeletor’s rifle was aimed at Maxwell’s head. ‘Understand what? That you’ve got a death wish?’

‘Him.’ Maxwell gestured with his rifle at Thomas. ‘I know people like him. They think they’re here to help, but they don’t listen. They get in the way. And they cause trouble. Out here people like that can get you killed.’

Indignation made Thomas push himself up from the bonnet. He had made so much effort with Maxwell and this was his repayment, this betrayal. It wasn’t fair.

All Skeletor did was raise an eyebrow. ‘You talking about Englishmen?’

Maxwell shrugged.

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Skeletor lowered his weapon, interpreting Maxwell’s shrug as an affirmation. ‘I completely agree with you. They should keep these rooineks from Britain out of the army. They don’t care about our continent. Leave the fighting to the real Africans, like us.’

‘Hey, I didn’t ask to get called up,’ Thomas mumbled in his defence. It felt as if he was on trial for a crime he hadn’t committed. No, it felt as if his whole family was on trial, and all because they had arrived in the 1800s rather than a hundred years earlier with Skeletor’s people.