'Keep an eye on them, Mick, but no rough stuff,' Hammond said.
Wingstead let out a long steady breath.
'I'd give a lot for a pull from that bottle of Scotch of yours. Or even a warm beer. But I'll settle for a mug of gunfire very gladly indeed.'
'Ditto,' I said, and we grinned at one another.
'You're my boss now, do you know that?'
'Sure I am. And that's my first order: a cup of that damned hellbrew of Bishop's and a plateful of whatever mess he's calling lunch,' I said. 'You too, Basil. Save the figuring for afterwards.'
Later that afternoon I had my chance to talk to Dr Katabisirua. The defection of five of our men troubled him little; they were healthy and capable, and he felt that having taken their own course it was up to them to make it in safety. The addition to our number of two more Americans and the expected arrival of a Frenchman and two Russians also meant little to him, except in so far as he hoped they might have some medical stores in their vehicles. The arrival of Dr Marriot he saw as pure gold.
He fretted about malnutrition, about sepsis, and was more perturbed than he liked to admit about the jolting his patients were receiving. For me, his worst news concerned Max Otter man, who was sinking into unconsciousness and for whom the future looked very grave.
He'd heard about the bridge, of course. 'There is no way to get to Kanja, then? No way at all?' 'Only for fit men on their own feet, Doctor. I'm sorry.' 'Mister Atheridge said he knew a way, I am told.' ' 'Yes,' I said, 'but he's wounded, over fifty, and in some shock. He's driven up there with some soldiers and one of our men to have a look but they won't be back before nightfall, I reckon. I don't think for a moment that they'll find any feasible way of getting across that ravine.'
He sighed. 'Then you are going to turn back.'
'To Kodowa, yes. And then south or west. Probably west. Do you know the town of Makara? Is there a medical station there?'
But he said that Makara patients had always been brought to him at Kodowa. There wasn't even a trained nurse, only a couple of midwives. Then he brightened. There is the cotton factory,' he said. 'They have very large well-built barns but I have heard that they stand almost empty and the factory is idle. It would make a good place to put all my patients.'
'If it's still intact, yes.' And, I thought, if some regiment or rebel troop hasn't turned it into a barracks first.
Shortly afterwards the two Russians and the Frenchman arrived. The Russians were as alike as peas in a pod, with broad Slavic features and wide grins. They had polysyllabic unpronounceable names and neither spoke more than ten words of English. God knows how they'd managed in earlier days. Zimmerman, who had worked alongside Russians laying pipelines in Iran, was able to interpret reasonably well. Later they became known as Brezhnev and Kosygin to everybody, and didn't seem to mind. Probably the way we said the names they couldn't even recognize them. They were hauling a load of pipe casing northwards to the oilfields.
The Frenchman spoke fair English and was called Antoine Dufour. He was carrying a mixed load for Petrole Meridional. They were all glad of company and resigned to a return journey, but they were unwilling to quit their trucks, especially when they found we had a store of reserve fuel. After a lot of trilingual palaver, Wingstead's French being more than adequate, they agreed to stick with us in a policy of safety in numbers.
So did Russ Burns and Zimmerman. But they had a different problem.
'I hear you have gas,' Burns said. 'We're about dry.'
'We've got gas,' I told him. 'But not to burn up in your goddam air-conditioning, or hauling all that chrome around Africa.' I walked over to look at their car. The overhang behind the rear wheels was over five feet and the decorations in front snarled in a savage grin. 'Your taste in transport is a mite old-fashioned, Texas?'
'That's a good American car. You won't find me driving one of those dinky European models. Hell, I can't get my legs under the wheel. Anyway, it's a company car. It wouldn't look good for an oilman with Lat-Am to drive an economy car; that would show lack of confidence.'
'Very interesting,' I said, 'but so far you've been on the blacktop. Suppose we have to take to the country roads. That thing will lose its exhaust in the first mile, and the sump in the next. It'll scrape its fanny every ten yards.'
'He's right, Russ,' said Zimmerman.
'Oh hell,' Burns said sadly, unwilling to give up his status symbol.
I pointed to a tractor. 'Can either of you drive one of those?'
'I can,' said Zimmerman promptly, 'I started my working life as a trucker. I might need a bit of updating tuition, though.'
'Well, you know our problem. Five guys walked out and two of them were drivers. You won't be asked to drive it coupled up, Kemp wouldn't buy that. I'm leaving the hire car here because it's never going to make the dirt roads. You'll have to do the same, because you get no gas from me. You drive the tractor uncoupled, and take care of the sick folk up on the roof.' I turned to Burns. 'And you can drive with me in the Land Rover. There's plenty of leg room there.'
He sighed and patted his car on the hood. 'So long, baby. It's been nice knowing you.'
It was dark as I'd guessed it would be before Atheridge and his party returned, quiet and dispirited. The ravine crossing which he remembered from many years before was now overgrown, the ledges crumbled and passage impossible. Thorpe told me privately that they had had quite a job persuading Atheridge to return with them; he was passionately determined to try crossing on his own, but he was quite unfit to do so.
Eventually the entire camp settled down to an uneasy night's sleep. The five mutineers, strikers, whatever one wanted to call them, had vanished, their gear gone. Wingstead and I felt itchy with unease about them, both for their safety and for our own future without their expertise. I'd had a guard of soldiers put around every vehicle we possessed, just in case any of them decided to try to collar one. There wasn't much left to say, and at last we all turned in and slept, or tried to, and awaited the coming of morning.
CHAPTER 15
The morning brought the usual crises and problems attendant on any normal start of a run, plus of course the extra ones imposed by our status as a mobile hospital. Somewhere in the middle of it, while Kemp was supervising the recoupling of the tractors to the other end of the rig it was discovered that McGrath was missing. The air was lively with curses as both Kemp and Hammond sought their chief driver. At about the same time Sadiq's sergeant came to tell us that the hire car was missing too.
And then suddenly there was McGrath, walking into our midst with one arm flung round the shoulders of a cowed and nervous Ron Jones. Tailing up behind them were Lang and Bob Pitman, looking equally hangdog, pale and exhausted.
'Mister Kemp,' McGrath called out in a cheerful, boisterous voice, 'these lads have changed their minds and want to come with us. Would you be taking them back onto the payroll? I promised I'd put in a word for them.'
Kemp wasn't sure what to do, and glanced at me for guidance. I shook my head. 'I don't hire and fire around here, Basil. Have a word with Geoff.'
But of course there wasn't any doubt about it really; the hesitation was only for form's sake. After a long private talk Geoff announced that the three delinquents were to be taken back into the fold, and a reallocation of driving jobs ensued, somewhat to Harry Zimmerman's relief.
It was impossible to find out exactly what had happened; McGrath kept busy and enquiries would have to wait until later. Wingstead did tell me that according to all of them, Bob Sisley and Johnny Burke had refused point blank to return when McGrath caught up with them. It seemed that he had taken the car and gone off at first light. The other three were less committed to Sisley's cause and Jones in particular had been a most unwilling mutineer. The three of them would bear careful watching but there was no doubt that we were greatly relieved to have them back.
We camped that night back near Kodowa, but not at the hospital, where Dr Kat decreed that there would be too much danger of infection from the debris left behind. Instead a cleaner site was found further west on the road we were to take. It had been a day wasted. We arrived in the late afternoon and buried our dead, four more, and then began the laborious process of settling in for the night, and of planning the start for Makara in the morning.
At the end of it I had had a gutful. I was weary of talking and of listening, settling arguments, solving problems and doling out sympathy and advice. The only good news we heard all evening was from Dr Marriot, who told us that Max Otterman seemed to be making progress towards recovery.
Eventually I went off for a walk in the warm night. There were refugees everywhere and I had to go a long way to put the camp behind me. I had no fear of meeting wild animals, the noise and stench of our progress had cleared both game and predators for miles around, and as I looked back at the cooking fires glowing like fireflies I wondered where the food was coming from.
I'd been tempted to take the dwindling bottle of whisky with me but had resisted, and now I regretted my self-denial. I stopped well out of sight and earshot of the camp and sat down to soak in the solitude for a spell. Finally, feeling rested, I started back. I'd gone about ten paces when something ahead of me crunched on dry vegetation and my heart thudded. Then a voice said softly, 'Mister Mannix can I talk to you?'
It was Ron Jones. For a moment I felt a fury of hot resentment at not being left alone even out here. Then I said, 'Jones? What do you want?'
He was still downcast, a shadow of his cheery former self. 'I'm sorry to intrude, Mister Mannix. But I must talk. I have to tell somebody about what happened. But you must promise me not to tell anyone who told you.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I'll tell you, if you promise first.'
'Be damned to that, Jones. Tell me or not as you please. But I make no bargains.'