Forsyth's dogs of war. Book Dogs of War read online
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Frederick Forsyth
Dogs of war
Dedicated to Giorgio, Christian, Schlee. Big Mark and Black Johnny.
And everyone else in unmarked graves.
We did everything we could...
Having exclaimed: “Sow death!”, unleash the dogs of war.
William Shakespeare
Let them not gossip about my death,
And they don’t mourn for me only because
That they won’t bury me in holy ground,
That the bell-ringer does not ring the bell,
That no one will come to say goodbye to me,
That the mourners will not follow the coffin,
That no flowers will grow on the grave,
That not a single soul will remember me,
I subscribe to this...
That night there were neither stars nor moon above the runway in the savannah. Just West African darkness, enveloping groups of people in a warm, damp blanket. The curtain of clouds almost touched the treetops, and the hidden people prayed to themselves that it would hide them from the bombers for as long as possible.
At the end of the runway, a battered old DS-4, which had just managed to land by the light of the landing lights, which turned on only fifteen seconds before landing, turned around and, sneezing, hesitantly drove blindly towards huts covered with palm leaves.
The Federal MIG-17, a night fighter piloted perhaps by one of the six East German pilots recently sent to replace the Egyptians who were afraid to fly at night, roared west. He was not visible behind the veil of clouds, just as the pilot did not see the runway below him. He looked out for the telltale flashing of the landing lights signaling the plane, but they had already gone out.
Not hearing the roar of the plane flying above him, the pilot of the taxiing DS-4 turned on the searchlight to illuminate his path. Immediately a useless cry was heard from the darkness: “Turn off the light!” The searchlight immediately went out, however, the pilot managed to get his bearings, and the fighter was already many miles away from this place. The roar of artillery came from the south. There, by this time, the front line had already crumbled, because people who had neither bullets nor food for two months abandoned their weapons and went under the cover of the forest thickets.
The DC-4 pilot stopped his plane twenty yards from the Super Constellation bomber parked on the platform in front of the hangar, turned off the engines and descended onto the concrete runway. An African ran up to him, and they spoke in hushed tones. Then both approached the largest group of people, standing out like a black spot against the dark background of the palm forest. The people parted, and the white man who had arrived in the DC-4 found himself face to face with the one who stood in the center of the group.
White had never seen him before, but he knew about him, and even in the darkness, slightly illuminated by the lights of cigarettes, he recognized the one he wanted to see...
The pilot was not wearing a cap, so he bowed his head slightly instead of saluting. He had never done this before, at least in front of a black man, and he could not explain why he did it.
“My name is Captain Van Cleef,” he said in English with a South African accent.
The African nodded in response. At the same time, his black shaggy beard waved like a whisk across his chest, covered with a uniform jacket of spotted khaki coloring.
“It’s a dangerous night for flying, Captain Van Cleef,” he noted dryly, “and the cargo is a little late.”
He spoke slowly, in a low voice. He had the accent of an English public school graduate, which he was, rather than of an African. Van Cleef felt uneasy and again, like a hundred times before, while flying through the clouds from the coast, he asked the question: “Why do I need this?”
“I didn’t bring any cargo, sir.” There was nothing else to carry.
Here we go again. He swore that he would never address him as “sir.” It somehow came out on its own. But they were right, the other mercenary pilots in the bar of the Libreville hotel, the ones who met him. This one was unlike anyone else.
-Then why did you come? – the general asked softly. – Probably because of the children? There are children here that the nuns would like to transport to safety, but we weren't expecting any more mission planes today.
Van Cleef shook his head and suddenly realized that no one saw this gesture. He felt uneasy and decided that the darkness had played into his hands. The bodyguards standing around, clutching machine guns in their hands, peered at him.
- No. I've come to pick you up. If, of course, you want.
There was a languid silence. He felt the African staring at him in the darkness. I accidentally noticed the reflection of the pupil when someone from the environment raised a cigarette to his lips.
- It's clear. Did your country's government send you here?
“No,” Van Cleef replied. – It was my idea.
Silence reigned again. The bearded head bobbed slowly a few feet away. This could be a gesture of understanding or bewilderment.
Van Cleef felt better. He could not imagine all the political upheavals that would follow if he flew back to Libreville in the company of the general.
“I’ll wait until you take off and leave,” he said and nodded again. He was tempted to extend his hand to shake, but he didn't know if he should. He was unaware that the African general was experiencing a similar predicament. He turned and walked back to his plane.
After his departure, there was silence among the group of Africans for some time.
– Why did a South African, an Afrikaner at that, decide to do this? – one of the ministers asked the general.
White teeth flashed in the darkness. The group leader smiled silently.
“I think we will never understand this,” he said.
Further, behind the hangar, also under the cover of palm trees, five people, sitting in a Land Rover, watched as dark silhouettes moved from the bushes towards the plane. The chief sat in the front seat next to the African driver. All five smoked incessantly.
“It must be a South African plane,” said the leader and turned to the other four whites huddled behind him in the Land Rover. - Jeannie, go and ask the skipper if he can find a place for us too.
A tall, dry, bony man climbed out of the back seat of the car. Like the others, he was dressed from head to toe in a protective uniform, mostly green, with brown spots. He had green high canvas shoe covers on his feet and his trousers were tucked into them. On his belt hung a flask, a hunting knife, three magazine pouches for the FAL automatic carbine hanging on his shoulder, all three empty. When he reached the front seat of the Land Rover, the man in charge called out to him again.
“Leave the FAL,” he said, holding out his hand to take the carbine, “and I ask you, Jeannie, do everything right, okay?”
Because we will be cut into small pieces.
The man, who was called Zhanni, nodded, straightened his beret on his head and headed towards the DS-4. Captain Van Cleef did not hear the sound of soft rubber soles behind him.
– Naand, meneer 1 .
Van Cleef turned sharply, hearing his native language, and saw only the silhouette and dimensions of the man standing behind him.
Even in the dark, it was impossible not to notice the white patch on his left shoulder: a skull and crossbones. He nodded carefully.
– Naand, Jy Africans 2 ?
The tall man nodded affirmatively.
“Jean Dupre,” he said and extended his hand.
“Cobus Van Cleef,” the pilot introduced himself, answering the handshake.
– Waar gaanjy nou 3 ? – asked Dupre.
- To Libreville. As soon as they finish loading. And you?
Jean grinned.
- I'm stuck here a little. Me and my friends. If the Feds cover us, then we're probably screwed. Can't help?
- How many of you? – asked Van Cleef.
- Only five.
Being a mercenary himself, albeit a pilot, Van Cleef did not hesitate. Sometimes those who are outside the law need each other.
- Okay, sit down. But hurry up. As soon as this "Connie" takes off, we also take off.
Dupre nodded gratefully and trotted back to the Land Rover. Four white men stood in a circle near the hood of the car.
“Okay, we need to get on the plane urgently,” the South African told them.
“Okay, let’s throw the pieces of iron into the car and move,” the chief commanded. After the carbines and empty magazine bags flew into the trunk of the car, he leaned toward the black officer with the stripes of a second lieutenant sitting behind the wheel.
“Bye, Patrick,” he said. - I'm afraid it's all over.
Take the Land Rover and hide it. Bury the machine guns and mark the place. Drop your uniform and go into the forest. Understood?
The lieutenant, who just a year ago had been a recruit with the rank of private and had been promoted not for his ability to use a knife and fork, but for his military merits, nodded sadly after listening to the instructions.
- Goodbye, sir.
The remaining four mercenaries said goodbye and headed towards the plane.
The chief was about to follow them when two nuns jumped out to him from the darkness of the forest behind the hangar.
The mercenary turned around and recognized the first nurse, whom he had first met ten months ago, when her hospital fell into a war zone and he had to deal with the evacuation.
– Sister Marie-Joseph? What are you doing here?
The elderly Irish nun began to speak seriously, without letting go of the spotted sleeve of his uniform jacket. He nodded.
“I’ll try, I just can’t do more,” he said when she finished.
He walked onto the platform and headed towards the South African pilot standing under the wing of his DC-4. For several minutes the two mercenaries were talking about something. Eventually the man in uniform returned to the waiting nuns.
“He agrees, but you will have to hurry, sister.” He wants to get his cart into the air as soon as possible.
“God bless you,” the sister said and quickly gave instructions to her partner. She ran to the tail of the plane and began to climb the ladder to the door of the passenger compartment. The other hurriedly disappeared into the shadow of a palm grove behind the hangar, from where people soon appeared. Everyone had a package in their hands. Approaching DS-4, the men handed the packages to the nun perched on the top step of the ladder. The co-pilot standing behind her first watched as she carefully laid out the first three packages in a row along the inner wall of the fuselage, then went to work, accepting the packages pulled from below and passing them inside the cabin.
“God bless you,” the Irish woman whispered.
One of the packages spilled several ounces of liquid greenish feces onto the pilot's sleeve.
“Damn it,” he cursed in a whisper and went back to work.
Left alone, the leader of the mercenary group looked at the Super Constellation, along the steps of which a chain of refugees, mostly relatives of the leaders of the defeated people, was ascending. In the dim light oozing from the open door of the plane, he noticed the man he wanted to see. As he came closer, that man was about to be the last in line to step onto the step, while others who had to stay behind and hide in the woods were waiting for the boarding to finish so that they could remove the ramp. One of them called out to the flying man:
- Sir! Major Shannon is coming.
The general turned to Shannon as he approached and even at such a moment forced a smile.
“Well, Shannon, would you like to join us?”
Shannon stood in front of him and saluted. The general returned the greeting.
- Thank you, sir. We have transport to Libreville. I just wanted to say goodbye.
- Yes. The struggle was long. Now I'm afraid it's all over. At least for a few years. I cannot believe that my people are doomed to slavery forever. By the way, were you and your colleagues paid according to the contract?
- Yes, thank you, sir. “We’re fine,” the mercenary responded. The African nodded sadly.
- In that case, goodbye. Thank you very much for everything you were able to do.
He extended his hand and they shook hands.
“Something else, sir,” Shannon said. “We talked to the guys here, sitting in the jeep.” If the time ever comes... well, if you need us again, just let us know. We will all arrive. Just let me know. The guys want you to understand this.
The general looked at him intently for several seconds.
“This night is full of surprises,” he said slowly. You may not know it yet, but half of my senior advisers, the wealthiest of them by the way, are crossing the front lines tonight to take the enemy's side. Most of the remainder will follow suit within a month. Thanks for the offer, Mr. Shannon. I will remember him. Goodbye again. Wish you luck.
He turned and walked up the steps into the dimly lit interior of the Super Constellation just as the first of the four engines coughed and woke up. Shannon stood back and gave a farewell salute to the man who had used his services for the past year and a half.
“I wish you good luck,” he said, addressing himself too, “it will be of great use to you.”
He turned and walked towards the waiting DS-4. Van Cleef leveled the plane at the beginning of the runway and, without turning off the engines, watched through the darkness as the floppy silhouette of the “Super Connie” rumbled along the runway, lifted its nose up and finally took off from the ground. The side lights of the aircraft were not lit, but through the glass of the cockpit of his Douglas, the Afrikaner was able to discern the outlines of the three vertical stabilizers of the Constellation, flashing over the crowns of palm trees in a southerly direction before disappearing into the hospitable veil of clouds. Only after that did he direct the DS-4 with its squeaky, whining cargo forward to the launch site.
Almost an hour passed before Van Cleef ordered his co-pilot to turn on the cockpit lights. An hour of darting from one bank of clouds to another, emerging from cover and a frantic race through rare cirrus clouds in search of more reliable protection, an hour of constant fear of being discovered in the moonlit sky by some wandering MIG dragged on for a long time. Only when Van Cleef was sure that he was flying over the bay, leaving the shore far behind, was permission given to turn on the lights.
Out of the darkness emerged a mysterious painting worthy of Doré’s brush during the Depression. The floor of the cabin was completely covered with soiled diapers, in which their contents had been wrapped an hour ago. The very contents of the packages were swarming in two rows along the sides of the cargo compartment. Forty babies, thin, wrinkled, with rickety bellies bulging from malnutrition.
Sister Marie-Joseph rose from her seat next to the cockpit and moved along the row of runts, each of whom had a strip of plaster stuck to his forehead, just below the level of his hair, which had long ago acquired a reddish-brown hue as a result of anemia. The patch contained information in ballpoint pen that was needed for an orphanage near Libreville. Name and number, nothing else. The vanquished are not entitled to more.
In the tail of the plane, the mercenaries, squinting from the light, watched their fellow passengers. They've seen this before. Many times in recent months. Everyone felt an unpleasant feeling, but did not show it. You can get used to everything eventually.
In Congo, Yemen, Katanga, Sudan - the same story is everywhere. There are children everywhere. And nothing can be done about it anywhere.
Therefore, after some thought, they took out cigarettes.
The interior lighting allowed them to see each other for the first time since yesterday's sunset. The uniforms were stained with sweat and red African mud, their faces were gaunt. The commander sat with his back to the toilet door, his legs stretched along the fuselage, facing the cockpit. Carlo Alfred Thomas Shannon, thirty-three years old, blond hair cut into a buzz cut. The shorter the hair, the more comfortable it is in the tropics - sweat flows off more easily, and there is nowhere for insects to crawl. Nicknamed "The Cat" due to his initials
He survived the departure of Hoare and the arrival of Jon-Jon Peters.
Quarreled with Peters and moved north to join Denard at Polis. He took part in the Stanleyville rebellion two years later and, after the evacuation of the shell-shocked Frenchman to Rhodesia, he went under the command of Black Jacques Schramm, a Belgian planter turned mercenary, with whom he made a long trip to Bukavu, and from there to Kigali. After being repatriated with the help of the International Red Cross, he quickly signed up for another war in Africa and eventually took command of his own battalion. But it's too late to win.
On his left sat a man who could be called the best artilleryman north of the Zambezi. Big Jean Dupre, twenty-eight years old, from Paarl in the province of Kane, was the scion of an impoverished family of Huguenot settlers, whose ancestors had fled to the Cape of Good Hope to escape the wrath of Cardinal Mazarin after the collapse of religious freedom in France. His long face, with a prominent hooked nose hanging over a thin line of lips, looked more gaunt than usual, thanks to the deep wrinkles that cut into his sunken cheeks. Pale blue eyes are half-covered with whitish eyelashes, reddish eyebrows and hair are stained with dirt. Looking around at the babies lying along the walls of the salon, he muttered: “Bliksems” (bastards), addressing the world of profit and privilege, which he considered to be to blame for the troubles of this planet, and tried to doze off.
Lounging next to him was Mark Vlaminck, Little Mark, so called because of his immense size. The Fleming from Ostend was six feet three inches tall and weighed eighteen stone<1 стоун ~ 6,36 кг (английская мера веса).>. Some might consider him fat. But that was not the case. He awed the police in Ostend, a mostly peaceful people who preferred to avoid problems rather than solve them, but the glaziers and carpenters of that city looked up to him with love and respect because he regularly supplied them with work. They said that you could accurately guess in which bar Little Mark had played out the day before, by the number of craftsmen called for restoration work.
An orphan, he was brought up in a church institution, where the holy fathers so persistently tried to hammer into the overgrown boy a sense of respect for elders that even Mark once could not stand it and, at the age of thirteen, laid his mentor, who was carried away by flogging, with one blow on the stone slabs of the floor, from which he and didn't get up.
This was followed by a series of correctional colonies, then a special school, a prison for minors and, finally, to everyone’s relief, recruitment into the airborne troops. He was one of the 500 paratroopers dropped over Stanleyville along with Colonel Laurent to rescue the missionaries whom the local chief, Christophe Gbonier, was threatening to roast alive in the main square.
Less than forty minutes had passed after they landed at the airfield, and Little Mark had already found his path in life.
A week later, he went AWOL to avoid repatriation to Belgium and enlisted in a mercenary unit. In addition to his strong fists and broad shoulders, Little Mark was famous for his extraordinary skill with the bazooka, his favorite weapon, which he wielded as cheerfully and naturally as a boy with a pea-shooting tube.
That night when they flew from the enclave to Libreville, he was only thirty years old.
Opposite the Belgian, leaning against the wall of the fuselage, sat Jean-Baptiste Langarotti, immersed in his usual occupation, which helps pass the long hours of waiting. He is a short, well-built, fit and dark-skinned Corsican, born and raised in the town of Calvi. At the age of eighteen he was drafted by France among one hundred thousand appeles<Призывники (фр.).>to the Algerian war. Halfway through his year and a half of service, he signed a permanent contract and was later transferred to the 10th Colonial Landing Regiment, the notorious "Red Berets" under the command of General Massu, known as "les paras". He was twenty-one years old when the split occurred and some parts of the professional French colonial army joined the banner of the idea of an “eternal French Algeria”, preached at that time by an organization called the OAS.
Langarotti went with the SLA, deserted and after the failed coup in April 1961 went underground. Three years later he was caught in France under an assumed name and spent four years in prison, languishing in gloomy and dark cells, first in the Santé prison, in Paris, then in Tours and finally in the Ile de Ré. He was an unimportant prisoner, which left marks on the two guards for life.
Beaten to within an inch of his life several times for attacking a guard, he served his entire sentence from bell to bell and was released in 1968, afraid of only one thing in the world: closed spaces, cells and bunks. He had long ago made a vow to himself never to end up in a cell again, even if it cost him his life, and to take with him to the next world at least half a dozen of those who would come to take him away again. Three months after his release, he flew to Africa with his own money, got involved in hostilities and joined Shannon’s detachment as a professional mercenary. That night he was thirty-one years old. After leaving prison, he did not stop tirelessly improving his art of using weapons, which he had known since his boyhood years in Corsica, and thanks to which he later acquired a reputation for himself in the back streets of the city of Algiers. His left wrist was usually wrapped with a leather belt, the kind that old barbers used to sharpen straight razors.
The belt was fastened to the wrist with two metal buttons.
When there was nothing else to do, he would take it off his wrist and wrap it around the fist of his left hand, the smooth side up.
This is exactly what he was doing now on the way to Libreville. In his right hand he had a knife with a six-inch blade and a bone handle, which he knew how to wield so skillfully that it was in its place in the sheath hidden in the sleeve faster than the victim had time to realize that death had occurred. In a measured rhythm, the blade moved back and forth across the stretched surface of the skin, and, sharpened like a razor, it became even sharper. This work calmed my nerves. True, she irritated everyone else, but no one ever complained. How no one who knew this short man with a quiet voice and a sad smile ever dared to start a quarrel with him.
Sandwiched between Langarotti and Shannon was the oldest of the group. German. Kurt Semmler was forty, and it was he who, at the beginning of the actions on the territory of the enclave, came up with the emblem in the form of a skull and crossbones, which was worn by the mercenaries and their African assistants.
And he also managed to clear a five-mile sector of federal troops, marking the front line with poles on which were placed the heads of federal soldiers who had died the day before.
A month later, his sector of the front turned out to be the quietest of all.
Born in 1930, raised in Nazi Germany.
The son of a Munich engineer who died on the Russian front, fighting in the Death's Head division. At the age of fifteen, an ardent follower of Hitler, like almost all the young men of the country in the last years of Hitler's rule, he commanded a small detachment of children younger than him and old men who were over seventy. His task was to stop General George Patton's tank columns with one Faust cartridge and three rifles. Unsurprisingly, he failed and spent his adolescence in Bavaria under American occupation, which he hated. He also inherited a little from his mother, a religious fanatic who dreamed of making him a priest. At seventeen, he ran away from home, crossed the French border in the Strasbourg area and enlisted in the Foreign Legion at a recruiting station located in Strasbourg in order to intercept fugitive Germans and Belgians. After a year in Sidi Bel Abbes, he left with an expeditionary force to Indochina. Eight years later, under the reign of Dien Bien Phu, with his lung cut out by the surgeons of Turan (Danang), fortunately deprived of the opportunity to witness the final disgrace in Hanoi, he was sent back to France. After his recovery, he was sent to Algeria with the rank of senior sergeant, the most elite in the French colonial army, the First Foreign Parachute Regiment. He was one of the few who had already twice survived the complete destruction of the 1st IPP in Indochina, when it grew from a battalion to a regiment. He respected only two: Colonel Roger Volk, who had served in the Foreign Parachute Company back when they were first defeated, and Commander Le Bras, another veteran who now led the Republican Guard of the Republic of Gabon, guarding the uranium-rich country for France.
Even Colonel Marc Roden, under whom he once served, lost authority in his eyes after the final collapse of the SLA.
Semmler was part of the 1st IPP, sent to certain death during the putsch in Algeria, after which the regiment was disbanded once and for all by Charles de Gaulle. Kurt followed his French commanders everywhere and later, arrested in Marseille in September 1962 immediately after Algeria gained independence, spent two years in prison.
Four rows of stripes for participation in military operations served him badly. Finding himself on the street in 1964, for the first time in the last twenty years, he met his cellmate, who offered to take part in a smuggling scam in the Mediterranean. For three years, not counting a year spent in an Italian prison, he smuggled alcohol, gold and occasionally weapons from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. In the end, he had already begun to make a fortune by smuggling cigarettes between Italy and Yugoslavia, when his partner, having deceived both buyers and sellers, framed Semmler and ran away with all the money. Fleeing from very militant gentlemen, Semmler took a passing ship to Spain, transferred from bus to bus, reached Lisbon, found a friend selling weapons, and ended up on the African front of the war, which he had read about in the newspapers. Shannon took him in immediately because, with sixteen years of military experience behind him, he was best suited for jungle warfare. Now on the way to Libreville he was dozing peacefully.
Two hours before dawn, the DS-4 flew up to the airfield. Another sound hovered above the crying babies. It was as if someone was whistling.
It was Shannon. His colleagues knew that he always whistled when another operation began or ended. They even knew the name of this melody, because he himself told them once. It was called "Spanish Harlem".
The DC-4 circled Libreville airfield twice while Van Cleef spoke to air traffic controllers. As the old cargo plane stopped at the end of the runway, a military jeep with two French officers pulled up and parked in front. Van Cleef was motioned to follow him along the steering track.
They drove away from the main airport building to several houses at the far end of the airfield. Here the French made a sign to stop, but not to turn off the engines. A ladder was instantly attached to the cargo hatch at the rear of the plane, and the co-pilot opened the hatch from the inside. The head in the cap poked its head inside and looked around the room. The nose under the visor sniffed and wrinkled in disgust. The French officer's eyes fell on the five mercenaries, and he invited them to go down to the airfield. Once they were on the ground, the officer motioned for the co-pilot to close the hatch, and without further instructions the DC-4 moved forward again to the main airport building, where a team of French Red Cross doctors and nurses was preparing to receive the children and take them to the pediatric clinic.
As the plane passed, the five mercenaries waved gratefully at Van Cleef, who was sitting in the cockpit, and turned to follow the French officer.
They had to wait for an hour in one of the houses, sitting on uncomfortable high-backed wooden chairs, while several young French soldiers peered through the crack of the door to look at “les affreux” or “the terrible ones”, as they were called in French slang. . Finally, from the street, the creaking of the brakes of an approaching jeep was heard and approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor. When the door opened, a tanned, hard-featured senior officer entered the room, wearing a beige tropical uniform and a cap trimmed with gold braid. Shannon noticed the determined, sharp gaze, the short-cropped gray hair under the cap, the wings of a parachutist badge under five combat stripes. Glancing at the instantly frozen figure of Semmler - his chin protruded, his fingers knitted along his well-worn uniform trousers - he was finally convinced that in front of them was the legendary Le Bras himself.
The veteran of Indochina and Algeria shook hands with each in turn, lingering a little longer in front of Semmler.
- How are you, Semmler? – he said softly, with a slight smile. - Are you still fighting? I see, I see, he is no longer an adjutant. He rose to the rank of captain.
Semmler was embarrassed.
- Yes, Mr. Major... that is, Colonel... It seems...
Le Bras nodded thoughtfully several times. Then he addressed everyone.
“I will arrange for you to be accommodated comfortably.” You need to wash, shave and eat. Most likely, you do not have a change of clothes. This will be taken care of. I'm afraid you will have to remain within your local area for the time being. This is a simple precaution. The city is full of journalists, and any contact with them should be avoided. We will transport you back to Europe as soon as possible.
He said everything he came for and fell silent. Raising the outstretched fingers of his right hand to the visor of his cap, he turned around and left.
An hour later, after riding in a closed van, they took the back door to their apartment - five rooms on the top floor of the Gamba Hotel, a new building located just five hundred yards from the airport building, on the other side of the road and thus a few miles from the city center.
The young officer accompanying them said that they would have to eat in the room and remain where they were until further notice. An hour later he returned with towels, razors, toothpaste and brushes, soap and sponges. A tray of coffee had already been brought, and each of them gratefully plunged into a deep, hot, soap-smelling bath, their first in six months.
Dogs of war
Dedicated to Giorgio, Christian, Shleya, Big Mark and Black Johnny.
And everyone else in unmarked graves.
We did everything we could...
Having exclaimed: “Sow death!”, unleash the dogs of war.
William Shakespeare
Let them not gossip about my death,
And they don’t mourn for me only because
That they won’t bury me in holy ground,
That the bell-ringer does not ring the bell,
That no one will come to say goodbye to me,
That the mourners will not follow the coffin,
That no flowers will grow on the grave,
That not a single soul will remember me,
I subscribe to this...
Thomas Hardy
That night there were neither stars nor moon above the runway in the savannah. Just West African darkness, enveloping groups of people in a warm, damp blanket. The curtain of clouds almost touched the treetops, and the hidden people prayed to themselves that it would hide them from the bombers for as long as possible.
At the end of the runway, a battered old DS-4, which had just managed to land by the light of the landing lights, which turned on only fifteen seconds before landing, turned around and, sneezing, hesitantly drove blindly towards huts covered with palm leaves.
The Federal MIG-17, a night fighter piloted perhaps by one of the six East German pilots recently sent to replace the Egyptians who were afraid to fly at night, roared west. He was not visible behind the veil of clouds, just as the pilot did not see the runway below him. He looked out for the telltale flashing of the landing lights signaling the plane, but they had already gone out.
Not hearing the roar of the plane flying above him, the pilot of the taxiing DS-4 turned on the searchlight to illuminate his path. Immediately a useless cry was heard from the darkness: “Turn off the light!” The searchlight immediately went out, however, the pilot managed to get his bearings, and the fighter was already many miles away from this place. The roar of artillery came from the south. There, by this time, the front line had already crumbled, because people who had neither bullets nor food for two months abandoned their weapons and went under the cover of the forest thickets.
The DC-4 pilot stopped his plane twenty yards from the Super Constellation bomber parked on the platform in front of the hangar, turned off the engines and descended onto the concrete runway. An African ran up to him, and they spoke in hushed tones. Then both approached the largest group of people, standing out like a black spot against the dark background of the palm forest. The people parted, and the white man who had arrived in the DC-4 found himself face to face with the one who stood in the center of the group.
White had never seen him before, but he knew about him, and even in the darkness, slightly illuminated by the lights of cigarettes, he recognized the one he wanted to see...
The pilot was not wearing a cap, so he bowed his head slightly instead of saluting. He had never done this before, at least in front of a black man, and he could not explain why he did it.
“My name is Captain Van Cleef,” he said in English with a South African accent.
The African nodded in response. At the same time, his black shaggy beard waved like a whisk across his chest, covered with a uniform jacket of spotted khaki coloring.
“It’s a dangerous night for flying, Captain Van Cleef,” he noted dryly, “and the cargo is a little late.”
He spoke slowly, in a low voice. He had the accent of an English public school graduate, which he was, rather than of an African. Van Cleef felt uneasy and again, like a hundred times before, while flying through the clouds from the coast, he asked the question: “Why do I need this?”
“I didn’t bring any cargo, sir.” There was nothing else to carry.
Here we go again. He swore that he would never address him as “sir.” It somehow came out on its own. But they were right, the other mercenary pilots in the bar of the Libreville hotel, the ones who met him. This one was unlike anyone else.
-Then why did you come? – the general asked softly. – Probably because of the children? There are children here that the nuns would like to transport to safety, but we weren't expecting any more mission planes today.
Van Cleef shook his head and suddenly realized that no one saw this gesture. He felt uneasy and decided that the darkness had played into his hands. The bodyguards standing around, clutching machine guns in their hands, peered at him.
- No. I've come to pick you up. If, of course, you want.
There was a languid silence. He felt the African staring at him in the darkness. I accidentally noticed the reflection of the pupil when someone from the environment raised a cigarette to his lips.
- It's clear. Did your country's government send you here?
“No,” Van Cleef replied. – It was my idea.
Silence reigned again. The bearded head bobbed slowly a few feet away. This could be a gesture of understanding or bewilderment.
Van Cleef felt better. He could not imagine all the political upheavals that would follow if he flew back to Libreville in the company of the general.
“I’ll wait until you take off and leave,” he said and nodded again.
He was tempted to extend his hand to shake, but he didn't know if he should. He was unaware that the African general was experiencing a similar predicament. He turned and walked back to his plane.
After his departure, there was silence among the group of Africans for some time.
– Why did a South African, an Afrikaner at that, decide to do this? – one of the ministers asked the general.
White teeth flashed in the darkness. The group leader smiled silently.
“I think we will never understand this,” he said.
Further, behind the hangar, also under the cover of palm trees, five people, sitting in a Land Rover, watched as dark silhouettes moved from the bushes towards the plane. The chief sat in the front seat next to the African driver. All five smoked incessantly.
“It must be a South African plane,” said the leader and turned to the other four whites huddled behind him in the Land Rover. - Jeannie, go and ask the skipper if he can find a place for us too.
A tall, dry, bony man climbed out of the back seat of the car. Like the others, he was dressed from head to toe in a protective uniform, mostly green, with brown spots. He had green high canvas shoe covers on his feet and his trousers were tucked into them. On his belt hung a flask, a hunting knife, three magazine pouches for the FAL automatic carbine hanging on his shoulder, all three empty. When he reached the front seat of the Land Rover, the man in charge called out to him again.
Dogs of war Frederick Forsyth
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Title: Dogs of War
About the book “Dogs of War” by Frederick Forsyth
The author of the book “Dogs of War” is the English writer and reporter Frederick Forsyth. Journalistic experience in the field of covering civil wars determined the style and main focus of the author’s works. All of them are dedicated to military coups, espionage operations, terrorist attacks or political assassinations. Each book creates an immersive experience in the reader thanks to a masterful combination of fiction and historical fact, as well as meticulous technical descriptions, whether assembling a bomb or making a weapon.
The novel “Dogs of War” tells the story of a conspiracy by the leadership of a transnational corporation that led to a military coup in one of the African states at the hands of professional foreign mercenaries.
Frederick Forsythe introduces the reader to Zangaro, a small and impoverished country that, although fictional, is very similar to a dozen real ones. The state is in complete decline: the population is starving, dying without medical care and a roof over their heads, the majority have no work, and therefore no chance to survive. Against this background are constantly changing dictatorial kings who do not care about ordinary people.
One day, geological exploration specialists from a large English mining company, in search of tin, discover huge deposits of platinum. Possession of these resources will make the corporation a leading player in the global commodity market for hundreds of years. Naturally, the corporation's management does not think that the found platinum can radically change the life of the African population of the country, raising it to a new qualitative level.
There is one problem in achieving what you want: the local ruler will most likely deny foreigners access to the deposits. This means that the best solution is to stage a coup. Kate Shannon, a young mercenary, is called in to help with this, ready to find people, weapons and ways to carry out his plans. Will he succeed or will unforeseen events change the professional’s plans radically?
In the novel “Dogs of War,” Frederick Forsythe not only comes up with the plot of a gripping political detective story, but recreates the picture of his personal impressions during his time as a war journalist during the civil war in Nigeria. That is why the described atmosphere is unusually realistic and reliable.
This led to the fact that in 1981, a very specific mercenary formation, focusing on the “recipes” given in the book “Dogs of War,” tried to carry out a putsch in the Seychelles. Although the armed coup was suppressed, the title of the novel has since become a household name for all professional mercenaries.
Dedicated to Giorgio, Christian, Schlee. Big Mark and Black Johnny.
And everyone else in unmarked graves.
We did everything we could...
Having exclaimed: “Sow death!”, unleash the dogs of war.
William Shakespeare
Let them not gossip about my death,
And they don’t mourn for me only because
That they won’t bury me in holy ground,
That the bell-ringer does not ring the bell,
That no one will come to say goodbye to me,
That the mourners will not follow the coffin,
That no flowers will grow on the grave,
That not a single soul will remember me,
I subscribe to this...
Thomas Hardy
Prologue
That night there were neither stars nor moon above the runway in the savannah. Only West African darkness, enveloping groups of people in a warm, damp blanket. The curtain of clouds almost touched the treetops, and the hidden people prayed to themselves that it would hide them from the bombers for as long as possible.
At the end of the runway, a battered old DS-4, which had just managed to land under the light of the landing lights, which turned on only fifteen seconds before landing, turned around and, sneezing, hesitantly drove blindly towards huts covered with palm leaves.
The Federal MIG-17, a night fighter, probably flown by one of the six East German pilots recently sent to replace the Egyptians who were afraid to fly at night, roared to the west. He was not visible behind the veil of clouds, just as the pilot did not see the runway below him. He looked out for the telltale flashing of the landing lights signaling the plane, but they had already gone out.
Not hearing the roar of the plane flying above him, the pilot of the taxiing DC-4 turned on the searchlight to illuminate his way. Immediately a useless cry was heard from the darkness: “Turn off the light!” The searchlight immediately went out, however, the pilot managed to get his bearings, and the fighter was already many miles away from this place. The roar of artillery came from the south. There, by this time, the front line had already crumbled, because people who had neither bullets nor food for two months abandoned their weapons and went under the cover of the forest thickets.
The DC-4 pilot stopped his plane twenty yards from the Super Constellation bomber parked on the platform in front of the hangar, turned off the engines and descended onto the concrete runway. An African ran up to him, and they spoke in hushed tones. Then both approached the largest group of people, standing out like a black spot against the dark background of the palm forest. The people parted, and the white man who had arrived in the DC-4 found himself face to face with the one who stood in the center of the group.
White had never seen him before, but he knew about him, and even in the darkness, slightly illuminated by the lights of cigarettes, he recognized the one he wanted to see...
The pilot was not wearing a cap, so he bowed his head slightly instead of saluting. He had never done this before, at least in front of a black man, and he could not explain why he did it.
“My name is Captain Van Cleef,” he said in English with a South African accent.
The African nodded in response. At the same time, his black shaggy beard waved like a whisk across his chest, covered with a uniform jacket of spotted khaki coloring.
“Dangerous night for flying, Captain Van Cleef,” he noted dryly, “and the cargo was a little late.”
He spoke slowly, in a low voice. He had the accent of an English public school graduate, which he was, rather than of an African. Van Cleef felt uneasy and again, like a hundred times before, while flying through the clouds from the coast, he asked the question: “Why do I need this?”
I didn't bring any cargo, sir. There was nothing else to carry.
Here we go again. He swore that he would never address him as “sir.”
Each book by F. Forsyth became not only a literary, but also a social event. This certainly applies to the novel Dogs of War, whose heroes are foreign mercenaries fighting on African soil. The amazing authenticity of the book was explained by the fact that it was based on the military impressions of the author himself, who meticulously recreated the atmosphere of real life, based on genuine facts and events, depicting living people. However, it turned out that there is also a “feedback”.
In 1981, mercenaries tried to carry out a coup in the Seychelles and overthrow the legitimate government. They acted exactly according to the “recipes” of F. Forsyth’s book. The putsch was suppressed, but since then the expression “dogs of war” has become a common noun to refer to all mercenary military units...
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