Condottieri

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Rafał GAN-GANOWICZ CONDOTTIERS

MOTTO: "Through the black national night, through the swamp of cowardice and meanness the young, stubborn and simple will come

to set one's truths like scythes on edge..." /Józef Łobodowski: "Polish revolution"/

COPYRIGHT BY AUTHOR COPYRIGHT FOR POLAND BY FIGHTING SOLIDARITY

2 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RAFAŁ GAN-GANOWICZ was born in Warsaw in 1932. He is a journalist. He lives in Paris. As a teenage boy, he survived the Warsaw Uprising, in which he died his father, a Home Army soldier (his mother died in 1939). After the uprising, he escaped from the transport on the way to the camp in Pruszków. In 1948, he became a member of an anticommunist youth group

modeled on the tradition of "Little Sabotage" of scouts during the war: leaflets, inscriptions on walls, press distribution. During one of the actions, a security patrol starts shooting. There are the first victims. From then on, the boys "work" with their own guards, who also shoot. In 1950, the group falls. Gan-Ganowicz, warned at the last minute, decides to escape to the West. Thirteen hours

spent under the train from Warsaw to Berlin with Walter P38 in hand... The story of this escape is described at the beginning of the memoirs.

After a three-year stay in Germany, he goes to France. He is a soldier of the Troops Guards attached to the US Army. At the same time, he is undergoing commando training. He receives the diploma of a lieutenant in the Polish Army from General Anders.

Then he becomes a teacher at a junior high school for Polish refugees in Les Ageux near

Paris. "Professoring" doesn't last long. Rafał's temperament does not allow it. Already convinced that he will not land in Poland by parachute in the near future, Rafał decides to fight against the communists with weapons in his hands wherever possible. In 1965, he becomes a mercenary in the Congo. He is one of three commanders leading the defense of Stanleyville and the pacification of the Eastern Province. After Captain Topor-Staszak, he takes over command of the famous battalion that was lucky with Polish commanders, the "Red Devils" battalion (soldiers of this battalion wore red berets and red scarves around their necks/). He stays in Congo for a year. After the fall of Tshombe, he returns to Europe and then becomes a mercenary in Yemen. He fights after

the royalist side against pro-Moscow "republican" forces militarily supported by the Soviets. The second part of Gan-Ganowicz's book, more books, is devoted to the fighting in Yemen

unfinished, fragments of which concerning the Congo appeared only in the Polish press American. Reading these fragments, as well as those chapters that I know in the typescript, allow me to conclude that Rafał's book is a completely unique work. These are the only ones I know of

- memories of a Pole who was a "dog of war", one of the mercenaries barked by the Polish People's Republic press during the civil war in Congo and Yemen, mercenaries who called themselves volunteers because the word "mercenary" was not true for most of them. This fact alone determines the importance of the book. Validity as a document. But apart from that, Rafał's book is - and these are not compliments given by a friend - artistic prose in the full sense of the word, situated somewhere between a memoir, a reportage and fiction. This book should be published as soon as possible and reach the reader, especially in... Country. It would change the image of the "dog of war" in his mind and the motivations that drove him.

Apart from ideological and documentary considerations, it would also be a fascinating read.

I wish Rafał this satisfaction.

Jacek BIEREZIN

3 FROM THE AUTHOR

I'm not a writer. I was a teacher, a driver, a night watchman, a parachutist, commando, military advisor, scaffolder, industrial electrician /like Wałęsa/, workshop manager, journalist... This book was created as a result of the strong persuasion of friends who, over wine or... whiskey, but they always listened to my memories while having a cigarette.

The first was Jurek Sowiński, today a journalist at Radio France Internationale, who already in

In the 1970s, he encouraged me to write my memoirs. The second one was Henio Skwarczyński, who pushed me to publish my stories: they were later printed by the American press Polish community. Some of them are included in this book. However, the greatest role was played by Jacek Bierezin, whose positive opinion about my stories overcame my fear of

reader. I also owe Jacek the foreword, which served as an introduction to the stories printed in "Tygodnik New York". I would like to thank all three of them very much.

I dedicate this book to "Fighting Solidarity". Author

4 ENTRY MERCENARIES? IT'S OLD AS THE WORLD... Mercenary troops have a long history. For Poles, it is enough to remember those who fought bravely for

Polish money, mercenary German troops, which Sienkiewicz writes about in "The Deluge", or the famous Lisowczyks who fought on the side of Dymitr the Self-proclaimed. One of these brave soldiers was immortalized by Rembrandt. Greek hoplites already served Egyptian pharaohs for money. The first name recorded in history is Xenophon. A philosopher and writer about the soul

adventurer took part in an expedition of ten thousand Greek mercenaries,

engaged by Cyrus the Younger, who acted against his elder brother, Artaxerxes. Despite the miracles of valor performed by the Greeks, Cyrus's followers broke down took place at the Battle of Cunaxa, near Babylon, in 401 BC. The return of the Greeks to their homeland through hostile territories was later described by Xenophon. Much later, because he first served

still militarily in Thrace and Sparta. Both Rome and Carthage used the services of those famous for their skillful throwing slingshot stones, islanders from the Balearic Islands and the equally famous archers from Crete. Revolt

mercenaries were described by Flaubert in "Salambo". But it was only in the era of decadence that ancient empires popularized the use of mercenary troops to defend their possessions. Rome paid barbarians for its defense: Alamanni, Sarmatians and others.

The military forces of Byzantium for many centuries consisted of foreigners: Germans and The Normans were the elite corps of the imperial guard. They also served in the Byzantine army

Franks. Not only Christians were in the pay of the empire. There were also old enemies: Turks, Scythians and Pechenegs... In Western Europe, the custom was restored only in the late Middle Ages army mercenaries. In the 13th century, individual princes hired soldiers to participate in only one campaign. The Franco-English War of the Century saw the heyday of mercenary troops. One of the mercenary chiefs of this period, Arnaud de Cervol, was known for his cruelty.

He took over many castles and extorted tribute from large estates. Even the Pope in Avignon paid him huge sums to have peace. During this period, Italy was completely in the hands of mercenary army leaders, whose

they were called condottieri (hence the nickname given to me in the Congo by a charming Belgian missionary/). Every city, every province had its "condottieri", and not necessarily Italians. Just mention the famous Englishman John Hawkins. To avoid robbery in times of peace Italian princes were the first to understand the need to pay mercenaries even when they didn't they fought wars. This was the beginning of the existence of professional troops.

At the beginning of the Renaissance, Charles the Bold created troops of mercenary infantry to fight him

Moreover, she betrayed him when he had no money to pay, at the Battle of Nancy, which sealed his end.

In those times, the martial fame of the Swiss spread, so princes bought their services for racing. Soon, on many battlefields, Swiss troops were often in opposing camps. Francis the First, whose cavalry defeated the Swiss, nevertheless admired their bravery so much that he concluded a perpetual peace with Helvetia, in which there was an obligation to provide six thousand soldiers under the royal banners. The Swiss Corps survived in the French army until the Revolution. To this day, the Swiss Guard serves the Pope.

5 In the eighteenth century, entire German, Scottish and even regiments were in the service of the King of France

one Turkish. Not only were the troops foreign: their leaders were too. In the seventeenth and

In the eighteenth century, many famous commanders ran through Europe offering their swords

to princes who could pay them with money and honors. He was one of the most famous Maurice von Sachsen, illegitimate son of Prince Augustus of Saxony and Princess Aurora of Denmark. He began to fight on the side of Tsar Peter the Great against the Swedes and later against the Turks.

He then went to France, where he is still famous today in the French version of the name i surname: Maurice de Sachse, having previously obtained the title of Duke of Courland. He became a marshal of France after winning the Battle of Fontenoy and died in 1750 in the Chambord Palace on the Loire.

Around the time of the French Revolution, the classic type of soldier disappeared. mercenary. From then on, ideological considerations prevail. Mercenaries serve a cause they believe is right; this concept was completely alien to their predecessors, for whom only money was important. Such a new type of mercenary was Francisco Miranda, a Spaniard from Venezuela who, at the age of seventeen, having achieved the rank of captain in his native army, joined the French troops supporting Washington. He then fought in the ranks of the French Republican Army and achieved the rank of general. Then he returned to Venezuela and devoted himself to fighting for the independence of his country. Garibaldi was like that too. This guy born in Nice fought in... Brazil against Argentina, and then put his sword at the service of Peru. Having gained fame during the Italian Wars of Independence, he fought against the French, which did not stop him to support France in the war with Prussia in 1870. The French Revolution brought the concept of conscript troops. In the nineteenth century

Conscript armies became the rule. Therefore, the decline of mercenary troops came. However, in this

At that time, Louis Philippe created the French Foreign Legion... which he immediately used to suppress Adb-el-Kader's revolt in Algeria, and then "lent" to friendly monarchs, such as the Queen of Spain... After World War I, many military pilots found themselves unemployed fight to China. There were French, Germans and even Americans there. One of the latter, a certain Smily, later fought on the side of Negus against the Italians. On the day of the outbreak of the second

World War II, he offered his services to France. Having been refused, he went to fight - for free - against the Soviets in Finland

After World War II, it seemed that mercenaries were a thing of the past. But decolonization, the upheaval in Africa and the Middle East, and the difficult emergence of local state structures have created new demand for them. And the supply was provided by the demobilized soldiers of the wars in Korea, Vietnam and Algeria. However, they were already fighting for one cause and against one enemy, although on many fronts. This species included - on the opposite side - Che Guevarra.

He fought for money, but only for the Reds.

6 GOODBYE SAFETY Rafał, the organization has busted, they are looking for you." These few words quickly thrown out by my friend on Saturday, June 24, 1950, caused the greatest breakthrough in my life. The times were Stalinist. People were persecuted not only for their actions, but also for their words. They tried to kill the thoughts.

A handful of young people fighting for the grain of truth using leaflets and inscriptions on the walls

in the still ruined Warsaw, she risked more than her life. Torture was commonplace. I was afraid. From that moment on, I was hunted. Control your nervousness and fear it was difficult. However, I slowly calmed down. It was necessary to act. I couldn't go back to the apartment - and there I had money and... a gun.

Oh, I won't say I was completely unprepared. We thought about the possibility of an accident

all. But somehow abstractly. My plan was to get to Wrocław wherever I could possibly receive false papers as a supposed repatriate from the East. But Wrocław was far away, and I was afraid of falling into the hands of the Reds alive. I went to Żoliborz, near the house where I lived. After a longer observation, I noticed the caretaker's son walking down the street. Twelve-year-old Wojtek, a red-haired street urchin from Warsaw, has done me favors more than once. I was sure of his discretion. When I whistled, he ran into the bushes where I was hidden. He confirmed that the "sad gentlemen" had already visited my apartment, but without searching it yet, they left and were now waiting at the gate opposite for my appearance.

My young friend agreed to take money and a gun from the apartment. Whistling he ran loudly and disappeared into the depths of the staircase. No one moved in the street. A moment later I had a large sum of money on me and Walter charged me P38 from my belt. I felt more alert. I went to the station to check the timetable. To my horror, I noticed that the cash registers were under surveillance. The train to Wrocław left at ten in the evening.

It was nine o'clock. I ducked into the crowd and found myself on the street. I hid in the ruins and lit a cigarette. At a quarter to ten I gathered my courage and returned to the station. Mixed into the crowd, I squeezed onto the platform without a ticket. The overloaded staff couldn't handle everyone

check. The typical "sad men" were also helpless. The train to Wrocław stopped. I was about to squeeze into the overcrowded carriage when I noticed a train to Berlin standing on the opposite track. Or maybe escape abroad? I still had a few minutes. I entered Berlin train, frantically looking around for a possible hiding place. I found nothing. But remembering London, I decided to take a look outside the train. I looked under wagons. There was a gap between the metal crossbars of the chassis and the wagon floor someone as slim as me could squeeze in. I made my decision immediately. I scrambled into the hiding place, tearing off the buttons on my jacket and breaking my watch. On the other side of the platform, the train to Wrocław started with a slight delay. The die has been cast. After some time, there was movement in the carriage above me. Passengers were boarding. Dust fell from the floorboards and into my eyes. I wanted to drink and smoke. Time passed beyond the control of the broken watch. Finally the train started moving.

I was lying on the iron beams of the unsprung chassis. Above me on springs the wagon was rocking. The swinging floor touched my chest. I was overcome with fear. The shaking wagon could have crushed me. The dust kept falling. I had to close my eyes. And so I sped along in the darkness of a fortunately warm night, pelted with gravel and deafened by the roar of wheels. I cursed my idea. I was filled with doubts as to whether I would get anywhere. And even if they do, they will catch me. But I won't give up alive. I firmly decided that if I was discovered, I would sell my skin for a high price. Slowly, with difficulty, I began to tear into small pieces all the documents and papers I had with me. Just in case. So as not to make it easier for "them" to identify the body.

I hated them. For persecuting patriots, for murdering Home Army members, for

"spitty reaction dwarf"... I had a slightly older friend. He walked on crutches. Injured in the uprising. Decorated. Patriot. Character. Cripple. When he applied to the appropriate institution with a request for a scholarship as the 7th

an orphan and an invalid, a "red" official threw him down the stairs, calling him a bandit. His. A cripple. A hero. The train moved on. I slowly calmed down. Dust in the eyes. Sand in my mouth. There's a roar in my ears wheels and the whistle of the wind. I didn't know where I was or how much time had passed. I thought about my friends.

I didn't know who fell and who survived. It started innocently enough. Leaflets and posters. The undercover officers from the security office didn't even try to arrest us. They shot like ducks. One of my friends was there wounded in the lungs, another was shot through the knee. They killed another one during the investigation. He didn't betray anyone.

It was a year ago. We decided to defend ourselves. We were stealing from policemen in a tram crowd

guns. We disarmed a Soviet soldier in a dark street. There was now a friend in the "guard" when sticking the posters. When we were shot at, the "guards" hidden in the ruins returned fire. The Ubeci became less brave. And now it's pouring!

At some point the train started to slow down. Kutno? Koluszki? I did not know. But with To my horror, I felt a metal bar rise under my back and lift me up towards the swinging floor of the carriage. Lifts and heats through clothes. I feel with

hot in the back and rhythmic touches of the raging floor in the front. I became numb with fear. I realized I was lying on the brake gear. What will happen when the train starts braking harder? Will it lift me higher and crush me? Will I die from burns? I read somewhere that railway brakes can get up to... redness. The train finally stopped. On a side track of some station. Through the gap between between the wall of the wagon and the chassis, I could see rusty and oak rails in the moonlight logs. In the distance, the sad light of a lantern. The train started moving after an hour. Beyond Kutno or

The tracks on Koluszki were better. Despite the nervous tension and the noise, I dozed off at times.

It took forever. There was sand in my mouth, my tongue felt like a stake, and my eyes were watery

covered with dust, they stung me hard. His bare hands and face were severely hit with gravel. Blood congealed on his parched lips. Hell of a journey. Then a whistle... It was getting brighter. The train was approaching Poznań. A new fear. If Did I get under the right carriage? Because several wagons were going from Poznań to Szczecin. The train slowed down and stopped at the station in Poznań. You can hear the sound of wagons being detached. Strong impacts from the locomotive. And nothing. For as long as eternity: nothing. Then a growing, approaching sound. He was coming from the front of the train

a railwayman checking the brakes of wagons. He hit the brake with a large hammer and listened to the sound it made. I knew he would detect me. Lying on the brake gear, I undoubtedly had to

muffle the sound. I hesitantly clutched Walter's handle in my hand. I wasn't up for that

prepared: I won't shoot a railwayman! A few more hits and

it's already here. He hit, listened and... looked into Walter's barrel.

I will never forget the look on his face. He slowly straightened up and hit two more axles and with hurried steps, sometimes looking back, he walked towards a nearby building and disappeared from my sight. I thought frantically. What to do? Run away? In broad daylight, at the station? What if the train starts moving while I'm climbing out from under it? After all, it's death. Time passed. I was following the platform. I expected to see policemen running with weapons in their hands. And nothing here. Silence.

Few passengers board the train. Time is running out. I took heart... Once the train left Poznań and ran across the plain, I slowly relaxed. Old railwayman

obviously he didn't cheat. What could this man think about the young boy hidden under a train car and clutching a gun? Physically I felt worse and worse. The wind and noise made my head hurt and I felt thirsty it was becoming unbearable. There was sand in my mouth, and I didn't have enough saliva to even wipe the dust from my watery eyes. I didn't know how far it was to the East German border or what the border looked like. Fear gripped me again. As time passed - which I couldn't measure

8 other than the growing fatigue and the pain of my fingers tormented by the iron - I was getting more and more nervous about the approaching border crossing.

And the train kept moving... time took its toll: fatalism began to grow in me. I started to feel sick

does not matter. I just wanted the adventure to end. Let whatever happens

as quickly as possible, as long as you don't crowd under the train waiting for the dangerous crossing. I knew I wouldn't give up if anything happened. I imagined a short fight, a shootout and a burst from a Soviet machine gun. Does death hurt?

I stopped being afraid. I looked at myself somehow from the outside. For an alien who is in a terrible situation. The train moved on. When I started wondering again whether I was going to Szczecin sometimes,

suddenly I felt that I was being lifted up again by the brake gear shaft... we started to slow down rapidly.

The train rolled between high fences topped with barbed wire. We stopped. I knew this was the limit. There was movement in the wagons upstairs. Some loud words, the clatter of feet above my head, the door opening and slamming. The sound of luggage being moved. This went on for a while and then the noises started

move away towards the front of the train. Someone was taken out of the next carriage and protested loudly.

Just as I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, a movement caught my attention. Four men in uniforms were walking from the side of the locomotive. Through my gap between I could only see the legs between the chassis and the wall of the wagon. The uniforms were different. I met one Polish and two Soviet ones. The fourth color of the pants was unknown to me... I assumed it was German. From time to time I caught a glimpse of a face and a hat when one of them looked under the wagon. There were five wagons in front of me. Only three left... They looked again, bending low. I inserted a bullet into the barrel and cocked the gun. The one who looks in will die first. Will I have time to take these others to hell with me? My hand with the gun was shaking slightly. Get over yourself, Rafał! They look under the carriage directly in front of mine. They're coming... They've passed. Their carelessness in service saved my life. Them too. But they don't know about it.

The train is running again. This time my nerves were gone. My hands are shaking. Only after a long time

For a moment I noticed that my jaw was clenched to the point of pain. A kingdom for a cigarette!

In dramatic moments, a man's worst enemy is his own imagination. Man tortures himself by inventing dangers. Now I'm starting to worry about how I'll get off at the station in Berlin. In what Berlin? In the Eastern, Soviet or Western? Stop tormenting each other, you idiot! You could have been killed a long time ago. And you're alive.

Long hours again (how many - I don't know). But we can already see that we are approaching a city. Houses are getting denser. The fields are no longer visible. Industry. A bus with young people is traveling along the track, parallel to the train. They wave their hands at the train. Oh, how I envied them!

The bus was left behind. Tracks are multiplying left and right. Brakes again. We are standing at

platform. The stamping of feet. Luggage. People are getting off. I decided to. I moved out under the wagon.

After looking around, I emerged onto the track. Meanwhile, the passengers left the train. They were few in number. I had to hurry. I quickly got into the wagon and came out the other side. It's twelve o'clock on the clock. I was in Berlin. In East Berlin. In the distance, on another platform, Soviets were camping. Meanwhile, the platform was deserted. Badly. I was hoping to leave the Berlin station

as I entered Warsaw: in the crowd. There was no crowd here, and tickets were checked at the exit from each platform. Mine was already almost empty, except for the last few passengers somewhere deep inside

9 handed out tickets for inspection. A dangerous situation: I had to attract attention like the only hair on a bald head. Hide before someone notices me! I ran into the toilet - a small booth on the platform: a washbasin and two cabins. I drank water that tasted of chlorine and rust for a long time. Above the sink

mirror. My face in the mirror. Terribly dirty: soot and dust, and a brown streak of clotted blood on my forehead: I must have cut myself without even feeling it. A dirty white shirt collar, a torn jacket button... I wouldn't walk through a city flooded with sun on a Sunday morning! I washed myself as quickly as possible with cold water without soap. I ripped the button out

pants and "sewed" it to the jacket with a wire I found in the corner. I dusted myself off. The mirror above the sink greeted my efforts with a kinder image. I looked outside. The platform was completely deserted, and the controller dragged a chain with an inscription across the exit "gesperrt" and was just disappearing into the depths of the stairs leading down. "What to do?" I thought, unconsciously imitating Lenin.

I decided to wait until the evening in the guest bathroom, and then, under cover

darkness, leave the half-ruined war station. I did not stick to this decision long. The clock at the station showed only noon. June noon,

long day. I was hungry and nervous. When a suburban train blocked the view of my platform from the station, I ran towards the exit. I jumped over the chain marked "gesperrt" and ran down the stairs. After a while, I was on a street full of Sunday strollers. The city, unknown and hostile in my Polish subconscious, did not seem completely foreign to me: maybe it was the sight of the ruins that caused it. I was glad. I had a great experience from my adventures in Warsaw

the ability to "spray" into the nooks and crannies of burned houses, climb the remains of stairs and climb along cornices and scaffoldings. If anything happened, I knew what to do! So I set off into the city, choosing the least busy and most damaged streets.

I faced a new problem. How to find one of the western sectors: American, British or French? Which way to go? For some time I was heading west according to the sun, but I quickly chided myself for my stupidity: the western occupation sectors did not have to coincide with the western, geographically speaking, part of Berlin. I had vivid memories of some reports from the time of the recent blockade of the city: border points, barriers across the streets... I thought that I would be able to bypass them with ruins without much difficulty. But on the horizon of even the longest streets that I looked at, there were no barriers visible...1P trams were rushing somewhere, the overhead railway was rattling on steel viaducts... What to do if one of the

few passersby will ask me something? Run into the ruins? Pretend to be mute? After a few hours of wandering around the alleys of the ruins, I noticed that something had changed. After a while

I realized: shop windows seen from a distance, which I hadn't paid attention to before! Some happier, colorful ones. Was I in West Berlin? No it is not possible.

I haven't crossed any border!... But there's also more car traffic and better-dressed passers-by! And ... an American jeep with the inscription MILITARY POLICE! I wasn't sure yet, but I already gained hope, I stopped being afraid. I ventured into some more lively artery. Blend in with the crowd. Yes, it was undoubtedly the West! Displayed in front of a fruit shop

oranges. ORANGES! A fruit that I remembered from the old, pre-war years, and we... almost mythical in contemporary Warsaw. Coca-Cola ad... shiny, American cars... I was in West Berlin after all! *** 1 It was after the blockade and before the famous wall was built. The sector boundaries were marked only by boards with appropriate inscriptions. It was not without its own humor: "Here the democratic sector ends and the American sector begins", or "Here the French ends and the democratic sector begins".

10 I spent a year and a half in the refugee camp at Rotheraburgerstrasse 6, w Steglitz district, in the American sector. There were many camps in the western sectors: z

Thousands of people fled "democratic" Germany to take refuge with the imperialists. The camp in Steglitz was the only camp for foreigners. Most of its inhabitants were Poles. There were also some Czechs, Hungarians and Romanians. There was even one Bulgarian, a deserter from the Bulgarian military mission in East Berlin.

Poles were different. Old and young. From the Home Army and the National Armed Forces. There were also those who spent the war under...

banners of the Second Corps and returned to the country, lured by propaganda or simply driven longing for their family, for their homeland... The constant suspicions of the Reds, harassment by searches, and fear of prosecution forced them to escape in sometimes dramatic conditions. They escaped across the Oder. By swimming. On the boat. They escaped through Nysa. In winter, on an ice floe breaking under your feet. Chased by dogs. Fired by Soviet guards, by WOP and VOPO2. IN wandering through the East German forests at night. Betrayed by the enemy population. In Berlin, those who arrived treated their frostbitten legs and treated gangrene in their hands injured on the fences. They treated the acquired from

humid forests pneumonia. They treated gunshot wounds suffered at the border or on the way. They treated wounds inflicted on them by the Security Service during the investigation.

***

We drank pharmacy spirit more or less diluted with water. We smoked cigarettes a modest allocation. Nightly conversations of people who did not see a normal future ahead of them, people from an abnormal country, victims of an abnormal world order. Soldiers from the Camp

Winners in a camp led by losers... I was the youngest among them. With them From telling stories at night, I learned "lessons about Poland and the modern world" that no other school could have given me. Because the camp for foreign refugees on Rthemburgerstrasse was a school. A school of bitterness and suppressed desire for revenge, a school of hatred towards red.

2 VOPO - short for "Volkspolizei", the East German police.

11 CONGO IN THE VESTHORE OF A GREAT ADVENTURE It was muggy. The smell of tropical vegetation filled the air. It was night. Straight

me the Southern Cross. This mythical Conrad constellation for Europeans was covered before my eyes through the tall building of the Baccara Hotel. Only in sight. Because the imagination, still sensitive to the exotic, absorbed the visible and invisible surroundings. It was only my second day in Africa. In the darkness of the tropical night, the city glowed with multi-colored lights. The sounds of music with a crazy, pulsating rhythm could be heard in the distance. The city seemed to vibrate to this rhythm. Leopoldville, capital of Konga3. I was sitting on a woven bamboo armchair on the balcony of the first floor of the "building". I never found out who gave that name to the two-story building standing among the trees and serving as a transit point for mercenaries. Mercenaries. Dogs of war. Les mercenaires. Soldiers of fortune. I've been one of them for three days. With a glass of whiskey in my hand, I listened to the sounds coming from the city and absorbed them

the smell of the tropics. My whole body felt the Great Adventure awaiting me. From below, from

on the first floor, the melody of the First March, sung by several male voices, could be heard Regiment

Paratroopers

Legia

Foreign.

This my

they came

comrades whom alcohol transported to a time when they fought elsewhere, under a different sky. Although probably not about another matter.

Did my new colleagues mention Vietnam or the war in Algeria? I did not know. Dogs of war? Definitely. War was their element and their drug. Mercenaries? Not exactly. If a mercenary is to a soldier what a prostitute is to a lover - then they are genuine there were no mercenaries among us. These soldiers did not sell themselves to anyone who paid, or even to anyone who paid more. I felt it instinctively then. I received proof of this within a few years

later, when Fidel Castro's envoy offered us much higher wages and higher ranks in the service of the revolution in Bolivia in the Parisian restaurant "Le Fouquet's" on the Champs Elysées. None of the six officers present with me agreed to follow in the "honorable" footsteps of Che Guevarra. Yet no one dares call our counterparts from the other side of the barricade "red mercenaries". Even those who, like Che, earned tens of thousands of dollars and owned luxury villas in Cuba... Whiskey or mood? I was lost in thought. Even the combination of legion chant with the rhythm of the music of the dark land did not irritate the ear, but intoxicated...

I felt that these veterans of forgotten wars had something in common that was not yet there for me

accessible. I envied them. But formally I was already one of them. Little. I was an officer. Will I be able to cope? Will I gain their respect? Won't I be a coward? I shuddered. I am not allowed doubt yourself. In this group of elite soldiers of many nationalities, I have to prove myself, even if I have to pay the highest price.

Three days ago in Brussels, in the recruitment office on the third floor

Congolese embassy, I passed the medical examination. I had neither flat feet nor hemorrhoids. Fit for service. I signed a contract. I received a plane ticket. Paris Leopoldville. My refugee passport was stamped with the first of a later series of exotic visas. Leopoldville has been called Kinshasa since 1967, and Congo was renamed Zaire in 1971.

12 a humble refugee who tried to satisfy his need for social work as a teacher in a high school for Polish children near Paris - I became someone else... A Pole who has the opportunity to fight the red plague with weapons in his hands. Because for years

I was preparing for it, thinking that I would finally fight for the liberation of my homeland. After years of waiting - revelation! Communism can/and must be fought wherever this cancer threatens a society. To respond to the communist international anti-communist international. Fight, not cheer. Did those downstairs in the bar think the same? They were definitely anti-communists. But in they were looking for something else during the war. Something I tasted only later: masculine, faithful

friendship, adventure, and above all, constantly putting yourself to the test. Risk drug. A man never enjoys life so much as when he narrowly escapes death. I later found out what a paradise life seems when you pass through the flames of hell. What a lust for life feels like when someone comes close to death, what a glass of whiskey feels like when it washes away the taste of sweat or blood.

War drug.

I got up to speed. I looked into the future. Back then, on the balcony of the "building" in Leopoldville, I didn't know about it yet. I had a premonition only by listening to the singing of the eternal soldiers...

What was Kowalski's motive? Captain Kowalski. The man I heard about from all the old "building" regulars, thrill seekers under the Southern Cross... Who was he? this compatriot of mine?

I was to meet him a few days later. But I already knew him from hearsay. Not his. Rather a legend about him: a young officer of the Second Corps during the Great War - after which he settled in Belgium. He tried various professions. In recent years, he was a cook at the court of the Belgian king. He dropped everything to take part in the war that the communists started in Congo. He had been here for almost two years. Week after week he became a legend. A crazy character. Like Kmicic - a carouser and

adventurer. Brave to the point of unconsciousness, to the point of madness. Loved by white and black soldiers. The whites appreciated his courage and imagination. And a strong head around the bottle. Black people superstitiously believed in his star. The truly incredible happiness of a man who did not avoid any of them

risk. They said Kowalski was luckye4 i they followed him into the fire. Kowalski and ten men captured the city protected by 300 communist, well-armed rebels. Kowalski was injured seven times. Kowalski carried a wounded soldier from a burning village with a bullet in his shoulder. Kowalski's entire body, except his face, was covered in scars. Kowalski, Kowalski, Kowalski. He came back in conversations - in the cafeteria, in the bar and in the quarters. He impressed the old people with his courage

seasoned people who were usually unimpressed by anything. Needless to say, I was proud of mine

famous compatriot. I understood a little more the kindness that met me here at every step as a Pole. My officer's diploma, which I received from General Anders, was recognized as full-fledged thanks to another Pole. It was Major Morcinek. Doctor Morcinek, head of the service health of the Congolese army. Also appreciated by everyone for the courage with which he moved around the front helping the wounded - which was not his duty at all. It was already late. I got up. Go to sleep? Too many sensations. There was an uproar on the floor below

soldiers' votes. I felt the need to immerse myself in what would become my environment. As if the very fact of contact with them, initiated and tested, would reassure me that I would prove myself, that I would not fail, that I would be worthy of them.

Kowalski was expected in four days! I will see the legend.

4 In Swahili, luck - "nasibu" - is a good luck amulet, a good aura, as opposed to "hari" or "heri" which means common happiness, for example due to a full stomach.

13 ***

The trees growing around the "building" resembled mountain ash. However, up close, one could observe all four seasons: young leaves and buds, mature leaves and flowers, and finally fruits and yellowed, falling leaves. There are lots of birds in the trees and lizards running fast. Leopoldville is a large city with lots of greenery. Low one- or two-story buildings. The occasional impressive skyscraper. Even then, the lack of supervision was obvious

technical. The plaster was falling off the sometimes magnificent buildings. Garbage piled up in elegant neighborhoods. There is a huge bustle everywhere. Negroes like transistor radios. Shouting children, calls from traders, arguments and singing. In the marketplace that has broken through the dams colonial orders poured into the residential area - swarms of flies. Hungry dogs and equally hungry children begged together in the crowds and dirt. Generally to no avail. From under the plaster of Belgian civilization peeked the eternal, carefree and merciless Africa. There is a gathering place on the edge of the market.

It was a sorcerer, dressed in monkey skins and festooned with amulets, who told amateurs' entrails chickens slaughtered especially for this purpose. The pool of chicken blood was black with flies that hovered in a cloud as a dog tried to lick the blood before writhing in pain from a powerful kick to the lower abdomen. And all in the stifling tropical heat. Sweaty faces and bodies.

The bar at the Baccara Hotel was pleasantly cool. Inhabited by foreign guests the hotel still tried to maintain its former glory. But here and there a light bulb was missing. Out of four elevators, two were out of order. There were dangerous springs sticking out of some of the leather seats

the dignified butts of foreign guests. But it was still an oasis of purity, peace and coolness...

I got tired of visiting the city. I was sipping a Bloody Mary at the bar. The Platers' melody "Only you..." was playing from the loudspeaker. Someone hit me on the shoulder. I turned around. A brunette with light blue eyes was standing in front of me, grinning. "I'm Kowalski, hello, fellow countryman"... I jumped up from the bar stool. Captain Kowalski was there

a short but well-built man whose shapely figure was emphasized by the cut

camouflage paratrooper uniform. In Leopoldville, mercenaries were not allowed to carry uniforms. But Kowalski always did what was forbidden... Cold, blue eyes contrasted with the sympathetic expression on his face. Kowalski probed me. I was observing a man, Father which I have heard so much. The appearance of a warlord or a buccaneer. Feline agility of movement. Beautiful features

gypsy prince. And those cold, bright eyes... He invited me to dinner. With skillful questions and focused attention, he drew me out of him

All. By dessert, he already knew my biography. He started talking over cognac and coffee. His life motto was: "It is better to live one day like a lion than a whole life like a hare." He was explaining to me

"his" war. A war that he understood as the Great Game. Outsmart your opponent, surprise. A surprise attack in which courage and bravado deceive the enemy as to the attacker's forces. And later Kowalski laughed - superstition and legend are doing their job. The opponent panics at the mere mention of the name. He is running away from a man who is apparently favored by spirits. Superstition and a machine gun. Penicillin and the amulet. Shortwave radio and tom-toms Bazooka and poison arrows. Africa.

We left the bar late in the evening as the day's heat was turning into a muggy night. And in this case, Kowalski's legend turned out to be true: He had a strong head. The lights of the Baccara hotel doubled in my eyes...

A few months later, the seriously injured Kowalski was evacuated to Brussels. Several the operation put him back on his feet. He married a rich, handsome Belgian woman who

she took care of the injured in the hospital. They went to the Canary Islands and bought a hotel. Kowalski invested

14 all your savings and high compensation for your wounds. He invited me. Years later, I wanted to take advantage of the invitation and wrote him a letter

- my wife replied:

'My husband signed over his entire property to me. A secret from me. April 15 1971 disappeared, leaving a letter: "I'm sorry, I love you, but I can't stand this life. I'm bored. I'm going somewhere I've never been before. Do not wait for me. People like me never come back..." ***

Since 1971, I have been asking everyone if they have heard of Captain Kowalski.

15 GREEN JUNGLE AND RED REVOLUTION Who still remembers this today? Front pages of newspapers. A terrifying sensation. News from hell. Despair of the families of the murdered. The year 1965. The city of Stanleyvillee5, p the capital of the Eastern Provincesj6, main At that time, it was a worldwide concern because of the bloody massacre that the mob incited by the communists inflicted on the European population of the city.

Congo, with its deposits of copper, uranium, gold and diamonds, was about to become red

a foothold to conquer the Dark Continent. If the Soviets and their then Chinese

the allies managed to get their hands on this country and push it into their strategic orbit plans - they would threaten Angola and South Africa. The game was worth the candle. But how to talk about

communism in a country three-quarters overgrown with jungle, where the population outside the cities,

leads a nomadic, semi-hunting life, where tribal traditions and superstitions tangled in a web of prohibitions, "taboos", regulate relations, and where Negro tribes have only rarely seen a white man? The Soviet and Chinese subversive strategists played the game masterfully. Agents In the first phase, the communists incited the city mob to steal and plunder the property of the white population. In the next phase, taking advantage of the blacks' fear of white revenge, they encouraged them to slaughter. So that there are no witnesses - they said. So that other white people would be afraid to come back here and hold the criminals accountable. Blood began to flow in streams. Women were raped,

then slaughtering them with knives. The pickets of the fence surrounding the barracks were decorated with white children impaled alive on blades. Nuns, priests and missionaries were subjected to particular zeal.

At the same time, communist emissaries were reaching semi-savage tribes living in the jungle and coming into contact with tribal sorcerers. Shamans did not like the white man, because where the missionary and doctor entered, their power ended. "Fuck white people" was a slogan that particularly appealed to them. They played tam-toms in the jungle. Witches proclaimed the end of the white man's myth. Tribes armed by the Soviets occupied cities and plantations. Black warriors, drunk on hashish by sorcerers, competed with each other

bloodthirstiness and cruelty. Transports of Soviet weapons passed through Sudan.

The province of Katanga, more industrialized and civilized, broke away from

Congo. IN name of the sanctity and inviolability of the borders inherited from the colonial powers - the "blue helmets" of the United Nations fought the Katangese secession. But in the face of the conflagration that has engulfed the Eastern Province, the leader of the Katangese secession, Moses Tshombe, remains

prime minister of all Congo. The Katangese troops are loyal to him and proven in battle the only local force capable of countering the rebellion. Tshombe fought against the UN forces already during the Katangese Civil War - here with the help of military specialists of various nationalities brought from Europe. This was the birth of mercenaries. Having tested their extraordinary combat skills in Katanga, Tshombe formed them into cadres for the Katangese troops sent against the rebellion. When news of the massacre of the white population in Stanleyville reached Europe, the Belgian government, with Tshombe's consent, decided to send help. Not Tshombe in the fight against insurgency, but the white one population of Stanleyville. The bloody orgy had been going on for a long time. Spent in several places in the city

5 Kisangani today 6 Upper Zaire today

16 The European population of many thousands was suffering. Every evening, drunk and intoxicated with hashish, blacks dragged dozens of people to slaughter. Belgian parachute troops dropped on the airport in Stanleyville, quickly took over the bridgehead, and reinforcements arriving by plane made it possible to capture the city and save the remnants of the white population. Katangese troops under command

mercenaries arrived in Stanleyville partly by air and partly by real epic - by river, i.e. well over two thousand kilometers up the Congo River on poorly adapted barges, through the jungle from which the overwhelming rebel forces they launched constant attacks. Once the three Katangese battalions were in the city, the Belgian paratroopers were withdrawn. It was a strange city. Some of its black population, involved in recent crimes, she fled into the jungle for fear of punishment. Those who did not escape still could not believe that, in accordance with Tshombe's directives, they were spared punishment. Tshombe wanted to avoid it

dragging the country into a chain of endless slaughter. The city administration was located in hands of the Congolese who followed the army to the capital. The military staff was also Congolese. However, the frontline troops were Katangese. So there was no shortage of conflicts. Recently, during the secession of Katanga, these people fought against each other. Fortunately, the mercenary cadres of the frontline troops and the Belgian advisors of the civil administration cooperated to some extent, although there were also antagonisms...

The former high school housed the mercenaries' quarters. Supply and service officers administrative staff lived in the Wodospadów Hotel. Belgians from the civil administration and military staff advisors occupied Stanley's hotel. The police were Congolese. Katangese troops patrolled the streets. The Congolese people in the capital spoke the Lingala dialect. The Katangese and indigenous civilians spoke Swahili. Belgians spoke French and, less frequently, Flemish. IN All European languages could be heard in the mercenaries' quarters. The fighting took place on

suburbs. The black population was breaking through the front line into the city

terrified by the terror of the red rebellion in the jungle. There was a shortage of food and medicine for the civilian population and ammunition for the army. The airport, the only route for any supplies, was under fire from

nearby jungle, as I was about to find out for myself... ***

I already knew roughly all this from the newspapers, but I listened carefully to the captain Kowalski, who explained to me the situation of the country in which I was to live and fight.

Captain Kowalski was not part of the Stanleyville crew. The area of his privateering camps

there were sugar plantations on Lake Tanganyika near the city of Uwira. He flew to Leopoldville

for the pay due to his men, spare parts for used weapons, and ammunition. He arrived in an old, rickety single-engine plane with a Belgian pilot, a thrill-seeker. They found the plane in the hangar of an abandoned plantation...

We were now flying over the jungle in this breathtaking, four-person aircraft

Leopoldville to Stanleyville. Rudy Belgian - pilot, Kowalski and me. It was stuffy in the cramped cabin, packed full of supplies. The overloaded plane was flying low. The only engine choked sometimes. There's a jungle below us. There is a rebellion in the jungle, giving a rare sign that it exists with a burst of machine gun fire. Nothing dangerous. As long as the engine lasts! I preferred not to think what would happen to us in the event of a failure. And Kowalski "introduced me to the local reality" - as he put it. He spoke

with emotion and sympathy for the country in which he had to fight. Negroes are like children -

he explained to me. They are cruel like children and unaware of this cruelty.

Kowalski was sensitive

to the detriment of Congolese society. He blamed whites for colonization, which broke down the old

tribal structures, but blamed them even more for hasty, ill-considered decolonization, which in turn removed colonial structures.

17 In this way, the black population, which had been deprived of its traditions and not taught to benefit from progress, was left to its own devices and was vulnerable to everything. And what about when the Soviets planted weapons, agents and subversive slogans...

The plane flew along the Congo River, whose dirty yellow waters flowed in strange ways meanders through the swirling jungle. As far as the eye could see, to the horizon, there was an endless tangle of tangled vegetation. The dominant color was rotten green. At an altitude of eight hundred meters, which our overloaded plane reached with difficulty, we could feel the damp, nauseating breath of the jungle and swamps. There were no roads or villages in sight. The small population inhabiting the virgin forests has not managed to leave any trace of human presence on them. Only on the Congo River itself, sparse plantations testified to the existence of people in this empire of nature. Most of the plantations were destroyed by the rebellion. What happened to the people? Did they manage to escape? They stayed murdered? Kowalski said that, unfortunately, in most cases, each of the plantations over which the shadow of our plane was now moving was a place of tragedy, martyrdom and death. Only a few plantations survived along the almost entire two thousand kilometer route. Turned into fortified buildings the camps, surrounded by rebellion, were the stages of our flight down the Congo. The plane had to land every few hundred kilometers to refuel. Fuel was provided to us by heroic settlers for a handful of ammunition, for some weapons... And so, jumping from a coffee plantation to a sugar plantation, our flight over the country mentioned above continued

not so long ago I didn't know anything... Somewhere halfway there, overnight stay in

old colonial house. A Belgian who was born in this house talked about the fate of his father who built this house. Felt become African. He was a Congolese patriot. He barely knew Belgium... And the last jump. In the jungle, below us, there are increasingly larger areas of cultivated fields and plantations. Network

roads and houses. You can see Negro villages: bamboo huts arranged in a circle around the central square. Empty. There is no one. Only sometimes, from the jungle or the tangled coffee bushes of an abandoned plantation, a stream of light rifle bullets rises and runs towards us.

machine. Bad shooters. A cow-colored, overloaded, short of breath and lowflying plane after all, it is an easy target. Too easy for my taste. But the red-haired pilot whistles carelessly

using slow dodges, and Kowalski continues his story about war and people. So I tamed my imagination, which persistently brought to my mind the image of a downed plane loaded with bullets

canned with our meat. I made up for it a bit with my face. And so time passed. Suddenly, a city emerged from the already bald jungle. The plane lay on its left wing and, making a wide arc, descended for landing. Machine gun bullets were chasing the plane from the bushy edge of the airport. Machine guns on the side of the buildings they returned fire. Several mortar shell explosions near the place where the threat was made we were shot down and the plane started rolling on the airport tarmac, which was full of holes and holes. The shots from the bushes were no longer heard, but we still ran towards the buildings. He found the plane

safe haven in the hangar.

It was hot and muggy. Kowalski had difficulty reaching the command headquarters mercenary cadres. I was in Stanleyville. This is where I was supposed to stay and this is where I was supposed to be a soldier and

commander. Kowalski was to fly to Uwira the next day. With some imagination, a military jeep with a mounted vehicle arrived in front of the airport building machine gun. Half an hour along the dustiest road in the world, through the toll gates towards...

center, horn, sharp left turn, elegant avenue, gate and that's it...

A spotted paratrooper uniform. The guard standing at the gate saluted Kowalski. In the yard, Kowalski jumped off the jeep and disappeared through a door. Left alone - I looked around curiously. The chauffeur of the jeep, who also disappeared, called me after a while and pointed to 18

door. I entered the office. Behind the desk sat the Belgian mercenary commander in the Congo, Colonel Lamouline. I checked in. The fat colonel, upon hearing that I was Polish,

officer smiled and said: "It's good. Your compatriot, Captain TopórStaszak, is going on leave. You will replace him as the commander of the 12th Katangese battalion. Eight hundred and fifty Katangese and twelve white volunteers." As I learned from Kowalski, European soldiers called themselves volunteers. The word "mercenary" does not sound good, and for most of us it does not correspond to the truth. I was afraid of the responsibility... To be the commander of one of the three defense battalions

Stanleyville, commanding old chaps, veterans of various wars, and several hundred Katangese - it was not an easy task for someone who was taking his first steps on the path of military adventure. Still

I didn't know then that these were not the hardest difficulties to overcome: Soon I was able to say that replacing Topor would be the hardest. Captain Topór is the second Polish legend of the Congolese war. I was comforted by my uniform, the gun on my belt and the officers' stars on my shoulder boards. IN

in the mirror, in the room reserved for me, I studied the frowns on my faces. Deep down I felt however, anxiety. How will I pass this most difficult exam - the commander's exam?

19 MULELE MAJ7 "Mulelee ma! Muleleee maaaj!!!" The roar of hundreds of throats could not be drowned out even by machine gun fire. Tangled bushes of wild vegetation on the Fourth Kilometere8 in spat out hundreds of screaming figures, barely visible on the moonless night. Waves of mad blacks walked, ran, fell, rose again... Roaring and shooting blindly, they were getting dangerously close. The machine gun mounted on the jeep vibrated in my hands in series. Sweat was pouring down my face and it was only with a terrible, almost superhuman effort of will that I suppressed the panic that was gripping me. I was afraid of this terrible crowd that was screaming and coming at me almost invisible, mad, excited by its own screams, inhuman... My common sense told me to control us with myself. Short, efficient, well-thoughtout series. Do not heat the barrel! Save your ammunition! With caution!

Efficiently! And fear tightened my grip on the trigger - I prolonged the series. I found myself shooting blindly, not choosing a target; the barrel was heating up. And again common sense prevailed fear. In cold blood. Accurately. Efficiently. And new crowds emerged from the bushes, driven by the sounds of tom-toms. Twelve Katangese men in a ditch near the jeep. They huddled in a group, lying as close as possible to the barking machine gun, the clamor of which gave them courage and protected them from panic...

They also shot. Their submachine guns fired long bursts. They were unable to think, they panicked. Their fire was ineffective, but it gave the impression that there were more of us. When I had to replace the hot barrel, when the end of the tape interrupted the machine gun fire for a few or a dozen seconds, the screams of the enemy were getting closer. And I pressed the trigger again. And again I crushed the rushing wave to the ground. The eighteenth tape given to me by the black chauffeur who had dragged me out of bed two hours ago, shouting: "Lieutenant9, K QUANTITY

FOURTH ATTACKED!" Undressed, in only shorts, I ran out of the villa where I was quartering. The chauffeur was already throwing tin boxes of ammunition onto the jeep... We could hear noises in the distance

a shooting that was fast approaching as we were rushing along the asphalt road towards the danger zone

facilities. The eighteenth tape was ending... Madou, my chauffeur, was groping to attach the nineteenth one. It didn't go smoothly, because each time he played the series, the end of the tape was torn from his hand. He'll make it

hook it up or not? Because if not, a few seconds wasted on tapeing it could end tragically... He made it. The nineteenth tape, yanked from the new box, reached the lock. Short bursts. "Mulele maaay, mulele maaaj!" - the poisonous whistle of bullets is getting closer to my ears, the glowworms of light projectiles are flying closer and closer. The black wave is coming, it's about to flood us. A Katangese threw a hand grenade: there was a bang - and in the glow of the explosion, the silhouette of the enemy was right there. Long series. The chauffeur is already shooting with a handgun. Half a tape... The enemy is close... I have to move the barrel in a larger arc. The tape ends... Death???

The wave broke by several meters. Two more grenades finished the job. Quick I put on the twentieth tape and frantically insert the bullet into the barrel. But already the tom-toms are growling

otherwise. "Madou - I ask - what does that mean?" "It's over! - the driver smiles - they are calling for a retreat." I looked around. There was only one ammunition belt left in the jeep. The enemy's attack failed just in time! A few minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, clenching my teeth in pain. In the heat of battle

I didn't feel that the hot shells ejected from the machine gun were falling on my bare thighs. Now red and covered with blisters, they stung me terribly. I swore in a terrible way. In three languages...

7 Mulele is a red general, leader of the rebellion in the Eastern Province. May is water. The sorcerers convinced the Negroes that if they shouted "Mulele-Water" while attacking, the enemy's bullets would melt away. The blacks, dazed with hashish, did not even notice that their friends were falling next to them...

8 In Stanleyville it was customary to name individual outposts along the roads after the road stones. This gave precision to within one hundred meters. E.g. kilometer 12.7. 9 Lieutenant

20 My first battle ended with my victory as a soldier. But she was proof my failure as a commander. Of the twelve white volunteer subordinates, not one took part in it. "My troops" were drinking in the city... Complete disregard of my orders... When Captain Topór introduced me as his successor, both black and Katangese The battalion and the white non-commissioned officers accepted me reluctantly.

The blacks loved Topor, who had already led them in Katanga against the troops

"blue helmets" of the United Nations. They were together when Swedish troops massacred their villageki10. By li together when the news spread around Katanga that the plane carrying Dag Hammarskjold, the UN Secretary General, who they hated, was shot down. There was an axe fair, brave and... brutal. He cared for his army like a mother and punished him like a father. He was the only officer in the Congo who gave a punch in the face without causing a revolt. There has long been their M'kuu, that is

a tribal boss whom they served as faithfully as dogs. No murmuring. He repaid them this loyalty.

No battalion could boast of a commander who cared so carefully for his soldiers and understood their needs so much. Topor's broken French and his booming voice evoked a respectful silence in the Katangese ranks. Anyone who has ever experienced how undisciplined and noisy the Katangese are will understand what I mean. The ax was high,

an athletically built, strong man. Lame from being shot in the knee in Katanga in 1961 year, he leaned on a cane. When he left command of the 12th Battalion, the Katangese people despaired.

"Red Devils"11th blanket shouted at his commander. It wasn't easy to replace Topor! It was also not easy to replace him as the commander of twelve white non-commissioned officers and soldiers.

It was a strange team: six Italians, two French, two Belgians, one German and one Dane. The Italians were led by the clever ensign Valcamonica. Valcamonica was ambitious. Knowing about T's imminent departureresistance12 m he thought it was Lamouline13 in appoint him commander and promote him accordingly. So I had an enemy. I had nothing to impress these oldtimers and well-known people

unknown wars. Neither experience nor physical strength. I knew that

If I had disciplined Valcamonic or punished one of them, I would have died from a bullet in the back in the first battle. The French didn't like the Italians, but they had no reason to like me, and being in the minority, they preferred not to mess with the Italians. One of the Belgians, an old exile, was to leave in two weeks, and the other, young man, he didn't count at all. The German looked at me sideways, showed Prussian discipline in my eyes, and behind his back assured Valcamonica that he supported him. Only the Dane was somehow favorable to me. He was the one who warned me. Especially before Alfredo Cossi.

Alfredo Cossi was a terrible man. Scary for sure. Or human? I had doubts. Ugly, heavy, clumsy. He limped on one leg, which persistently reminded him of the movement of a gorilla. This impression was greatly enhanced by the truly monkey-like length strong arms. Alfredo was illiterate. He communicated in French using a few words. A persistent rumor was that he was formerly a hitman for the Mafia. That, while escaping from the mafia, to which he had caused some damage due to his innate stupidity (he killed the wrong man), he took refuge in South Africa. Because he only knew how to kill, so when the opportunity arose -

found himself in Congo. Accustomed to obeying mafiosi, he chose his boss 10 Among all the nations serving in Katanga under the UN banner, the Swedes stood out for their cruelty. Has the war awakened the bloodthirsty instincts of the Vikings in these pacifists?

11 The 12th Katangese Battalion under my command was known as the "Diables Rouges". The soldiers wore red berets and red scarves around their necks. 12 Ax had many enemies in high places in Stanleyville, so it was generally known that after returning from leave he would take command "somewhere further".

13 Commanders of all European cadres grouped in the so-called 6th Cadre Battalion. This battalion divided groups of a dozen or so people with one or several officers as cadres for battalions and smaller, independent Katangese units. Lamouline was a sort of chief of staff. Only his successor, the famous Frenchman Bob Denard, gained fame as a commander.

21 Valcamonica. In the haunts of Stanleyville, Valcamonica had prestige. Even the worst fighters were afraid that Alfred Cossi would attack them. I was awake when the wagons carrying my warriors from the city arrived at the house. Already they knew about the battle fought on the Fourth Kilometer. I didn't want to see them.

Furious at my own stupidity, I cooled my burnt thighs with a fan. At dawn I took it a jeep, two Katangese soldiers and I went to the Fourth Kilometer. In the glow of the rising sun, the place lost the horror of the previous night despite the large number of corpses littering the area. Half-naked, covered with amulets, they lay as far as the eye could see. Soviet weapons were lying around in the foreground.

Stunned by hashish by sorcerers, dazed by superstition and armed by distant, ominous power, they were going to their deaths driven by the roar of tomtoms, deafened by their own scream, which still rang in my ears: "Mulele maaaj!" The poor, dark victims of red imperialism now lay silently, in the terrifying poses in which death found them, death inflicted on them by a Belgian machine gun in my hands. I returned to the villa and in one gulp I drank a glass of whiskey. ***

Esso gas station. A building covered with sandbags. Two guns on the roof machine tools. There is not a single pane of glass in the once-glazed windows of the building. Two shot pumps

petrol. Two Katangese soldiers keep watch on the roof, the rest lie in a row in the shade of the building and several nearby trees, sleeping off their last night. Because they didn't sleep at night. They were "Kilometer Six", the last outpost of the city surrounded by rebellion... Then it was "no man's land" and the enemy. Behind the gas station, the asphalt road was slowly covered with vegetation. The rebels had no vehicles... Fifty meters further from the asphalt road, there was a side road, paved, in half, that went off to the left

an overgrown road leading to Kisaua - a large coffee plantation. The unit was supposed to move along this route troops under my command. In the morning I received an operational order, I received ammunition for...

Katangese and we set off with one company. The third company of my battalion after After the last losses, it numbered only two thirds of its original number: 200 people. I was accompanied by seven Europeans. There was no Valcamonica. There was Alfredo Cossi.

We left our cars at Kilometer Six. I ordered them to move in a row on both sides sides of the road. Ditches, where there were ditches. Off the road, where the vegetation allowed it. Yes

we walked at first in sun and dust, and later in rotten damp as we crossed the point where the jungle began. Our task was to estimate the enemy's forces and, if possible, to capture and man the plantation buildings in Kisaua. It was my first time in a real one jungle. I looked around curiously and listened to every sound. Mighty trees

tangled with lianas, lush equatorial vegetation. The cries of monkeys repeated endlessly by thousands parrots. The sound of the wings of strange birds with huge beaks called "calaos"... I was walking along the road in the left ditch. In front of me on the left and right side of the road with a finger A Katangese reconnaissance force was moving forward at full speed. Two French noncommissioned officers

led him, each on his own side. Next came me and my two Belgians. Opposite, on the right side, at my height, three Italians were advancing. Among them is a lame ape-man: Alfredo. Suddenly there was the sound of explosions and the clamor of machine guns. The characteristic clatter of diekteriewa14,

Soviet machine gun. The raging long strings sounded equally characteristic 14 Diekteriew-deszeka 38, heavy machine gun on a chassis, caliber 12.7 mm. Deszeka means "Diektierev-Szpagin Kulomiet",

22 bursts of Kalashni assault rifleskow15. T We faced an enemy that outnumbered us in numbers, weapons and terrain. Invisible to us, it blared from a hill covered with jungle.

It had at least several medium caliber mortars. He even had a gun anti-tank: two bazooka shells crashed into nearby trees. My men fell flat in a ditch that at least protected them from direct fire. However, the only thing that protected us from the 60-mm Soviet mortar shells was our inability to operate them. opponent...

French non-commissioned officer Jean Larue crawled to me for orders. I told him to go with

one of my Belgians moved back through a ditch and, being out of sight of the enemy, took him with him the entire Katangese rear guard, that is, about eighty soldiers, and tried to get around the enemy on the left side by breaking through the jungle. As an inexperienced commander I was afraid of the Frenchman's reaction to my plan. He nodded in approval and nodded to the elder

the Belgians and moved, crawling, backwards. After a short time, there was movement at the invisible rear of my unit: the rear guard was lost in the jungle... I breathed a sigh of relief. In the full sun, tormented by insects and heat, we lay without hanging our heads. To get around enemy from the side, Sergeant Larue had to walk through the jungle for about one and a half kilometers. I knew from

the experience of others is that, depending on the density of the jungle, it takes at best about four hours. The enemy fired less and less often. Apparently pleased with the lack of any visible reaction on our part, he considered us "grounded", which in military parlance meant smothered to the ground by fire and unable to take action. The enemy waited for the night and called for reinforcements.

I heard tom-toms repeated endlessly through the jungleć16. Vol the ace was long. I was worried whether Larue would be able to cope. A talented non-commissioned officer. This was evidenced by the high French military decoration he received in Vietnam. But I knew that if the enemy detected him in the jungle prematurely, Sergeant Larue's entire group would surely face death. From time to time one of us poked his head out of the ditch. The answer was the clamor of weapons

enemy and a cloud of dust on the road raised by Deekteriev's bullets. Hell sun. Anxiety and boredom. And so time passed...

I remembered that I had a flat metal bottle in the inside pocket of my sweatshirt

whiskey. Leaning against the ditch, I took a sip. Warm but good. I lifted the bottle to my lips again while glancing at the other side of the road. My attention was caught by someone staring at me. It was Alfred's gaze, his eyes fixed on... the small metal bottle I held in my hand. His face, usually expressionless, was this time bordering on expression suffering, desire. I don't know what came to my mind then. I suddenly jumped up and ran to the other side

side of the road. Behind my heels, a trail torn out by a machine gun in the road trampled. I collapsed in the ditch next to Alfred, much to his and the other two Italians' amazement. I took another small sip from the bottle and handed it to Alfred. Alfredo with three mighty ones

He emptied the bottle in gulps. He hiccuped and smiled. The smile was almost... human. ***

Late at night I drove a jeep to "Makutano", the largest dancing cabaret in Stanleyville. I was happy. The first operation I commanded was successful. As Larue walked around

15 Excellent Soviet assault rifle Cal. 7.62. Magazine 30 rounds. Accurate up to 400 m. Solid and easy to use. 16 A real tom-tam is a means of communicating in the jungle in a way that resembles a telegraph. A hollow tree trunk of only one species,

covered on both sides with monkey skin. It produces a sound at such a frequency that it is not muffled by the jungle foliage. In the jungle, you can't hear a gunshot from a kilometer away, and there are large tribal tom-toms whose voices can be heard within a radius of several or even several kilometers.

23 enemy - we attacked from two sides. We captured a lot of weapons and ammunition. Occupation

the plantation was no longer difficult. Having left half of my unit in Kisana under Larue's command, I returned to Stanleyville, tired but satisfied... Now I was pushing through the crowded cabaret clientele, who, seeing the officer's patches, parted respectfully. That's how I got to the buffet. "Whiskey!" - I shouted in an authoritative voice to the small Greek, the owner of the place, who "officiated" behind the counter. "Unfortunately, we ran out," he replied. And then something strange happened. A powerful paw extended from behind my back lifted the Greek up, strangling him

almost. "There must be something for my commander," Alfredo said in an angry voice, throwing the Greek at the drinks shelf. The frightened Greek stretched out, bent in half with fear and bowing bottle from under the counter. We drank. Alfredo was starting to pay off the debt he incurred on the dusty road. That's how I became a real commander, whose decisions were no longer questioned by anyone. Alfredo took care of it...

24 DOLLARS ARE GREENING IN THE JUNGLE The brigade headquarters was located in the city center, on a wide avenue shaded by two streets

rows of trees. When I left the check-in it was late afternoon. After leaving

With I unbuttoned my sweatshirt from the air-conditioned briefing room to the sunlit courtyard. After crossing the courtyard, I felt the first drops of sweat running down my back. It was a day

extremely muggy, even for Stanleyville's climate. I walked briskly towards it the company jeep, dreaming of the cooling breeze as I sped away - as usual, with the forbidden speed through the city. It was one of the valuable privileges of the position: a short honk on the horn and when they saw me, the police would stop traffic, saluting politely. I left the jeep in the shade underneath

trees. As I approached, a figure jumped out from behind the bushes. I quickly pulled out my gun and jumped to the side: attacks were frequent.

I felt a bit stupid when I recognized Takarios' stout figure. Takarios was spokesman for the Greek colony at Stanleyville. All trade here was in the hands of the Greeks. They made money quickly because they risked their lives for trade. They reached with military patrols

the most vulnerable forward outposts and settlements. They took risks importing goods, sometimes under fire. They died often. But they made fortunes. Takarios was their boss. He borrowed money, dealt with the authorities, gave bribes...

A moment later I was sitting in a Greek restaurant, in a separate office in the back, at... a richly laden table. Takarios needed something. And since sometimes the army needed Greek merchants, it was worth listening to my interlocutor.

Did he mean that several Greek merchants and their trucks would join the nearest military supply transport? ***

Anyone who saw the march of the Red Army at the end of World War II has never seen it

will forget Soviet vandalism. What the Soviets couldn't steal, they destroyed. Soviet soldiers threw radios and gramophones out of windows, cut portraits with bayonets, tore strings from pianos, smashed washbasins and toilet bowls with rifle butts, shot at mirrors and candelabra, destroyed libraries, broke furniture and tore curtains to shreds. Every house inhabited by them -

even for a few days - it required a thorough renovation. Not to mention the dirt and stench they left behind. You know: when you break toilet bowls... Why did they destroy things so badly? Could it be that they were driven by jealousy that someone could live in the conditions that they, the citizens, lived in?

did they only see the "leading country" in the cinema? Or maybe it was the propaganda that constantly told them that outside the Soviets there was terrible exploitation, and therefore every decent apartment seemed to them like a den of exploitation? Or maybe it is the nature of the Soviet man to run on vodka, like a car engine runs on gasoline? I don't know. But Soviet barbarism I remember...

Negroes are not vandals! The Negro, neither the "wild" one from the jungle nor the "civilized" one from the city - does not consciously destroy anything. I found houses, villas and workshops in the areas recaptured by the rebellion. Many villas were in a deplorable condition, but it was not intentional vandalism. The Negro family took over the former Belgian villa and simply did not know how to use it devices and conveniences. Moreover, most often there was no electricity and gas.

"The revolutionaries couldn't turn on the power plants and generators... So in the villa they lit a fire in the middle of the living room on the... the sometimes priceless dance floor. Did the smoke sting your eyes? A hole was made in the ceiling and roof. Then the rains did their job...

I saw sooty walls, burnt floors, water stains... But to my surprise radio equipment, useless due to lack of electricity, stood in its place. Even the records weren't 25

broken, beautiful tableware made of fine porcelain, dirty but intact. Leaving this place The "wild" blacks did not destroy anything consciously, they did not destroy anything.

So let's be careful when we talk about civilized nations. The Soviets are not such a nation... Such thoughts were running through my head when, after several days of fighting, I was visiting the socalled

new airport. In fact, it was an airport under construction. They began to be built shortly before the outbreak of the rebellion, with loans obtained from various countries, mainly Western European ones. By using a flanking maneuver, I managed to force the rebels to retreat deeper into the jungle.

Now I walked from hangar to hangar and admired what was not there. Unpacked boxes with computers, fully equipped workshops, radar equipment, machines for writing, telex machines, electric motors and generators, kilometers of cables. Huge fuel tanks: gasoline and oil, the lack of which Stanleyville felt so strongly that even for the needs of the army they were rationed. Bulldozers, excavators, tractors. Fortune! Everything is in good condition, nothing is broken

destroyed. Thousands of replacement parts in original packaging. I posted guards... ***

Father M. was an extraordinary man. A forty-something monk, missionary Belgian, with enormous personal courage, he had not only a soul full of sacrifice and Christian zeal, but also a head full of all wisdom and a smile on his face that was kind to the world and people. Father M. knew Negro dialects, customs and superstitions. I became great friends with him. The service he provided me with his knowledge of the area was invaluable. That's what he found out

It turned out that in the jungle, several kilometers from our most advanced outpost, there was a large group of Negro families who had escaped from Stanleyville. Now, not accustomed to life in the jungle, exposed to hunger, sick from lack of salt, they would like to return. They even tried, but were fired upon by a rebel force camped between them and the desired city. When the Reds retreated from Stanleyville, they took a large part of the population with them. They kept her in the jungle with fear and terror. They were used for almost slave work, up to

all kinds of ministries. In this way, they focused on the attacks themselves - leaving the search for food to civilians, from whom they took everything at gunpoint. An additional advantage for them was the presence of women...

Our main pacification task was to try to bring the civilian population she returned to her homes and activities. If, according to Mao Tse Tung, revolutionaries are to be among

civilian population "like fish in water", it was our "red fish"

deprive this water and get out of their clutches the tribes and families who wanted to return to normal life. I've been waiting for a similar opportunity for a long time. I was fed up with the staff, the conferences, and Father's nagging

logistics. So I decided to personally attack the rebel camp. It wasn't easy for me to get permission: it wasn't the role of a battalion commander. But by this time fat Lamouline had passed away and his position was taken over by Bob Denard. He, being a swashbuckler himself, understood well the need to immerse himself in combat, adventure and risk. ***

It's the third day in the jungle. My unit - four Europeans and sixty Katangians - got more and more stuck in the tangled vegetation. We covered the first kilometers smoothly along a path trodden by elephants. But the path took a turn and had to be abandoned. We were led by a young black man, a catechumen of Father M.. It was he who made it to Stanleyville and

he brought the priest news about the fate of civilians, including his family, in the jungle.

Four Katangese led the way, single file. The first one cut a path in turns with a machete 26 vegetation. The air was saturated with moisture. Each kilometer takes several hours of walking. The third day was drawing to a close. At the equator, night falls quickly, almost suddenly. It's necessary to

think about rest. During the night, a Katangese sergeant woke me up. Even though, according to ours

guide to the camp the rebels are far away, a day's journey, the Katangese smelled smoke. It must be admitted that blacks have a great sense of smell. So even though none of us Europeans felt anything, I sounded the alarm. We began to creep through the jungle, weaving through the vegetation. There was no way to cut a road with a machete: the noise would warn the enemy. Our guide explained to me that this was definitely not the camp he was leading us to. But you have to check. After an hour of arduous struggle, there was a clearing. There are twelve bamboo huts in the clearing. Extinguished fire. The guard is nowhere to be seen. IN the faint glow of torchlight in one of the huts. It went out. The jungle roars with the cries of monkeys. A short roar

predator. The awakened birds protest. I separated twelve three-person groups from the unit. One per cottage. Flashlight in hand. On command - jump. I run through the clearing. I run too. Kick the bamboo partition, I'm in the hut. "Hands up," I shout. Flashlight, flash, in the faces. I staggered with surprise. There were four people in the hut. Persons? NO. More like ghosts from nightmares. They got up from their beds, making barely articulate sounds, and their faces were blank noses, eyes without eyelids, covered by a hand without fingers. Animal terror at the inhuman faces. I stepped back. I felt my hair stand on end. Monstrous figures climbed out of their beds and babbling incomprehensibly walked towards me despite the barrel of a submachine gun being pointed at them.

For God's sake! These are lepers! I came to my senses and felt ashamed of my own fear. I saw my army blowing from other huts. I came across a leper camp. Stanleyville Rebellion it destroyed leprosariums and hospitals. The lepers fled into the forest. There, chased away from people by arrows, they died alone, of hunger and exhaustion. A terrible fate.

I withdrew from the leper camp. The rest of the night passed quietly. ***

Four hundred people escaped from the jungle. Women and children constituted the vast majority

a group that a young student of Father M. brought to the city when I managed to defeat a rebel group. The children were so exhausted that several of them died in the hospital. Jean Bernard, one of my soldiers, was evacuated to Europe, where he died during surgery while they tried to sew his torn intestines back together. A Kalashnikov burst is a nasty thing. ***

I thought about Bernard while looking at the bundles of money lying on the lavishly set table between them

leftover food. "About twenty?" asks Takarios. "We'll give you thirty!" A third bundle containing one hundred hundred dollar bills appeared on the table. I gathered up the money and shoved it into the Greek's open collar of his sweaty shirt. He looked at me surprised. I pulled on my cap and left without a word, ostentatiously unbuttoning the scabbard of my gun. Takarios must have been furious, and an angry Greek could be dangerous. But I made it to the jeep without incident. Thirty thousand dollars for the Katangese guards to guard the hangars of the "new airport" with little zeal. Easy and safe. It was enough to give an order to guard in front of witnesses, but not to ensure its execution. Knowing the Katangese people, you can was to be sure that they would not keep watch, but sleep, and not at the police station, but somewhere in the city,Withwomen.

Thirty thousand dollars is gone. I have a new enemy. I strengthened the guards and I ordered their inspection by European non-commissioned officers. That same night, someone tried to enter on the 27th

to the airport area. A short burst from a submachine gun was the final persuasion. The attempt was not repeated. ***

And yet sometimes, when I'm short of money, my eyes are filled with leftovers eating table and three hundred green banknotes.

28 BAUBLES WITHOUT A CHRISTMAS TREE AND FIREWORKS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE NIGHT

The cunningly planned red offensive collapsed. After a four-hour fight the remnants of the rebels retreated in disorder, leaving behind the dead and wounded. The wounded crawled into the jungle to find shelter from us. They died of blood loss, without

rescue and help. Poor, stupid victims of the propaganda of their leaders, who told them nonsense about our alleged cruelty. We acquired a lot of weapons. After that night, actually New Year's Eve, our enemy never regained his strength and fitness on my sector of the front. Because it all started on New Year's Eve 1965.

In fact, on Christmas Day, we were hit by a hail of Soviet bullets 60 mm mortars. And this was at the moment when Father M., our friend and pastor, spoke to us about peace between people. I made a big fuss about Father M. for coming to our facility on a bicycle! Such carelessness was 25 kilometers along a road where ambushes occurred almost every day. "Are you crazy?" I ask. "Couldn't you have requested an escort over the radio? Who has ever seen such risk?" "I'm not afraid of anything," he replied impudently, priest, "because I have this..." and he pointed

hand on the wooden cross hanging from his belt. "And if that doesn't help," he added after a moment, "I still have this!" He lifted the flaps of his white habit, revealing to our astonished eyes a huge Colt Magnum. "And you scoundrels, I couldn't leave you on Christmas Eve without religious consolation!" - he finished the tirade. And talk to this guy here. That on Christmas Eve itself the Soviet "fighting atheism" was raining bullets into our heads - that's

normal. There wasn't much damage because they were bad shooters and observers preferred to keep a low profile. Many chimpanzees in the jungle have become extinct. Then it somehow died down. We thought it was over. So on New Year's Eve, I allowed everyone who was off duty to gather in the hall facilities and celebrate the New Year with "food and drink". Of course, having first taken care of the emergency situation of those whom blind fate, in my person, has appointed to serve...

During the evening, the company had already managed to get quite excited and let me ask you,

I would let them have a firework at midnight. In fact, we had some light mortar shells in our equipment, the kind that then fall on a parachute and illuminate the area with a magnesium glow. There was also a lot of light ammunition for small arms and machine guns. There were also multicolored signaling rockets and a matching rocket launcher in my possession. Blessed is my weakness! After a few deeper ones - I'm ashamed to admit - I allowed it. There was a bang, a shot, and colorful beads of machine gun bursts were scattered. They were cracking

colorful rockets. And above everything hung bright lanterns of magnesia bullets

mortar!!! July 14 in Paris is a puppy! Rio Carnival is a sucker! Our souls rejoiced. But briefly. Because suddenly, if it doesn't coo, if it doesn't start whistling. There were wild roars: "Mulele may!!!

We sobered up in an instant. The foreground illuminated by New Year's Eve fireworks it was swarming with attackers. They cunningly approached us at night, hoping that the New Year's Eve libations would lull our vigilance. And it could have ended tragically for us. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I didn't take this possibility into account. What the crafty ones didn't predict was our firework! We surprised them unintentionally, but completely. They thought they had been detected and attacked us ahead of time. The surprise was on their side. Oh my, what a blast they got on New Year's Eve. Providence watches over drunkards. Or maybe these are the prayers of Father M.?

29 The new year started well for us. Not for everyone. I had to punish my French a sergeant named Alain Fabregon. This young soldier wanted to impress us with his courage and...

open space, in full light, he turned his back, took off his pants and showed it enemy... the other side of the coin! For this act, I banned him from participating in activities for a week. Alain died much later in an ambush. He died while sacrificing his soldierly duty without fooling around and soberly. The undisputed winner of this memorable battle was our supplier of food and drinks Senior Sergeant Konopka. Konopka, an old timer from the Foreign Legion, got into mine

branch a few months earlier. I made him a supply NCO. I was probably in inspiration. Konopka was a brilliant combinator. He gave and took bribes. He was able to find "things that are nowhere to be found." In a country where even potatoes were imported by airą17th century

We ate oysters and drank champagne on New Year's Eve, full of the African jungle. And then... a firework. Blessed firework! Sergeant Konopka's merits were, of course, not limited to stomach issues. Thanks to this master of combinations, my unit was the best equipped in all the Congo. Konopka

he could find anything. Unusual ammunition for old Vickers, car parts, gasoline, medicine and thousands of other things needed to wage war in bearable conditions. Konopka emerged from the Congo alive, safe and sound. And with a lot of money too. We lost sight of him. But this champion of private initiative certainly did not die. He was going to the United States. He's probably a millionaire.

17 In Congo, potatoes - for understandable reasons - were more expensive than oranges. A popular scam was that in a bag of "potatoes" only the top layer was actually potatoes, and the rest was oranges. Every bag had to be checked! thirty

FISHERMAN WITH A SPITSIT

Father M. was running out of breath up the hill to my facility, holding the white man's lap with both hands

habit. It was obvious from his face that something unusual must have happened. I watched him

worried. For I knew this extraordinary missionary and I knew that there were few things in Africa that could upset him. So I met him.

He winked at me that he didn't want to talk in front of people and almost ran into our bar/canteen, where he demanded whiskey in a firm voice. I became even more concerned. Not because he drank in a gulp, because he didn't drink by the collar, but because he drank before noon, which is known to happen Gentlemen do not do this, and Father M. was undoubtedly a gentleman. After wiping my mouth with a plaid handkerchief the size of a tablecloth for six, he dragged me into a corner.

"Listen, condottieree18 - z he began in a breathless whisper (he always called me condottiere). Listen, condottiere, this is unheard of. "Crocodile people" have appeared!" - he told me with horror. "And I learned that there have been no 'crocodile people' in the Congo since the 1920s!" He was clearly scandalized. ***

It all started in the morning, when the trucks arrived at the fishing village at the foot of the hill where my outpost was located. The trucks were to take to Stanleyville, under military escort... fish from the night catch. Fishermen settled by me on the newly conquered and pacified areas at the foot of the outpost in Wana Rukula on the Lulua Riverba19, sweat rafili catch up to three tons of fish in one night. This made a major contribution to feeding the population of Stanleyville, cut off from the world. And this time nothing, not a single fish. It seemed like some strange conspiracy, none of the fishermen had any fish. They didn't sail out at night

for fishing. Why? Their excuses were different, as if they had something to hide: "My pirogue broke" said one. "The wife is sick," said the other. The third one, simulating a coughing attack, choked out that he was sick. And so everyone.

I was honestly worried and completely confused. After all, the fishermen were under mine care and they owed me a lot. They were among the elite in terms of earnings. I took care of their condition

health and education of their children. For comfort and safety. It was not selfless: their work was - as I said - important for feeding Stanleyville. So, after many battles I captured an outpost in Wana Rukula, my main effort was to settle it with tribes fishing of the very fishy section of the Luluaba River that I liberated. And it was not an easy thing, the fishermen fled into the jungle - like most of the population - and were afraid to return to their areas, frightened by the Reds' propaganda about the supposed revenge awaiting them from us for the massacre of the whites in Stanleyville. Redeployed by rebels as labor away from traditional fishing spots, deprived of leadershipa20 t they fled through the jungle, tossed by fear and hunger. They died often and thickly from hunger and disease. Especially children!

I was lucky then. During one of the minor pacification operations, moi soldiers found an old, exhausted black man in the jungle. When he recovered from his fear, an interpreter managed to tell him that he was the head of the M'Wabu fishing tribe, which before the outbreak of the rebellion lived on one of the tributaries of the Congo River. This tribe scattered throughout the jungle when the reds captured their leader. The boss was held hostage deep in the jungle and with 18 condottieri - these are the commanders of mercenary Italian troops from the Renaissance.

Father M. always called me that. 19 The Congo River, from its source to Stanleyville, is called Kisangani

Luluaba. 20 The Reds systematically imprisoned the heads of the tribes, thus ensuring the submission of the population.

31 He managed to escape with difficulty. He had been wandering around for a long time, hiding from both

rebels and our army. When we found him, he was close to death. With his help I pulled the entire M'Wabu tribe out of the forest: when the old cacique came to life and

he became convinced that the devil was not that scary, that we were not murdering anyone and that in the liberated areas people lived normally and safely, he easily agreed to call his tribesmen to coming out of hiding. For days, tom-toms broadcast the old boss's call. They proclaimed that he was healthy and that he guaranteed his people's safety and well-being. For the next two weeks, scattered M'Wabu families emerged from the jungle. At night, cautiously like hunted animals, they joined their boss. As they left, I set them up in an abandoned village at the foot of the outpost. Our proximity protected them from the revenge of the rebels, who punished with death anyone who tried to break away from their rule.

The M'Wabu tribe has long been grateful to me. The old boss appointed me something in

a sort of honorary tribe chief, gave me a girl and called me his father. This the last one was, of course, only symbolic... fortunately! It's no wonder that the sudden pseudo-strike of M'Wabu fishermen came as a surprise to me. I felt that something bad was happening. I knew they weren't honest with me, that they were plotting something. Could the rebels have managed to intimidate them? In fact, they looked scared: they were huddled in groups, talking in whispers. In one of the cottages, a woman's quiet but piercing cry could be heard. I couldn't find out anything specific. The old boss was gone and no one could or wouldn't let me

tell what happened to him. However, I put too much work into organizing the fishing, too many hungry people were waiting for fish, for me to give up. As usual in such cases, I sent for Father M. Irreplaceable Father M! An expert not only on Negro customs but also on the Negro soul. The local superstitions, witchcraft and taboos held no secrets for him. He was an invaluable assistant in all matters relating to relations with the natives. And now he stood in front me out of breath and helpless. His nearsighted blue eyes expressed boundless astonishment behind his glasses.

This is incredible, condottiere - he said - I would sooner expect white bears here, than "crocodile people"!

The second whiskey (before noon) calmed him down a bit.

"'Crocodile people' - he began to say in a calmer voice - they are small tribes cannibals. They wander along rivers. They rarely number more than a hundred people, including small children. When they come across a fishing village, they lurk in the bushes on the opposite side of the river. They wait until nightfall. You know, condottiere, what fishing is like..."

I actually knew. I have observed my M'Wabu many times. Picturesque view! Twenty or thirty pirogues, each with two men, go out onto the river. They both stand. One, from the back, drives the pirogue with a long bamboo pole, the other, from the front, catches fish with a torch in his left hand and a spear in his right... There are so many fish in this river that flocks of them flock to the torchlights. The fisherman puts them on a spear and throws them onto the boat, like a peasant makes hay with a pitchfork. Fish weighing five to ten kilograms. In fifteen minutes the pirogue is full... You have to reach the shore, where the women empty it quickly. New cruise, new catch. Dozens of torches on the widely spread river waterski21. Ś light is reflected in the waves. Moon, palm trees

on the edge. Idyll! "The 'crocodile people' swim under water - continued Father M. - in twos, threes, with a bamboo tube in their mouths allowing them to breathe. They swim up to the pirogue furthest from the

21 Luluaba at the height of Wanie Rukula is almost a kilometer wide.

32 others, the one closest to the opposite shore. They knock her over. A pirogue is, after all, just a hollow tree trunk. They drown the fishermen and then drag them to the shore. After gutting... several dozen kilos of meat. The whole tribe has enough to eat. The next day they move further, to another fishing village. And superstitious fishermen believe in unclean forces and are afraid to go out fishing all day longy22." "The Belgian administration of the Congo has been fighting this scourge since the beginning of colonial times -

Father M. continued, clearly concerned - and, as I was taught, in the 1920s there were no 'crocodile people' in the Congo."

How thin is the polish of civilization! In the 1960s, a short moment was enough for decades of civilization work to be forgotten and old customs to be revived. In Africa, cannibalism still exists... Sometimes it is ritual cannibalism. It is eaten the liver of a defeated enemy to claim his courage. But cannibalism is simple, food, there is also. Well, sometimes it's easier to hunt a human than an antelope... Two years before the described accidents, a plane crashed into the jungle northeast of Stanleyville. Apart from the crew, twelve Italian technicians flew it. In the jungle, cut off from the rest of the army, a Congolese infantry battalion was starving. They stayed after the plane crew and Italian technicians

gnawed bones. The world's media remained silent on this fact. To talk about cannibalism is to be accused of racism. Especially when the right to selfdetermination of "nations" is supported. ***

My throat was constricting with disgust and I was trying to hold back the overwhelming desire to "go to

Riga". In the clearing - on the right side of the Luluaba River - a battlefield! There are corpses of naked men and women. The rotten stench makes you feel sick. In the company of the old chief of the M'Wabu tribe

we see what was the camp of the "crocodile people" the day before. An extinguished fire, above it, on two crosses, a pole serving various purposes, and around it there are uneaten human remains. severed heads in the grass. Heads of people I knew: two M'Wabu fishermen.

After talking to Father M., I sent a company of Katangese soldiers with an order exterminating the cannibals. It wasn't fair. Can someone be punished for acting in accordance with his customs? But I was faced with the need to keep my fishermen calm fishing, on which the city's food depended. The "crocodile people" became extinct from Katangese bullets. The old chief of the fishing tribe saw with his own eyes that it was not the evil spirits of the night that were lurking for his subordinates. In the evening, amid the cries of women and children and the gloomy sound of tom-toms, the village of Wanie Rukula performed a funeral for two heads.

At night, dozens of torches shone on the majestic river again. Eternal Africa... 22 The fishermen do not realize that they are victims of cannibals. They suspect that water demons are the reason for the disappearance of some of them.

33 MCHAWI MUKUNDU AND THREE LEGIONISTS Benigno sat dejectedly over his half-finished beer. The short, blackish, athletic one construction site, the young Italian from Sardinia was not a complicated man. His knowledge

French was limited to military jargon and a huge supply of terrible swear words. This was all he gained from his many years of service in the French Foreign Legion. In fact, he also received a wide scar on his chest and a high decoration for bravery. He was the perfect soldier: brave, loyal, and fond of war and the risks it brought. He knew no other profession, no other life. Although short, he was strong, well-proportioned and had a manner moving something like a predator. His dark complexion and narrowed eyes gave him a certain charm, which was completely spoiled by the slick and greasy hairstyle of the Italian Lowelas.

There was peace on the front. The brigade command was preparing for an offensive towards

Bafasende. I slowly but effectively pacified and introduced the area around Wanie Rukula civil administration and order. Military actions were limited to sending out patrols and

ensuring communication security. It was almost a vacation for my soldiers. Free from the servants, after cleaning their weapons for the hundredth time, took care of what they could - most often women.

The only break in the monotony was taking part in the convoys to Stanleyville.

The army did what it could. Benigno was sitting over a bottle of beer. If he were He's a Slav, you could accuse him of being crazy. Benigno, however, was Italian. And the Italian is miserable doesn't happen. I became concerned: "Benigno, what's wrong with you?" - I asked after an hour.

"I've had enough for this life," he said, using his own peculiar syntax. He was still looking gloomily at the half-finished bottle. Suddenly he became animated: Do something, Lieutenant go on a trip!

Benigno called the trips "loose patrols." In our dialect, this meant marching through the jungle a little haphazardly, in the direction where we could expect the concentration camps. opponent. Sometimes it's a futile ordeal, sometimes it's a big risk. This served pacification purposes, because the enemy could not feel safe anywhere. During one of such loose patrols, I came across a gorilla which was trying to scare us from its clearing with its wild roar and beating its powerful chest. He succeeded admirably and must have been very proud. I told you to retreat: where are the gorillas -

there are no people there, so further searching the jungle in this area was pointless. Another time I was walking in front, watching two Katangese cutting a passage in front of us thickets of tangled lianas. Suddenly I see one of them grab the other's hand and hit them with a powerful punch

machetey23 load ina his forearm. A second of astonishment and... throat-choking fear: there was an arrow stuck in the severed, bloody hand. I could tell by the color of the pen that it was poisoneda24. K Thanks to his quick reaction, the Atangian saved his companion's life - leaving him crippled. Benigno looked at me like a begging dog. I was still hesitant. I didn't like endangering people, and there was one in the area composure. On the other hand, the army was disbanding, and a patrol on the other side of the river could be useful: there were reports of a band coming to the aid of a rebellion that we had already defeated.

"Take the 4th platoon and go see what's happening in that direction," I waved my hand at him

southwest - 24 hours and not a minute more. Departure in an hour." Benigno brightened face in a predatory smile, he jumped up from the chair, knocking the bottle off the table. "I love you, 23 Machete - a large, slightly curved, heavy knife, a kind of saber used to cut a path through the thicket. It also serves as a weapon.

24 The poisoned arrows were of two types: with green parrot feathers, they were poisoned with "cadaver venom", that is, gangrenous bacteria from rotten meat. The blacks were terribly afraid of these arrows. They were mainly used in tribal wars. Hence a large number of crippled people after amputations, better or worse. For us, thanks to penicillin, these shots were harmless. The yellowfeathered arrows were laced with a plant alkaloid similar to curare. They caused death by paralysis of smooth muscles (stopping the heart function).

34 "Lieutenant" - he choked out an astonishing proposal. But he didn't go out. I knew exactly what he wanted, but I pretended I didn't know. "Lieutenant, will you give me Bill and Joe, right? Will you?" Benigno no longer asked, but begged. "Fine," I said, "but if so, Joe will be in charge! Send him to me." "Okay, Lieutenant," Benigno trotted towards the buildings. Beningo was a great soldier but a poor commander. It's true that his instinct guided him sometimes better than others compass, but he didn't have an ounce of caution - when he followed a fleeing opponent, he lost his memory of the world like a purebred hunting dog. I was afraid to put him in charge. But at the same time, I didn't want to humiliate him by constantly being passed over for command assignments. Fortunately, Joe was there.

Joe was Polish, his name was Józef Swara. He was a sergeant in the Foreign Legion. A handsome blond man, from Krakow. He fled to the West while his father was in Poland

"dekulakized" to death. Old Swara was killed under the fence by young ideologists from ZMP who brought progress and justice to the village. The old man had no understanding that the youth wanted to have fun with his daughter. They beat the old man to death with shovels. "It was new"

- as one writer wrote.

Józek Swara and his sister were taken in by his extended family. As the son of a "kulak and enemy of the people", he didn't have many chances. So he escaped from Poland through the Czech Republic with a guy from the National Armed Forces.

Józek, who was nicknamed Joe in Legia because he was said to be similar to an actor from a long time ago

a forgotten western seen somewhere on leave in Sidi-Bel-Abez, he was very lucky until he was hanging on barbed wire, pierced by a Kalashnikov burst. And I wouldn't have recognized Józek if his soldier - Benigno - hadn't carried him out from under the fire. From then on, Benigno accepted Józek for his property. And from then on they were inseparable. A little later, both of their lives were saved by a young Frenchman who had just arrived at Legia Billi. Bill called

his real name was Jacques Treil and he came from Paris. He arrived at Legia just in time to save Józek Swara's team. A typical Parisian street urchin, witty and full of spirit, he was terribly fond of women. While at the outpost under Józek's command, he escaped in the evening to a place 12 kilometers away

town to benefit from the paid love that is generously provided there in the proper institution called BMC25. G if he was caught, he could be shot for desertion... But Bill wouldn't take such a risk when he was pressed for time. While returning to his unit, he heard something suspicious sounds. He crawled and noticed that his friends were surrounded by a large enemy force, preparing for a surprise attack. Bill, with a few well-placed grenade throws, cut his way to the unit and the unit's retreat route. He captured the Medaille Militaire, and only Józek knew about his desertion that took several hours due to "urgent need". From then on they were never separated. Italian, Polish and French. Mine "three musketeers" from Legia. Benigno is incredibly brave and faithful in friendship, a Frenchman full of cunning, inventiveness and ideas. And Józek. Józek was there

a born commander. Thoughtful and brave. He enjoyed authority and gained the soldiers' trust. They complemented each other perfectly and the three of them constituted my private "task force". Three of us? It is known that there are four of them in "The Three Musketeers". In this case, the fourth member of the team was Simba26.

Simba was not a legionnaire. Born African, originally from the Congo. It was simply a yellow, native dog who, a few months ago, had taken a liking to Józek and decided that this tall, blond dog would be his master from now on. In all the operations in which Swara took part, Simba's yellow, active figure was visible. On patrols, he walked next to Józek's leg. Sometimes he ran out to... forward, but after a while, anxious, he returned to his master and, having licked his hand as an apology for his short "betrayal", walked step by step. Until his temper got the better of him again...

25 BMC, i.e. Bordel Militaire de Compagne, and in Polish literal translation: Military Field Brothel. A French "charitable" institution with old traditions. Abolished in the 1950s. 26 Simba - in Swahili - lion. That's what the rebels called themselves; This is what Swara called his dog when it robbed him

him a portion of excellent pâté and goose liver.

35 I watched with slight envy as Swara's patrol entered the jungle on the other side of the river. Another moment and the last soldier of the 4th platoon of the Katangese company disappeared in the thicket. My duties, even more boring, kept me in place.

Two hours later, a terrible howling caught my attention. He burst into my office Simba. The dog looked terrible: he was foaming at the mouth, panting, and the entire back of his body was dripping with blood.

He whimpered and spun around whining. I grabbed his collar and held him. Its tail was cut off, or rather torn off, and was bleeding. I called a paramedic. Disinfection, bandage and Simba After drinking some water, he let me know by his behavior that I should go with him. What happened to mine

patrol? What happened to Józek Swara, whom Simba accompanied as usual? Even before I took care of the dog, I turned on the alarm siren and sent a strong unit under the command of my deputy to follow the patrol. For some reasons I couldn't move one step away from the field woman radio station... Simba, seeing that he wouldn't convince me, looked at me reproachfully and ran after me

branch. He caught up with him and through the binoculars I saw him getting ahead. A yellow stain with a white bandage flag... My deputy soon returned with his unit. No dog. His report showed that two kilometers from the outpost he encountered a soldier sent by Sergeant Swara. Józek reported that he was continuing the patrol. He guessed that Simba would "notify" me and that I would raise the alarm. So he sent a messenger with a report. He reported to me that thanks to Simba, they had avoided serious danger. There where the path narrowed into a barely visible trace of the path trodden by elephants, the dog ran to the front of the group. Suddenly there was a bang, an explosion, smoke, a dog howling and yellow lightning ran along the patrol. The dog ran away yelping into the house in mad terror. Experienced patrol soldiers fell into... a thicket with a gun ready to fire. The clamor of monkeys and parrots slowly faded away in the jungle

explosion. The swarm of birds took flight and slowly descended onto the tree branches. There was a damp silence in the jungle. Swara carefully examined the situation... It turned out that Simba had simply stumbled upon a jumping mine. These mines are deadly weapons. When

someone carelessly hits the fuse sensor, a special charge ejects a mine

at a height of one to one and a half meters. When the mine explodes at this height, it hits the abdomen and chest with shrapnel. And not only the one who hit her, but everyone within a radius of several meters. Simba's tail was cut off by a stream of shrapnel, always proudly held aloft like a banner. A mine exploded above him. The warned patrol cleared the minefield and moved on. Simba was shamefully accused of cowardice and desertion from the battlefield. ***

It's time for me to explain the title of the story to the reader. Three legionnaires already

I introduced. And Mchawi Mukundu means "red sorcerer" in Swahili. One of the most zealous instigators of the rebellion was known by this nickname. He knew Mchawi Mukundu's "spells" powerfully. He threw the wildest tribes into battle, dazed by hashish, the smoke of which intoxicated them warriors dancing to the rhythm of tom-toms around fires. Mchawi had the ability to incite hatred. At the same time, he was known as a healer, which increased his influence. For me, he was a much more serious opponent than the self-proclaimed "colonels" and "generals" of the rebellion. Especially since the savages he used didn't even realize why they were fighting and dying. Not even they knew that they were dying when they were drugged with hashish and attacked machine guns. Mchawi Mukundu was an evil jungle spirit. I was convinced that his goal was to get rid of the whites so that the doctors and missionaries would not compete with him. For these reasons, most sorcerers supported the rebellion. But I was wrong about the red wizard. His motivations were different. ***

36 The patrol returned the next day carrying the prisoners. The first to appear was Simba, who appeared somewhere after

he lost his bandage on the way. He tried valiantly to swing his stump of tail.

Sergeant Swara's report was, as usual, precise: the patrol suffered no losses (the dog's tail is not mentioned in the military reports/). It's over

They captured him after a few hours of marching

some black man who, as it turned out, had escaped from the rebels and was trying to return to his village in the liberated areas. Swara learned from him about a small rebel camp where the reds kept some crates. Intrigued, Swara decided to check the message. Led by this fugitive, he reached the camp well hidden in the jungle and, finding that he could handle the crew without any problems, attacked the camp from three sides at once. The fourth page

it was limited by a small but muddy river. It was difficult to attack from this side, so Swara left the light machine gun crew across the river. The trap worked well. The platoon commanded by Józek consisted of thirty people. We should add our three legionnaires and Simba. There were over a hundred rebels in the camp, but they were surprised and put up little resistance. Some were killed, several were injured. Sixty sat under guard in my courtyard, casting terrified glances around. Nearby, separately, Katangese soldiers were guarding a savage. He had a face

painted with black and white stripes, red torso. His arms were wrapped in something close up it turned out to be snake skin. The mysterious crates that the fugitive he met told Józek contained ammunition and Soviet canned goods. The patrol also captured a lot of modern Soviet and Chinese machine weapons. As I was examining my haul, suddenly something rose up in the courtyard

confusion. It was the painted weirdo who tried to escape. Captured, pressed to the ground, he struggled become desperate. I came closer. The overpowered man looked at me with eyes in which fear and rage fought for the better. Black people don't generally behave like that. When they are in such a situation, fatalism prevails. They become dull and docile. I was intrigued by my strange captive. He was naked except for the skin on his hips, and there were amulets hanging around his neck: monkey teeth, dried lizard heads, and some kind of snakeskin pouch. I told him to give me this bag. The prisoner went crazy. He defended himself so much that three Katangese could hardly cope with him. I looked into the bag. It contained four gold wedding rings and a document.

I was speechless with amazement. It was a Czech diploma

university in Prague. Medical faculty. I ordered the prisoner to wash his face. The photo was correct. My "savage" graduated from medicine in Prague...

From interrogating witnesses, I quickly learned that I was dealing with the same person

Mchawi Makundu, the red sorcerer. Much later I found out that he was young Masutu, that was his real name, graduated as a Czech scholarship holder. As he showed good promise or performed well, he was sent to study in Leningrad. There he was prepared for the role he was to play in Congo. It was in the 1950s. Nobody has talked about it yet independence of the Belgian colony. The Soviets trained an agent who, although a doctor, did not hesitate to send hundreds of their ignorant compatriots to certain death. He was promised a position in the government after the victorious revolution. He had the rank of general in the revolutionary army. He was sent to the capital executed in February 1966. *** And the legionnaires? Benigno returned to his native Sardinia. He bought the biggest cottage in the village,

he got married and has six children. He drinks the local sweet wine and is highly respected. A few times a month he disappears for the whole day. Malicious people say that he goes to the city "when necessary". In fact, in Sardinia, seducing decent women can get you stabbed in the back.

Bill, or Jacques Treil, returned to Paris, bought a pub, which

he "rearranged" with his friends within a few months. He went to Brazil.

37 Józek Swara couldn't stand Europe. He went as a cook to a large hotel in Saudi Arabia. Later he found himself in Guadeloupe. His sister, who lives in Paris, recently told me that Józek intends to return. Maybe I'll see him.

38 HANYS Hans Wyciorek had a passport of the German Federal Republic. Little Hans was thrown out with her mother from home in Silesia. The authorities did not take into account that the mother spoke to her little son not in German, but in the purest Silesian dialect, which the family preserved in spite of Germanization. What went wrong Hakacie27 c While the Prussians and later the Nazis failed, the authorities of the People's Republic of Poland completely succeeded: Wyciorkowa and her son became Germans.

Hans, or rather Hanys, as his mother called him, grew up in the Ruhr area. It was a boy silent, slow to confide. Ripe too early? The mark of war left on a child's personality? Remember how the Soviets raped his mother in front of him? Or maybe the memory of how your beloved grandmother-nurse died in a cattle wagon in which the brutal militia crammed families deported to the West? Maybe it's because at school his peers mocked his language and accent? While Wyciorkowa lived, Hanys studied well. He was quite capable, ambitious and not distracting

his attention having fun with peers. They quickly stopped paying attention to him because of his friends

he did not search, and those who tried to mock or tease him he quickly subdued with his fist. It all ended when my mother died. Hanys stopped studying - as if he was just studying for his mother - and went out into the world. He did all kinds of work. Strong and intelligent, he easily found short-term jobs. He threw them and kept driving. He didn't heat up anywhere. This way he got to know all of Western Europe. ***

Late at night, we were left by the fire in the gorge of the mountains surrounding the Ruzizi River basin

two: Robert, a corporal from the Foreign Legion, and me. I commanded a reconnaissance unit. Robert operated the walkie-talkie. We waited for the guides to arrive. Apart from the guard, the army was sleeping. Robert, quite talkative, told me his adventures. The son of a wealthy manufacturer, two years of law studies at the University of Louvain. When he was in his third year, he learned that his father had collaborated with the Germans during the war. Robert left his studies and home and joined the Foreign Legion. Together with the 1st Legion Paratroopers Regiment, he took part in the war in Indochina, as Vietnam was then called. The war in Algeria also affected him. He was promoted quickly, but

he was just as quickly demoted for insubordination. Minute by minute, cigarette by cigarette Robert told his long story about wandering soldiers under the banner of the "Legia Patria Nostra"."28.

Marseille, 1963. Robert left Legia. Demobilized, he looked for work in the port.

He stayed in a workers' hotel. He had little savings, so he had to hurry. One evening, while wandering around the port district, he noticed a young man surrounded by Arabs

a man literally pushed against the wall: leaning with his back against the port hangar, he defended himself with punches and kicks against three thugs armed with knives. Robert who passed many in Algeria, he did not like Arabs. Without thinking, he rushed to the rescue. The Arabs fled at the sight of him. Three against one was the only ratio of strength they recognized. Robert and the staggering stranger were left on the battlefield. Blood flowed from the hand pressed to his chest. Robert ran closer and then recognized the injured man. It was his neighbor from the workers' hotel, a gloomy guy who a few days ago had attracted attention for his exceptional rudeness and unfriendly attitude towards others. They met in the stairwell. The jovial Belgian responded to the cheerful greetings

with a reluctant grunt. Robert saw him smiling and dreaming only once: staring at 27 Hakata, the common name of the Prussian nationalist organization OSTMARKVEREIN, whose goal was to Germanize the population of the Prussian partition. 28 "The Legion is our homeland" - the slogan on the banners of the Foreign Legion.

39 There was no movement in the window of the gun shop for a long moment. When he broke away from her

- the smile on his face faded. Now it was flying out of Robert's hands. Blood flowed onto the wet asphalt, where it was shining puddles of dirty water shone with an olive rainbow from the port lanterns... ***

"Now we are united by blood brotherhood," Hanys told Robert a few days later While in the hospital, he came to and found out that it was Robert who donated his blood to...

transfusion that saved his life... He was still weak. He had a fever. Robert visited him often. The wound and the resulting weakness caused cracks in the Silesian's usual shell

separate yourself from people. It was then that Robert learned about his friend's life. After leaving the hospital, Hanys became - as before - taciturn and never returned to the topic. However, when, a few weeks later, Robert found himself in trouble because he owed a large sum of money to Marseille gangsters - Hanys gave him almost all his earnings and made sure that no harm came to his friend... This is how they lived for some time: the son of a wealthy Belgian and the son of a poor Silesian woman. Robert was superior in education, Hanys in cunning. Robert was an experienced commando,

Hanys is an experienced port wanderer. They complemented each other: the Belgian was jovial and carefree, Hanys was gloomy and - as before - taciturn. They were a dangerous couple. When it exploded the revolution in Congo and the secession of Katanga - Roberta's former colleaguesWithThe Foreign Legion did not forget about him. "Come," they wrote, "there is a war here, we are together again." Robert showed the letter to Hanys. The Silesian did not hesitate long. They found themselves in Katanga. Soon they became famous... ***

The fire was already dying out when the expected guides finally arrived at our camp.

I sounded the alarm and ordered them to march towards the light of the rising sun palm-covered hills loomed. The air, still crisp, was already warming and quivering visibly in anticipation of the daily heat. In the battle that broke out, my night companion, a former Legion soldier, died

Foreigner, former law student - Robert. He died by destroying a machine gun nest that paralyzed the unit in the open air gorge and caused us serious losses. That damned machine gun fell silent just in time for me to

to get out safely from where it broke apart moments later

grenade... Robert will never know that he saved my life and that the last battle in these mountains was won thanks to him.

Hanys Wyciorek couldn't forgive himself for not being there with us. He has malaria he was in the hospital. When he returned to the ward, he was even more gloomy than usual. After Robert's funeral he left the Congo. He never came back. If it weren't for that night by the bonfire and Robert's story, I wouldn't have known anything about this man who intrigued me from the moment he introduced himself. with the words: "Je suis un Silesien, pour ainsi dire aussi un Polonais"29. ***

Many years later, I learned that Hanys had completed nursing courses and was practicing medicine

lepers somewhere in India.

29 "I am Silesian, or you could say, Polish."

40 WIND SERGEANT The Kivu area is the Switzerland of the Congo: a beautiful, clear lake among volcanic mountains. IN

In the northern part of the lake, the active, constantly smoking Goma volcano reflects its squat silhouette. The water is incredibly clear, allowing you to see the bottom at its deepest point, and the lake is very beautiful

deep. The waters of the Kivu are saturated with volcanic gas, which prevents reproduction

seaweed. The lack of silt and slime repels crocodiles, and the lack of seaweed causes them

only a few species of fish inhabit the lake. These include the excellent telapia30 p specialty of the "Bodega" restaurant in Bukawu. Kivu is located higher than Tanganyika and the Ruzizi River flows lazily between the lakes. The Kivu area has an ideal climate: located high enough not to suffocate in the nauseating jungle fumes, at the same time it benefits from a balanced equatorial climate.

The temperature rarely exceeds 35°C and rarely goes below 25°. Relatively cool nights ensure healthy sleep, and the constantly blowing light breeze effectively fights the plague of Africa - mosquitoes.

Built by the Belgians on five peninsulas, as if on five fingers of the hand, the lakeside city of Bukavu was - in colonial times - primarily a holiday resort. Tennis courts, swimming pools, a marina, beautiful views and orchards with both African and European fruit trees... It was hard to believe that there was a war going on somewhere nearby. At that time, no one expected that the city would remain a dozen or so months later completely destroythey31.

In a sharp curve between two peninsulas, in a beautiful park on a terrace belonging to

in the excellent restaurant "Bodega", a man sat alone in thought. He was dressed in a well-tailored parachute suit. His long face revealed a strange sadness and melancholy. When I approached the table, he looked at me with a surprised and somewhat reluctant look. "Can I mount," I asked in French. The glasses flashed coldly, unfriendly. "Please," he growled pointing to the seat opposite and falling into a kind of reverie. I knew he only agreed because it was inappropriate for him, the sergeant, to go against the officer's wishes.

"Thank you," I said in Polish this time. Sergeant Wind looked up again, this time showing a little interest. He glanced over me quickly. "Lieutenant Gan-Ganovich, I presume?" - he stated more than asked and took care of the remains of telapi on his plate. I cursed my curiosity. After all, I had been warned that the Wind was a recluse and a misanthrope.

I arrived in Bukav that day at noon, appointed deputy to Captain D., the commander

"Kobra" group operating in this area. I knew I would meet my compatriots here. I was now sitting with one of them on the terrace of the "Bodega". Lake Kivu sparkled beneath us in the setting sun. I came to "Bodega" because I knew I would find Wiatr here. I had heard about him long before. I was told he was a great soldier. The story was told that he had escaped from an ambush

he broke through the rebel-held jungle: the 200-kilometer journey lasted a month and was a unique feat. Survive alone a month in the jungle, even in peaceful times it seems impossible, especially for European. AThe wind had to avoid not only snakes and predators, but also people... When it appeared, the eyes could not believe it.

30 Telapia: one of the few fish species living in Lake Kivu. Extremely tasty, prepared in grapefruit sauce, telapia was the Bodega's specialty. 31 Two thousand Katangese soldiers and a hundred white mercenaries faced the entire Congolese army here for many months. The Congolese army mercilessly bombarded the city. Many of my colleagues died.

41

Yet another feat of the Wind contributed to the creation of a legend. It was a year ago when Capt. was still in command in Bukawu. Kowalski. There were rumors then that the head of the Tussi tribe bordering the Kowalski district was going to betray and join the rebellion. The wind asked for a three-day pass, he took two black soldiers from his platoon with him, crossed the Kivu in a pontoon boat. On the third day he returned. The boss was lying tied up like a brawn at the bottom of the boat. Kowalski placed his boss in a nice house, provided him with women and beer, and surrounded the house with a vigilant guard.

From then on, the chief ruled the tribe from a distance through emissaries, and his son ensured that the tribe stayed away from the rebels. They both turned out well. When the rebellion collapsed, the boss still became chief and the good son remained a minister in the provincial government. And thanks to whom? Sergeant Wiatr never told how he managed to kidnap the leader of a large tribe from the center of the village

guarded by numerous warriors. People like Wiatr are a disaster for journalists. ***

The barracks of the European staff of the "Kobra" group were located in the former building

Belgian high school. The school had a staff, supply services, offices and a radio station. Mercenaries: soldiers and non-commissioned officers had their rooms in the former men's dormitory. The officers took quarters in the city in villas abandoned by the inhabitants. The building of the former girls' dormitory was intended for a military hospital. In the room, which not so long ago was occupied by some Belgian high school student, now Sergeant Wiatr was dying. I often spent time in a tiny room. A high fever severed Romek's communication with

reality. I write Romek because I have become friends with him in the meantime. I have been in Bukawu for over two months. Several dangerous trips we shared together stuck with me respect for this quite extraordinary man. This friendship was based on mutual trust. Because closer contact with the Wind was completely impossible. This weirdo was always silent and only spoke when it was really necessary. Now, in his fever, he talked a lot. He spoke as if he wanted to make up for lost time. As if previously he had spared words, believing that they would be enough for a long life, and now, as he was dying, he wanted to

get rid of savings before he dies. Several days have already passed since we fell into an ambush in which Roman was wounded

anti-tank missile. We managed to get him to the hospital alive. The operation lasted three hours. Roman woke up after the anesthesia, semi-conscious. He didn't recognize people and spoke only... Polish. As if he had forgotten French. I was called as the only other Pole in Bukawu. From then on, I spent every free moment at the bedside of a wounded compatriot. And from disorderly feverish ones

statements, I managed to recreate, at least partially, the past of this person, known throughout Congo,

soldier. According to his words, when he was a small child, he and his parents were deported to... Siberia. There, the family was broken up: the father went to prison. After some time she died mother. Good people brought him to one of the camps that were being formed

Polish army. The father, released from prison as a result of the Sikorski-Stalin agreement, strangely ended up in the same camp... Another separation: little Romek was evacuated from the Soviets along with hundreds other Polish children. My father walked the entire combat route of the Second Corps. They met

again only in England, after the war. They returned to Poland together. In the fifty-first Old Wind was taken away by the Security Service. The young man was sent to a reform home. There he learned to be silent:

any careless word could cost you dearly. When he escaped from the reformatory, old Wiatr was already dead. They murdered him almost on the same day that Stalin died...

42 Romek escaped to West Berlin. Three years after me. He crossed the entire Eastern District on foot

Germans hiding in the forests. Already then he was apparently gifted with an infallible instinct, with which he shined so much in Congo. Then France, unhappy love and Legia Cudzoziemska, this shelter of rebellious shipwrecked people.

And now Romek was dying in a girls' dormitory in Africa that had been converted into a hospital

the city of Bukav. He recalled the only love of his life, a young French woman named Yvonne. When I came to the hospital the next day, he was already dead. Only when he was carried away,

I noticed a small tag on the door of the room with his last name on it

tenants. The young Belgian woman who once lived here was also named Yvonne.

43 IT'S NOT A STORY ABOUT KRASICKI

In the town of Uwira near Lake Tanganyika, or rather in the Ruzizi River valley, huge sugar cane plantations stretched for kilometers. The Ruzizi River flowed from Lake Kivu to die in Tanganyika after running one hundred and twenty kilometers. Compared to the Kivu area, it is a different world. The mighty Lake Tanganyika exerts an influence

impact on the climate: much more moisture in the air, much more precipitation. The landscape is wilder,

more African. A lake as huge as the sea, full of fish, crocodiles and hippos. Storms on Tanganyika are as strong as sea storms, and maybe even wilder, because the course of tropical storms is extremely violent, and the number and power of lightning is unheard of anywhere else. The rain is so thick that in broad daylight it becomes dark, and the usually talkative fauna becomes silent in fear.

The Ruzizi River, which begins in the Kivu, changes completely in its short life character. The Daughter of Kivu, which flows its clear waters near the city of Bukavu, is becoming dirty, moldy and rotting. She begins her journey as a healthy, unblemished virgin, only to die in Tanganyika as...

leper, stinking old woman. How terrible the short life of this river must be for such a metamorphosis to occur. Someone curious who would like to trace the course of the Ruzizi River, find out the causes of its disease and

fall, he would have to be carried away by its waters. The reed-covered swamps through which it flows are among the least hospitable places in Africa. There are masses of crocodiles living in these swamps, and no one hunts them here: people avoid the Ruzizi river valley. Poisonous vipers, razor-sharp reed leaves, swamps, always eager to suck in a new victim, ensure that Ruzizi's degeneration takes place

discreetly, without witnesses. And swarms of mosquitoes spread the most terrible variety in the valley malaria: the unfortunate person who was inoculated with this disease by mosquitoes from the cursed river will have a trace all his life, like a spell cast by an evil fairy. Nowhere in the Congo are there so many blind, deaf and insane people as in these areas. The basin through which the Ruzizi flows is only a dozen or so kilometers long at its narrowest point

it is bordered by mountain ranges on the east and west. As in these areas the winds most often blow from the west - the stuffy valley is shielded from them and a timid breeze rarely disturbs

unhealthy fumes. Near Tanganyika, at the end of the river, the valley widens and suddenly becomes airier and drier. Sugar cane grows here. A sea of sugar cane as far as the eye can see. Nothing but wavy yellow, to the foggy horizon. The powerful Belgian African Sugar Company, or SUCRAF Co for short, put in a lot of money and the blacks from the surrounding villages put in so much bitter sweat to be able to establish plantations in the areas wrested from the control of the Dead River and export them to the world.

sweets in colorful boxes. SUCRAF is not only a yellow vastness, like from Van Gogh's crazy dreams, it is not only that

warehouses, hangars and the rich director's villa - it is, above all, a huge, modern sugar factory.

A gray boiler room in which the remnants of reed, devoid of sweet content, were burned,

was her heart. The tall chimney spewed out steady clouds of smoke, like Indian signals, somewhere, in different times and on another continent.

The war in this area lasted three years. War for freedom smoke from the chimney. Red the rebellion did everything in its power to disable the sugar factory and to include hundreds of plantation workers in its ranks. The authorities did everything to prevent smoke from the sugar factory's chimney

44 dozens of kilometers around, a testimony of normality and peace. As time passes, smoke from the chimney became a symbol, it became a stake in this war, it was more important than the lives of the soldiers who defended it, than the lives of the rebels who wanted to suppress it. At the distant headquarters, pilots flying over the area were asked whether they had seen smoke over the SUCRAF plantation... ***

And finally, in the spring of 1966, a representative of the powerful SUCRAF went to the distant capital, to the Most Important General himself. He handed him a large stack of green Irresistible Arguments on behalf of the company. As a result, the Ruzizi River Valley was proclaimed

An Important Strategic Object. René D., commanding the "Kobra" group in Bukawu, stayed simply overwhelmed with orders. People and weapons were scattered to a much lesser extent. But among the scant reinforcements, Captain René D. obtained me. He wasn't showing any signs of it

because of the bigger one

joy. Captain D., a brave young French officer, abandoned the French army because he was... bored.

A regular army in peacetime is routine, and René, my later great friend, was not routine. He also had a huge, athletically built guy with the face of a Greek god of war the soul of a warrior. He found himself in Congo, where for many months he had been biting the bits imposed on him by the staff. He was a supporter of daring actions condemned to a new routine. Training camp

"Kobra" in the hands of Captain D. turned into an excellent unit. René got rid of swindlers, pseudo-soldiers and similar idiots. Finally, Irrefutable Arguments SUCRAF convinced who belonged and the collar of the commander of the "Kobra" group was removed...

Three days later, René had all the troops between the Kivu and Tanganyika on their feet. He was in a hurry as if he was afraid that someone up there would change his mind, change his orders and shackle his will to fight again for many months... Especially since the chimney above the plantation had been smoking for some time without any warning.

more serious obstacles... Military operations planned by Captain D., which were to end in a final way pacification of the region, were called "Operation Snitch", but they could have gone down in history as the "War of the Three Poles", if it were not for the sad fact that they did not go down in history at all.

Operation René D. involved the simultaneous movement of three units: one, under

commanded by Captain Topor-Staszak, was to move from Tanganyika, the second one, commanded by me, from Bukaw. The third one was to be commanded by Lieutenant Krasicki.

I knew Ax from Stanleyville: it was from him that I took command of the 12th Battalion upon my arrival

to the Congo. I met Krasicki just a few days ago in funny circumstances. When, after arriving in Bukav, I was officially appointed deputy captain D., I had to familiarize myself with the situation of the "Kobra" group. For this purpose, I began to systematically visit "Cobra" outposts scattered around Bukaw, one of them was commanded by "Le Comte" /The Count/, as everyone called him here.

It was quite early when I drove the jeep to my parking place an aristocratic countryman. I was curious to meet him. I've heard so much about him in the realms

"social" Bukawu. Before the revolt, he was a manager in the huge Sapie plantations how32. Wonderful m survived the massacre that the rebellious tribes committed when the 32 raged over the Congo. During the Negro revolt, Krasicki's cousin and brother-in-law, Count Bielski, and his wife, née Princess Sapieha, died at the hands of the rebels. Krasicki miraculously escaped with his life. At the time of the described incidents, he did not know what had happened to his son. It turned out that he was unharmed. He still lives in the Congo. Krasicki's other son is in Australia. To them I dedicate this handful of memories about my friend.

45 red plague. Krasicki joined the army at the first opportunity. He understated his age to be accepted. The administration turned a blind eye: there was a shortage of officers. In fact, Krasicki was already 60 years old at that time.

The outpost commanded by Krasicki defended access to the city from the east. A crossroads, a few trees and a small house. Three machine gun positions

protected by sandbags. Nearby there are negro huts in a banana grove. "Where's the lieutenant?"

- I asked the disheveled Katangese, jumping out of the jeep. "I wash up!" - he replied with a smile, pointing towards a cluster of trees growing nearby. It wound through the bushes

a well-trodden path that direction. I set off into the thicket. As I surfaced nearby grove, I stopped dead in my tracks. A naked, stout man stood under one of the trees with his back turned to me. Water poured over his head from a garden watering can hanging on a tree branch his back by pulling the string he held in his hand. Two buxom black women were busy next to him: one was soaping his back, the other was scrubbing him with a rice brush. The pink plumpness of his body

it irresistibly forced the image of a huge baby into the imagination. I bit my tongue not to I burst out laughing and diplomatically withdrew. After a quarter of an hour of waiting, she emerged from the bushes, a black woman, carrying a towel and a bag of toiletries, followed her in small steps

second lieutenant Krasicki in a carefully ironed shirt, in loose "very british" shorts, holding a cane under his arm. The procession was closed by another black woman with a watering can on her head.

"Krasicki" - he introduced himself as he came closer. Yardley's cologne wafted from him. "Gan-Ganowicz" - I introduced myself, in turn, looking with some astonishment at a man who emerged from the bushes at a lost, third-rate facility as if he had just left a club. British officers in Kipling's India. In Bukawu count Krasicki was a popular figure. He was known as an excellent amateur photographer.

It was also known that he wrote a book - an account of a trip to Central Asia that he made in the late 1950s. ***

Three pacification troops moved towards the center of the valley from three sides. He was coming from SUCRAF

Topor branch. Independent of the "Kobra" group, he took part in the operation without formally reporting to Captain D. I set off from Bukawu - with two companies of Katangese -. From Ruzizi's side, in the toughest terrain, was fought by the smallest of the units under his command Krasicki. The whole thing, as I have already mentioned, was commanded by D. Krasicki's task was not difficult from a military point of view: the rebel forces in the Ruzizi swamps were small, weak and

disorganized. Rather, they were the remnants of broken gangs seeking shelter there. But the physical effort he had to demand from his subordinates and himself was enormous. Captain D., wanting to inflict the final defeat of the rebellion this time, decided despite this what has been used so far - do not break the opponent, causing the so-called spraying to the sides, but on the contrary, by attacking the outskirts of the region, cause the concentration of its forces so that they will be defeated in a general battle. For good. Our operations "driving" the enemy into a pot were to last five days. On the sixth day, our troops were to meet in the center of the valley, at the crossroads. Topor's unit was the first to arrive at the meeting place, badly damaged from the fighting it had fought on the border of the plantation. I was the second one to arrive. After five days of quite heavy fighting in the mountains

surrounding the Ruzizi Valley, I was very physically exhausted. And yet it was

this before

decisive battle. Everyone rested as much as they could. In the afternoon, Captain D arrived at the camp.

bringing in some fresh troops from reserves. Krasicki was not there. We started to bother. We didn't have good radio equipment, and our walkie talkies made noise close to jamming Free Europe. And if there is no Krasicki unit, there is no one!

46 My unit was located along the road along which Krasicki was supposed to come. Captain D. issued

I was ordered to wait another hour and move towards Krasicki with one company my Katangese people. As the minutes passed, the anxiety grew. Had Krasicki's unit fallen into an ambush? Had they all died? Just as I stood up to give my marching orders, a lonely silhouette appeared on the road. After a few minutes, the figure got close enough to be recognized: an assault rifle in his hand, a short cane under his arm, too loose shorts: Count Krasicki. "What's going on?" I shouted. Where's the unit? Krasicki came closer. Captain D came running from the opposite direction. "Captain," Krasicki said in a calm voice, "my unit is lying in a ditch three kilometers away. The people no longer had the strength to escape a single step. So I left them and I

I have come for orders." Captain D. looked at me with astonishment. I was speechless. This stout, sixty-year-old man was still able to walk three kilometers after his chosen native army collapsed from exhaustion and when none of his white non-commissioned officers were able to will be able to move. Captain D. sent trucks. After a short time, people were climbing out of them, their knees buckling and they were falling on the grass, half-conscious from exhaustion.

Krasicki supervised the arrangement of his unit in the bivouac.

The fighting on the Ruzizi River was more difficult than expected. While passing Walkie talkies were soaked through the swamp, leaving them unable to communicate with us. On the second day he died

a guide, the only man who knew the passages in the marshes. From then on, Krasicki was guided by his compass and... instinct. He destroyed several gangs along the way. When he managed to lead people out of the swamps, the victorious unit was powerless. For 24 hours they had no water to drink other than the water in which they sometimes waddled up to their knees. And it was swarming with visible and invisible worms

deadly amoebas. Krasicki forbade people to drink under the threat of a gun. Leeches, giant African leeches, sucked the blood of exhausted soldiers. ***

It was a few months after the described mishaps. In the meantime, I managed to...

Stasiem, make friends with this special friendship of comrades in arms, drink Bruderszaft. It was nice and cool in "Bodega". Staś took a package of photos out of his pocket. With a glass

"Chivas Regal" in my hand, I was looking through the photos that Staś took during his war incidents. The last dozen or so photos are an illustration of the ordeal he and his people went through in the Ruzizi wetlands. I got choked up again. What kind of steel was this man made of, who even thought about taking photos in such terrible conditions? "I made them in case we didn't make it, hoping someone would find the film and develop it. Just so you know..."

An extraordinary man. Noble, righteous and brave. Krasicki's fairy tales? No - it's honest

a truth that is remembered by all those who had the honor of being his brothers in arms.

After the end of the war, Staś found a job as a forester in the forests of a German aristocrat,

his good friend. He died tragically in 1974 while fulfilling his duties.

He was 72 years old then.

47 MOSES TCHOMBE, CHIEF OF KATANGA

It is Africa's misfortune that the decolonization that followed World War II did not allow for the revival of old pre-colonial geopolitical structures. Virtually all the countries of today's Africa are ethnographically artificial creations and are a reflection of the relationship of power between the colonial powers at the moment at the Green Tables

Paris or London were the limits of influence. Therefore, it is not surprising that after obtaining independence, African "states" have been and are torn apart by fratricidal strife and that dictatorships are rife within them. The borders of these countries run inconsistently with tribal boundaries,

linguistic and cultural population. Tribes forced by colonial powers into a common pseudo-state entity often harbor atavistic, eternal hatred towards each other. European rule prevented antagonism. After regaining independence, these antagonisms exploded with double force. The governments of the countries that emerged as a result of decolonialization were most often in the hands of members of the tribe within which the capital was located. Usually, weapons, means of communication and... international recognition went to those who held the capital of the country in their hands, regardless of whether they had the support of the rest of the population or not. And that's generally the case they didn't have it, so they gained it and kept it most often by force. In most countries

African wars "ideological wars are nothing more than tribal wars. The terms "right-wing dictatorship" or "left-wing dictatorship" do not make much sense, depending on where a given country gets its money, weapons and advisers from - language

official and external forms will take on different shades, the state flag will be more or less red or national, but in essence it is always about the same thing: maintaining power by the ruling tribe or gaining power. Africa is suffering from permanent civil wars. In almost all African countries we observe a similar phenomenon: here it is the central government is opposed by some "national liberation front". If we take a closer look, in most cases we will notice something that professionals do not want to see commentators: namely, that the "government" and the "front" simply belong to different and hostile tribes. When we look at even such an extreme case as the fight against apartheid in South Africa, we will notice that the Negro "moderate" and "extreme" movements are an emanation of various ethnic communities and that the fight against apartheid manifests itself mainly in

cruel murders committed against members of the enemy tribe. Liberia, country

formed in 1847 by recently freed Americans from slavery Negroes, a state that was supposed to set an example and be a response to European colonialism, is in exactly the same position as the states that emerged as a result of decolonization post-war. Liberia is ruled with an iron hand - also against the will of the majority of the population - by the descendants of former slaves who feel comfortable in the role of the ruling caste. Colonization has done great harm to Africa. Only the sudden and ill-considered decolonization fueled by

war by the Soviets and the United States. Each of these powers, apart from their particular interests, saw a common interest in rapid decolonization, which was to weaken importance of European countries. The power of European countries was a thorn in the side of both.

For the Soviets it was an obstacle to expansion, and for the American public it was the cause of two world wars. If I say that colonization has done harm to Africa, I mean something completely different

more harm than what the reader of the Western, and even more so the Eastern press, fed with mash for the unaware, imagines. Colonization did harm not by introduction "slavery" and "exploitation", but by destroying traditional structures. It is not true that colonialists introduced "slavery". On the contrary, the colonial era put an end to Arab slave raids. "Exploitation" is also untrue. Today, world opinion sees the times of colonialism through the template of "Uncle Tom's Cabin", that is, through a patchwork of information 48 about the times of slavery in the Southern United States, a composite drawn from literature, films and television... Someone try to explain how it happens that in many African countries the blacks had enough to eat, and the European planter made a fortune, and today in in the same countries the inhabitants are starving even though there is no grower? Somehow no one asked themselves whether they were starving because there were no growers, just as the Soviet people began to starve when there were no exploiters and kulaks. If Africa were left to itself, pristine and wild, it would feed its few children for centuries. But colonization caused enormous growth natural, and decolonization stimulated the desire for possession and power. No honest person will deny that blacks working on the plantations of white colonizers had a standard of living that was incomparable.

higher than their brethren who remained "free", but in the jungle. Not to mention the situation in which the inhabitants of the "liberated" found themselves.

republics. In the worst times of colonialism, was it possible to imagine the life experienced by the subjects of Amin Dada, Seku Ture or

Bokassas? Of course, we can quote La Fontaine's fable about the dog and the wolf who was hungry but free. It would still be necessary to honestly say that citizens of independent "states"

Africans are free. The fact is that if blacks in the pre-colonial era were not hungry, it was only because the huge infant mortality rate effectively counteracted primitive reproduction, and intertribal warfare and epidemics kept the density so low population, that centuries have passed in Africa without the slightest ecological changes.

This state of affairs changed radically in the colonial era: guarding the colonial order, the European soldier prevented tribal wars as effectively as European vaccines prevented epidemics. Plantations could feed incomparably more workers per hectare than a jungle of primitive hunters. Everyone was happy. Negroes did not die children and their empty stomachs did not growl, there was no threat of invasion by a neighboring tribe and the tsetse fly.

The planter rubbed his hands: his labor force and wealth were growing. And the myth of the almost divine power of the white man guaranteed peace and durability of economic and social structures.

At the same time, however, the level of education of blacks was increasing. Not to mention local

vocational schools, many of them, although it was a tiny percentage of the total, attended European universities. On the other hand, the indigenous population began to look with envy at the accumulated wealth of white "exploiters". Both of them were very susceptible to the slogans of decolonization. The first was to get rid of rivals to power,

the second is to share white wealth. The first, trained at Marxist European universities they thought they had a ready recipe for running the country. For others, the password worked perfectly

tried by the Bolsheviks: "to plunder the plundered". Those who were deprived of influence and importance by the colonial administration and missionaries were also supporters of getting rid of the whites: tribal caciques (at least some of them) and sorcerers (all of them!/). The repeated massacres of whites (Stanleyville) here and there were the result of the primitive logic of the angry crowd: if the whites ever came back, they would claim what they had stolen, so they had to be so terrified that they would never come back.

Only a small part of the Negro leaders realized that without whites experts and specialists, no newly established African country will cope in the twentieth century, and when it comes to feeding a population whose number has often increased tenfold in the period preceding decolonization. In recent times, the whole world has been shocked by the image of the starving people of the Sahel. There was prudish talk about a long-lasting drought that was supposed to be the reason for this. The hypocrisy of the media made us forget about the "cause of the cause". The drought occurred because the desert began to encroach on formerly forested areas. And the forests

it destroyed the people of the Sahel in order to feed itself with primitive agriculture. Skillfully run and irrigated plantations that could afford the investment could feed a mass of people by intensively cultivating a small, essentially, area torn from the jungle. Extensive, Fertilizer-free agriculture required cutting down more and more tracts of forest. Until it came to this, 49 that the climate has changed and the drought that has been going on for years brings thousands of victims. Europe has suffered from famines for centuries, but back then there was no television and there were no satiated nations that would care about the fate of the starving. And it lasted until the inhabitants of Europe created

modern methods of agricultural production that protected them from famine /except for the countries of real socialism, but these are fed by capitalists/. No amount of charity will solve the issue of hunger in Africa. If international aid provides enough food for the currently hungry, within two generations the population of the Sahel will increase again by such an amount that new forests will have to be cut down... The race of world aid against African reproduction is doomed to failure. Especially when medical aid comes along with food aid childcare. The only way out of the situation would be not to give food but to deliver it means for its production: machines, pumps, irrigation systems. Teach the use of fertilizers and

use of crop rotations. And - above all - take care of forestation! And here we come to the heart of the matter: the need for experts. Negroes don't have them.

Judging by the statistics of French universities, those Africans who come to Europe to study, ninety percent of them want to get into power: they graduate from science schools

political, journalistic institutes, study sociology and possibly philosophy provided it is Marxist. At agricultural academies there are none at all, at technical schools few. And although a certain number of them study medicine, it should be concluded that they probably do not intend to return to their home country after graduation, because the smallest number of them specialize in tropical medicine. That's how it is today. And it was even worse during decolonization. ***

Tshombe understood this problem. He knew he couldn't do it without non-African experts

neither industry, nor the army, nor the government, nor the judiciary. Blacks did not have technical culture, which is not acquired in one generation.

My driver in Congo always remembered about petrol, because he knew he wouldn't make it without it. I had to remember to change the oil in the engine.

No change - the car drives. How long? - this already exceeds the ability to predict. The Italian entrepreneur, a specialist in the construction of roads, bridges, tunnels and similar road infrastructure, had been building roads in Congo even before the outbreak of the rebellion. He brought gigantic ones to the Congo machines for clearing trees in the jungle. To give you an idea of the enormity of these bulldozers

I will say that the driver was sitting almost at the height of the first floor, and the starter of the monster diesel was a gasoline engine from a Chevrolet. In order not to pay Italian workers to travel to the Congo and high premiums for the inconvenience and remoteness, this entrepreneur decided to train the natives. So he sent the entire team to Italy for training. The blacks studied very well, and only praise came from Italy regarding their progress in learning. After completing their internship, they returned to the Congo and started

work. Two months later, however, the Italians had to be brought in. The blacks forgot what they learned. Well, actually, no. They have not forgotten the theory, but have returned to the usual African nonchalance, which makes us forget about everything that is not immediate. In the army, you couldn't give instructions like: "You'll go there and there. If you find a given person, you'll take him there and there. If you don't find him, you'll go back, taking equipment from warehouse X along the way." It was impossible to be sure that the soldier would get everything wrong. You had to issue one order at a time.

So Tshombe tried to have a white advisor behind every Negro in office. He avoided communists for obvious reasons. At the same time, he did not want any of the countries to gain too much influence in Congo through his advisors. So Tshombe introduced competition:

The French were in charge of communications, the Italians were in charge of roads, the paratroopers were trained by Israelis

instructors, and an American consortium together with the Belgians supervised the industry. The army was led by black officers, but behind them we stood. Tshombe thought that this way he would be able to bring Congo painlessly into civilization... He did everything he could in this direction.

50 It didn't take long. Once the danger was over, a power struggle began. The cowardly President Kasawubu was easily convinced that he wanted to embrace Tshombe, a tribal stranger to him

his position. When Tshombe went on an official visit to Europe, Kasawubu declared him a traitor and appointed the commander-in-chief of the Congolese army, General Mobutu, as prime minister. The Negro did

own. The Negro can leave. Black people also know this proverb... The Katangese gendarmes, who for years had almost single-handedly waged the war against the Red Revolution, who had suffered huge losses, were now becoming redundant. Indeed, they were becoming dangerous: they could provide support if Tshombe, who was in exile in Spain, wanted to claim power again. They stopped paying wages and providing them with food and ammunition. They were deliberately sent to pointless, predestined experiences defeat, military operations, as long as they are further from the cities, as long as they are further from the possibility of supply.

This led to the rebellion of the Katangese battalions. My Red Devils rebelled first. This rebellion was met with my complete understanding. When I left command of the 12th Battalion on Bob Denard's orders, I made sure to make it mine

leave as much food and ammunition as possible for your subordinates. My situation in Congo was getting worse

dangerous. I could be accused of treason at any time. Everyone knew my sympathy for Tshombe and my loyalty to the soldiers under my command. Both were withdrawn from the fighting area me, as well as all the white mercenaries under my command. The 12th Katangese Battalion stayed

scattered over a huge territory, conquered in bloody battles. I was leaving my home soldiers with bitterness and full of bad forebodings about their future fate. The fate of the Negroes who

"They did their job", just like Poles "did their job" in World War II. Denard sent me to a distant post in Bukawu, on Lake Kivu, appointing me deputy commander of the local troops. It was fiction. I was supposed to forget about myself until the moment when the end of my one-year contract allows me to leave the Congo and return to Europe.

My deputy was "sent" to Bukawu with me. Georges stayed in Kivu after I left for Europe. I experienced several months of fighting and many adventures in the area that still remembers the times of the famous Zagończyk Kowalski. Here I met the unforgettable Staś Krasicki. IN Another friend of mine, already a major at that time, was fighting in the nearby sugar plantations: Topór-Staszak. Or

the beauty of the city, nor nature, nor the presence of friends could sweeten my feeling that a certain, very lush period in my life was ending irrevocably.

***

After returning to Europe, I learned very quickly that Tshombe had not given up on that

intends to regain power in Congo. I was his supporter. Not so much his, but his political concepts. I was afraid of Mobutu's dictatorial attempts and I was not wrong: generalthe prime minister soon overthrew the president, took his position and proclaimed himself the savior of the homeland. Tshombe had money, political contacts and military advantages. Knowing his distrust of powers

I thought to myself that if Poles helped him regain power, then Polish engineers and Polish doctors could play a significant role with him and, what can I say, find a place to show off and earn money. I decided to see him. He lived in Madrid. At the request of the Spanish government, his location was surrounded mystery. On the one hand, Franko was afraid of an assassination attempt on the former prime minister, who was sentenced in absentia

death by Mobutu, and on the other hand, he did not want journalists to create too much sensation.

I had to play detective. Not knowing Spanish and not having any friends in Spanish Madrid, I had a difficult task ahead of me. I knew that - inevitably - liaisons from Katanga must be visiting him. So I started going to fancy places and following black people. NO

all of them, of course, but those who spoke French. This eliminated both American tourists, as well as numerous blacks from Spanish Angola. After a week, I discovered a villa discreetly guarded by the police. I put a letter in the box at the gate asking for a meeting on the 51st

hoping that Tshombe remembers my name. The next day he sent a chauffeur to pick me up. I presented him with a proposal that I would recruit 150 soldiers of Polish origin, which gave him a guarantee that

these people will be loyal because they do not represent anyone's interests. I told him I would find him specialists, industrial, military and health care experts. On one condition: their contracts will be open-ended, with the right to work and stay in Congo as long as they want.

Tshombe said he would think about it and give me an answer within two weeks. He was clearly interested. I flew to London to present the project to General Anders and consult with him opinions. I wanted to make sure he didn't discredit me. After all, he was the highest authority for me. He was the one who gave me my officer's diploma. The general gave me a free hand. I didn't want any more.

He couldn't help me... I returned to Paris. Tshombe called Rana at the agreed time. He gave me the date I was due meet him in Madrid. I started to believe that I would succeed. I was nervous but proud. Not everyone has the opportunity to influence history, even if it is just the history of the Congo. Especially since I had grounds to believe that I would open a new era in the history of Polish emigration, especially

political... Unfortunately, I did not foresee that a conspiracy was being hatched against Tshombe, which would end

his death in an Algerian prison. Death in suspicious circumstances. ***

At that time I didn't realize that the Americans were betting on Mobutu, that the French were

and the Belgians wrote off Tshombe. But he was still dangerous to the Mobutu regime. In order to cut him off from recruitment in France, they did not hesitate to use provocation. Some

An American, posing as a former colonel of the US Air Force, and a famous French adventurer, a certain Thierry do Bonnay, began to recruit volunteers citing Tshombe's alleged authorization. Eighteen recruited volunteers placed in a remote farm in the mountains of central France, near the village of Aubenas. Over there they stayed for a long time under the pretext of training. On September 17, 1966, the farm was surrounded by police and...

journalists. The entire French press wrote with indignation about the impudence of Tshombe, who "dared to train future French coup actors in the heart of France." I know from completely reliable sources that Tshombe knew nothing about it and that the whole thing was a provocation. French? American? I don't know. Maybe it was Mobutu's initiative. Maybe the CIA. I guess we'll never know Never. Tshombe decided to wait out the storm that was breaking out. In the meantime, however, he was developing activity in the Congo, especially Katanga. He didn't give up. However, I do I realized I couldn't bet on him. His enemies were too powerful. In this situation, I couldn't endanger my compatriots who would have trusted me. I broke the contract with him. Rumors spread that Tshombe wanted to move to the Balearic Islands. He reported to him

an individual belonging to the French criminal world, involved in various

politicalcriminal scandals, a man named Bodenan. He offered him a look at the beautiful property there

islands, allegedly put up for sale. Tshombe got into a rented six-seater plane. He was accompanied, apart from Bodenan, by the father of one of my later companions weapons in Yemen, Belgian industrialist Hambursin. During the flight, Bodenan took out a gun and forced the pilot to land in Algiers. Tshombe thus ended up in an Algerian prison and died there in unexplained circumstances. He was an uncomfortable "guest" for the Algerian regime: on the one hand, Mobutu pressed for the former prime minister to be extradited to him, and on the other, the outraged

Spain demanded the release of a refugee kidnapped from a Spanish plane, having political asylum in Spain.

52 The rebellion of Katangese troops in Congo, and a little later also of white mercenaries! run out the siege of Bukav, where for these months the entire Congolese army could not defeat them.

However, they waited in vain for relief. Whites were interned in neighboring Rwanda, a The Katangese were partly murdered, partly disarmed and repatriated.

53 YEMEN YEMEN? WHERE IT IS?

Paris was gloomy. Cold rain was falling. On the boulevard of Montmartre there is mud mixed with

melting snow splashed under the shoes of hurrying passers-by. It was four in the afternoon and it was already getting dark and the cars had their headlights on. A woman selling hot chestnuts she rubbed her frozen hands over the fireplace, where drops of rain hissed. Gloomy day. February 1967. Streams of dirty water flowed down the large windows of the terrace of the "Le Brebant" cafe. Only the neon lights of the "Rex" cinema enlivened the perspective of the boulevard from a distance. I sat there excitedly and

upset. Martin was supposed to be here in half an hour. For fear of arriving too late, I arrived much too early. Let this be proof of how much I cared about this meeting. It's been almost a year since I returned to Europe from the Congo. In the Congo I loved adventure and

weapon. It was hard to come back among ordinary people, for whom I subconsciously felt a certain contempt and a deep disregard for their everyday, human problems. "Better to live one day like a lion than a whole life like a hare," I thought. And I didn't want to agree to a farewell to weapons. For several months, I had been growing longing. Longing for the sun, for war, for adventure. To the life I experienced in Congo. I was afraid of returning to civilian life. Panic. Civil life it seemed to me like a monstrous cycle of repeated days, repeated to the rhythm: bed, subway, work, subway, bed and so on, until the horizon of a poor retirement. I begged the god of war for one more adventure. The God of War was benevolent, and Martin was his emissary. Major Martin, a hero of the French fights in Vietnam and Algeria, was the group's commander

military advisers in Yemen. He came to Paris, among other things, to replenish his stock

groups. My God! Congo ended with the famous Battle of Bukawu. Hundreds of former mercenaries

found itself in Europe. After losing the money they had earned, they wandered around big cities looking for a new "contract". In Brussels and Paris, they gathered in pubs they knew and lived - like me - with hope. The only active mercenary group at the time was Martin's group in Yemen. There were jealous legends about her. Because the group consisted of only twenty-five professionals

selected on the basis of an exclusive club. When someone left, group members threw things the name of the "unemployed" friend. A friend worthy of the group's myth. My name was pressed on Martin by Captain D. - my short-lived commander at the end of my stay in the Congo - and Georges, my

former deputy from the time I commanded the Red Devils battalion in Stanleyville. AND

Martin scheduled a meeting for me. It was quite an honor. If only my fellow Parisians knew about it! What if Martin doesn't like me? NO! He must accept me! I didn't even want to talk about it to think that I would leave this pub just to immerse myself in everyday life. When in June 1965 I was going to the Congo, I didn't know anything about myself: Am I suitable for the army? Will I be able to cope?

It was only there, in Africa, that I learned the value of life. The life that swelled the equatorial jungle,

a life that was close to death every day. I have never enjoyed a glass of whiskey more than when I enjoyed it after leaving mortal danger. This pleasure of living on the verge of death was like a drug. Because it was a pleasure to have a well-functioning and sharp body

instinct. Fighting and self-preservation instinct. I was not afraid of death at all, or much less than the nightmare of repeated days of civilian life. I was injured three times and had one

knowing that I am dying. A lot of us died: almost a quarter of the population per year. Much more than in World War II, more than in European guerrillas, than in Vietnam. But lust 54 life gave us - those who survived - a kind of euphoria, the drunken happiness of warriors of the Great Adventure.

The door of the Brebant opened. Two men entered. One of them I knew well: he was my old friend from the Congo, Lieutenant Bruni, the other must have been, by all accounts, probability Major Martin. As they walked through the pub, tanned and confident, Father

with characteristic, almost cat-like movements, the pub patrons parted for them. I jumped up from my chair to greet him. Martin shook my hand tightly. He looked into my eyes with

smile. He was a slim, well-built man of fifty, with gray hair and strangely young blue eyes. ***

I left the "Berbant" terrace with spring in my soul and a plane ticket in my pocket. The next day I was supposed to go to the Saudi Embassy to get a visa. Through the gray Parisian drizzle At dusk, the tropical sun was already shining for me. The crowds of Parisians returning from work, pouring out of the subway, ceased to exist. I had an adventure date again. There was a weapon waiting for me over the horizon. ***

Yemen. Who has heard of this country? And yet he is not completely alien to us, though

under

other names, such as the kingdom of Sheba known from the Bible. A thousand years before the birth of Christ, a great civilization was developing on both sides of the Red Sea. This legendary kingdom, powerful and wealthy, covered the area of today's Yemens and the coastal part contemporary Ethiopia. Bilkis, the Queen of Sheba, dazzled King Solomon not only with her beauty, but also with the high culture and wealth of her entourage. In Bilkis' luggage, fabrics, perfumes and spices from India, Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean arrived at Solomon's court. Sabaean ships reached Java, Sumatra, Siam and China. They brought goods unknown on the shores of the Sea

Mediterranean. The wealth of Sheba grew, arousing the admiration of travelers. Fascinated by palaces

inlaid with gold and ivory, embroidered clothes decorated with ostrich feathers, Greek and Roman merchants, stunned by myrrh and frankincense, called Yemen Arabia.

The lucky one: Arabia Felix. And indeed - compared to the northern, desert part of Arabia, Yemen seemed to be a paradise. The Kingdom of Sheba also owed its prosperity to the colossal dam on which its ancient capital, Mar'ib, lay. This dam, a wonder of the ancient world, was six hundred meters long and sixty meters wide at the base. The ruins preserved to this day testify to the high standard

technical: the clear shape of the dam, almost modern in its outline, testifies to the uniqueness of the Sabaean civilization. The period of decline of the kingdom of Sheba coincides with the beginning of our era. When the dam collapsed

no one was able to rebuild it. "Where the gardens bloomed, there was a desert where nothing grew except poisonous berries," we can read in the Koran. At this time, the power of the neighboring hymiarites increases. Missionaries of monotheism: Jews and Christians cross pagan Yemen.

Converted monarchs fight religious wars: the legendary Dhu Nowas, a supporter of Judaism, murdered many thousands of Christians. He committed suicide himself, defeated by the Abyssinian Copts who came to help the Christians.

A little later - fascination with nearby Mecca. Mohammedanism began its dizzying rise career. Islam and the language of the Koran - Arabic - enter Yemen. The great schism of Islam, the split between orthodox Sunnis and Shiites, supporters of Muhammad's son-inlaw - Alli, found its expression here as well. Yemen falls under the influence of Shiite Persia for several centuries. In the 9th century it was founded in the 55th century

Iraq, a new sect among the Shiites: Zeidism. Yemenis tired of the mess go to Mesopotamia to give the throne of Yemen to one of Alli's descendants, and therefore to a descendant of

Muhammad. El Hajji33Y ahia ibn Hussein founds one of the most enduring dynasties in the world. The Imams of Yemen, as direct descendants of the Prophet, enjoy great prestige. They can resist invasions by the armies of Saladin, Ethiopia and Portugal. Only Soliman the Magnificent succeeds in his art. Turks occupy Yemen in the 16th century.

The legendary Imam Kassem expels them a hundred years later. Ottoman Turks reappear

in 1840, but they cannot take over the country. Just old forts guarding some passes mountain areas remained as evidence of the occupation. Yemen retained its independence, although it lost some of its provinces: Asir to Saudi Arabia in 1834 and Aden34 ora from Hadramut, which in 1839 came under the rule of Great Britain. Legendary poems carry from generation to generation generation of the glory of fighting against the Turks, the victorious wars of Imam Jahia, who liberated his own

the capital of Sanaah35 w 1905. Jahii was murdered in 1948. He was succeeded by his son Ahmed, the "Sword of Islam". Like his famous father, he kept Yemen away from all foreign influences. She was later to shake up this happy, yet extremely backward country a revolution imported from Nasser's Egypt... Such are the vicissitudes of fate. In ancient times, Yemen was called Fortunate Arabia because...

unlike the sun-baked desert homeland of the Prophet - the Yemeni mountains were not devoid of water and, consequently, green. Arab Bedouins, nomads and vagabonds, They were treated by wealthy and settled Yemenis a bit like Gypsies were treated by peasants. But the Prophet gave his chosen ones oil and their fate changed completely. The Arab Bedouins became one of the wealthiest nations in the world, and the Yemenis, with their primitive agriculture, remained medieval level. After the death of the "Sword of Islam", his son El Badr became the imam. This idyll lasted until 1962, when, under the influence of the Soviets, the Egyptian dictator

Nasser, on his way to realizing his pan-Arab dreams, decided to get closer to the sources oil, which Allah spared Egypt, while giving it an excess of mouths meals. Backward Yemen, without an army or police, was easy prey for the pro-Soviet dictator. When Imam El Badr went on pilgrimage to Mecca in 1962, the commander of his own guard

palace - captain Abdallah-el-Saa trained in Egypt - took over the palace

and capital, he announced

republic and... called on Egypt for help. Nasser did not skimp on "help". Thirty thousand Egyptian soldiers were transferred to Yemen along with tanks and artillery.

Having passed power to his nephew, Emir Mohamed ben Hussein, the Imam he found refuge in Saudi Arabia. Emir Mohamed stood at the head of the faithful tribes. The Yemenis began an unequal fight against the Egyptians, whose numbers soon increased to

eighty thousand. They took over communication routes and all major settlements. But entire Yemeni tribes were held in the inaccessible mountains, and the Egyptians suffered heavy losses. The situation then was almost the same as in Afghanistan today. Similar area both people and religion. Armed with ancient, sometimes even Turkish, guns and djambise36, The Yemenis would have had to surrender if not for the help of Saudi Arabia, which is threatened from the south.

33 El Haj - pilgrimage to Mecca. Every Muslim dreams of taking part in it at least once in their life and gaining the honorable title of "Haji", later worn with pride before their surname. 34 Aden, a former British colony, is today called the People's Republic of South Yemen. It is definitely pro-Moscow and in constant conflict with North Yemen, i.e. the actual, historical Yemen. 35 Sanaah, Sana'a and Sana are three different transcriptions of the Arabic spelling of the name of Yemen's capital.

36 Dżambia - a curved dagger with a decorative handle and scabbard. A symbol of a free man and his dignity. For his first pennies, a young Yemenite buys a scabbard for a jambia and decorates the handle to the best of his abilities: with gold and precious stones - when he is rich, and with silver and copper.

- when poor. The eldest son inherits the jambia from his father as a visible sign of power over the entire family.

56 However, it soon turned out that modern weapons and equipment would not be possible

used without appropriate staff training. And here the matter was decided by French journalists who were the first, as correspondents, to dare to "look" at the royalist side. They quickly realized that you were loyali37 ni that they will never be able to cope with the enemy if they do not have people who know modern methods of warfare. At the same time, these journalists knew that there was no shortage of specialists in Europe looking for work after the end of the fighting in Katanga. Reporter

of the Parisian weekly "Paris Match", Jacques Le Bailly suggested to the Yemenis that they should engage the then famous Bob Denard and his group. The year was 1963. Epic European mercenary advisors began with the training of Malakh guerrillasi38 w mountains on the border between Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Soon Sallal placed high prices on their heads. But what could thirty men accomplish? The Egyptians had the capital in their hands and ruled over the country. Months and years passed, and the ranks of the army djimuri39 area They included urban youth trained in the Marxist spirit and satisfied with the collapse of social structures limiting her ambitions. And Nasser would probably have managed to establish a foothold in the area

the Arabian Peninsula and threaten pro-Western oil-rich kingdoms. But in 1967 year, Nasser, associated with Syria and embroiled in a conflict with Israel, withdraws his troops from Yemen.

The Jimuri army inherits all modern weapons from the Egyptians: tanks and planes, artillery and rockets. Several thousand Soviet advisers come to Yemen to provide advice and active assistance. In the war that has been going on for five years, a breakthrough occurs: the forces become equal. On the jimuri side, there is an advantage in equipment and specialists. Mig 21 planes, T 34 tanks and "Katyush" batteries

are operated by Soviet soldiers. On the Malakhi side - the opinion of the majority of the population and the greater motivation for fighting, which is religious. Old Turkish rifles have long been replaced by Soviet assault rifles captured or purchased from the enemy. Kalashnikov. In this state of affairs Prince Mohammed ben Hussein, the Imam's nephew and commander-in-chief,

decides to go on the offensive. But more on that later. When I arrived in Yemen, the evacuation of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force had just begun. European advisors to the Yemenis commanded after the famous Denard and equally famous Colonel Faulques - my new friend, Major Martin.

37 Loyal to the rightful Imam. The Imam of Yemen was not only a spiritual guide, but also a hereditary king. The loyalists were also called royalists by journalists /see note 38/. 38 Malakhi: royalists, supporters of the king. From the word "Malekh" - king.

39 Jhimuri: Republicans. From "jimurij'ha" - republic. This was the name of the imam's pro-Nasser and pro-Soviet opponents.

57 JEDDAH, THE GATE OF ISLAM

I was happy. I was lying naked in the semi-darkness of the room, the walls of which were breathing with pooled heat

during the day, when the temperature in the sun was almost 50 degrees Celsius. I knew I wouldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when a wave of cold came from the nearby desert. Every fifteen minutes I got up to cool off in the shower, and then I lay there again, steaming in the warm air, lazily milled by the large blades of the fan hanging from the ceiling. Nevertheless, I was happy: the rifle was at arm's length again, and I could hear the murmur of encrypted radio conversation from the next room. It was Marco Tossi who maintained contact with those camping on the border Yemen group. I was thinking about them. I knew many of them from the Congo. I was to meet others soon...

Comrades in arms. A tired term. Much has been written about soldier friendship, even though it is a feeling that defies description. There is an admixture of pride in belonging to the elite and, at the same time, an admixture of contempt towards ordinary eaters. Not for nothing Piłsudski's legionnaires sang with contempt: "We no longer want recognition from you, neither your hearts nor your tears..."

Four days ago I was sitting in a pub on the boulevard of Montmartre, waiting for Martin I looked at the dirty streams of melting snow dripping down the windows. Visit to the embassy

Saudi airport, Middle East Airlines plane. One day spent in Beirut. It was already spring here. And the plane again. A few hours of flight. Mediterranean Sea, Red Sea. Big city port of Jeddah. Terrible whiteness trembling in the heat of the blinding sun, surrounded by the yellowish immensity of the desert. Airport. After leaving the air-conditioned plane, the heat hit.

Association: a burning house during the Warsaw Uprising and me, twelve years old, surrounded

fire everywhere. A heat that takes your breath away. Jeddah airport - open door in the ironworks.

Three hundred meters on a hot bus to customs. Luggage thoroughly searched. Customs officers are only looking for two goods: alcohol and pornography. The latter term includes any magazine containing at least one photo of a naked woman. Yes, even women in bathing suits. A pocket bottle of whiskey was found on one of the passengers. The customs officer poured it out

the contents into the sink and broke the bottle. The American passenger had his passport stamped

the relevant note; next time they will just put him on a plane leaving Arabia. If he were native, he would go to jail. "Playboy" found in other luggage goes to a special machine and is mercilessly ground, the owner receives the appropriate stamp: a sword Damocles. I didn't have anything forbidden on me - I was warned. But I wasn't controlled. Apparently the note from the Saudi embassy in Paris gave me some privileges. Marco Tossi was waiting for me at the exit with a Chevrolet with the air conditioning working

maximum. We went to the residential part of the city, where, opposite the Salah Kh'bar Mosque, there was a villa intended as our base. Tossi ruled here. He did shopping for the group, sent mail, and took care of administrative and banking matters. They lived here group members in transit - holidays, returns, and replenishment. That complement was now me. I was to stay in Jeddah for a few days while waiting for transport to the border of Yemen. I decided to explore the city and start learning about the Arab world. I had it at my disposal the other Chevy, but I liked to wander around on foot, despite the heat.

This was the period of the Great Hajj, when traffic at the Jeddah airport reaches famous peaks only the largest American airports, and in the port thousands of pilgrims disembark from the ships -

charters under all flags in the world. Hundreds of thousands of people are drawn to Mecca, thirty kilometers away. African Negroes, dark-skinned Muslims of India, Mongols, Pacific Islanders. The predominantly white clothing is diversified by the variety of turbans and headgear. A huge crowd, consisting only of men, rushes to Mecca, turning the asphalt road into a living stream of people. Tables set up along the road offer pilgrims a modest 58 free of charge meal and cool water. It is the merchants of the city of Jeddah who perform the traditional gesture of hospitality towards

pilgrims. But it is not only during the Hajj period that Jeddah breathes Islam. In Saudi Arabia, the law

Koranic law is state law. This is reflected not only in the strict ban on consumption alcohol. Theft is punishable by having your hand cut off. It sounds cruel, but the consequences are extraordinary. In the great market in Jeddah, amidst the incredible crowds and bustle, there are no thieves at all.

When Marco Tossi lost his well-stuffed wallet there, several Arabs ran after him it brought him to where the wallet was. He was surrounded at a decent distance by a group of onlookers.

No one dared to approach the wallet for fear of being accused... A few months later, on my way to Europe, I visited this market with my friends to buy some

several souvenirs at ridiculously low prices - jewelry, watches, decorative daggers. Little Arab boys helped us by carrying our purchases to the car for pennies. Just there they emptied their baskets onto the seats. Gold and jewelry sparkled. The car was parked open in a quiet street. Nothing was lost!

The exchange of money also takes place in a strange way. Banks don't deal with this. However, there are stalls of "money dealers" in the city. An astonishing sight. The stall is filled with banknotes from all countries in the world. Coins in tin boxes. Ropes stretched over the table, with bundles of banknotes attached to them for drying fluttering in the wind. underwear. A trader rests in the shade away from the stall. The customer has to look for it. "Two hundred dollars, one thousand Swiss francs and five thousand French francs, please..." The merchant quickly calculates on a wooden abacus or on a Japanese adding machine. Lists the sum in Arabic rials and quickly places the "purchased" money in front of the customer. He is also not afraid of being attacked, even though the street is empty. ***

I liked to wander around the city in the evening, after sunset, during the day, around noon,

traffic in the city died down and only the swimming pools of large hotels were extremely popular. I swam alone in the Red Sea once and was surprised that there were no huge beaches living spirit. I understood quickly. The heated sea water did not bring me any coolness, a

Drying quickly, it left an unpleasant, burning salt deposit on the skin. In addition, as I later learned from the natives, the coastal waters of Arabia are frequently visited by

sharks... In swimming pools - crowds of foreigners. There are few Arabs and the ones you see are generally there

from outside Saudi Arabia.

The city wakes up after dusk. Various stores open their doors, strategically Kiosks with fruit juices and wonderful milk shakes allow you to move around without fear of dying of thirst. Of course, you won't find alcohol anywhere, and non-alcoholic Dutch beer tastes like soap. The Grand Souk, i.e. the main ones mentioned earlier the city's marketplace is worth visiting. Typical eastern bazaar. The wealth of goods dazzles spread over many hectares of squares and streets in the old town. A colorful crowd passes here - locals, pilgrims, sailors from the neighboring port, sniffing for a bargain. And there is no shortage of opportunities. Low prices, especially for industrial products. Importers do not pay customs duties, so watches, radios, and even...

cars are cheaper than in the manufacturer's country than in international duty-free zones

airports or seaports. And the souk shines with jewelry and gold. Expensive materials sparkle, silk brocades, embroidered gold clothes. Carpets. Who can describe the variety of fabrics from all over the world - from Turkey,

Kashmir, Afghanistan, Morocco, Mongolia and even Tibet.

59 A carpet for an Arab is important. People sleep and eat on carpets. The walls are decorated with carpets.

He prays on the carpets. Even here, in the souk, at the first sound of calling

muezzin from a nearby minaret, trade stops, the deal stops mid-word and all Muslims kneel with their faces towards Mecca. I look at my watch. It's eight to seven. Not yet then I understood why Arab offices open at strange, partial hours prayers and all important acts of social life take place, for example, at eighteen one, thirteen after one and the like. I found out much later: for the Arabs the hour of sunrise is zero hour /12 o'clock/; one o'clock is an hour after sunrise. And so on. And because the prophet commanded prayers to be said in certain times

intervals starting from sunrise, so orthodox Arabs set their watches at the moment of sunrise. All it takes is a small dune on the horizon for the Sun to emerge from behind it five minutes later - so there are probably no two Arabs who would have the same time on their wonderful Swiss or Japanese chronometers. "State" time, radio and television time, is also set by the appropriate clergyman based on his own observations...

The crowd that swarms the souk is made up entirely of men, mostly in white djellabas. Women dressed in black sneak around as if stealthily. Although their fate is without

comparison better than black women in Africa, however they cannot participate in life public. In black clothes, with their faces covered up to the eyes, with their eyes turned to the ground, not looking left or right, they try to disappear from sight as quickly as possible. Men also pretend not to notice when one of them slips by

within sight. They are seen very rarely. Photography prohibited. Arabs are generally short and - what can I say - skinny. However, spacious white djellabas they effectively hide miserable bodies. And the faces of the bearded robbers from Ali Baba irresistibly bring to mind Lawrence of Arabia. Expensive rings on their hands, sometimes richly decorated daggers behind their belts.

Arab Bedouins undoubtedly have a certain wild charm. It is caused by many factors: their aquiline noses, the dark complexion of their sun-dried skin, their features carved by the sand of the desert and - quite often -

surprisingly blue eyes. In addition, great dignity in movements and behavior. And here is another association with the famous Lawrence: homosexuality. It's a really strange sight when you're on the street

he walks, holding his little fingers and looking tenderly into each other's eyes, two bearded robbers with daggers in their belts. And it's not a rare sight here. This Arab homosexuality, which has long attracted English gentlemen, is historically and socially conditioned. In the past, when Allah had not yet taught the unbelievers to buy oil from the Arabs, the Bedouins

they made their living by transporting goods between Asia and the Western world. The caravans were on their way for months and sometimes years. There were no women or children there. Wives and offspring stayed in

settlements, as an unnecessary difficulty in the hard nomadic life. It is therefore not surprising that the Bedouins began to provide sexual favors to each other. This is how young boys started their apprentice life. And it has remained so to this day, although Ford trucks have almost replaced camels, and caravans, having a shorter range and a much faster means of transport, rarely travel for more than two weeks.

The time-honored custom has survived and does not offend anyone here: "Honni soit qui

mai y pense"40. ***

The sky above the desert sparkled with lots of stars. Three in the morning. The temperature dropped

up to 16 degrees Celsius, which was almost frost compared to the hellish heat flooding the desert during the day. I was in Ładi Sheisz41. P the air in the desert is so clear and 40 French motto on the coat of arms of the English royal family: "Shame on him who thinks evil of it." 41 Ładi /in English transcription "wadi"/ - the main river bed, gorge /El Łeb - river/. Only at the bottom of the pond water flows and quickly soaks into the desert sand. Only during the rains that fall once every few years does the gorge fill with water and the river flows deep into the desert. The desert then turns green, and the wind-blown roses of Jericho take root and bloom for a few days. Then everything dries 60 dry, so that the atmosphere does not cover the sky... The stars are extremely bright and you can see much more of them. They shine brightly and do not "blink" at all. The southern constellations are already visible here. Foreign is heaven for a European. But how beautiful! Clean and cold. Prophet's Heaven...

Yesterday, a passenger plane brought me from Jeddah to Najran, a huge oasis in... south of Arabia. My old friend George was waiting for me at the airportp42. P he took me by jeep to the gorge where the group was quartered in the caves. For five years, European military advisors in the service of the Imam of Yemen, or rather his nephew, Prince Mahommed ben Hussein, who in his uncle's stead commanded the entire Malakhi forces, hosted here. When I arrived at the gorge - shock. They were burned on a pyre poured generously with diesel fuel

the bodies of two British observers who died from Soviet Mig bullets. They were burned

bodies to send the ashes back to their families. The transport from the place of death to the mercenary gorge took too long and the condition of the bodies did not allow them to be sent to Great Britain.

The dead smell poisoned my memories from the first day of my stay forever. The gorge itself

it was furnished as comfortably as possible. A diesel electric generator provided electricity and therefore cool drinks in the fridge. The "ładi" stream, caught in the gutter before soaking into the sand, not only provided drinking water, but also filled a cleverly cemented rock creek, creating a miniature swimming pool.

The entrances to the caves are covered with camouflage netting and menacing silhouettes of rifles

machine guns reminded us that this was not a holiday camp. I was a soldier again. Again I could fight the meanest of enemies: Soviet communism. Paris and its mists disappeared from my memory. Only tomorrow mattered. My best friend, Georges, was sleeping deep inside the cave. The night spewed deadly venom from Ładi Sheikh. The air was clean again. I couldn't sleep: I was too

happy. and only deep in Ładi there is a thin stream of water seeping from the mountains.

42 Georges, my dear friend, was killed in Yemen two years later. A brave soldier, a steadfast anti-communist and a wonderful man.

61 TROGLODYTES AND BEDUINI The jeep was painted a protective color, the color of desert sand. With difficulty and shaking terribly

he rode along the "mercenaries' ravine" - Ładi Sheish. After twenty minutes

cutting his tires on the stones blocking the gorge, he got out into the desert. Georges stepped on the gas. To Najran

we were almost an hour away through complete wilderness. After a few hundred meters, the last traces of dry vegetation disappeared. The yellow, fine sand reflected the sun's rays. The air trembled with heat. Clouds of dust rose behind the jeep. Daily trips to Najran were ours the only entertainment. In Ladi Sheikh, the days were spent training themselves and the Yemenis. I also spent my time swimming in the pool, reading and listening to the radio. And the constant cleaning of weapons when it was windy

wind from the desert and carried clouds of sand ground into flour by millions of years of erosion. The sand was so fine that it stuck everywhere. Only fully waterproof watches passed the test in the desert. The tightest covers did not protect the weapon. The tightest glasses did not protect the eyes.

Georges was driving fast; it was the only way not to get stuck. A hot rush of air it dried my lips. Sand grinded in his teeth. The sand hit my face with thousands of tiny pricks. Sand settled in the corners of his watery eyes, protected by motorcycle glasses. After some time, I breathed a sigh of relief. The car got out onto an asphalt section of the road.

A few more dunes blocked our view. Behind them was Najran. An oasis city. The only island of greenery within a radius of hundreds of kilometers. Small houses made of chafr, i.e. clay mixed with camel dung, stretched along several axes: caravan routes leading through

desert. As we got closer to the center, there was more and more vegetation: there was water in the center. Small ponds and several wells. But the ponds never dried up, fed by an underground river,

into which mountain streams flowing into the desert merged. Najran was located in a valley. Here, underground water resources were closest to the surface: all you had to do was dig. Camels were watered in the pond. Drinking water was drawn from the well. Two camels walked in circles along the long-trodden path, moving the treadmill that creaked and groaned. A primitive mechanism dipped leather buckets into the pond, drew water from it, and... he poured it into the irrigation canals whose network covered the oasis. Water flowed through canals and

it soaked into the sand: within a radius of several hundred meters, palm trees grew and gardens were green. It gets paler and dustier the further from the source. Then there's only the desert...

A large, busy square in the center. Shops and pubs where you could get Coca-Cola,

non-alcoholic soap-flavored beer and tea in tiny, never-washed cups that, over the years of use, have acquired the color of the cha'aju served in them. Cha'aj, i.e. hot sweet tea - it is the national drink of Arabs. It is not only a drink, but also a symbol of peace, friendship and hospitality, the equivalent of "calumet", the Indian peace pipe. At the eastern part of the square, a small mosque showed the slender path to paradise minaret. To the right, dozens of camels rested in the haggard shade of palm trees, munching dry and thorny stalks with which they were served. He dragged himself from the Bedouin tents pitched nearby

the smell of incense, chai and cooked mutton. Dried was burning in several small fires

camel dung. The moaning sounds of Arabic music flowed from transistor receivers and

cassette recorders, drowned out by the roaring of camels. Only when from the minaret the plaintive voice of the muezzin could be heard, the transistors and the bustle of the market became quiet. The crowd on kneelers was beating

bowing towards Mecca, and only the camels continued their sacrilegious roars.

62 On the left side of the square, there are several dozen colorfully painted and decorated huge buildings

Ford trucks occupied land designated for motorized hearses, which they are displacing gradually camel tradition of the desert. The center of the square is the souk, or marketplace. In Najran they are less colorful than in the souq

the rich port city of Jeddah. But Najran, located on the border with Yemen, had... weapons stalls in the marketplace. Stalls - that's too much to say. Arabs trade squatting on sheets and carpets spread on the bare ground. Canned goods from all countries of the world, tea and herbs, incense and fabrics. Spirit primroses, batteries for lamps and transistors, watches and jewelry. Money: a wealthy "banker" exchanges Saudi rials for gold "guineas" with the head of British King Georges V and for Austrian thalers with a bust of Maria Theresa, pressed especially for Bedouins in Beirut under a Vienna license. Maria Theresa thalers are the circulating currency of the Bedouins. From the Arabian Gulf to the Red Sea, from Aden to Sinai - there are silver thalers

most willingly, except for British guineas, of course, accepted by everyone. Twelve guineas - Kalashnikovs. Six - a decent Colt 45M1A1. Six pieces for a thaler

ammunition for the Colt, ten for the Kalashnikov. In front of the dealer, on a sheet spread out, twelve guns: a great Colt, a German Parabellum, a Belgian fifteen-shot GP 9 mm, Spanish asters, Soviet tokarevs and reprimands. Pyramids made of bullets. Turkish gunmetal from 1880, Austrian mannlicher. Three defensive grenades: two with a handle, from the Wehrmacht. One egg-shaped - British. Georges asks about the price of parabellum: "Ada kam fluz?" How much money is that? "Rhamsa mia riali", five hundred rials - comes the answer. Georges, an old regular, put down his gun and nodded at me. There are carpets and a few benches at the stall next to it. It's a "pub". Georges ordered tea. Sweet cha'ai was refreshing and quenched my thirst. Less than fifteen minutes had passed and the arms dealer was with us. - "Harba mia u rhamsain riali." Four hundred and fifty. Georges waved his hand that it was too expensive and made a face at me saying: "there's no point in talking to this idiot." "Kam?" How much - asked the trader. -Two hundred!- he said

Georges. The trader looked terrified, as if he had seen a madman. - Four hundred! -Two hundred

fifty! -Three hundred and fifty! - Georges bought parabellum for three hundred and twenty-five rials.

We drank away the market with tea. There is a Nazi gap embossed on the gun. Year of production: 1912. If he could tell us his story... Eight golden guineas changed hands. Trader he threw in a handful of ammunition to even the count. ***

We lived in natural caves. The border between Saudi Arabia and Yemen is fluid,

rather customary. It runs through low, old mountains, full of bends and caves. Deep gorges, ladi, make the area similar to the Colorado canyons known from western movies.

The caves were home and shelter for us. Egyptian-Soviet aviation "haunted" us from time to time. The fluidity of the border was a perfect excuse to violate it, even if the communists did they needed excuses... So our equipment, if it did not fit into the caves, was carefully camouflaged with a protective net. The Egyptians began to withdraw from Yemen. For us, it was an acquisition opportunity initiatives. Any day now we were supposed to sneak into the center of Yemen, into the mountains surrounding the capital

Sa'ana, where the Hadishid and Beni Matar tribes who remained loyal to the Imam still fought. For now, we were training Yemenis. In using weapons, in reading numbers. Our numerals, although called Arabic, are very different from Arabic ones. And since they appear on the sights of all weapons, on the scales of radio cameras and in shooting tables, their knowledge is only for soldiers, and especially for commanders, absolutely necessary. Yemenis are good at shooting small arms: they have been practicing since childhood. But anti-tank weapons require training, although they understand that easily. The worst of 63

stromotor weapon. The dependence of the range on the elevation of the barrel, and especially the shortening of the fire by a greater elevation - this was difficult for people accustomed to shooting with direct fire.

We also trained. Basics of the Arabic language, radiocommunication, ciphers. and mortar, hotchkiss 120 mm. A heavy mortar of French production, a technological marvel at that time. He still is, almost twenty years later. This mortar was amazing and had a range of 13

kilometers, while the range of its American or Soviet counterparts is not

exceeded six. This extraordinary range was due to the additional propulsion rocket contained in the missile, which was activated when the missile reached its ballistic apogee. it was taking on an inclination of 45 degrees. Therefore, the maximum range of hotchkiss was obtained by

lift

resulting

WithVery

complicated

table logarithmic. Its accuracy was extraordinary, and so was its blast radius. A real gem. But requiring good service. barrels,

This is how the days passed. Training. Chess game. Weapon cleaning. Intensive swimming training

with a backpack in the mountains and rocks. And nightly conversations: memories of forgotten wars, Fr unforgettable women. Real and imaginary adventures of others and our own. And the philosophy of life: Georges, what would you rather lose in war - your manhood or your eyesight? - asks a voice in the darkness of the cave.

A moment of silence, the question requires deeper reflection. - Of the two evils, I'd rather grope in the dark! - is the firm answer of Georges, a well-known devourer of women's hearts, who suffered special torment in the Yemeni "baby". Because despite all the kindness towards us and all the respect, no Arab would tolerate an infidel shitting.ni43 re he shouted at the Muslim woman.

We were warned that even the hand of an imam would not save a man from death. Georges consoled himself that some knights of the cross also took vows of chastity during the crusade... In order not to forget what a woman looks like - following the example of American GIs from World War II - we returned to the fashion of pin-ups.

There was a tame, happy goat called Comberk, which followed us everywhere the subject of frequent highlander jokes. In Najran we observe preparations for the arrival of the prince's royal cousin

Khaled, businessman and eminence grise. Khaled is scheduled to attend the maneuvers of the "White Army", the Bedouin Praetorian Guard of the King of Saudi Arabia. The White Army, well-equipped and trained, is the mainstay of the monarchy. Only Bedouins from the royal tribe serve there. We were invited to the maneuvers as observers and guests of the Emir. Due to his arrival

the airport track was extended and the road to Najran was asphalted. A tent from the Arabian Nights was erected on the border of the "city". The size of a circus tent, lined with expensive fabrics, covered with carpets and pillows, it could accommodate the prince's court: two hundred people. IN

the day before Khaled's arrival, a transport landed on the new track - it brought servants and Prince's Rolls-Royce. The gold-plated bumpers and radiator gleamed in the sun. He had a white car

Leopard-skin seats and a mahogany dashboard. Fridge, bar, TV. A lighter decorated with a diamond the size of a walnut. Khaled arrived the next day by private jet. He drove his Rolls five hundred meters separating the airport from the tent. In the afternoon he sat down on rich cushions. The maneuvers were extremely spectacular: cars and various armored vehicles whizzed across the desert, raising clouds of dust.

They rained from rockets and guns. Bedouins are masters of breakneck off-road driving. Everyone liked it very much. Us the most. And when the emir said that this week we would receive the rest of the equipment we needed and go to Yemen our joy was complete.

43 Nasrani is not a scatological insult, just a local short form of "nazerani". From the name of the biblical city of Nazareth, it simply means "Christian".

64

After the maneuvers were finished, or rather after the spectacle arranged for the amusement of the mighty

prince, Emir Khamed threw a few handfuls of gold coins to the officers of the white army. Then he got into the Rolls and returned to the plane along the line of cheering people. Cheering even more because the emir's intendant also threw coins into the crowd, but silver ones. The prince's stout figure disappeared into the cool interior of the luxury plane. In a moment the jet rose and disappeared in the light

the setting sun. A moment later, a transport landed and the Rolls was carefully loaded onto it. The emir's servants crammed as much as they could. We were given envelopes: inside there was a color photo of the prince and a check for $500. ***

We knew that our stay in Arabia was ending and that the Great Adventure would finally begin. The next day we started preparations. There was a stir in Ladi Sheikh... ***

Yemen consists of four geographical regions: the first is Tihana, the narrow valley of the

a steamy, unhealthy climate, stretching along the Red Sea, bordered in the east by the mountains of Middle Yemen. The main city is Hodeida, Yemen's only port (at the time of the described events, the Soviet naval base was expanding on the Red Sea/). range of low mountains, stretching along Tihana is Middle Yemen. In the northern part of Yemen, the climate is dry. The country is completely wild, inhabited by Bedouin robber tribes guarding it few sources and living on tribute paid to them by caravans traveling between Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Only a few oasis cities, such as Sa'ada and Khamer, are inhabited by the Yemeni population. The southern part of Central Yemen is completely different: the climate is in wide valleys

hot but mellow; greenery dominates here. Larger population, richer population. Dense villages are located on gentle hill slopes. Numerous streams provide the moisture needed for farming. Field terraces. Plantations of the famous Yemeni coffee, whose name comes from the city of Al Mocca. Another city in Middle Yemen is Zebid, boasting the summer residence of the imam, and Taiz, fighting for centuries for the dignity of the capital of the country with Sana'a, located on the great Yemeni plateau, separated from the rest of the country by a range of high mountains /3,750 m/. The climate here is harsh, mountainous. Hot days, cold nights. Periods of rain alternating with drought. The population is mainly engaged in shepherding. Rams and camels completely eliminate every speck of green in the yellow-gray landscape. A huge plain stretching in the middle of Yemen at an altitude of over two thousand meters is pressing in valleys between the mountains jutting above its level. This is where the concept of height is lost. The "bottom" where you live, walk and drive is two kilometers above sea level. And the mountains that are so high in absolute terms that jut out over the plain seem low. A landscape like Colorado. Mountains often have flat tops, washed away by erosion, so that they appear wider at the top than at the top bases, rising from the plains of ravines. A wild and beautiful country.

This is where the capital of Sana'a is located. A walled city on a vast expanse plain. Supposedly one hundred thousand inhabitants. One hundred minarets. Ancient palace of Imam I

newly built Yemeni People's House: seat of government and party. They rise above the city to the east, mountains inhabited by the Beni Matar tribes (Children of the Rain) who were then loyal to the Imam.

From the western side, the peak of Nogum stands guard over the capital. The Turkish fort on its flat top dominates the entire area. Jebel el Nogum, manned by Soviet-Yemenis

artillerymen, later took its toll on us as an observation point with a huge range.

East of Sana'a the plateau slopes gently, almost imperceptibly. The climate becomes drier and hotter. Finally, gradually, the rocky plateau turns into desert. On

65 on the blurred border between these two areas lies the Yemeni holy city, ancient Mar'ib, once the capital of the biblical kingdom of Sheba. The dam, which is now in ruins, collected water from mountain streams, and clever canals allowed the entire land to be irrigated, turning it into one great garden of Happy Arabia. The few archaeologists who reached here found that today's Mar'ib is the fifth city built on the ruins of its predecessors. On east of Mar'ib stretches the great Arabian desert /Djuf el Kebir/, also known as Rob el Khali.

I was to spend over two and a half years in this country, explore it by car, on foot, on the back of a camel. And the population? Warm, hospitable, poor and extremely dirty. Lack of water breeds bad habits that persist even where water is plentiful. A proud nation free. The political system and social relations are completely changed now, at the end of the 20th century

1960s, as they vividly brought to mind Piast Poland from the descriptions of Grabski or

Jasienica. Family sheikhs, controlled by royal sheikhs - officials of the imam's administration. The Imam or princes from his family /emirs/ went around the country "doing justice". Anyone, even the most wretched Yemenis, could appeal to the imam or his representative. And the rewards and punishments were immediate: a handful of gold from the prince's trunk or

flogging in the square

public. The power of the family sheikhs was great, limited only by the fiefs attitude towards the imam. But the imams retained two privileges until the end of the monarchy: giving back

justice and tax collection. The tribes had disputes with each other, sometimes bloody ones - the imam then became the arbiter. But the freedom of Yemenis has always been the freedom of armed people. From early youth

every Yemenis is armed. The crooked dagger, the so-called jambia, is a symbol of both singleness and masculinity. Therefore, the poorest eight-year-old Yemeni shepherd boy buys a leather sheath for his jambia with his first pennies, which he initially wears empty. Then he collects the blade, which must be made of Turkish steel, and the handle, first made of wood, which he replaces with a horn one as soon as possible. Later, as the Yemenite gains wealth and position in the social hierarchy, he decorates the scabbard and handle of the jambia with silver, gold and jewels.

But the jambia is only a symbol, although there are duels on the jambia. Every Yemenis

has a firearm. It may be an old Turkish matchlock or a German Mauser from World War II. But it could also be - the pinnacle of peaks in those days - Soviet assault Kalashnikov. Nevertheless, even here, at this peak, they are more equal among equals.

Kalashnikovs of princes are often gold-plated, with stocks inlaid with ivory and expensive

stones. This widespread arming of citizens has always been a barrier against it

totalitarianisms. Both the royal power and later the red power were not omnipotent. The armed society was a counterweight to all attempts. To this day - outside the cities of... mountains - the Yemenis did not allow themselves to be disarmed. And that is why the revolutionaries' attempts never yielded any results. As if the predictions of the fathers of the American constitution came true in this country, guaranteeing citizens the freedom to possess weapons... ***

"Excuse me, sir, how many degrees of heat do you think it could be?" I asked politely, wiping my sweaty forehead. The desert heaved with hot air. The sand was burning through my shoes and the heat was pouring from the sky. Taking advantage of the short stop, I used a rubber pipe to pour gasoline from a barrel placed on one of the trucks of our column into the tank of my jeep. You are not allowed to stand in the desert

stop under the risk of getting stuck. Only the old hags, our Bedouin guides, knew places where the durability of the ground guaranteed the ability to immediately move on without having to laboriously dig out of the sand. So we refilled it at every stop tanks to the brim... just in case.

66 Billy, aka Sir William McLean MP44, regiment Her Majesty the Queen's servant, looked at me, took the jee from my mouthrbę45 z water and wiped his mouth with his sleeve in a truly Arabic gesture. "Hundred to sixty," he replied, smiling happily. This giant, a Scottish aristocrat, disguised as an Arab, was an observer of events on the Arabian Peninsula on behalf of the conservative "shadow cabinet". He wandered around disguised as an Arab in all corners of the Middle East, wherever something was happening. Now he was riding in our column, because this is where something started to happen. We were going to take part in organizing the fighting in Yemen.

One hundred to sixty? - I wondered to myself - what the hell did he want with this?

to say? We were all afraid of the colonel's English humor, even though we did not depend on him, but he depended on us, traveling in our column. - I beg your pardon, sir? - I stammered, taking the pipe out of the tank. I had it in my mouth

disgusting taste of gasoline: I had to "suck" it to start pouring it. Now my throat was burning. I was furious. The colonel's face lit up, as he always did when he managed to make fun of someone.

- It's simple: it's sixty degrees in the shade, but at least a hundred kilometers away the nearest shadow.

It made me feel even warmer. I sipped some djerba water and lit a cigarette. Ours The Bedouins performed their moaning prayers, swaying rhythmically while squatting, facing Mecca.

We drove in a column of trucks through Djof el Ketir46. K direction south. Behind us were the caves in the bordering mountains. We were in Yemen. But in fact, it was no one's desert. Nobody's? The Bedouin nomadic tribes Daham and Zahid considered themselves the owners. The Dahams and Zahids lived on tribute paid by caravans wandering through "their" desert. And because they held in their hands the few points of the Little Desert where there was water - and they were great

armed - so everyone paid tribute except the King of Saudi Arabia, as the Commander The faithful and the Imam of Yemen, as a Descendant of the Prophet, and of course pilgrims striving for

Mecca...

We were driving through Daham territory. René, our boss, ordered an emergency. Fee Our fare was paid for, but you never know. A year later I was to find out that such caution was not unnecessary. For now, I looked around curiously. In front of us is the desert stretching to the horizon. Pinkish sand, glistening in the sun. Not me anymore

mirages surprise us: the deceitful splendor of lakes encouraging us to take a cool swim. To the right, far on the horizon, a range of low mountains pretended to be a rain cloud in the cloudless sky. Yes

We were rushing side by side: four jeeps and twelve loaded trucks. Side by side, not one behind the other, so as not to throw sand in each other's eyes, the cloud of which was lifted by each of them

the car, the whistle of the wind in your ears and the flame of hot air on your sunburned cheeks. Incredible car jumps over the dunes, as long as they go further, as long as they go faster, as long as they don't slow down,

Don't get caught in the loose sand that escapes sideways... The stop was coming to an end: the Bedouins were already rolling up their prayer rugs. René was showing impatient signs

horn. After a few minutes, the train of cars started moving through the desert again. On the right and

left

wing

Bedouin

guides

on

their own

satanic

fifteen-ton Fords were awarded 44 MP - Member of Parliament - a member of the British House of Commons.

45 Djerba - a type of canteen made of jute fabric. Moist from the outside

water seeping into it. The water evaporating in the sun and wind cools the contents of the djerba, which is therefore always cool. Djerbas are hung on cars driving through the desert. 46 Djuf el Ketir - Small Desert in the northern part of Yemen. Not to be confused with Djof el Kebir, the Great Desert, in the eastern part of the country and covering the entire width of the Arabian Peninsula east of the Yemeni Mountains.

67 hellish pace of the caravan. Our cars, although so-called off-road, could hardly survive

competition of brightly painted Bedouin trucks. And so, dazed, drunk with the wind, deafened by the roar of the engines, we drove madly cavalcade to the next stopping place. From time to time one of us would take the car in one direction

dune. Then the column moved on to the nearest solid place and there they waited an unfortunate person, relying on shovels, sheet metal and his own resources. "Sixty degrees in the shade." English humor be damned! When it seemed like I didn't have a single whole bone left, when my face was covered

an inch of sand mixed with sweat and hardened into a burning crust - a new stop. Tim together, René arranged for an overnight stay. Protective net for cars. Anti-aircraft camouflage. Here on in the desert, one Soviet MiG could have eliminated every last one of us: whoever survived the attack would have died of thirst. And Migas most often flew at dawn. It was evening for now. The sun was setting, but heat was radiating from the furiously heated sand. Little flames of gasoline burners:

we're cooking dinner. Canned food and chai.

Apart from the red-haired colonel, I had another passenger in my jeep. He was another one

British writer and journalist Wilfried Thessiger. Just as the red-haired colonel was powerful, Wilfried was rugged. As Billy was cheerful, Thess was gloomy. But his small figure, dressed as a Bedouin, blended directly with the surroundings. He spoke Arabic fluently. He spent decades in the Middle East, where he was attracted to nomadic life and homosexual ease relations. He claimed that he became a Muslim for convenience. Is it true? I don't know. But

he knew the customs of Muslims well. The sunburned face showed no sign of origin. - Lieutenant - Billy said to me after dinner - Thess was a prisoner of the Dahams here for a while

two months. If they catch him now, they won't release him. And we are in their territory. I looked at my "Anglo-Arab", as I called him in my mind. Thessiger was nodding over a cup of tea. It got a little colder. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the desert, a fly came from. One, two... Several flies buzzed eagerly over abandoned cans. A few steps away, there was a rustle: a fennec fox, a tiny desert fox, scurried in the glow of the setting sun. For God's sake, what is this little animal doing here? What does he live for in this hell? And the flies? What are flies doing three hundred kilometers from the nearest settlement and forty kilometers from the nearest water source, right there on the horizon in front of us? Thess clearly needed some encouragement. And I was curious. Those mountains on the horizon and the only well for hundreds of kilometers around - this is the domain of the Dahams. Today, tomorrow, we can meet them.

- Tell me, please - I said coaxingly, lighting a cigarette. It was getting more and more

more pleasant.

"Oh, it's been five years ago," Thess began, sipping his tea. Billy stood up, stretched, and walked away towards the small fire, where the sounds of loud talking and laughter could be heard. It was Georges who was reminiscing... "I was returning through Yemen to Aden," Thess lit his pipe and continued, "when I arrived from

caravan into the territory of the Dahamas. Pilgrims do not pay tribute. So I thought I would die: I had no money left... Someone informed them. They have spies everywhere. Radio communication as well. We are sitting just like we are now, only on the opposite side of the mountains. Suddenly, figures emerge from behind the dunes.

A hundred armed men on camels. He mounts two turbaned types on the adjacent dune

68 machine gun. Panic. We are surrounded. pilgrims have no weapons. The head of the caravan went to negotiations and returned after a while. Face contorted with rage. - Traitor! - he shouts at me you are not a pilgrim. It's all because of you! Then he gave a short order. His men tied my hands and together with my bundle I was handed over to the Dahamas... They dragged me to the mountains,

where they live in deep caves. They treated me politely. They fed and watered. I slept on a pile of skins, in a cave where they kept their supplies: bags of rice, canned food... After some time, probably after two weeks, I found out that they had sent me to my family,

through the British Embassy in Arabia, a redemption request. They rated me at ten

thousand pounds. My family is wealthy, but I broke off relations with them a long time ago. Will they pay? Will the embassy be willing to negotiate for me? We are, after all, in Yemen. I started think about escaping.

They tied me up for the night. But one day I managed to steal a knife. I was just waiting for

opportunity, that is, to the news that there will be a caravan somewhere nearby. As large and armed as possible. I eavesdropped on the conversations of the Dahams, their children and women. Finally, when I was losing

hope - good news: a huge Yemeni merchant caravan has set up camp. Tomorrow he will continue his journey. The Yemenis went to the Dahams for water. From their conversations I concluded that

they camp relatively nearby. I decided to escape that night.

Shortly before sunrise I cut the rope that tied me to the heavy truck conservation box I carefully left the cave. I was lucky: a donkey was grazing nearby. I jumped on it bareback and trotted towards the supposed direction of the campsite. I had not many time. When the Dahamas notice, they will give chase on camels, much faster than donkeys. But maybe I'll be able to join the caravan now. I was filled with anxiety: what if? the caravan will hand me over to the Dahams for peace and quiet? Here's the sunrise. Far away on the plateau at the foot of the mountains from which I emerged into the open space, the caravan breaks up its camp.

Another group surrounding the boss is sitting by the fire and drinking cha'ai. I'm approaching fast

waving his arms. They noticed me. They wait in surprise. I jump off the breathless donkey and

I greet them with the name of Allah. I used a special formula, the kind used by pilgrims. The boss bowed low: there was a guest in the house... They poured me some tea, we drank it... And then there were screams. My Dahams are rushing from the mountains on camels. The boss, surprised by their appearance, gives orders: at all costs

accident. Yemenis take out weapons. On one of the trucks, the discarded tarpaulins reveal machine gun. A lonely silhouette leaves the group of Dahams. A turban placed on the barrel rifle: MP... The leader of the caravan jumps on the camel, kicks it in the neck and rides out to meet it.

Conversations, gesticulations. Daham points at me. Yemenis north towards Mecca. Just a moment and they disperse. The Yemeni boss shouts to his people: battle! Get ready!... Shots are already being fired, bullets are whistling. Yemenis are hiding behind bundles on trucks. The sound of a ricochet on the sheet metal. I ducked under the truck; a Yemeni machine gun rattled above me. Two Dahams dig into the ground with their noses. The roar of wounded camels. The groan of the Yemeni who he leaned out carelessly. Blood gushes from the hole in his throat. Another series. Then silence. And you can see

receding, decreasing silhouettes of camel riders. The Dahams leave the battlefield. A Yemeni on a truck sends them a long burst. They are already far away, but you can see them kicking the camels' necks and accelerating. Silence. Thess took his dead pipe out of his mouth. Meanwhile, night had fallen. A chill blew from the desert.

We heard footsteps. Billy came back with a pot of tea. The smell of cha'aju wafted around as he poured into the cups placed there. We drank a sip of hot cha'ai. New cigarette. Thess he covered his shoulders with a blanket. It was getting really cold.

69 - Among the Yemenis, one was killed and two were wounded. Three motionless silhouettes Dahams and two camel carcasses could be seen in the distance on the sand. The caravan set off. After a few days I was in Najran. The plane to the Riad and the end of the adventure.

"Thess," I asked, "why did they fight for you?" "They didn't fight for me," Thess replied in a strangely soft voice. They fought for the sacred law of hospitality. I greeted them in the name of Allah and drank tea with them. I was under their protection, they couldn't help but defend me!

It was already full night. The desert air, devoid of any trace of moisture, was so clear that

that the stars seemed many times bigger and brighter than anywhere else. They didn't blink at all. By their cold light you could read even on a moonless night. I took it sleeping bag zipper. In the darkness I heard laughter coming from further fires. Georges was finishing your performance...

- You know, Rafał - I heard a quiet voice from the next sleeping bag, where you can barely sleep

it was possible to guess the figure of the skinny British man - but you had to be the "son of a bitch", you had to be a shitty motherfucker to avoid a few months

slavery and payment of several thousand pounds for the abuse of the so shamefully sacred law of hospitality.

Light flickered in the distant mountains. These are the Dahamas.

70 EGYPTIAN MUMMY AND SOVIET TANKS We set off before dawn. We quickly drove through the Dahama area. They were left behind

rocky, low mountains and again the desert stretched around. The rising sun revealed a seemingly endless space before us. The desert, initially flat, soon became filled with dunes. Once again we were rushing in a mad pack, accompanied by the roar of mechanical horses. I drove the jeep using the "Bedouin method", that is, turning the steering wheel left and right, slightly, but constantly. On the road it would carry the Jeep in a drunken zigzag, but in in loose sand, this movement did not change direction, but widened the path of the front wheels

preventing it from getting stuck. This is what everyone drove, making the funny movements of a child playing driving a car. My two English passengers were trying not to fall out of the vehicle as the jeep leapt off the dunes like a skier on a ski jump and as it touched down again on the sandy ground in a cloud of dust and the clatter of tortured shock absorbers. Next to me, a turbaned Thess, his mouth protected by a bandana, was clinging to the metal railing that ran from the dashboard to the right door of the Jeep. His tanned and black-haired hands were pale with exertion. He jumped up and down, uttering a rhythmic stream of Arabic curses. Bill rode behind. He also failed to save either the English phlegm or the respectable dignity. Bill's powerful paws clung to both sides of the jeep, and the colonel himself crouched in the middle of the cargo area, trying to absorb the shock. He looked like a horseman galloping on a horse that existed only in his imagination.

The desert was changing color and shape. The sand became more and more orange and the dunes the finer and denser they resembled a rippling sea. An island in the sea: several high rocks

stones protruding from the rubble. Stop. Cars stuck between boulders while searching

shadow substitutes. Canned food, cha'ai. Bedouin prayers. When I lit a cigarette unannounced visit: two migs crashed above us. A big arc over the desert and they're back. Apparently they noticed a fresh trace of our cavalcade in the desert. Flashes under the wings, the clamor of ricochets on the stones. They're machine guns. Four plumes of smoke from under each plane: eight rockets crashed on the rocks. They are injured. One of the Bedouins killed.

One car is on fire. Migs flew away. We are treating the injured, fortunately not seriously. If the Soviets arrived earlier, they would have caught us in the desert. I don't think anyone would have left. Signs don't come back. They were in a hurry for lunch or were running out of gas. We decided to wait until

dusk. Or maybe they'll send their friends after us. The burnt truck was carrying one of ours long-distance radio station that we managed to save from the fire. The rest is food and the Bedouins' private bundles. Luckily they didn't hit the gas barrel on the truck right next to them.

Bedouins say prayers over the corpse. Burial in the desert. We face Mecca. The corpse's head is in that direction. The heat hangs over us, we breathe heavily, trying to absorb the air with which the heat pours into our lungs. There is blood in your temples, and in your ears there is still the echo of the roar of engines in the desert and the whistle

wind. In front of your eyes, a truck burning out, a black column of smoke reaching high into the sky, like an indication to Soviet pilots. We arrange the cars one away from the other, pressing them between the rocks. Cover with a protective net. We hide in barrels of gasoline, crates of ammunition on the rocks. We hide a supply of water. Just in case. Having water and a radio station - we can always wait for help, the sweat is pouring down in streams. Exertion in this climate is a crime against the body. The wind rose and swirled in the desert

covers our traces. All right! Someone is calling my name. On the slope of a rock stands Georges, stripped to the waist He holds a huge boulder in his hands raised above his head. It looks like a statue of Hercules. There is a boulder

bigger than him, overwhelming. Mirage, mirage, sunstroke or hallucinations? Georges shouts at me to take his picture. I'm granting my wish. Besides, everyone takes photos of him. After a long 71st Then, in an elegant move, Georges throws a boulder towards me. The boulder fell on a rock and bounced.

Georges laughs at our surprise. Among the rocks, apparently of volcanic origin, there was simply a huge block of pumice as light as a sponge. And of course he decided to mock us. Many years later, after Georges' death, a colleague at that time showed in one of the Parisian pubs, a photo of Georges with a boulder over the head of the astonished bartender:

"Look what a strong friend I have!" And now Georges stands among us laughing and saying that he just wanted to stand in the shadows. And since he didn't find any shade... ***

Damn Georges. My friend from the Congo and my soul mate. Companion of noble battles in

Congo and pub brawls in Beirut, Istanbul, Salisbury and Cape Town. Bold, Solidarity, cheerful and very intelligent. He replaced his lack of education with great reading

curiosity. I remember Georges in 1968, in a heavily staffed proletarian red clientele of a pub in the communized town near Paris, Ivry called out to the waiter: "Two Coca-Colas!" and raising his voice for everyone to hear, he added, "I don't normally drink this crap, but now I'm ordering it to support the American effort in Vietnam!" There was silence in the pub. The red prolets froze in horror and then moved away from the tables. Georges was unbuttoning his jacket as if getting ready for a fight. The Prolets were stopped by the sight of the gun in Georges' belt. WITH he never parted with his weapons. He paid fines, appeared in court and the next day he was sentenced again

gun in his belt. "Dangerous times!" - he explained. His foresight saved me once in Istanbul. We were going from Yemen to Europe for vacation. Georges, René and me. I wandered along boulevard. Georges and René were sitting with a glass on the terrace of a nearby pub. A bunch of supposed hippies on the shores of the Bosphorus. Dirty, long-haired, in rags. They play guitars and beg.

A girl approaches me. Also dirty and in rags. Long, light hair, matted and greasy. "Give me some money, please." They play guitars and watch us from under their eyes. The girl has dark circles under her eyes and is sad, but she smiles coquettishly. "Do you have a few dollars?" he asks. There's a lawn over here, behind the wall..." I gave her a few dollars. The hippies' stares were fixed

become less insistent. "What are you doing here?" - I asked. She told me that they were coming back from Kathmandu. That they beg along the way to have money for the journey and for subsistence. Are they begging? I knew that these gangs prostituted their girls and stole, and that this made up most of their income. "Come with me," I said.

I won't give you money for them, but I will pay for a ticket to Europe." The girl, as I later learned - a seventeen-year-old Dutch girl, looked at me with interest. "Good," she said after a moment's thought. The group of hippies had guessed something. They stopped strumming the strings and they moved towards us. They cut me off from the boulevard, from the traffic. They were walking in a tight group. Only one had a guitar in his hands. The others had knives... The girl turned pale and started crying. I felt a sudden loss of courage. "Hey, boys" - someone shouted behind the hippies. They turned around. Behind them stood the huge René. And next to him, Georges, with a gun in his hand, smiled kindly. The knives disappeared in the pockets. The hippies became humble and, lowering their heads, fled stealthily. And only later, from a safe distance, they hurled a barrage of terrible insults at the girl. The three of us agreed to buy a petticoat for the lost sheep, for its overnight stay in a hotel and for a plane ticket. The daughter of a doctor from Amsterdam. She was only fifteen when she ran away from home. Two years away from home

they provided her with material for an extensive novel - if she wanted to write it - and a novel that could not be given to just anyone. What she's been through! A small excerpt heard from her mouth

It was enough to fill us old cows with fear and pity. Haggard. There are puncture marks on the arms. Despair in the eyes.

Much later I received a letter from her father. She recovered from drug addiction. She started her studies. I never saw her. I doubt she would enjoy meeting the man she met

it when it was sold in Istanbul...

72 This concludes my digression, the purpose of which was to demonstrate that it is possible to do so with Georges

was to rely in every circumstance. We are going back to Yemen. ***

A weak wind stirred the sand into a swirling dance and after a few inaudible beats it threw

it here to take it somewhere else. In the desert, clouds of sand swirled and settled as far as the horizon, increasing our safety. Because a moment ago our traces were still visible heading towards the rocks, but there were no signs leading further: a sure indication to the Soviet pilots that we were still stuck here, that it was worth turning the rocks into a fire-breathing volcano. Now the ballet of ghost dancers trampled our footsteps, the sand built waves on them and recreated them the return of the impression of an endless sea, from which rocks jutted out like an island. We didn't light a fire, we lurked in the rocks so that from a bird's eye view or from a bird's eye view, the island would be considered deserted. And only the next day our cavalcade roared again in the desert, and once again each wheel carved a serpentine track in the sand. A jump lasting six hours and we found ourselves in a long gorge /ładi/, cutting deep into the range of old mountains of the Yemen massif. The mountains rose in steep walls along the river. A few more kilometers over potholes and stones and the bottom of the gorge became more and more difficult

damp. The first patches of greenery since I left the oasis of Najran. A few more kilometers and a growing trickle of water appeared at the bottom of the river. The grass turned into bushes. WITH deep in the gorge we hear a monotonously beating rhythm. Smoke billows around the bend. We're getting closer

K'hownah.

The high slopes of the winding hill are becoming steeper and steeper. Water in some places

It has eroded the banks so much that huge rocks hang over the gorge like gigantic balconies. It looks majestic and menacing. These corners of the gorge make excellent shelters from

aviation. Supersonic planes fly too fast over the gap in the gorge to constitute a real threat, the whole time I was in Yemen I considered it lucky that the Soviets didn't bring in some old, slow bombers from World War II. At that time, attack helicopters were still an American novelty: how much easier it was for the Yemenis than it is for the Afghans today: MiG 21 and 23 were completely unsuitable for attacking positions in the mountains. K'hownah lies in one of these Ladi crevices, over which a huge rock hangs hood. It was completely safe here. More of a marketplace than a settlement. Mud huts, huts and shacks of traders supplying caravans preparing to cross the desert. A few bud-restaurants

serving boiled mutton to those who, heading in the opposite direction, had already passed the desert. Camels, donkeys and trucks. Bedouins and Yemenis: Yemen's main supply artery ran through here. Movement, noise. The roaring of camels. Bedouins on their prayer rugs they said prayers. Long-winded melodies mixed with the general bustle. The choking diesel engine of the electric generator was choking on its own smoke. In the shade of the rocks around the fire

Yemenis settled down. ***

I had already met Yemenis in Saudi Arabia, but they were refugees there

relying on the grace of the hosts. Disarmed, miserable, sad. Here they were at home: crooked jambies (kindjals) on their belts and firearms. We came across a "ghaat party". Ghaat is the passion of Yemen and Ethiopia, Another link connecting the nations of the former kingdom of Sheba. Ghaat is what Yemenis mean Coffee is to a Turk what wine is to a Frenchman. In Arabia - strictly forbidden: he must have been desperately missed. Yemeni robbers. There was no shortage of it here. Plantations can be found all over Yemen.

Low trees with delicate foliage are the only greenery in some areas. All year round, the owners of ghaat orchards cut off young thin branches with lush foliage and sell them in bundles for expensive money. A Yemeni's greatest pleasure is to sit with such a bunch in the 73rd floor

a quiet corner and chew ghaat leaves for hours. And it's even better when you can do it with a large group of friends. Then everyone sits around a high pile of twigs and eats the twigs and leaves. Since Yemeni savoir vivre forbids spitting out chewed greens in company, from time to time one of the revelers gets up, moves away from the group and spits out the accumulated greens. green pulp in my mouth. This happens relatively rarely: experienced chewers stuff the used greens into one of their cheeks with their tongue and continue chewing. After a while, everyone looks like they have a toothache.

A little more and the swelling becomes bilateral. Only when the cheeks, which are bloated to the limit, can no longer contain even a tiny bit of it - the Yemeni regretfully leaves the company and after a while comes back with slightly sagging cheeks, ready for further orgy. It lasts for hours, and if the company is wealthy - all night long. Ghaat has properties similar to coffee: it removes fatigue and prevents it to sleep. And something more - it causes talkativeness. Yemenis call ghaat "long tongue". And it's not because the tongue has a heavy role - stuffing chewed remains into the nooks and crannies of the cheeks. Other names for the ghaat speak for themselves: "father of gossip" and "friend of the stars". From a military point of view, the use of ghaat was advantageous - warriors equipped with ghaat did not sleep in positions.

But it was also harmful: it calmed me down and took away the aggressiveness. In general, the Prophet's Followers are better in defense than in offense. Islamic fatalism: when you defend your position, what is written will happen.

Inch Allah. Whether you expose yourself or hide - if you are destined for death, you will never avoid it. Courage costs nothing and brings admiration and glory. However, it is worse offensively. Here, it is not Allah who decides the time and purpose of the attack. Therefore, it is best not to decide to attack at all... So religion and the "father of rumors" jointly profiled the attitude of Yemeni warriors on both fighting sides. ***

René ordered a two-day halt. We were waiting for the guides to lead the way us further. Having your car inspected after crossing the desert also seemed advisable, especially since...

we were now supposed to set off along mountain paths, where the efficiency of the vehicles was crucial for the entire expedition. In a clear abuse of power, as Captain D.'s deputy, I ordered myself to explore the area and familiarize myself with Yemeni customs. I gave a similar order to Georges. We grabbed one of our translators. "What's interesting to see here?" The translator wandered among the ghaat party participants. Two bandits broke away from the group. Behind They promised to show us "Russian tanks" and "Egyptian death soldiers" for one and a half guineas. We agreed.

Georges managed to negotiate half a guinea in ten minutes. Tradition has been enough

We set off after obtaining permission from René. We walked sharply up some sheep path known only to our guides. We were hindered by assault rifles. But we had to go

armed for two reasons: the first, obvious one, was their own safety in a country ravaged by civil war, where it was difficult to trust casual acquaintances. The second is simply the fact that an unarmed man in the mountains of Yemen deserves no respect. Only enslaved people walk here without weapons. The path climbed steeply. The stones rolled away from under my feet again and again, and with a loud crash,

rolling down clouds of dust to the bottom of the river. We climbed endlessly. I lost my temper. Such an effort! But I continued climbing silently. Shame kept his mouth shut. There was no point in complaining. We were so high that K'hownah was out of sight. The settlement, our camp, camels, trucks -

everything was hidden behind the rocky canopy over which we were now walking. The bare feet of one of the Yemenis flashed in front of me. They fascinated me. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Spicy stones, flint spikes - I felt them painfully through the thick leather of special mountain shoes. The Yemeni trotted barefoot in front of me. He jumped over boulders, falling on them with his bare feet flints as sharp as a fakir's bed. And nothing. Later, while treating the wounded, I had the opportunity

checking that the skin on the Yemeni's feet is more than one and a half centimeters thick. And yes

We climbed higher and higher. When I was close to breaking down, we saw a hole in the rock wall. We started walking down to the neighboring ladi. The gorge was narrow and a road wound along its bottom. WITH

74 from a bird's perspective, we could see several kilometers of its course up to the bend of the ravine immersed in blue twilight, where it disappeared from our sight. Between this, quite distant point and us, at the narrowest point

place of the gorge, the road was interrupted by a huge pile of boulders and stones. Toward this Our guides took us there. After a while we found ourselves among the rocks and lost sight of the purpose of our trip. Only after three quarters of an hour of walking the road appeared again, already close.

We went out after a while. Dusty, narrow, rocky. We moved towards the stone one debris previously observed from above. The rubble filled the gorge to a depth of several meters height. The road disappeared under many tons of stone rubble, as if an avalanche had ended its course here. We started climbing the stacked blocks. Loose stones were being removed from under my feet.

Georges and I were pulling each other in, not caring about the poorly concealed irony looks of our guides who, like mountain chamois, reached the top in a few skillful movements. Phew, it worked. A few more steps...

The top of the ruin, initially convex, was spread sideways by someone's work cancer. Someone had removed rocks and stones, creating concavities. One of them was at our feet. There's something like a rusty pipe at the bottom. Sewers? Here? The Yemenis encouraged us with gestures to enter the depression. Suddenly I understood: it was the barrel of a tank covered with stones. There is also a hatch. Our guides lift the flap. We're taking a look. There's a dead body inside the tank

uniform of the Egyptian armored forces. The dry, hot climate turned the Egyptian into an authentic mummy. His features sharpened and his face seemed to shrink. Yemenis show us other coffin tanks and corpses of Egyptians who died terrible deaths. The translator's poor English shows that the local Yemenite tribe had blocked the Egyptians from entering their borders two years earlier due to an artificially caused avalanche. Our guides took part in this amazing battle of highlanders against tanks. A column of tanks led the Egyptian pacification expedition.

Twelve Soviet T34s opened the march. When the Yemenis caused an avalanche in the narrowest place of the gorge, the tanks found themselves under tons of stones. Stones fell on both pedestrians and cars. There were also shots from old-fashioned shotguns. The Egyptians could not withstand the impact. They fled backwards on the surviving vehicles, leaving many dead and wounded. The Yemenis carefully carved up the latter and buried them with the former. Everyone, except those in tanks. These were unearthed after many months. To take away their hand weapons. They died a terrible death: some, buried deeper, died faster from lack of air. Others died of thirst for a long time in hot steel coffins. The mummy's scarred hands testified about...

frantic, superhuman efforts to escape from the hellish trap. But on the hatches There were tons of stones lying on the tanks. Stones from under which not even the groans of the dying came to the surface.

Georges and I returned in silence. Tired of the long climb. Shocked by the sight Egyptian victims of Nasser's megalomania. Has the hell of dying opened up paradise for them as a reward?

warriors? Kalashnikovs marked with Egyptian inscriptions attracted our guides sight...

75 HONOR OF SHEIKAHARBA'TASH

Wahad, t'nin, talata, harba: one, two, three, four. Rhamza - five. Rhamz'tasz fifteen. Rhamza'in - fifty. Rhamza'mia - five hundred. I'm lying in the cave, tired and unable to sleep. Fleas are biting me. It is suffocated by the sickly smell of cooked mutton and human sweat. Is it possible to get dirty?

accustom? I repeat my Arabic lessons in my head. I'm trying to fall asleep. Nothing of that. So further: Harba u' talata'in - thirty-four. Vier und dreizig. Arabs, like Germans, list tens by units: four and thirty. This is understandable among Arabs: they write from right to left. But where did the Germans come from? Thoughts swirl in my head. Fleas and stuffiness. I got up and, trying not to step on the sleeping people, I left the cave. Cold. I wrapped myself tightly in a blanket. I sat down on a rocky outcrop and lit a cigarette. The mountains at night, in the starlight, looked almost unreal, like a kitsch theater decoration. There are countless stars in the sky. Under your feet there is an abyss disappearing into the darkness of shadow thrown by the mountains and in the light mist creeping between the rocks. Deep in the black

vast valley, also stars: the lights of R'hownah. So close and so far. A bird can fly seven or eight kilometers. A road of over sixty... Three days of excruciating driving to overcome a two-kilometer difference in level. We are in high Yemen. Different landscape, different climate. R'hownah, blinking its lights at me, is a gorge trembling with heat, stifling and hot, in

where every gust of wind seems to be a blessing from Allah. Sarteh is the shore of the Yemeni plateau. Almost three thousand meters above sea level. Cold nights after hot days. Here the wind is not a blessing from Allah, but a curse from the seitaan, the Arab devil from whom our devils got their name. Three days of struggle, effort to get this close, only a little higher. I can still hear the roar of the engines and my arms still hurt from struggling with the steering wheel. A memorable road... The road from R'hownah to Sarteh is a rock-cut serpentine winding over a precipice. the surface was made of stone rubble, and in places so narrow that on bends the trucks tore the sheet metal of their sides on the rocks so as not to fall down. Stones were falling from under the wheels. People, except drivers, they went on foot. Sometimes they supported the swaying cars with poles, placed boulders under the wheels in place of those that had been pushed out by the weight of

cars - rolled into the abyss with with a bang, as if to warn us of what awaits us. At the bottom of the abyss, rusty car wrecks were visible as a memento. I drove a jeep to the envy of those who drove trucks, and I envied those who saw where they were walking when walking. The dust made visibility difficult, thirst choked my throat, my sweaty and nervous hands ached as they gripped the steering wheel, which was jerked by the impact of the wheels on the stones. What if mites came? I swatted that thought away like a pesky fly. A cry from the front... The column stopped. One of the trucks is hanging with its rear wheel over a cliff, and it is swaying indecisively whether it will fall or not. People with poles are already running; they support. Stones are falling from under car wheels and from under bare human feet. This is Jean-Pierre, our radio man. He struggles with the urge to jump out of the cabin

trucks. The sense of duty prevails: pale and composed, he carefully presses the gas pedal. Planted

stones fly out from under the tire. Centimeter by centimeter, the truck moves to safety. René orders a stop. Cha'aj, a cigarette and off you go... Meter by meter. The rear of the truck in front of me starts to slide. Poles and supports again. Screams, dust and the pale face of the Yemeni driver. A ragged man runs up to me and gesticulates loudly, explaining something... No I understand him. A flash of contempt in the guy's eyes. Translator. Where is the translator? Ah, I guess

finally: the guy wants me to push the truck with the jeep, push it out of a dangerous place. You mustn't wonder. I'm moving forward. Bumper to bumper. Front drive, rear drive, differential lock. I push the truck over the edge. I feel the earth move away from under me, stones spraying from under the wheels. Now I'm hanging over the ravine, now they're supporting me... Phew, it worked. I left. The Yemenis are already filling the gap in the road with stones so that others can do so cross. They laboriously and thoughtfully arrange the stones in such a way that

they clung to the rock as much as possible. They drive wedge-shaped boulders into the cracks. The bearded ragamuffin pats me on the back appreciatively.

76 I am struck by the contrast between his shabby clothes and the richly decorated handle of the jambia. What draws my attention is the respect that others give him...

A translator appeared. "Who's that?" - I'm asking. "Sheikh Harba'tash!" - the translator said it in a tone as if he was surprised that I didn't know it. Harba'tash. "Fourteen." What a strange name that is. After the evening meal, the translator, encouraged by a bundle of ghaat twigs, did not give in to long requests... ***

Immediately after the second war, it began in Aden, then a British protectorate "revolutionary" boiling. As the cities were held by the strong hand of the British, procommunist terrorist bands hid in the mountains on the border with Yemen and made a living by robbery. One of such gangs entered Yemen and, taking advantage of the men's absence, robbed a village, raping women, murdering old people and children. The corpse of an old sheikh, deprived of his genitals, impaled on a stake in front of the village, was eaten by vultures. It was at the end of the sheep's grazing in the mountain pastures. When the men returned to their village after the season, the few surviving women told them what had happened. A messenger was sent to Mecca, where the oldest grandson of the murdered sheikh was attending a spiritual school. Jossip ben

Said returned to his hometown with the nearest caravan. His father, the sheikh's son, was already dead. Jossip sold all his possessions and gave power to his brother. He himself went to Aden. Under an assumed name, he got into the circles of "revolutionaries". More than a year has passed since the massacre in his village.

But by listening to stories around campfires and skillfully asking questions, he found out who was taking it

participation in an expedition to his village. This gang dispersed in the meantime, and its members... they went to other areas or - sent by the "revolutionary" movement - studied in Moscow or Prague. Jossip got the names. Time passed. Jossip traveled around the country. He took his time. There was a strange epidemic among the "revolutionaries": from time to time someone died with his throat cut by a jambia. Years later, "notables" returned from Moscow and Prague to take over the leadership of individual districts. Soon, a gloomy highlander with a black beard appeared around them. Shortly thereafter, their bodies were found missing their genitals and with a terrible wound in the neck. And so the years passed. Finally, everyone who took part in the attack on the village of Jossip years ago died. There were fourteen of them. Jossip never returned to his home, to the village he rebuilt his younger brother. Twelve years of seeking revenge had exhausted his financial resources. WITH

All he had left of his former wealth was the jambia. Needless to say, when Nasser unleashed

revolutionary heca in Yemen, did Sheikh Jossip "Harba'tash" ben Said know which side to choose? Soon he was known on both sides of the front. My translator looked at him with fear and admiration. I remember the melancholy hiding at the bottom of the sheikh's black eyes. "Harba'tasz", "Fourteen". Good thing he wasn't my enemy. ***

There was a cold wind blowing from the mountains. Even though I was wrapped in a warm blanket, it shocked me

shudder. I didn't want to go back to the cave. I stood up, stretched to stretch my bones and I moved towards the Yemeni bonfire. They drank tea. "Wahad finjan u cha'aj ment'fatlek" -

I said. "I would like a cup of tea." "Finjan" - that's the origin of our "cup", I thought with strange emotion. The Yemenis hospitably made a place for me by the fire and soon I was drinking the nectar: hot tea. I tried in vain to understand the content of my hosts' conversation. And they spoke a lot and with passion. I felt drowsy. The fleas either fell asleep or

changed host. The hot tea washed away the fatty taste of the mutton I had eaten for dinner.

I felt good. ***

77 The morning, pale with cold, quickly turned red with the rising sun the naked mountains sparkled with strange colors. The camels ate the dusty leaves from stunted, thorny bushes. Ładi R'hownah was disappearing under a light blanket of mist: there in The sun's rays haven't woken up yet in the gorge. Yemenis were already performing their morning prayers here. Sleepy friends came out of the cave, scratching themselves passionately. "I'm not the only one who caught fleas" -

I thought with malicious satisfaction. After a while - joyful ablutions in the icy water of a mountain stream, hot tea and r'hobs, replacing bread, Arabic cake. Flatbread with

unfermented dough. It is not cut, but broken. This is how Christ and the Apostles broke bread two thousand years ago... *** A sunny, hot day. It's cold in the shade. It's stuffy in the cave. We're taking care of our weapons and

cars. The final stage: a fifty-kilometer off-road route among the mountains. Further on, the plateau is already in the hands of the enemy and only the mountain ranges standing around are loyal to the Imam. From now on we will go on foot. At night. The cars will return to Najran. Our weapons, equipment and ammunition will remain in the caves under the care of the Yemenis. They will be delivered to us - as needed -

camel caravans also at night, avoiding enemy car and armored patrols. There's a nail sticking out of the ammunition box I'm carrying on my jeep. I lift the stone to pick it up

stick. A frightened scorpion writhes under a stone. I hit him with all my strength with a rock. What a country! Everything is prickly here. Prickly feet flints. Fleas stinging at night. Prickly branches

bushes and seemingly good-natured cacti bristling with prickly thorns. And in every hole Scorpio. At night they hunt for insects and hide under stones at the first ray of sunlight. There are two types of them. Black, strong, the size of a cancer, and half the size, brown. Contrary to appearances For humans, the latter are more dangerous: they enter huts and tents, and their venom is stronger. In the morning, you need to shake out your shoes well to make sure they are not occupied by scorpions looking for a daytime hiding place at dawn. The numerous rock vipers here can also sting. And above all, the mountain sun piercing your eyes with its terrifying light... ***

We're rushing. Dust and the roar of engines. The flat plain stretching before us is Yemen

tall. Two to three thousand meters above sea level. The mountain ranges still rise a thousand, one and a half thousand meters. Sometimes they spread to the horizon, and sometimes they come so close that the plain we are driving through becomes a ravine. The mountains are steep and flat. The landscape resembles Colorado. From behind rocks, on mountain tops, from time to time

a plume of smoke rises. In a moment he would scream Indians on horses will come out. NO. This is Yemen, after all. And the smoke on the peaks is bonfires, at who are guarded by the defenders of these mountains and the gorges beyond them. The mountains are gray, just like everything is gray here. But sometimes they can surprise you with layers of colors from yellow to red. Then and

the road turns red and the dust we inhale and settles on our sweaty faces. And after a while we look like Indians ourselves. Where the valley is wide, we run side by side - as we once did in the desert. Where it narrows - like it or not

- we have to go single file, getting dust in each other's eyes. The charred, black skeletons of burnt cars remind us that Soviet MiGs often and fruitfully hunt people like us here. So we rush through torture the shock absorbers of our cars and our own spines. As long as I finally get there. We are heading towards the R'zah Mountain range, hidden behind a curtain of air quivering in the sun and looming on the horizon in the blue twilight.

This mountain range was a temporary border of the territories that recognized the authority of the imam. Next -

these are already territories under the rule of the reds. At least when it comes to the cities and villages located on the plain. For everywhere the mountains remained loyal to the Imam, and his followers defended themselves even 78

in the bands jutting just above the capital. Sanaah - that was our ultimate goal. The car journey ended at the R'zah mountain range closing the horizon. Then, on foot, at night, led by trusted guides, we were to sneak across the plain controlled by the Reds into other mountains, right into the middle of the land held by the enemy. But that's later. For now, we are rushing along the plain in the dust and roar of engines, afraid only of the sudden appearance of planes. However, somehow the kismeth, i.e. the holy book of fate, did not predict migs for this day and we safely crossed the space without having time to admire the views.

R'zah. The mountains are amazing. A steeply rising wall. Clearly marked contour lines geological with colors like those from Van Gogh's paintings: yellow like ripe grain, green like forests that do not exist here. When creating them, Allah rivaled the Impressionist in madness: the mountains were wild, gloomy, menacing and magnificent. We are getting closer. The road is becoming more and more difficult and blocked

rock scrapyards. You have to pay attention, maneuver around... We enter Ladi, which cuts between the slopes of the mountains. On the right side, a mountain wall washed away by the el łek hangs overhead. We are driving through a tunnel with no left wall. On the right, a yellow, then purple rock seems to be overwhelming us. There is a deep hole in the wall with smoke coming out of it. These are Emir Ahmed's warriors they cook mutton: a sickly smell penetrates the dust and the smell of exhaust fumes. We are here. The head of the column is already standing. The canopy of thousands of tons of colorful rocks hanging above us effectively protects us against air raids. ***

The monotonous clatter of the diesel engine turning the generator, light bulbs in the arrowheads:

Yemeni cave man knows electricity! Emir Ahmed, the Imam's nephew and younger brother It was no accident that he chose Mohamed, heir to the throne and commander-in-chief of the royalists, as his seat

R'zah Mountains. He was separated from the enemy by a mountain ridge so steep that only experienced mountaineers could climb it. The few lads, narrow and covered with stones, were easy to access

keeping watch: a few soldiers with a machine gun and anti-tank weapons were enough completely to defend them. The area south of R'zah was in royalist hands. To the north is enemy territory with an archipelago of resistance islands. The role of the emir was to supply these centers with weapons and instructors. From here, from R'zah, the imam's partisan columns moved at night on foot. They set off from here

camel caravans that smuggled weapons and money in saddlebags hidden under piles of goods.

Emir Ahmed, a graduate of a British military school, knew English very well. Well-read and highly cultured, he visited all of Western Europe during his student years. Now in surrounded by his entourage, he treated us with welcome tea, half lying on soft pillows in a cave lined with rich carpets. In the darkness of the cave - with the barely partially diffused yellow light of weak bulbs hanging in the rocks - the handle of the prince's jambia sparkled with the glow of precious stones and the golden teeth in the mouth of his "right hand", a tall man named Shamir, glittered. I was losing my sense of reality. The view was extraordinary. If only these were a few the dim light bulbs were replaced with torches, and if it weren't for the modern weapons lying around the corners of the cave, it would seem that we were transported to the land of fairy tales from the Arabian Nights and that we were in the den of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. I observed the surroundings

emir. There were sheikhs of the tribes loyal to the Imam and sheikhs who came to offer the allegiance of their tribes in exchange for privileges or gold, the chest of which stood behind them

prince. There were elegant advisers and ragged highlanders. Fat dignitaries and thin warriors, eaten by the sun and wandering. Everyone sat on carpets with their feet tucked under them. Emir Ahmed reigned in the middle. After the welcome ceremony and tea, the prince assigned us a separate cave, assigned a few people and issued a receipt for fresh food: bread and mutton. Before we left the cave, he invited us to dinner. He seemed delighted with our presence.

Our translator, Ahmed ben Said (may Allah give him seven sons!), taught us how

there is a feast at the emir's and how to behave during it. I was terrified. Looking at 79 I saw in my friends' faces that they weren't feeling well either. Such a feast takes place as follows: servants bring meals on trays and place them on a carpet,

around which revelers are half lying. Lie on your left hip and support yourself with your left elbow. The legs must be tucked behind each other so that the feet are not visible. You eat with your right hand, without using cutlery, from a common bowl. meat,

overcooked mutton, you don't cut it, but tear out the pieces with your fingers. Pieces of r'hops, i.e. a cake replacing bread, are torn off with the fingers of the right hand, holding the cake with the wrist. The left hand is not used at all. The bread is dipped in a common bowl with sauce. Politeness dictates that you give the first piece, already wet, to your neighbor. A prince, when he wants to honor someone, "takes food from his mouth": he tears out a larger piece of mutton, bites off some of it and gives the rest to the honored guest. Servants circulate with a bowl of water in which the revelers rinse their fingers one by one. This water is not changed throughout the feast. In addition, Yemenis never wash and their hands are terribly dirty. And what's more, with the attitude typical of proud highlanders

sensitive, they are extremely sensitive to every gesture and are easily offended. Therefore, you can easily imagine the state of mind in which we went to our first Yemeni feast. ***

You can get used to anything. During my two and a half years in Yemen I stopped paying attention to old European prejudices. How many times, as a guest of Yemenis, have I eaten boiled mutton with my hosts' fingers from a common bowl, washing it down with hot, extremely spicy sauce from a clay pot passed from mouth to mouth. How many times I drank tea with them from finjans that had not been washed for generations. How many times, after finishing a meal, did I smoke a narghil water pipe together, the mouthpiece of which was passed around among the revelers.

From the feast in Emir Ahmed's cave, I only remember the smell of the mint sauce that he persistently sent

me to Riga, and deep gratitude to the host for not taking anything away from us.

My second Yemeni feast was much more memorable. ***

It was the third day of our journey through enemy territory. We walked at night. During the day

we hid either in rocky crevices in the wilderness, or in villages, in the houses of supporters imam, secretly from the neighbors. Weighed down with weapons and backpacks, we staggered from exhaustion at dawn, after walking 45 or 50 kilometers in the thin mountain air. Fortunately, the nights were cool. On the second night, I fainted so much that, to my great shame, my friends had to carry my backpack on the last stretch. But a day of rest in a cave was enough for me to regain strength and selfconfidence. On the third day, dawn found us in a village with a name that sounded familiar to Poles: Kura. We were supposed to spend the day here with the village chief, secretly from the other residents. The village was beautiful in the light of the rising sun: its houses were glued to the mountainside like swallows' nests to the eaves of a Masovian cottage. The most impressive house belonged to the fat Sheikh Said. The house was spacious and pleasantly cool. The sheikh led us up a winding staircase to a spacious room with tiny windows. Here, on the carpets and pillows, after drinking tea, we fell into a deep sleep, from which we were woken up by the roar of engines. We watched carefully through the windows

a motorized patrol that drove into the village, raising clouds of dust. For the first time

we saw the enemy. Twenty armed, uniformed jimuri emerged from armed w machine guns of cars in the square in front of the cottage... Do they know something about us? In such a case, our situation would be hopeless. There were only six of us, because we were on foot hiking through enemy territory, we split into two groups. He commanded mine

René and the other one

led personally by Colonel Martin, who joined us in R'zah. We were kind of trapped There was only one exit from the sheikh's house: to the square where the patrol stopped. We had small arms and a few grenades. We could have killed those twenty jimuri in the square, but...

80 we knew that just a kilometer from the village there were large enemy barracks whose

it wouldn't take five minutes for motorized units to surround us. We began to feel cold when we saw that the jimuri were carefully searching house by house, starting from the edge of the house. village. Residents came out of their houses and mingled with the uniformed officers. Trading began

exchangeable: ghaat for cigarettes, fresh mutton for canned food. We couldn't use it anymore grenades or open fire on the square: there were too many civilians there and there were too many mixed with the army. Our host moved through the crowd and disappeared from sight. The search party entered the house for the third time in a row. Ours was the fifth. We were preparing for a fight inside the house: there was no way we would surrender alive. The Geneva Convention is not here was in force. The tension was growing. The inspectors left the house, heading towards us. Suddenly there was confusion in the street and in the square. Jambies appeared in the hands of civilian traders. The jumuri fell one by one under the blows of sharp daggers. It lasted for a short while and

twenty corpses littered the dust. A breathless fat man ran across the square

Sheikh Said with his ridiculously short legs. He called out to us loudly: "Fissa! fissa! Lazem yalla!" /Quick, fast, you have to run away/. There was no time to think. We ran single file down the spiral staircase. The civilians are already gone. Jumping over the corpses, with weapons in hand, we ran as fast as we could after our men

guide. Any further, any higher... ***

Sheikh Said clutched the butt of his Kalashnikov. He pursed his lips just as tightly surrounded by gray stubble. The sheikh's eyes stared grimly at the burning village below. The hen was on fire, set on fire by jimuri's hands. The inhabitants left Kura with us, fleeing from revenge. They fled to the mountains to expand the ranks of the partisans. Sheikh Said no longer looked funny. He was dangerous as he stood there staring into the flames. Was it the reflection of the fire that ignited sparks in his eyes, or anger? *** And again we walked among the mountains covered with starlight. Behind us, the village of Kura was burned down,

in which we came close to death. Only when we were in a safe place, we found out what happened. Sheikh Said, seeing the jimuri patrol, guessed that the enemy knew something.

Feeling responsible for us, he ran to look for help. He knew that a tiny guerrilla force was hiding nearby. He told the head of the unit about what had happened in the village. The guerrillas, leaving behind their firearms and armed only with jambs, sneaked into the village. Here, mingling with the civilian population warned by Sheikh Said, on a signal given by their chief, they attacked

opponents suddenly: each stabbed his own. In the mountains, in the cave, the leader

partisans gave us a meal when we arrived at the place, out of breath and stunned by the events. The leader placed René on his right and Sheikh Said on his left. He welcomed us warmly, although he was still gloomy. The chief's name was HARBA'TASZ. He risked his life and the lives of his subordinates to save us from

certain death, us, infidel dogs, ordinary shits. Because we were his prince's guests. Said preferred to let the village burn down rather than let the people who trusted him die. I had dinner with Sheikh Harba'tash. From a common bowl. With hands. The Yemenis ate with us. But I couldn't see the dirt on their hands anymore. Friends hands are clean!

***

We were walking in the dark night. Above us there is a sparkling sky, like an open book of destinies.

Kismeth.

81 THE RED PUBLIC IS KILLING IN YEMEN An eagle was circling over the valley. Once he was a tiny dot disappearing in the distance in the glow of the setting light

the sun, then again it came closer so that I could distinguish the individual feathers of its wide-spread wings, which it moved rarely, as if casually. He used currents of warm air flowing from the heated valley towards the cool sky, which was already darkening in the twilight. He allowed himself to be carried away by the winds prevailing there, adjusting the sails of his wings, only to suddenly wake up and, with a few powerful movements, change direction and regain the lost height. I felt good, sleepy, lazy. All my muscles ached from the day's effort. I had eight hours of rest ahead of me. I was strangely happy. These wild, jagged mountains before us, hiding my tomorrow full of adventures, and this valley below, where I left my tired today, and which now breathes with warmth carefully captured during the sunny day... And this eagle, which in thoughts clouded with fatigue

evoked some associations: "The might of the eagle of your flights...",

"A bird is no match for a bird, an eagle cannot fly into shit...". The eagle... the crown they took from him, but which he deserves for the majesty of its flight...

I fell asleep after a long day of climbing. Across the plains - located beneath enemy control - we passed stealthily, wandering at night. But the mountain ranges were in most of them in the hands of allied tribes - loyal to the imam. So we stayed in the mountains

Day. The danger threatening us from the signs was a lesser evil than wandering in the dark, over the precipices into which stones knocked down by feet were falling with a bang...

Yesterday we joined a camel caravan carrying our equipment along a different route. Whole so we walked together step by step throughout the day. Us and dromedaries. These are extraordinary animals. Georges clearly thought that - as he said - "God must have been on a roll when he created this animal." The one who named the dromedary, the ship of the desert, he did not see him as he climbed the mountain path, burdened with saddlebags

leading over an abyss, where every careless step means testing the law of gravity on your own skin. Or maybe this person got seasick on the freak's swinging hump? Because this animal is truly a freak. "Look: the look on the snobbish aunt's face" /it's Georges again/. Eyes squinted, like an astigmatic person reading a newspaper. Protruding teeth, like u English nurses who scare millionaire children in the Bois de Boulogne. The neck is long, bent, lifting its thoughtless and yet thoughtful head two meters above the level of the soft

cushion-shaped hooves. The knees are bald, calloused from constant kneeling, like an old devotee's.

The coat is dirty beige, matted, hanging in pods on both sides of a more or less prominent hump. The wild sounds that this animal can make without the slightest reason are very reminiscent of the roar of a lion, which comes from a plant-eating animal, or rather a plant-eating animal. /judging by his preferences/ is at least usurpation and conceit. Because the dromedary is conceited. Maybe it's because he's never seen himself in the mirror. He walks loaded to the border endurance with truly royal dignity. He wanders over precipices with a look of utter abandonment

bored and... doesn't look at her feet at all. The dignity of a jester, the comedy of Don Quixote in the form of Sancho Panza. The face of a monarch and the hump of the bell ringer of Notre Dame. Quasimodo of zoology. A desert ship practicing climbing. A mountain chamois with the grace of a hippopotamus. And what's more... No! I won't talk about the camel's sexual habits. It's not my pen. This is a must see. I'll tell you

only that while observing the camel idyll, Georges and I had a fit of laughter uncontrollable that the natives looked at us with horror, pointing with their fingers at the sun and at the head, expressively expressing the assumption that both of those who had been shitted had fallen victim to a stroke

solar. Phew, I was taking revenge for the kick that one of the "desert ships" gave me for reasons known only to him, killing my emerging sympathy for him.

82 ***

There were no hospitable caves here. We pitched a tent, a twelve-person tent

army American, of which there are many here. We masked it with a special, also American, net, which pretended to be green vegetation on one side and brownyellow rocks on the other. Of course, we protected the tent from the observation of Soviet pilots with the "rocky" side of the net. It was warm in the tent. A weak bulb hanging from the mast illuminated the interior. There were five of us. In one wing of the tent there was a pile of our equipment and weapons. Opposite, five open sleeping bags invited people inside. Outside, a portable Japanese electric generator was humming, powering our light bulb and the radio, where Jean-Pierre, our radio operator, was humming monotonously, transmitting hundreds of six-digit numbers that made up an encrypted message. We were tired.

One by one we slipped into our sleeping bags. It was still too warm to zip them up. We knew we would wake up cold during the night. Then just pull the zipper in one move and go back to sleep. It was a nightly ritual. Finally, Jean-Pierre stopped spitting out numbers like a broken computer. You could think about turning off the lights. One last cigarette... "Georges! give me a Camel!" Georges reached into the backpack that served as his pillow and started tugging at it. After a while, not finding any cigarettes, he took out a handful of clothes from his backpack and a towel... A terrified scorpion fell out of the towel and started running around the tent, blinded by the light. Boots and rifle butts were set in motion... After a short while, we achieved victory over the venomous enemy. IN While convulsing with death, he tried to stick a sharp sting into the sole of the shoe lying on him, from which

droplets of oily poison oozed out. We searched all the backpacks. We looked into every corner.

Even for old timers, seeing a scorpion face to face is impressive! I fell asleep almost immediately, despite the sweat that dripped down me in the open sleeping bag. When I woke up it was already night. My hand was already reaching for the zipper of my sleeping bag when I realized that it wasn't the cold that woke me up from my sleep. There was something on me

breasts. I felt the cancerous paws, I felt the crusty, elongated shape. Scorpio! - I thought. The creature that was lying on top of mine

his chest moved sleepily, sluggishly. Yes! I no longer had any doubts. It was a scorpion.

The slightest movement could cause disaster. If he gets scared of anything, he'll prick me. IN neck! I once saw a leg swell from a sting. Such a swollen neck would pose a risk of suffocation even if I survived the fever caused by the venom. What to do? Lie still and wait until he goes away? It would be a good option if I was alone. But there were us in the tent

five and any of my companions could wake up at any moment and scare the scorpion. Slowly, carefully, I began to bring my foot closer to the leg of Georges sleeping next to me. A few light ones

nudges, praying that Georges, waking up suddenly, would not be frightened by the sudden movement of my night oppressor. But Georges has eaten bread from more than one oven. Only after changing the rhythm breathing and the barely noticeable tightening of my body, I knew that my friend was no longer sleeping.

I knew Georges' hand was now creeping towards the gun that accompanied him even in his sleeping bag. "Georges," I whispered, barely moving my lips in fear, "a scorpion. On my chest. Around my neck..." Georges began to move slowly away from me, so much so that for a moment I suspected him of chickening out. But no. Slowly, calmly, Georges prepared for relief.

Later I found out that he groped for a flashlight and... a towel. Finally he slowly sat down. Then everything happened so quickly. I was blinded by the sudden flash of a flashlight and felt the blow of a towel knock my pursuer off me. Colleagues stimulated

myself. Flashlights flashed. The tent began to be searched again. Until we finally found it. It wasn't a scorpion, but a local one

stonoga47. S this creation, several centimeters in size, resembled the tail of a crayfish. It consisted of dozens of shelled members, each with two legs. It secreted a liquid that after some time stung like a nettle. It's disgusting, but it can't be compared to a scorpion. 47 Centipede, centipede. Poisonous arthropod. Some species' bites are as dangerous as those of a scorpion.

But in my case, the most I faced was painful itching for two weeks. There are no deadly centipede varieties in Yemen.

83 My friends made fun of my fear. Georges commented on this in his own way: "Objectively speaking, nothing happened, but subjectively I saved your life. In my subjective opinion, I deserve a bottle of whiskey when we are in Europe. We will drink it with

with all objectivity." I agreed with him. We drank a bottle of whiskey, and not just one, a few months later in Beirut, and as a result, Georges made such a terrible mess that only the Palestinian war erased the memory of this event in Lebanon. But that's another story... . ***

Three more days of effort. Three days of climbing on breakneck paths. Three nights under

stars. The camel caravan separated from us to take an easier, though less safe, route. It's a good thing we didn't follow her example: on the third day, she ran into a communist motorized patrol and scattered in all directions. Only two loaded camels allowed themselves to be captured by the soldiers of the "people's" army. The rest, mad with fear, forgetting about their everyday dignity, fled to the mountains. Local residents hunted individual camels for weeks to give us a high reward

the priceless contents of the bags: weapons, ammunition, personal items, and especially the powerful Hotchkiss-Brandt mortars, disassembled into pieces, which were our treasure. The aiming device of one of these mortars found its way to a marketplace in the capital and there - under the noses of the security services and Soviet advisers - it was bought by Emir Ahmed's envoy We were shot at in some sleeping village, which we were passing under the cover of darkness. Long bursts of Kalashnikovsa48 front they brutally broke the silence of the night. The bullets flew over our heads with a whistling noise and shattered the surrounding rocks. The howl of ricochets mixed with howls

dogs roused from sleep. Shooting randomly at each other, we escaped into the protective mountains. There was silence again. The barking of the dogs slowly stopped. And only my twice-shot backpack proved this

that it wasn't a dream. We were approaching the capital. Sana'a made its proximity known with a glow of lights illuminating the sky over the range of surrounding mountains. War was raging in the mountains surrounding the capital: here and there

explosions of tank shells with which the jimuri generously hit the enemy mountains. Elsewhere again the bloody reflections of exploding rockets fired from Katiusz49. T about Soviet "advisers" they played the death nocturne on the "Stalin organ". There was excitement among us: the enemy was close.

I experienced this closeness more strongly than my Western European colleagues. For me it wasn't an ordinary enemy that I had already encountered on other fronts of the fight against communism. THEY were here. "Punish your hand, not a blind sword" - these words of the Chorale came back to me many times when I was shooting at blind, dazed performers, while the inspirators, the real carriers of the red plague, sat far away unreachable, unpunished... Here they were. It was the Soviets who operated the Katyushas, it was their pilots who tracked us in the desert and mountains, and finally their tankers stood out from the Yemeni bunglers with accurate fire and greater

recklessness. In a little-known country, in a war that few people know about

he heard for the first time in many years - a Pole was once again allowed to stand with a gun in his hand in front of the Red Army. And fate wanted me to be that Pole. Blessed fate! My friends were surprised that I was listening to the katyusha with a smile and that my hands were shaking when I held the binoculars. "Leave him alone - Georges told them - He has his own personal scores to settle here. Georges knew my thoughts: I had confided to him so many times about my war goals. But he didn't feel it either

the mysticism of the moment. He did not know what the throat-choking hatred meant, in which it was not known what was stronger: Polish, anti-Russian atavism, or the awareness of Absolute Evil, in the service of which the red plague spread across the world.

48 Kalashnikov - official name AK-47. Automatic Soviet assault rifle. Magazine - 30 rounds. 600 shots per minute. A reliable and practical weapon. Today, it is replaced in the armies of the Warsaw Pact with an AK-74 with a caliber similar to the caliber of rifles used by NATO troops: 5.45 mm.

49 Katyusha - Soviet rocket launcher on a truck. The popular name "Katyusha" was given to it by Red Army soldiers. The Germans - with respect - called it "Stalin's organs". In Yemen, the Soviets used the M-13:16 electrically fired rockets 1.41 m long, 132 mm in diameter, 42.5 kg in weight, with a range of 8.5 km. They were divided into tearing and incendiary ones. Among the latter were phosphorus and napalm.

84 ***

The red plague kills. It kills the body when it cannot kill the spirit. We went through offside villages. The Soviets were already using genocidal methods here, which they turned against the Afghans years later. Their aviation mercilessly attacked every population center in the part of the country not under their control. Because men on

Generally, they found themselves in the ranks of the insurgents - among those being destroyed

Women and children were killed by rockets and bombs in villages. Meager harvests were set on fire

napalm, herds of cattle and sheep were massacred deliberately by Soviet pilots. This war against the defenseless was not a symptom of any particular sadism or savagery "advisors": these were cold, Moscow-planned rules of war with a triple purpose. First, starve and intimidate the population. Threat with fire and plague. To be terrified by the smell of corpses emanating from the fields, from the macabre canteen of vultures, which, fat and sluggish, could not keep up with their role as gravediggers. Another benefit of these barbaric methods was the spread of hatred. It was clear that the highlanders were taking revenge for the burned villages, for the killed and injured children, on every caught jimuri. They sometimes took cruel revenge. This, in turn, bred hatred and dug a rift between the two sections of Yemeni society and was intended to prevent attempts

reconciliation at Soviet expense: divide et impera. Thirdly, the smoking fires and crippled children were supposed to be a warning to the hesitant tribes: look what awaits your families if you resist us! ***

The rock crevices and caves in the surrounding mountains were crowded with people hiding there.

Lots of wounded: fragments of artillery shells and mines dropped from planes were among the victims. Far from the front, in a safe cave, there was an International outpost Red Cross. For balance - a similar facility operated among the Reds in the capital. Both

were conducted by Swiss doctors who, hiding behind the fact that

they are supposed to provide help only to the civilian population, they did not approach the front. And carrying the wounded to their cave, under fire in the mountains, was almost impossible. Therefore, the wounded died without medical assistance. There were neither medicines nor dressings. No wonder that we were responsible for treating the wounded. IN

In peaceful times, Yemenis knew European doctors, several of whom worked in the area. For them, every European was a doctor. So they confidently asked for help, bringing us children and women. Our field first aid kit quickly ran out of supplies. The Red Cross refused to give out medicines, although there were rumors that one could buy them for gold sovereigns

The Swiss buy a lot. Almost at gunpoint, I managed to obtain large amounts of dressings, antibiotics and disinfectants from them. None of us were paramedics, although some of us had good practice in first aid. So we sewed up wounds and repaired broken limbs. Yemenis are incredibly tough. High child mortality guarantees thanks to natural selection - the resilience of those who survive. People who are not used to antibiotics respond well to them. So we've had quite a bit of success in the fight against mortality. It wasn't easy: being a surgeon without being a doctor, making a diagnosis, taking risks. But all this was better than doing nothing. Once, an insurgent came to me with a bullet fragment stuck in his temporal bone, right next to his right eye. The wound was already several days old and heavily festered.

Rusty iron could cause injury to the eyeball. I cleaned the wound and removed the shrapnel using forceps found in car tools. The eye came out. It made me sick I felt weak and my knees buckled beneath me. By pulling back the bloody eyelids, I managed to push the eyeball back into the cavity from which blood and tears flowed. With a last effort of will, I put on a bandage and gave him an injection of penicillin. I was convinced that after my "procedure" the Yemenite would lose vision in his right eye. I lit a cigarette and, for the first time since arriving in Yemen, I felt homesick

a glass of whiskey. After half a year I met my patient. Not only that he saw on

both eyes, but to my surprise he didn't even have a squint! Both women and children endured both wounds and pain

sometimes performed with stoic calm and extraordinary, touching trust. Looking closely at these numerous, innocent victims of Soviet "scientific" methods of waging war against a proud nation fighting for its soul, we felt cold hatred rising within us. Hatred that we will soon be able to release.

86 ABOUT TANK HUNTERS AND THE SOVIET MIRACLE

For a week now, I have been teaching Yemeni warriors how to use "modern" weapons. These weapons were modern only in the Yemeni context: they were neither homing missiles nor radar-guided guns. But in this country, even the bazooka was unusual. And the point was to provide the Imam's warriors with effective anti-tank defense they could finally put up effective resistance not only in the mountains, but also defend valleys and passes.

Major Martin - under the pretense that I was once a high school teacher appointed me me as an instructor of the Yemenis, sweetening this bitter pill with the pompous title of commander

military school. Major Martin wanted me to make good tank hunters out of the Yemenis. Emir Mohammed, a graduate of the British war academy, demanded that I introduce a little

discipline. While the Yemenis, born warriors, quickly grasped everything involved martial art, but discipline was much more difficult.

Our "army" had a small amount of anti-tank weapons. The situation with ammunition was even worse. So I couldn't even afford to have each of my students at least once

he practically tried out the theory that I tried to convey through a translator or in my poor Arabic. I gave test shots with a bazooka or a recoilless gun a reward to those who handled weapons most efficiently and understood the theory best. After a week, I selected fifteen "specialists". To save ammunition, they had to pass the test in combat. *** The whine of the engine and the screech of the tracks on the rocky ground grew louder by the moment. I felt

my stomach cramped and my palms started to sweat. I knew these symptoms. I called it nervousness, not wanting to admit to myself that it was just fear. The tension grew with the noise of the approaching monster. As usual, in such moments you need to control yourself and not think about anything else but the effectiveness of your actions. I looked at my Yemeni students. Three pairs of eyes staring at me. We were lying behind a rocky outcrop, far deep in enemy territory, on a pass,

which the tanks would get close to "our" mountains and hit them with an avalanche of bullets. The night "examination" trip was aimed at hunting one of them. If I succeed my students will gain confidence in the effectiveness of their weapons and will pose a serious threat to the enemy. If I die without destroying the tank - then there is a deeply rooted fear of tanks will increase. We only had one bazooka and only one missile. And so, if you missed, there would be no time for a second shot. Five hours of walking under the cover of darkness. Five hours of climbing and

sneaking around bursting bullets fired blindly: the enemy doesn't

he was sparing ammunition. It was yesterday. We spent the night in a rock cave. Without result.

An enemy column passed: three tanks and a truck carrying infantry. NO We attacked: against such a force we had no chance. We were waiting for a single tank. In vain. We spent the whole day watching the traffic on the pass. Once driving a truck the soldiers offered fire to our crevice. I thought we were detected. But it was a false alarm: the jimuri people returning from the outpost to the city shot just like that: for joy, for cheers. We lived to see dusk and then night. Now the T-34 was approaching with the roar, thud and screech of the T-34.

Single. I have mastered my instinctive fear. Routine won. I inserted the bullet into the pipe bazooka, I connected the electric cable. The Yemenis, on my orders, set up a Soviet one captured light machine gun. It would seem a simple thing: shoot at the tank and blow away. But a shot, even an accurate one, did not necessarily neutralize the crew and their weapons: cannon, machine gun and grenade throwers.

The tank emerged from the darkness. A black, menacing silhouette against the dark blue sky. For the Soviet crew (only the Soviets moved at night) it was routine. No one ever attacked them 87 on their own territory. A black mass of iron rolled through the pass. When the tank

passing fifty meters from our hideout, he gave us a flank - I fired. The bazooka tube threw back a two-meter flame, which illuminated the immediate area, thus giving away our position. A second later, a second flash: the missile hit. The tank stopped. He started

yet and froze. A moment of silence and an explosion. Flames began to lick the sides of the immobilized monster. The fleeing crew was cut down by a series of light machine guns fired by my Yemeni comrades. You had to blow into the mountains.

Three days later, with another trio and in another place, it failed. The bullet destroyed the tracks, but did not destroy the tank. We had to escape under the onslaught of fire. One of mine died Yemenis. I escaped unharmed, although bruised from falling in the rocks. After an hour, mountains

they glowed. As we learned later, the tank was set on fire by the inhabitants of a nearby village on their own initiative, when the crew left it to go for help. They probably had a damaged radio. I have no doubt, knowing Soviet customs, that these tankers were shot for leaving the machine. I destroyed the third tank in a short time. Later it was difficult to set up an ambush. Having learned from experience, the Soviets stopped traveling at night, and during the day they moved only under the cover of infantry. However, my "tank hunters" spread throughout Yemen, and for a long time I heard echoes of their exploits. After a short time, the armor was no longer guaranteed anywhere Soviets the impunity to which they were accustomed. They were now paying with their lives for participating in the invasion of a free country. I was proud that I contributed to it. It was a time of euphoria for me:

finally THEY died at the hands of a Pole. Because, with my usual lack of modesty, I considered the successful actions of my students to be my personal success. ***

On our side, the mountain rose steeply. From the enemy's side, vertically. From ours it was possible to climb to the top with some effort. From the opposing side, it would be a feat

mountaineering. So the mountain was "ours". At its top we had an observation post which reported to us via walkie-talkie all the enemy's movements on "his" vast plain stretching to the horizon. Our mountain made sure that the enemy did not invade our positions. The enemy did not have "his" mountain. Therefore, he placed three tanks opposite, whose task was to guard the mouths of two passes through which our offensive could pour out on both sides of the mountain. The tanks stood there day and night encouraging each other by firing their cannons at our mountain. They were two kilometers from the foot of the slope.

René had gone completely crazy since he was in one of the caves that served as a supply depot

discovered an American 105 caliber recoilless gun. He found twelve cartridges for this gun already before. The gun had neither a sight nor a base. But René insisted on hunting the tank. Although the tanks were out of range of the gun, René slyly noticed that if he fired from the top of our mountain, the several hundred meters difference in levels would play to our advantage. Was

extremely persuasive, and he was also a commander. It was difficult to discuss in these conditions. We started the arduous hike to the top. Fortunately, they carried the cannon and ammunition up the hill

Yemeni soldiers. It was a muggy afternoon when we climbed to the top... The gun was mounted on a tripod from the rangefinder. Binoculars attached with insulating tape half of them pretended to be a gunner. The angle of elevation showed vertical on an ordinary school protractor

made of string and a gun bullet hanging on it. No artillery in the world has ever known such a patchwork. But René was proud of his work. As usual, he appointed me as an observer.

He gave me instructions: "After the shot, observe the site of the explosion and keep a close eye on the tanks. If one fires, you will warn us and we will crouch behind the rock parapet." Indeed, from the side of the enemy 88

the boulders formed a kind of wall, almost a meter high, behind which you could stand hide. I climbed onto the highest rock and lay down on it with binoculars in my hand. "I'm ready" -

I reported. René finished setting up the strange structure made of wires and scotch. He introduced the cartridge and

he signaled me with his hand. There was a boom, and a streak of fire burned the grass several meters behind the gun. After a while, an explosion. "Long three hundred, towards," I report. And suddenly I see a flash from the gun barrel of a Soviet tank. "Take cover," I yell at the top of my lungs. The brave army dived behind the rock. Explosion. In the rock below us. The tanker fired "short hundred, towards". And nothing. The team came out from behind the wall and set up the fallen cannon. Because although it was recoilless, it had enough recoil to make it fall off the right base every time. And nothing. Silence. René gives the signal. Bang. Explosion. "One hundred short, towards" - I report with considerable admiration. And the flash from the T54 barrel. "Take cover!" The shell flew over our heads, howling dismally, and embedded itself in the rock behind us. It is not known why the Soviets used, fortunately for us, anti-tank missiles. René waves his hand at me. The shot and explosion of our missile exactly between two tanks. "On target, still the same," I report.

A flash in the valley and... a bang right next to us, between the rock I was lying on and the wall behind which the team was hiding. The Soviet shell hit straight... into the barrel of our gun. The gun flew several meters backward. There was nothing to collect. We were speechless with astonishment, and a moment later we were rolling on the ground in uncontrollable laughter. "Don't tell anyone this, because no one will believe it," said René. And actually. The chance of aiming at a distance of several kilometers into the barrel of our gun was incomparably smaller than the chance of finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. "But it's a pity," said René. "Just a moment and I would have had one." Our losses: a missing gun, a good field telescope, a futile climb and half a day's time

wasted unnecessarily. Unnecessarily? Thanks to René's persistence, we saw the "artillery miracle". This time, fate was on the Soviets' side.

89 HOTCHKISS-BRANDT50AND COLONEL KOZŁOV At an altitude of nearly two thousand meters above sea level, surrounded by a wreath flat-topped mountains, there was a vast, sun-baked plain. Rarely scattered tufts of yellowed grass do not cover the dirty gray earth, dry and cracked. Every gust of wind stirs up clouds of dust, which fall and cover the remains of anemic vegetation. It is neither steppe nor desert. The yellow-gray plane is crossed by the main trade route, stretching from Aden to Saudi Arabia. In the middle of the plain - surrounded by an ancient terracotta-colored defensive wall -

stands the capital of Yemen: Sana'a. The city - like all defensive strongholds - is compact and tight.

Outside the walls, empty space around. And only on the road leading west to the port city Hoddeidah is filled with smoke from the chimneys of the power plant whose diesel generators supply the city with electricity

electric. A single airport runway runs diagonally north of the city. City it sat down in the only place on the entire plain where water collected under a thick layer of crusty earth. Therefore, for centuries, caravans of merchants heading to Jeddakh and Taif, as well as pilgrims going to holy Mecca, stopped here. Now the city was almost under siege: the way south to Aden,

the royalists surrounded it so densely that the reds long ago gave up all attempts to break through in this direction. To the north, their power ended just a dozen or so kilometers beyond the airport. Only the road west to the port of Hoddeidah was still open, and all the city's supplies flowed through. The mountains around us were ours. Just a gloomy postTurkish fort on the top of Jebel el Nogum51 by ł

garrisoned by the Reds and defended the city from the east. Nogum was there for us unreachable, because the only way to the sloping mountain was from the capital city at its foot. It is the only mountain in the hands of the regime troops, and the only one that almost touches the city. Once upon a time, the Turks built a fortress on it, thanks to which they ruled over the city. With the capital hostage, they imposed their power on the entire country. Oh, if only I could take Nogum!

If you don't have what you like... In our hands was the Beni Matar mountain range, inhabited by a highlander tribe of the same namee52. G The people of Beni Matar have long since left their villages, which cling to the mountains like swallows' nests to the eaves of a peasant's cottage. Never, even when an Egyptian army of one hundred thousand men spread the red plague throughout the country, did the Beni Matar betray the king. Out of revenge, Soviet pilots destroyed villages with missiles. The highlanders left their burned houses, but they did not surrender the mountains to the enemy. The rest were free. Even now, their villages, although burned, retain their picturesque character. The inhabitants lived in caves, of which there are plenty here. Most found refuge at Jebel Tahir. A large rock, flat at the top, over a hundred meters high, hung over the gorge

50 Hotchkiss-brandt - French heavy mortar 120 mm. A fantastic weapon for those times. Even today, 20 years later, it is still the best in the world in its category. While the range of mortars of this caliber, whether American or Soviet, exceeds only 6 km, Hotchkiss has an effective range of 13 km. This mortar has a rifled barrel and the projectile, properly ribbed, is put into rotation when fired. This gives great accuracy and a certain increase in range. Maximum range in classic mortars

is obtained by raising the barrel to 45 degrees. In the Hotchkiss, the barrel elevation for the maximum range is 72 degrees, and the over 15-kilogram projectile fires an additional rocket drive when it is at the apogee of the battle curve /approx. 4000 m/, tilts up to 45 degrees. Operating the mortar is easy. It weighs slightly more than half the weight of its counterparts. It has its own chassis. Shooting required the use of complicated logarithmic tables. Today it is computerized. 51 Jebel el Nogun /Mount Nogum/ - a high, steep peak rising above the capital. The only local mountain that the royalists never managed to conquer. The accessible slope was on the city side. On the top there is an old fort, dating back to Turkish times. Nogum was a great vantage point for our opponents and delivered them insight into our positions.

52 Beni Matar /Synowe Deszczu/ - a range of mountains south-east of the capital and the name of the highlander tribe inhabiting these mountains. The name comes from the fact that rainfall in Beni Matar was much more frequent than in other mountain ranges in the area.

90 a huge eaves creating a safe shelter for women, children and the wounded. Men they were guarding the pass.

The steep, flat-topped mountains of Beni Matar were cut through by several deep gorges. Mountains

washed away by streams, they hung in many places with heavy eaves over the depths of the ravines.

Therefore, the pilots, even the brilliant Soviet pilots, could not inflict serious blows on us. It was in one of these ravines cut by the stream that René installed a mortar. In the cave nearby

we set up a den: René, Jacques and me. Jebel el Houar separated us from the plain where the capital lay and enemy patrols roamed. When I climbed el Houar, led by Sheikh Ahmed of the Boni Matar tribe, I was speechless. The entire valley lay at my feet, and in the middle there was a huge, dirty yellow fort decorated with minarets: Sana'a. A bird's eye view. My eyes reached beyond the city walls, I could make out the outline of the streets and avenues, Sheikh Ahmed was pointing to me

individual buildings: "this is the seat of the government, this is the seat of the party" - he said in broken English. "And this is the avenue of embassies, where the representatives of countries that have recognized the regime are located. Ze

"The Soviet Union at the helm." A predatory smile appeared on René's lips as I told him the story. It was two weeks ago. As a result of my observations, the decision was made to move our mortar to the Beni Matar gorges and place it behind Mount Houar. From here he was to attack the city. He was supposed to replace us

missing aviation and show the enemy that he cannot feel safe even among the walls

the capital. By my calculations, our mortar's range covered three-quarters of the area the city along with part of the airport runway. The vantage point on el Houar provided an opportunity to direct fire that no artilleryman had ever dreamed of. ***

Climbing Jebel el Houar was not easy. The path was downright risky. Of course not it had nothing to do with sport climbing. The one and a half meter long rangefinder on his back, the rifle, the pistol and the water canteen did not allow him to move freely. I swore mainly about the rifle: it was there

superfluous. I had a gun on my belt for my own defense. But in Yemen, a man without a rifle deserved no respect. So we wandered everywhere with rifles. These were great "Hoeckler und Koch" assault rifles of German production and aroused universal admiration. But during mountain trips, they became more and more burdensome with each kilometer traveled. And Sheikh Ahmed, carrying a tripod for a rangefinder and his own Kalashnikov, despite his advanced age, century he set a hellish pace. He jumped barefoot on sharp stones like a chamois and I, the young one, would have been ashamed if I couldn't keep up. At least that's how it was in the beginning. A few days later, the old sheikh bought himself shoes. From then on I could keep up with him easily.

About halfway to the top, a serpentine path wound around the mountain from side of the plain, from the enemy's side. This section was shelled by Soviet tanks. Five

kilometers from el Houar the plain was dotted with a few low rocks. There day and at night there were three to six tanks knocking with guns towards our mountains. Were they shortening their time? Did they give you courage? I don't know. This knocking on the mountains was from a military point of view

waste of ammunition. Or maybe they had to set a standard? Prove with a bang soldier's vigilance? They didn't even have the satisfaction of disturbing me terribly, because they couldn't know it: they couldn't see us. On several hundred meters of the mountain path, the ears hurt from the sound of exploding bullets.

Shards whistled overhead, and stones torn out by the explosion fell at their feet. From time to time From time to time, a boulder rolled down from above, unbalanced for centuries, causing an avalanche she crossed our path. Sometimes a geyser of flames would appear in front of our noses and the smoke would choke us: that's it

The Soviet, for some unknown reason, shot an incendiary bullet. Sheikh Ahmed said: "Inch 91 Allah" and he pushed forward, and I followed him, consoling myself only with the fact that if I got hit, those bastards wouldn't even know about it. How many times I had to travel this route under fire... The characteristic red porphyry rock was the end of the dangerous section. Later we had to do more

exercise to get to the top. But what fun! Rangefinder on a tripod. Radio contact with René. Direction. Distance. The grunt of a gunshot in the gorge. A cloud of extra a rocket fired when the Hotchkiss missile was at its apogee and an explosion moments later. Radio:

"Short three hundred, left seven" - a grunt and an explosion, this time right next to the Soviet tanks. "IN target!" I shout into the radio. Four grunts over and over again behind my back. Four clouds. Four explosions. Between tanks. The steel monsters twitched and moved. They blow! Four more bullets. One of the tanks ran straight into the site of the explosion. It must have stunned the crew, because the tank ran away

a few more meters and he hit a rock. A few more meters and he was hanging over a rocky recess, tilted and fell sideways. Three others fled without waiting for the rest. Fuel was flowing from the lying tank and soaking into the sand. Dusk was falling and I had to go back downstairs to my friends. The next day the turret of the lying tank was open. Did the crew get out on their own, or did a rescue team come under cover of darkness? I don't know. The tank remained as it was. NO

Did I say it was fun? Having got rid of the unpleasant neighborhood, I moved on to the essentials. Measurement. Radio.

Target: Party House. Four bullets to shoot into and... hit the target - I report. René fires a series of twelve shells with varying fuse delays. The first ones broke in the attic, the next in the attic floors. I watched through powerful binoculars as windows flew out of the building, in clouds of smoke explosions were going off. Party members and people in uniforms jumped out of the windows. Soviet ones.

Fun! The next day the signs were crazy. They threw rockets across the ravines. They were shooting at the rocks with cannons

on-board. They flew in threes: two piloted by Soviets and one by a Yemen. You could tell by the class! The Soviet pilots sent to Yemen as instructors were excellent. I watched their acrobatics in difficult mountain terrain with undying admiration. Weapons We didn't have any anti-aircraft weapons - so I only, unfortunately, observed. After they flew away - climbing to Jebel el Houar again. The Party House was still burning out: clouds of smoke were flowing from the windows and holes in the roof. Another bearing with the rangefinder, a short calculation of the angle in

compared to yesterday's direction and the conversation with René - we will attack the seat of government.

Hierarchy preserved: first the party, then the government. Here my role was more difficult. Behind the government building, the historic mosque extended its minaret finger into the sky as a warning. Prince Mohammed

after talks with the chief mullah of Sana, he decided that it was for a holy cause victories over the wicked, the mosque can be damaged, but he asked us very much to do so

everything you can to avoid it. So you had to shoot from the front, taking care not to move. In military dialect this is called "short shot". Normally, after the first short shot, an excessively long shot is fired, and then a medium shot is taken. Places explosions, easily visible to the observer, allow for a fairly error-free calculation of the third shot. Shooting "for a short time" does not provide such opportunities. So the seat of government was hit after the fifth shot. Four were "short", but not all of them were wasted because of this: the first bullet accidentally destroyed a truck full of troops, and the third a militia post. The seat of government fell apart after ten shots. I stopped the fire. It was a waste of ammunition. It was still far from dusk. I suggested to René that he bomb the barracks. He had little ammunition left, but we completely destroyed the barracks of the "pioneers of the revolution". ***

We were waiting for a shipment of ammunition. We passed the time by tending to wounded Yemenis and

treatment of the population. We were approached for help from all the gorges of Beni Matar. Slightly the wounded were brought to us for dressings. We were called for the wounded who were unfit for treatment

92 transport. Soviet pilots bombed a marketplace in one of the valleys, even though there was not a single man there. Only women and children. The trust that the Yemenis had in our knowledge was touching. We did what was possible under such conditions, although there was not a single doctor among us. We admired the fortitude of Yemenis, even small children. Fortitude and extraordinary

pain resistance. And at the same time, we were filled with terror at the sight of an incredible lack

personal hygiene. They never wash! Never! Despite this, thanks to penicillin, the wounds healed admirably well. It was more difficult for us to treat internal diseases, of which there were also many. Every day, accompanied by Sheikh Ahmed, I climbed El Houar Mountain. I did the math

coordinates of future bombing targets. In the evenings, dinner: mutton, chai and a cigarette. And long conversations with friends. Sometimes a game of chess with René, who has learned quite well ever since he read that chess is compulsory in Soviet military academies. play. However, we were not on holiday: war topics dominated the conversations. How

annoy enemies. We were delighted with the great results achieved by our mortar optimism. We could have disorganized life in the capital, we could have thwarted the enemy use of the airport. If only there was ammunition! But the reds brought supplies by road from

west, from the port of Hodeida on the Red Sea. The roads to Hodeida are mortared and closed it didn't work. Slowly, in our evening conversations, an idea grew in us: road transport must be prevented! Prince Mohammed was convinced. He assigned us several hundred warriors and entrusted us

René command. The matter seemed simple: twelve kilometers to the west there was a road across a bridge over a small gorge. The bridge had to be blown up and the mountains destroyed

both sides of the road

fill with soldiers. Their task was to prevent the reconstruction of the bridge. The closure of the Hodeida-San'a road could have been a turning point in the entire war. Capital cut off, without supplies, it could not defend itself for long. ***

We received a shipment of mortar ammunition. That day at dusk we destroyed it municipal power plant. There was darkness in the capital for a moment. Later, electric generators from workshops and factories confiscated by the authorities supplied official buildings with electricity. The next day, René received the emir's permission to attack the Soviet and Egyptian embassies. WITH

I directed the fire with wild joy. We destroyed the Soviet embassy to its foundations. NO I ceased fire even when, by all logic, our shots were not needed. I was afraid that maybe I was overestimating the destruction, that maybe there was still something left from this hornet's nest. I have less concern for the Egyptian embassy. In the process, other agencies were hit as they were located on the same avenue. In the evening we heard on a French radio daily

a message that put us in a great mood: "Due to the safety of staff, diplomatic missions have been evacuated from the capital." I consider the destruction of the Soviet embassy in Sana'a a personal success. I was less happy with the Egyptian one. However, I consider it fair that other embassies were hit "in the process": why was there such a rush to recognize the communist regime imposed by a foreign army? Let's just say it was just a scatter... ***

"Cut the road to Hodeida!" René's plan was right. Thanks to the mortar we could attack the capital, causing panic and a sense of danger there. The prince's spies they reported to us about the effects of the bombing and indicated new targets. Maximum hotchkiss range

allowed fire to cover a significant part of the airport's runway. Part out of reach was sufficient for landing smaller planes, and we had no influence on that. But great

93 Antonov-class transports needed the entire length of the runway. So it was enough to observe landing "Antosia" and hitting the missile at the right moment. One Antoś was so seriously damaged that he was rolled from the lane to the side of the road and remained that way, serving as a guide for me when visibility was poor and... he was hit every time he fired. Antonovs stopped coming. The only connection between the capital and the rest of the world was the road to Hodeida.

The Soviets and their Yemeni students were keeping an eye on this road. At least since side of the capital. It was constantly controlled by infantry and tank patrols. In the rocks above the road

the enemy built machine gun nests. And this was the case for dozens of kilometers. The closer to Hodeida, the weaker the control was. Here the enemy felt more confident, as the tribes

those living on the coast most often cooperated with him. She lived here

people of origin Coptic and Abyssinian, which was a foreign element. Men haven't carried weapons here for a long time. For the Yemeni highlander, this was sure proof of the meanness of the species.

When the prince's council discussed how to cut the supplies to the capital by the road from Hodeida -

Emir Mohammed sent me with Sheikh Ahmed to a meeting of a delegation from one of the tribes

living west of Sana'a. This tribe - previously neutral - joined the royalist army. Our military successes encouraged other tribes to take a clear stand on our side. Among the large thirty-person tribal delegation, I found an old friend, Sheikh Harba'tasz. He was apparently the one who convinced people to come to our website. I brought a delegation to the Emir. Mohammed accepted her very well, gave her a handful of gold and ordered her to hand over her weapons. Sheikh Harba'tash invited her to participate in the council. René later told us that the prince accepted Sheikh Harba'tasz's proposal, which René wholeheartedly supported. Harba'tasz's plan was to reach the road through the ravines, through the mountains

Hodeida - Sana'a forty kilometers west from the capital. There, the enemy, not knowing that the local tribe had already betrayed him, did not guard the road very vigilantly. There was also one of the most sensitive points on the entire route: a concrete viaduct over the gorge. These forty kilometers extended to over one hundred when you walked through the road instead of the road

mountain gorges. It was impossible to use cars here. The prince assigned us camels. The three-day journey on the back of a dromedary will remain in my memory forever. God, how

this beast rocks! Six of us took part in the expedition. With us rode Sheikh Harba'tash and the chief of the newly allied tribe. Eight camels swayed in a steady march. In single file in the gorge, they immediately spread out into a wide fan as the gorge widened into the valley.

None of us knew how to steer a camel and all the advice given to us before the journey was of no use. The camels ran as they wanted. One of them, the most fickle, fell over from time to time to roll in the dust. JeanPierre, who rode him, had to perform miracles of dexterity to avoid being crushed. My cattle had a different vice: they trotted towards predecessor and treacherously pinched his... lower tail with its teeth. The unfortunate creature roared terribly and broke into a gallop, regardless of the protests of Georges, who was riding on him. All in all, we weren't proud of ourselves. Despite the adventures, the caravan reached the place, from where we walked on foot to the Hodeida - Sanaa road.

On May 1, 1968, when the ceremony took place in Moscow on Red Square annual parade, I had the honor and pleasure of pulling the handle of the electric generator: the explosion shook the gorge, the viaduct rose and fell in clouds of dust. Including At that moment, Soviet tanks emerged from around the bend. Fortunately, from Hodeida. A broken viaduct prevented them from pursuing.

94 According to the plan adopted at the prince's council, four hundred new warriors

the allied tribe stayed in the surrounding rocks to prevent the reconstruction of the viaduct with small arms and machine gun fire. The road to Sanaa was cut off. It seemed like a victory

royalists are close.

***

We returned to Beni Matar. The bombardment of Sanaa began again. East of the capital, behind Mount Nogum, our second mortar was placed. From there, another team covered targets we couldn't reach with fire. Sana was literally caught between two fires. The republic began to crumble. ***

High prices were placed on our heads: a million rials per head! For living or dead. The point was to obtain irrefutable proof that the royalists were not fighting alone, and that it was a foreign intervention. About the Egyptian army, which fortunately moved away, and about those still present

Soviet "advisors" handling tanks, aviation and artillery were preferred not to be mentioned. But a group of twenty people fighting on the side of the vast majority of the nation - this was "foreign, imperialist intervention." Our presence became the subject of a political game against the background of clashes between blocs. We were becoming the stakes in this game. Emir Mohammed warned us to be on guard and increased our guards. The USSR and its Third World satellite group unanimously began to protest at the UN against the presence in Yemen of "imperialist

mercenaries in the pay of the CIA". These protests were echoed by the "détente" public opinion in Europe. It seemed that our employer, Saudi Arabia, would succumb to pressure and not renew our contracts. Our contracts were six months long: four and a half months in the field and a month and a half of paid leave in Europe. Travel paid by the employer. This system allowed Saudi to quickly withdraw from the event without terminating current contracts: ours, already renewed three times, were about to come to an end. We were all nervous. Leave Yemen

now that victory was in sight - it meant wasting many months of effort and

skin exposure. *** MiG 21 was flying over the Seher'zad valley. We were driving a jeep in the middle of a bald and empty valley.

Georges turned abruptly behind a rocky outcrop that gave us rather illusory shelter. We were in an unenviable situation. The Mig flew over us and circled a masterfully sharp arc, almost lying on his back. The reflection of the sun in the pilot's window trembled, and the flames of the launched rockets flashed from under the wings. There was a commotion around us and the ground started to burn.

The plane flew by with a bang and was getting ready to fly again. Georges grabbed the rifle machine gunner from the jeep and dived behind the rock. Mig was coming back towards us. Georges started shooting, I handed him tape after tape. It turned out that we were not alone. Streaks of light projectiles appeared from behind a nearby rock and there was the sound of a machine gun barking mixed with volleys of small arms fire. Some unit of Yemeni insurgents was attacking the plane with whatever they could. Mig was coming back. The pilot clearly wanted to finish us off. If the enemy had good intelligence, and we had plenty of evidence for it, the pilot could have guessed from the type of our vehicle that he was dealing with

European advisors, as we knew after masterfully flying the plane we are dealing with a Soviet pilot. Under the foreign sky of Yemen, a Frenchman, a Belgian and a Pole from

on the one hand, and the Soviet pilot on the other, were at war. This had a symbolic meaning for contemporary international relations. But at that moment I didn't think about it

symbols, too concerned to control the fear of the breathing fire

Soviet plane and make sure Georges doesn't run out of ammunition. The jeep and the rocks around were already burning when the stubborn MiG 95

he converted for the fourth time. Did he want to finish the job, or just make sure no one escaped, or did he see the flash of our machine gun fire? He was lying on his side again in elegant tilt, the sun gleaming in the window again. No, it's not the sun! Smoke appeared in the place of the flash!

The plane rocked like a speeding car over bumps, lifted its nose sharply towards the sky, hesitated. and... fell to the ground. Just above the ground, as if the pilot had regained consciousness for a moment, a flash it straightened its flight and it looked like it was going to land. However, he did not extend the landing gear and

we saw him digging a long way through the rocky earth in the valley, raising a cloud of dust. We all ran towards him: the three Europeans and a group of Yemeni rebels who had screamed from behind a nearby rock. Women, children and dogs were running from a nearby village. We reached the plane.

How harmless he seemed now as he lay there with his wing torn off and his lower abdomen crushed. There is a dead body in the cabin in a flight suit. A streak of blood from the mouth and a strangely unnatural hanging head. Widening blue eyes. next to the navigation instruments there is a map case pinned, and incl

maps and documents. The latter shows that the deceased was not just anyone: we hunted down Colonel Kozlov, the head of the Soviet advisory mission to the "people's" republic. List of pilots under his command: thirtysix names. The extent of the Soviet intervention can be gleaned from other documents. We handed over the documents found near Kozłów to the government of Saudi Arabia. These

the evidence of the Soviet presence in Yemen was enough to shut up all those whom our presence here was scandalous. Colonel Kozlov saved our contracts. Twice as fond of him I mention: firstly, because he allowed himself to be killed, which is extremely nice when it comes to a Bolshevik, and secondly, because, due to the lack of revolutionary vigilance, he gave us invaluable arguments for our further participation in the war. And it doesn't matter whether Georges or our Yemeni friends shot him down.

96 THE GENERAL WHO TREATED The general who betrayed was named Kassim Monassir. He was the chief of the Had'shuf tribe,

whose territory extended northeast of Mount Nogum, and which, like a gigantic watchtower, stood above the capital. On its top, an old fort built by the Turks served the enemy as a great observation point. But the mountains scattered beyond Nogum belonged to Kassim Monassir. I didn't know him personally, but I owe him a sleepless night despair and dilemma.

Kassim Monassir was the family sheikh of his tribe. When the reds took power in

capital, he did as other sheikhs of neighboring tribes did: he started fighting. He fought first against Nasser's expeditionary force, and later against the "people's" army of the republic led by Soviet advisers. Unlike other sheikhs, however, he was an excellent commander. Therefore, he quickly gained enormous prestige and respect. Some neighboring tribes submitted to him. When the Imam's nephew and representative, Emir Mohammed, and his brothers returned to Yemen, Kassim already had such importance that it was impossible to treat him like an ordinary sheikh and subordinate him to one of the princes. So Prince Mohammed was cautious

confirmed his authority over the army and the area he de facto already ruled. To capture him, he even gave him the title of "general", a title that had not existed in Yemen before, and which elevated him above other sheikhs and made him, as it were, equal to princes. Emir Mohammed's three younger brothers commanded three different sectors of the front,

three, as they say, theaters of war. Fourth was Kassim Monassir. Mohammed was in command

whole. Each of the princes had a team of European advisers, who were responsible not only for providing advice on military matters, but also for ensuring radio communication.

between individual staffs, training Yemeni warriors in the use of modern military equipment, and finally operating a Hotchkiss. As "equal "princes", General Kassim Monassir was also assigned a five-man team. And to make things even, he was also assigned one of our wonderful mortars. This mortar was supposed to cover with fire that part of the capital that was inaccessible to us from Beni Matar.

The team of advisors, or rather the mortar operator, included Ludgier W.

I met Ludgier when he came to Poland as a seventeen-year-old boy émigré high school in Les Ageux near Paris, where I was a teacher for several years. Ludgier's parents emigrated with their daughter to the United States. Older brothers, too graduates from Les Ageux stayed in Paris. Ludgier, a witty and cheerful boy, was not

devoid of complexes. He studied badly. I helped him as much as I could by tutoring him.

We became friends and Ludgier, after passing his high school exams, often came to see me. When I went to war in the Congo in 1965, to my surprise he joined me after a few months Ludgier. He surprised me greatly with this. Ludgier was nothing of a soldier, much less an adventurer. This huge and strong guy was actually as gentle as a lamb. Fearing that I would dissuade him, he did not write to me and did not share his intention to come to the Congo. He knew that I was the battalion commander here, so right there he asked for permission to contact me. From then on he shared my misfortunes and misfortunes. I admit that, as the commander, I tried to expose the boy to as little risk as possible. Maybe it was unfair to others

subordinates, but I explained to myself that Ludgier lacked this one an additional chance that others had, which was provided by military experience. We returned to Europe together.

When I left for Yemen, I knew that Ludgier was suffering in Paris and counting on me anything to bring him back. The opportunity came only a year later. Our contracts called for 97

six weeks' holiday in each six-month contract period. In practice, generous Saudi Arabia paid us six weeks of leave at four and a half weeks months of presence on the front. So after less than a year, I went on holiday to Europe for the second time. Our stock was diminished as some of the oldest had passed away. Major Martin recommended that I do so

he brought in some trustworthy colleagues. I was very honored by this task because how

Obviously, there were few places in Yemen and plenty of people willing to go. Being loyal to mine

French friends, I agreed with René and Georges that I would bring Ludgier, whom they already knew from the Congo, and another Pole, unknown to them. And that's how it happened. Ludgier found himself in Yemen. Of my own free will, but this time not without my participation. So it was no wonder that I trembled at the thought that something bad might happen to him. I considered myself as his older brother and felt responsible for him. With Kassim Monassir, Ludgier was relatively safe. His

the facility was located in a place well hidden from Soviet aviation, and The "general's" disciplined troops guaranteed that the enemy would never reach the cave where the five of us lived. Ludgier visited me sometimes. Sometimes I managed to go

"on business" to visit him. Tanned and in a great mood, Ludgier not only dealt with the equipment, which was his main role, but also made great efforts to diversify the team's daily "lamb menu". He even tried, as a true Pole, drinking alcohol from raisins bought at the market, and what's more, drinking it in a fuel can, which was good washed, but still smelling like a gas station on a hot day. Until one afternoon - a bolt from the blue! Our Yemenis, listening to the clamor

transistor radios, run excitedly from group to group, discussing heavenly. Because in this crazy country you never know what might happen, a God protects the one who is guarded, so we became very interested in the cause of the confusion. Soon it became known what had so excited our warriors: the "people's" radio daily reported from the capital that "General" Kassim Monassir had defected to the Reds with his army. As I have already mentioned, millions of dollars in bounties were placed on our heads. Kassim moving to the page

the enemy had a huge advantage: five European advisers and a French modern mortar. For him, it was a bargaining coin of great importance, for which he could obtain promises of dignities and privileges, and it is known that he was an ambitious man. We knew that our colleagues would face a terrible fate, that perhaps we would see their heads on stakes driven in front of the capital's walls. No one expected mercy from the Reds, and no one in Yemen had heard of the Geneva Convention.

Ludgier! For God's sake, why Ludgier? I grabbed our translator and forced him to listen to the "red" radio and repeat to me everything he heard on it. In the meantime, our troops, neighboring the "general's" army, confirmed the news. The front line has moved. Can anyone be surprised that I didn't sleep that night? I must admit that all my colleagues were watching with me, all equally moved by the event, all equally concerned about fate our unfortunate five. And it's been like that since the morning. Coffee and listening to the radio, listening to the radio and tea. Nothing about ours colleagues. Kassim is welcomed by the government in the capital. Kassim is the hero of the day. Kassim was received by the Prime Minister. And o

ours are deaf. We had the worst suspicions. Maybe they were murdered? Maybe they torture them? Maybe they will kill them quietly so as not to cause international protests? Maybe they will send them to the Soviets? A cloud of dust on the road in the morning. Jeeps. Where do the jeeps come from? We weren't expecting anyone. They're getting closer

now, you can already see familiar faces. In the first Ludgier car. He sees me. Something shouts from a distance, which is drowned out by the roar of the engines. I run towards the column. I fall over and jump up again I'm running...

***

98 The general who betrayed the prince was named Kassim Monassir. I will not forget this name Never. Why did he cheat? I don't know. Perhaps one of the princes had offended him. Maybe he decided that a republic would give him more scope to show off his actions than a monarchy. Or maybe he planned it from the beginning and fought just to sell it for a higher price? It's not for me to judge. But I can't ignore the matter

the most important thing. Why didn't the general betray his European advisors when he betrayed the prince? Why, on that fateful day when he defected to the enemy, did he send a messenger to them with urgent advice: "Run!" and gave orders that they should not be disturbed in their escape? Why did he let them take his weapons and equipment? Why did he deprive himself of such a strong card in his political game? The general betrayed the prince. But Arab ethics did not allow him to betray the people who ate his bread. Once again the sacred law of hospitality was in full force.

This is why a general who betrayed his prince will go to the Muslim paradise warriors and the houris will entertain him for all eternity. Allah Akhbar. Allah is great! ***

My dear friend, Ludgier, died a few years ago in Paris after a long and serious illness. We remember him often and with regret. Me and my friends. The dogs of war howl for a long time when someone from their pack leaves.

99 WITH A GUN AND A BIBLE There was silence in the dentist's waiting room, punctuated by the occasional groan

flowing from

office. It didn't have a good effect on my well-being. I started looking through the newspapers scattered on the table. I have never been able to understand why the letters in doctors' waiting rooms are always old and selected as if the doctors' clientele consisted exclusively of cooks. From a pile of magazines devoted to fashion, life at princely courts and gossip about famous stars films, I pulled out a worn-out old issue of the Parisian illustrated weekly "Paris Match". I was glad. Although the magazine does not shy away from sensationalism, it also publishes a lot of great reports from all over the world. There were two other people in the waiting room before me. I started browsing "Paris Match" in search of an article that would interest me enough to make me forget about both the toothache and the experience awaiting me in the dentist's chair. I flipped through a few pages and froze: Jean Kay was looking at me from a large photo in the magazine. Against the background of some Indian pagoda, he looked unseeing looking into the lens. The shaved head and emaciated figure looked more like an Indian monk than my former comrade-in-arms from Yemen. The dentist's waiting room is gone. Deaf to the moans coming from the office, I delved into it

memories. Jean-Kay! I met Jean in Yemen. In 1967 we lived for some time under... in a common tent, we shared canned food, fleas and cigarettes. Jean was an intelligent man with great charm. Even then he had clear tendencies towards mysticism. Mystic soldier? Such the association is more common than you might think. Jean believed that evil should be fought with weapons in hand. In the evenings, with the lights turned off, he spent a long time convincing me that people

Those with a bit of courage must not "look and remain silent", accepting harm and evil. From an early age, Jean demanded a lot from others, but still

more from yourself. He was demanding of others

loyalty and courage. Outright heroism and sacrifice. He never talked about his life, about women, about his numerous journeys. We knew that he had experienced a lot, seen a lot, and thought even more. An idealist like him, with a penchant for sacrifices, could equally well become a missionary monk treating lepers or a terrorist. planting bombs in the name of a "just" cause. He was saved from this by his exuberant, extreme individualism, which did not allow him to believe in anything that others suggested to him. Hence his elemental hatred of communism, which preaches collectivism, which is so contrary to his nature as an individualist.

Born in Algeria, as a young boy he experienced the terrible civil war there. He even took part in it at the end as an eighteen-year-old volunteer. When de Gaulie conceded to Algeria independence, Jean, like many other young ideologists, allowed himself to be drawn into the ranks of the OAS53 . J as a radiocommunications specialist, he broadcasts pirate, anti-government broadcasts on Radio France. It costs him eight months in prison. His time is filled with reading Brasillach, Drieu la Rochelle, Celinea54 i Malraux. These readings were to have a strong influence on the attitude of the future mercenary. After leaving prison, he seeks refuge in Francoist Spain, where some of the former OAS leaders had already found asylum. The Spanish episode lasts long, too long for our friend's liking. One of his colleagues is in Yemen. Jean goes there too. 53 OAS - Organization de l'Armée Secréte. A secret organization that was created to defend French Algeria. De Gaulle came to power in France when it turned out that the governments of the Fourth Republic were unable to resolve the Algerian conflict. De Gaulle had the trust of the military and the population of French Algeria, as well as that part of the indigenous population that linked their fate with France. Everyone felt betrayed when de Gaulle began negotiations that ended with the signing of the Evian Agreement granting independence to Algeria.

54 Brasillach, Drieu la Rochelle and Céline - three "cursed" writers. The first two presented, each in their own way, the ideology of the extreme French right, which had been completely disgraced by its collaboration during the war.

However, the more or less compromising behavior of authors does not detract from the value of their works. The third one, Céline, was known before the war for his sharp criticism of leftist intellectual comfort. He also voiced anti-Semitic theses, which was enough to make him a fascist in the post-war years, which he never was.

100 He irresistibly reminded us of the figure of a medieval monk-knight or the Don Quixote, and without Sancho Panza watching over him. When the war in Yemen ended and

we returned to Europe, and for a short period Kay's studio apartment in the Latin Quarter of Paris was a meeting place for friends and an occasional lodging house. Later, Jean Kay disappeared from my sight for a long time. I heard that he went to Lebanon, where he put all his military knowledge at the service of Christian Phalangists. He returned to Paris with his wife, a beautiful young Lebanese woman named Seta, and soon became the father of a little girl, Emanuela. Jean seemed to have settled down. A friend of mine moved into his studio apartment in the Latin Quarter. The Kays moved into a small apartment nearby. Life is life and our contacts became more and more sporadic. I dropped in from time to time to chat, but Jean became less and less sociable, lost in thought, and answered in a low voice. So I went there less and less often. I knew he had started writing memoirsa55.

The year 1971 came. The media was full of news from Bangladesh. After second World War II, this country was incorporated into Pakistan as the so-called East Pakistan. In 1970, it rebels and secedes from Pakistan. The Pakistani army is waging a bloody war of intervention, resulting in the deaths of over a million people and the country suffering from famine. French television

alerts society. Andre Malraux, a famous writer, then Minister of Culture and de Gaulle's friend, calls on the French to come to help. The illustrated weekly magazines are full of them

shocking photos. Help is being organized slowly. Too slow. Alarming news from Bangladesh suggests that this slow aid will arrive too late. There are no medicinal products. IN There are epidemics in Bangladesh. The neighboring countries, themselves in poverty, cannot, or perhaps do not want to,

provide assistance.

Suddenly, the TV news reports sensational news: at the Orly airport near Paris an armed pirate terrorized the plane's crew and, in exchange for releasing the hostages, demands that the plane be loaded with medicines intended for Bangladesh. The pirate intends to deliver medicine to the dying inhabitants of a distant country. The pirate threatens that the small black suitcase he brought on board contains a bomb capable of blowing up the plane. All radio dailies report in

a few hours later that various charities had started collecting. The first shipments of medicines arrive at Orly. Finally in the evening it was revealed that the pirate was former mercenary Jean Kay.

Trucks bring medicines. Loading begins. Instead of airport workers, policemen dressed as workers carry the medicine boxes on board. Scrambling. A shot is fired. Jean Kay is overpowered. He shot at a policeman. Fortunately, the bullet got stuck in the bulletproof vest. To everyone's surprise, the police found not a bomb in that black suitcase, but... the bible. Jean found himself in prison, but his deed was not in vain. The plane loaded with several dozen tons of medicines flew to Bangladesh. At that time, I often visited Seta, his wife, and asked how I could help. She asked for help in mobilizing public opinion in defending Jean. However, it happened without my help. The public was impressed by the courage and selflessness of this pale, slender young man with a sad, thoughtful look shown on television. The best defender was Malraux himself. He spared no effort whatsoever

influence, and he had enormous influence, so when the day of the trial came after eight months, the opinion came

public found a new hero. Newspapers reported that in Dacca, the capital of Bangladesh one of the streets was named after Jean Kay. Malraux himself appeared at the trial. He said that who knows, if he were younger he wouldn't have done the same thing. The main accusation: shooting at a policeman, was downplayed by the victim himself. The policeman, looking at the accused with visible friendship and even admiration, stated that in his opinion the shot was fired accidentally, in the confusion. IN In these conditions, the court took into account mitigating circumstances and issued a suspended sentence. Jean

55 Jean Kay published a total of two books, with a small circulation: "With Weapons in the Heart" and "Madmen of War". The first one, more intimate, combines personal memories with the author's reflections. The second one is a kind of apology for the world of mercenaries.

101 he was released. He soon disappeared from Paris. His wife, black-haired Seta, and baby Emanuella also disappeared. For a long time there was no mention of a romantic highwayman. We slowly forgot about him. Sometimes

it only came back in friends' conversations when, over a glass of wine, we recalled old times, perhaps dangerous and difficult, but so fabulously colorful. The prevailing opinion was that the police managed to incapacitate Jean only because he was alone and exhausted from the prolonged stress he had endured.

required simultaneously controlling the area around the plane and guarding the hostages. If he allowed it

to the secret of one of us! No one would refuse to help him! But Jean Kay stayed

as he had been all his life: a loner. Or maybe he was afraid of our irony? In our In the environment of "tough people", there were only two acceptable reasons to risk one's skin: money or an idea. Jean acted out of pity. And he never guessed that beneath the apparent rudeness of his friends he would find more understanding than anywhere else, in any other place. environment.

And we forgot about him again. Busy professionally, exhausted by gray civilian life

we met less and less often, instinctively defending ourselves against falling into the "veteran complex". We had no information about some of our comrades. We didn't talk about them. Maybe because we were subconsciously convinced that they, somewhere in the wide world, they continue the Great Adventure. When such a thought dawned on us, we were filled with jealousy, which we did not

we wanted to confess. Each of us experienced our own, private "farewell to arms" in our own way, but always tragically. The year 1976 came. In July, the famous "Dassault scandal" broke out, named after the famous French aircraft designer and billionaire. Marcel Dassault's right-hand man and his financial representative, Hervé de Vathaire, embezzled eight million francs in strange circumstances. De Vathaire testified at his trial that he gave this sum in exchange for something compromising

papers to a man named Jean Kay. Marcel Dassault refused to file a complaint not only against his employee but also against the alleged blackmailer. This strange case has never been fully explained. It would seem, and this is what some of the press highlighted at the time, that our old friend had turned bad, acquired a considerable fortune by blackmail, and was living a merry life somewhere in South America. Among us who knew Jean, this version did not Good luck. We were probably sniffing out some kind of political scandal. Marcel Dassault was a man known for his kindness, but not to the point of not contributing

complaints against the embezzler who betrayed him and the blackmailer who robbed him of a considerable sum, even for a billionaire. Article

read in the dentist's waiting room confirmed my belief even more that it couldn't be like that: the "Paris Match" reporter found Kay not in a luxury hotel in Rio de Janeiro, but in a miserable mud hut in the poorest part of India. Without a trace of money and wealth. So I guess our version was right. We assumed from the beginning that Jean Kay took the money not for himself. Most likely, he used this sum to buy weapons for Lebanese Christians, supported by Israel and threatened by Muslim fanatics. Then it stops be strange that Dassault did not file a complaint. Presumably the whole thing was planned from start to finish. If Dassault wanted to help Lebanese Christians, he, a billionaire and a Catholic of Jewish origin, he could not do it openly in the era of the ban on the export of foreign exchange from France, and especially when Dassault planes were purchased mostly by Arab countries. What's easier than getting robbed? And who should be entrusted with mediation if not a dedicated person? a trusted employee, such as Vathaire was considered to be. And who better to handle the purchase of the weapons honestly and deliver them to the right address than Jean Kay?

Is Jean Kay still alive in India? Has he finally found peace of mind by delving into meditation in a country where this does not surprise anyone, and where the search for the meaning of life still arouses respect, not ridicule?

102 A FAREWELL TO ARMS Today, Parisian newspapers advertise tourist trips to northern Yemen. French-

an American consortium has discovered enough crude oil to be profitable exploitation quantities. Luxury hotels in Sanaa await tourists. French writing economic reports that Yemen is equipping itself with modern computers. My robbers, with curves daggers on their belts, are an attraction for visitors. Folklore! ***

When we left this country in late December 1969, the mood was grim. Firstly we were warned that the contracts expiring in February 1970 would not be renewed, and a few days later that... they were terminated. Oh, we weren't harmed! Saudi Arabia paid us every penny what we were owed until the end of our contracts. But we were resentful of having to leave when victory seemed close. We were afraid they would stay the wasted fruits of our activity, that our effort, our fear, our sweat and our wounds, Georges' death - that it will all be in vain. We were also afraid for our highlander warriors who stayed here. We were afraid for this beautiful, wild country because everyone knew what it was communism and how its introduction ends. We were suffocated by the feeling that the moment had come

farewell to arms. ***

In Europe, fate quickly separated us. Some went into civilian life, others were looking for more

adventures. Did they find them? I don't know. I was among the first ones.

With regret. But

I was forced by family circumstances. For three and a half years I fought against Bolshevism there It was possible to fight. I was injured three times. I came close to death several times at close range. But these were undoubtedly my most beautiful years. Years of living to the fullest, years of feeling like fighting according to your conscience. ***

Balance? Congo is today called Zaire. Mobutu's dictatorship "is far from exemplary democracy." But huge deposits of uranium, cobalt, copper and diamonds are not good for the Reds. W

To some small extent, this is also my contribution. If only my entire activity could be reduced to pricking a pin. "A million pin pricks will kill an elephant," Mao said. So let everyone grab a pin and prick! In Yemen, both warring sides reached an agreement. We didn't know that when we left this country

negotiations had been going on for months. Yemen remained a republic. But not communist. In early 1970, Soviet "advisors" were expelled. The Soviet base in Hodeida was closed. IN July of that year, North Yemen resumed diplomatic relations with the United States and

he got help from them. 300,000 refugees from Southern, "people's" Yemen arrived that same year. in 1979, South Yemen invaded North Yemen, trying it join by force /like Korea, where it failed, or Vietnam, where, unfortunately, it succeeded/. Three hundred million dollars in military aid from the US. The invasion collapsed. Assassinations state. The country is "far from being a model of democracy." But he is free. And he has a future ahead of him. And in this there is also my little contribution.