Free Kruger's Alp by Christopher Hope Page B

dream.
    â€˜I am as much in the dark as you are,’ Lynch said with a complete lack of sincerity. ‘Now I must go. I’m not long for this world.’
    â€˜So you’ve said,’ Blanchaille remarked sceptically.
    â€˜Can’t be said often enough. Only this time I say it in hope. This time before the shades come down I see a gleam of something that may be –’
    â€˜Light?’ Blanchaille put in helpfully.
    â€˜Gold!’ said Lynch, ‘and the deliriously exciting perception that history, or what passes for such in this dust-bin, may just be about to repeat itself. Remember, Theodore, red and yellow neon, Airport Palace – don’t delay.’ And with a grin the little priest stepped out into the darkness.

CHAPTER 3
    Now in my dream I saw Blanchaille set off early in one of those typical highveld dawns, a sky of light blue plated steel arcing overhead. He wore old grey flannels and a white cotton jacket, grunting beneath the weight of his three bulky tartan suitcases well strapped, belted around their fat middles in thick-tongued fraying leather. He slipped quietly out of the house and set off down the dirt road. But Joyce, who was sleeping rolled in a blanket by the embers of the night fire, had sharp ears and shouted after him. This woke Makapan who was dozing behind the wheel of his motor car. Both came running after Blanchaille: ‘What’s this? Where are you going?’
    â€˜Somewhere where you won’t be able to bother me.’
    â€˜But are you going for good?’
    â€˜For good.’
    â€˜You’re running away then?’ There was a jeering note in Makapan’s voice. His eyelashes were crusted with sleep.
    Blanchaille nodded. ‘As fast as I can.’
    Joyce said; ‘Father won’t get very far, those cases are too heavy. He’ll have to walk slowly.’
    â€˜I expected you to stand and fight at least,’ said Makapan.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ Joyce asked.
    â€˜I don’t know yet.’
    Joyce became rather excited. Grasping one of the heavy suitcases Blanchaille held she tried to help him, half hobbling and half running alongside him. ‘Are you going overseas?’
    Blanchaille nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
    Makapan lumbered up. ‘That’s nonsense, man. You’re starting to talk politics again. We’re not that badly off. We’re not finished. Even the Americans think there’s life in us yet. I saw only yesterday in the paper how their Secretary for State for Political Affairs came all this way to tell us that it will come right in the end, that we’re getting better all the time, that we will give political rights to other groups when the time is right, that we will be saved. There is no threat, not outside nor in, that our armed forces cannot handle. Even at the time of the Total Onslaught we hold our own. I assure you myself, and I am a captain in the Signals Corps. You do yourmilitary duty – even if it does sometimes harm your career prospects. My fight with you is religious, not political . . .’
    Blanchaille understood this qualification.

    In the time of the Total Onslaught of course everyone was in the armed services. For many years a quarter of a million young men capable of bearing arms were on active service or on reserve or in training. All immigrants were called up. However, the Regime decided this base was not sufficient and announced a plan to push this figure to one million men, by drafting individuals, old and young, who for various reasons had been overlooked in the years of the huge defence build-up. In a total white population of little over five million, this force represented a great army, at least on paper, able surely to withstand the Total Onslaught. However, it was also a considerable drain on the available workforce. The army had an insatiable appetite for more men because even the best strategic planners could not predict where the