Die Veld
Reën. Die seun glimlag soos net 'n seun kan glimlag. Hy het die eerste en enigste doel aangeteken. Hy lê nou met sy gesig na bo in die modder wat in 'n dik en taai druppel deur die voete van die spelers om die doel gestamp word. Die reëngewaste klinknaels, skoon strepe spoel die vuilheid van sy gesig af tot in sy ore, demp die geluide - geluide van sy pa wat hom langs die kantlyn opbeur. Sy knieë was seer en het gebloei weens die nadraai van die hewige gestampery wat hom laat val het. Die aanval het gekom van die grootste seun in die teenspan van die ander stad, 'n bekende boelie. | •1• | Rain. The boy smiled as only a boy could smile. He’d scored the first and only goal. He now lay face up in the mud pounded into thick and sticky ooze by the booted feet of players around the goal. The rain-washed rivulets, clean streaks washed the dirt from his face to well into his ears, dampening the sounds – sounds of his father on the sidelines cheering him on. His knees were sore and bleeding from the after-effects of the violent push that caused him to fall. The attack had come from the largest boy on the rival team from the other town, a well-known bully. |
Reën. Modder. Geen pyn as sy bloed vermeng en versprei in die modderige poel waarin hy lê nie. | •2• | Rain. Mud. No pain as his blood mingled and dispersed into the muddy pool in which he lay. |
Reën. Modder. Bloed. Glimlag. “Wat de joos grinnik jy voor?” het die geneesheer op 'n uitgeputte, maar vriendelike toon geknor. Dit was 'n ewespieël van sy vader se liefdevolle tugtiging om sy nuwe sokkeruniform op die skoolveld met modder te besmeer, maar tog 'n stem vol trots. “Ja, sy seun, sy seun het die wendoel behaal.” | •3• |
“What the bloody hell are you grinning at?” the medic snarled in an exhausted but friendly tone. It was a mirror of his father’s loving chastisement for muddying up his new soccer uniform on the school playing field, yet a voice full of pride. “Yes, his boy, his son had scored the winning goal.” |
| Reën. Modder. Bloed. Glimlag. Pyn. 'n Tweede geneesheer het met 'n toerniket waansinnig die arteriële vloeiende bloed afgeknyp van die gebreekte linkerknie van die jongman wat hulle versorg het. Koeël en skrapnel het die lug voortdurend deurboor, maar nou minder akkuraat en van verder weg. Die handgranaat wat deur die jong soldaat gegooi is net voordat hy getref is, het sy doel getref en die masjiengeweernes uitgehaal wat sy span so bekommerd gemaak het, en hul oorwinning verhoed het. Nou was dit hulle s'n, syne. | •4• | Rain. Mud. Blood. Smile. Pain. A second medic frantically tightened a tourniquet staunching the arterial blood that gushed from the shattered left knee of the young man they tended. Bullet and shrapnel continually punctured the air but now less accurate and from further away. The grenade thrown by the young soldier just before he was struck down had scored, taking out the machine gun nest that had so worried his team, preventing their victory. Now it was theirs, his. |
Reën. Modder. Bloed. Glimlag. Pyn. Opoffering. | •5• | Rain. Mud. Blood. Smile. Pain. Sacrifice. |