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Papawers oorkant die kloof


'n Man met dunner grys hare het regop op die houtbank gesit, wagtend en hopend dat hy nie verkeerd verstaan is nie. Dit was geniepsig koel - die puntige wit monument wat in die verte as 'n stom herinnering gestaan het, het 'n koue rilling deur sy tenger liggaam gestuur - kouer as die wind. Die Groot Oorlog het hulle dit genoem…
 
•1•
A man, thinning gray hair sat erect on the wooden bench, waiting, hoping that he hadn't been misunderstood. It was chilly – the distant pointed white monument that stood in dumb remembrance sent a chill through his frail body, colder than the wind. The Great War they'd called it…
 

'n Ander man kom nader en loop met 'n kierie wat sy effe mankheid ondersteun. Ten spyte van die ongemaklike loopgang, het sy elke tree 'n militêre waardigheid gehad. Hy gaan sit langs die eerste. Hulle staar in stilte na die verre monument - in herinnering. Hulle het die afgelope 50 jaar nog nie ontmoet nie. Sommige sou dit 'n wonderwerk noem.
 
•2•
Another man approached, walking with a cane supporting his slight limp. Despite the awkward gait, his walk carried a military bearing. He sat down next to the first. They stared in silence at the distant monument - remembering. They had not met in 50 years to the day. Some would call it a miracle.
 

Frankryk 1917


Slegs die dik koue modder van die loopgrawe het die geluid van inkomende bomme gedemp. "O God, nie weer nie." Dit was die gebed van 732 mans wat nog lewendig was ná die laaste bombardement.
 
•1•
Only the thick cold mud of the trenches dampened the sound of incoming shells. "Oh God, not again." It was the prayer of 732 men still left alive after the last bombardment.
 


"Wanneer sal dit ophou?" prewel die jong privaat vir homself. Stroompies van reën of trane loop oor sy jeugdige gesig. Niemand kon hom sien of hoor nie; hy't ook nie omgee al sou hulle kon. Almal het dieselfde gevoel. Elkeen het verdrink in hul eie vrese. Iewers weergalm daar 'n harde fluitjie wat die vrees diep in die soldaat se gedagtes binnedring. Dan, in 'n stiller, byna sagte toon, 'n kenmerk wat nog nooit voorheen in enige RSM* gesien is nie: "Rawlins, jong, dit is tyd. Gryp jou geweer. Jy en die jongmense gaan boonop. Sê jou gebede as jy moet. " Rawlins het sedert die laaste golf nie meer ophou bid nie. Die RSM draai weg, sy stem blêr nou na die res van die jong mans. "Bestendig!" skree die RSM: "Hou koers, makkers."

*RSM=Regiment Sersant-Majoor
 

•2•
"When will it stop?" the young private muttered to himself. Rivulets of rain or tears ran down his youthful face. No one could see him or hear him; he didn't care if they could. All felt the same. Each was drowning in their own fears. Somewhere a loud whistle sounded, penetrating the fear deeply entrenched in the soldier's mind. Then, in a quieter, almost gentle tone, a trait unheard of in any RSM before now, "Rawlins, lad, it's time. Grab your rifle. You and the lads are going over the top. Say your prayers if you have to." Rawlins hadn't stopped praying since that last wave. The RSM turned away, his voice now blaring at the rest of the young men. "Steady!" the RSM yelled, "Steady lads."
 

Die oomblik toe die RSM 'n stilte in die bombardering raaksien, blaas hy sy fluitjie. Een skerp oor-verdowende geluid weergalm deur die loopgraaf. Dit lyk asof  'n eggo die oproep tot aksie van 250 meter modder, been, doringdraad en verrottende vleis herhaal.
 
•3•
The moment the RSM detected a lull in the shelling, he blew his whistle. One sharp ear-splitting sound reverberated through the trench. An echo seemed to repeat the call to action from across 250 yards of mud, bone, barbed wire, and rotting flesh.
 

Terwyl elke jong man op 'n kru houtleer tot op die rand van die loopgraaf klim, klap die doodsgerammel van masjiengewere hul dodelike lied van albei kante af. Dit was al twee weke so, en geen kant het veld gewen nie, maar net jong, hoopvolle lewens.
 
•4•
As each young man climbed a crude wooden ladder to the lip of the trench, the death rattle of machine guns tapped out their deadly song from both sides. It'd been like this for two weeks, neither side giving ground, just young, hopeful lives.
 

Rawlins en sy kamerade was verplig om ongemaklike vriendskappe en kwaai lojaliteite te skep wat net in die geveg gegenereer word terwyl hulle gekoes en ontduik het, terwyl hul stewels onseker gly. Draad met verroeste weerhakke het die onversigtige gevang en eweneens uniform en vlees verslind.
 
•5•
Rawlins and his comrades were forced into uneasy friendships and fierce loyalties that are only generated in battle as they weaved and dodged, their boots slipping uncertainly. Wire with rusting barbs caught the unwary, tearing at uniform and flesh alike.
 

Hier - en daar het blomme van jong manlikheid het hulself onwillig in die modder geplant. Sommige het op die koeël geval - ander wat nog leef, duik in die modder van bomgate wat die swart bloed van die dood uitstraal, maar 'n mate van beskerming gee. Nog onaangeraak het ander vorentoe gehardloop, alhoewel hulle nou minder was - Rawlins was onder hulle.
 
•6•
Here – and there, flowers of young manhood planted themselves unwillingly in the mud. Some fell to the bullet – others still living dived into the mire of shell holes that oozed the black blood of death but gave some protection. Yet others untouched ran forward though fewer now in number – Rawlins was among them.
 

Daar in die middel ontmoet hulle mekaar, vyand-tot-vyand, hand-aan-hand, gewere flikker, bajonette skermutselend. Te midde van hierdie hel kon daar nie gesien word wie wie was nie, modder bedek uniform, kentekens en gesigte. Sewentien of agtien het vir God, land en hoop geveg - maar bowenal om oorlewing.
 
•7•
There in the middle, they met, enemy-to-enemy, hand-to-hand, rifles flashing, bayonets clashing. Amid this hell, there was no telling who was who, mud covered uniform, insignia, and faces. Seventeen or eighteen fought for God, country, and hope - but most of all for survival.
 

'n Bom skreeu sy dodelike waarskuwing en val in die middel van die geveg. Rooiwarm skrapnel sny en skeur sonder diskriminasie. Watter kant het daardie dodelike rondte afgevuur? Niemand sal dit ooit weet nie.
 
•8•
A shell screamed its deadly warning and fell into the middle of the melee. Red-hot shrapnel cut and sliced without discrimination. Which side fired that lethal round? No one will ever know.
 

Verdwaas en met oortromme wat deur die harsingskudding gebloei het, val Rawlins en nog 'n soldaat in die krater wat deur die ontploffing gelaat is. Alles het stil geword, nie soos Rawlins of die ander modderbedekte vorm kon hoor nie - die ore van albei tuit van pyn.
 
•9•
Dazed and with eardrums bleeding from the concussion, Rawlins and another soldier fell into the crater left by the explosion. All went quiet, not that Rawlins or the other mud-covered form could hear – the ears of both ringing with pain.
 

Hulle het daarvoor opgelei en die idee in hul koppe laat inedrom. Nou was dit anders. Hulle het daar gelê en probeer om dit in hul eie taal sinvol te maak. Hulle was veronderstel om mekaar dood te maak. Waarvoor was al hierdie slagting? Hulle staar na mekaar toe die besef het hulle albei deurdring. Hulle wêrelde was anders, maar tog was die enigste manier om te wen om te oorleef. Woordeloos het hulle tot begrip gekom. Rawlins steek saggies en huiwerig sy hand uit en verwag half  'n ontploffing van geweld wat elkeen opgelei is om te deel. Hand ontmoet hand in wedersydse begrip, eers 'n sagte aanraking en toe ferm, en elkeen gee aan mekaar 'n verwantskap wat nie een heeltemal verstaan het nie.
 
•10•
They'd trained for it, had the idea drummed into their heads. Now it was different. They lay there trying to make sense of it all in their own language. They were supposed to kill each other. What was all this carnage for? They stared at each other as the realization dawned on them both. Their worlds were different, yet the only way to win was to survive. Wordlessly they came to an understanding. Rawlins meekly and tentatively reached out his hand, half expecting an explosion of violence that each had been trained to mete. Hand met hand in mutual understanding, a gentle touch at first then firmed, each imparting to the other a kinship that neither entirely understood.
 

Met die uitspoeg van modder uit wat sy mond half gevul het, bied Rawlins sy naam en 'n effe glimlag.
"Rawlins, David Rawlins."
"Franz Gutenberg" was die antwoord.
 
•11•
Spitting out the mud that half-filled his mouth Rawlins offered his name and a glimpse of a smile.
"Rawlins, David Rawlins."
"Franz Gutenberg" was the reply.
 

Duisternis, maar nie vrede nie, het oor hierdie veld van menslike afval gevestig. Die blaas van valskermvlamme het hul wêreld in spookagtige vorms verander. Hulle kon nie meer daar lê in die vergelykende veiligheid van die bombardementgat nie.
 
•12•
Darkness, but not peace, settled over this field of human waste. The whoosh of parachute flares turned their world into ghostly shapes. No longer could they lie there in the comparative safety of the shell hole.
 

Franz, buigend gereed om die streep terug te maak, elkeen na sy eie loopgrawe, gryp na sy naamlapel en skeur dit van sy uniform af, en gee dit aan David, David met wedersydse begrip, volg dit na. Hulle kyk na hul halfbegrawe gewere wat hulle gelos het om te roes. Geen woorde was nodig nie. Met 'n stille laaste blik na mekaar vertrek hulle in teenoorgestelde rigtings, luiperdkruip eers en dan 'n gebukkende lopie. Dawid het eers gestaan toe hy ongeveer dertig meter van die loopgrawe af was.
 
•13•
Crouching ready to make the dash back, each to his own trenches, Franz reached for his name patch and tore it off his uniform, handing it to David, David with mutual understanding, followed suit. They glanced at their half-buried rifles that they'd left to rust. No words were necessary. With a silent final glance at each other, they set off in opposite directions, leopard crawling at first, then a crouching run. David stood only when he was about thirty yards from the trenches.
 

"Halt"
 
•14•
"Halt"
 

Die Duitse bevel is verdoof deur die geluid van die koeël toe dit deur die agterkant van Rawlins se bobeen ruk, die been net-net gemis. Met moed het twee soldate, wat gedink het dat David een van hul eie was, deur die duisternis gekruip om Dawid na veiligheid te sleep. Hoewel hy in pyn was, het David tot die besef gekom dat hy in die verkeerde rigting in die arms van gevangenskap en oorlewing ontsnap het. Hy het gehoop, nee, hy het gebid dat Franz dieselfde lot getref het.
 
•15•
The German command was drowned by the sound of the bullet as it passed through the back of Rawlins' thigh, just missing the bone. With courage, two soldiers, supposing David to be one of their own, crawled through the darkness to drag David to safety. Though in agony of pain, David came to the realization that he'd escaped the wrong way into the arms of captivity - and survival. He hoped, no, prayed that Franz had met the same fortuitous fate.
 

Frankryk 1967


Na 'n rukkie van stil bepeinsing staan elkeen van die ou mans en steek sy hand in die sak. Met hande wat effens skud, gee elkeen 'n verbleikte naamlapel aan die ander. Hulle staan regop en trots, regop soos 'n ou man kan en salueer, en omhels dan die omhelsing van broers. Slegs twee woorde het hul lippe ontsnap.
"David."
"Franz"
Hul soektog was verby.
 

After a while of quiet contemplation, each of the old men stood and reached into a pocket. With hands shaking slightly, each handed to the other a faded name patch. They stood straight and proud, straight as an old man can and saluted, then embraced the embrace of brothers. Only two words escaped their lips.
"David."
"Franz"
Their search was over.

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