African Adventure

He placed the bowl of food on the floor in front of her.

"Ne manoj. No hands. Eat everything in the bowl," he ordered.

Her eyes grew wide and her breath caught in her throat.

She nodded, murmured, "Jes, sinjoro," and lowered her mouth to the bowl, lapping at the meat and vegetables in the thick sauce.

Robert watched her, breathing hard and chewing on bread, until she was finished. He picked up the cup of beer and took a sip before holding it down to her. She sipped at it and gagged. Robert laughed.

"Try drinking four liters a day for a year and then tell me how much you hate it. Choke it down. Never drink the water. You'll get intestinal parasites and diarrhea to start with. You will even brush your teeth with the beer. Drink!"

He held the cup to her face as she slowly managed to drink half of it. Then he drained the rest of the cup. He grabbed her dress from where it hung and tossed it to her.

"Wipe your face on the inside of the hem and put it on."

Sara pulled the dress over her head and he thrust the empty bowl and cup into her hands. Robert threw his equipment on and picked up his rifle.

"Follow me," he ordered.

He paused at the edge of the hut to let Sara slip into the sandals and then headed down the path. At the kitchens he directed her to return the dishes to the wash point and they continued on. He stopped at one of the instruction pits and attracted the attention of the instructor.

"Mia virino studos kon via studinoj," he informed the man.

"Jes, sinjoro," the man responded.

Robert handed Sara one of the sticks of dried mango and pointed her to a sandbag bench.

"Sit there. Pay attention. When the class is over get dinner and wait for me back at the hut."

He walked away. Sara looked around the 'classroom' with trepidation. She felt completely cut off from everything she had ever known. Robert was a known quantity, of sorts, and now she was even cut off from him. There were a few other women standing within the circle of sandbags. They all avoided looking at each other, hiding in their own worlds. Two of them had livid bruises on their faces and arms. One of them was crying softly.

The classroom was a semi-circle of sandbags with rows of benches made by stacked sandbags. A center aisle led from the entrance down the center, dividing the aisles into two sides, and ended at a raised dirt platform where a blackboard hung from a post. The entire pit was covered by a net of ropes into which strips of green and brown fabric had been interwoven.

As Sara examined the arrangement a group of men marched raggedly up to the entrance. A burly man shouted commands at them.

"Sidu tie! Jam nun!"

The men, clearly, did not understand and simply stood there. The burly man grabbed one of them by the ear and dragged him over to one of the benches, forcing him to sit.

"Sidu tie!" he repeated and gestured for the other men to sit.

"Sidu tie!" he bellowed.

The men quickly filed into the classroom, finding spaces to sit. A few who tried to sit on the left side were shepherded to the other side of the aisle with slaps, kicks, and blows from the thin wooden rod the man carried. Absorbed by the spectacle, Sara suddenly felt a sharp blow across her ass. She leapt forward, crying out in pain.

Another blow followed and a female voice yelled "Sidu tie, picxulino! Jam nun!"

Sara ran to find a seat, followed quickly by the other women. The women sat on the other side of the aisle, none of them needing any reminder not to sit with the men. One of the men made a comment to another, who laughed. The burly man lashed out with his rod, striking each across the back once.

"Silentu," he growled.

Sara looked away, surreptitiously turning her head to see if she could catch sight of the woman who had struck her. She was rewarded by a stinging blow across her back and then a pair of hands forcing her head to turn and look at the blackboard.

"Atentu tie, flavpelta picxulino!"

An open hand slapped the back of her head and she kept her gaze focused on the blackboard. She heard, but did not see or look at, a few more blows and verbal corrections. Afterwards the class was silent, all eyes fixed on the blackboard.

The thin man Robert had spoken to walked down the aisle and stood on the platform in front of the blackboard.

The woman and the burly man both yelled "Staru!" in near unison and began dealing out blows and jerking students to their feet.

Sara was struck twice by the rod before she managed to gain her feet and slapped, for no apparent reason, on the back of her head once everyone was standing. The thin man looked out and the class and smiled.

"Saluton, studantoj."

He pointed to the class and said, "Saluton, instruisto."

Sara felt another blow across her back. Already sore from the previous strikes, Sara felt the sting across her entire back and choked back a cry of pain.

"Saluton, instruisto," the female voice repeated.

Another blow landed before Sara could squeak out the phrase. Soon the entire class had repeated the phrase.

The instructor then said "Sidu." and gestured for them to sit.

The class sat.

The balance of the class proceeded along these lines. The instructor taught them basic phrases, assisted by the slaps and blows of the man and woman standing behind the students. Sara was miserable. Any time they were standing the blows landed on her ass and the back of her thighs, which made sitting uncomfortable to begin with and then actively painful. When she sat the blows struck her back which soon felt as though it was on fire. Sweat ran down her torso, stinging the welts that formed and making her dress cling to her skin. It felt like sandpaper every time she shifted. She was sure she was being singled out by the female assistant but powerless to do anything. If her attention wavered from the blackboard for a second it would bring another blow or slap to the head accompanied by what she was sure were vulgarities.

At last, with a final order to "Staru", the instructor dismissed them.

Sara remained motionless, legs shaking, as the men filed out, formed into a group, and marched away. Not until most of the women had filed past her did Sara dare to venture a small turn of her head. No blow followed and she slowly turned. There were several women in sight, but none carrying a rod that she could see. She rubbed her eyes and took several deep breaths as she tried to shake off the feeling that her body was not responding to her. After a few minutes she felt able to move, albeit painfully, and slowly walked out of the class and down the path.

At the kitchen area she stood in line with other women until it was her turn.

"Mi petas, la mangxo por li kapitano," she quietly told to woman.

The woman handed her another metal bowl with bread on top of it and a large mug, some dried pineapple rings, and a twist of salt. She smiled and gave Sara a gentle pat on the cheek.

"Ne li, flavpeltulino. La kapitano. La," she emphasized and then turned her attention to the next person in line.

"La kapitano," Sara repeated to herself as she trudged slowly down the covered path to the hut.

At the hut she shrugged out of her sandals and climbed the steps. Inside, she carefully placed the metal bowl on the table and painfully removed her dress, hanging it from the hook. She saw that in at least two places it was actually ripped from the force of some of the blows. She looked around the hut, trying to think of where she might sit. Neither the footlocker nor the net hammock seemed like a nice alternative to her battered body. After agonizing for several minutes, she elected to kneel next to the table. Kneeling felt strange, both scandalous with her legs spread and yet safe. The position was a known quantity; she had been promised she would not be punished in that position and she sought refuge in that promise. It was a thin scrap of hope, but her subconscious clung to it desperately as it tried to understand the order of this new world and craft a safe place for her in it.

Robert walked up to the hut and sat down. Sara's back, shaking with her quiet crying, faced him and he could see the angry stripes that criss-crossed it. He saw the food sitting on the table, the dress hanging on the hook, and noted that Sara was kneeling as he had instructed her.

"Had trouble staying awake in class, did you?" he asked as he sat to take his boots off.

Sara shifted to face him, still kneeling properly, and shook her head.

"Ne, sinjoro," she said.

She stopped speaking as she struggled to find words from her meager vocabulary. Robert took pity on her, more out of interest in what she had to say than from her obvious discomfort at trying to express herself in a new language.

"In English, Sara."

The reprieve calmed her and she was able to continue, "The first few were ... to get everyone's attention. And my attention wandered twice, I earned those. But the rest were ... malicious. Whoever she was, she was singling me out."

Robert, surprising himself, was pleased. Malicious activity motivated by jealousy he had expected, and wouldn't do much to stop or moderate it. It was a headache. But he was pleased with Sara's attitude. She wasn't complaining about the treatment itself, just that it had been excessive.

"Probably one of the women who tried to get into my bed. You're going to find more than a few of the women resent your status as my slave. To their mind, that makes you a competitor for the position of top slave. If I take any obvious action to moderate the activity people will get the idea that you have value to me. That would make your life more dangerous. You're better off if people think I don't attach any value at all to you. So fight your own battles."

He stood and walked into the hut. Sitting at the table he began to disassemble and clean his rifle. Sara turned to face him.

"Do," she began hesitantly and then paused; gathering her courage she pressed on in a rush of words, "Do I have any value to you? Sinjoro."

He continued cleaning his rifle, not answering until he had put it back together and hung it behind him.

"Yes. In several ways. But not so much value that I wouldn't leave you behind if you made my efforts difficult."

He turned back to the food on the table and took several bites of the stew before scooping some up and offering it to Sara. She quickly took the food from his hand, determinedly chewing at the tough meat. In this manner they quickly finished the bowl and Robert allowed her to use the last piece of bread to wipe the bowl clean. She gulped her portion of the beer, which made Robert frown.

"You're not drinking enough during the day if you're that thirsty. Drink more," he ordered.

"Jes, sinjoro," she responded.

Robert gave her two of the dried pineapple rings to chew on as she followed him down the path to the bathing area. When they turned the bend she stopped in her tracks, feet actually skidding. The scene before her, Robert knew, must seem like a scene from hell. It wasn't worth the effort to bathe in the morning when the day of hard labor would just coat everyone with sweat and grime soon enough. Most of the camp bathed in the evening, before going to bed, when there was a chance that they might get to fall asleep feeling briefly clean. The bathing point was full of naked people. Many of them were engaged in sex and, in a camp full of brigands, murderers, and thieves, much of that sex was ... brutal.

A cluster of men were gathered around one woman on her hands and knees. One man pumped industriously back and forth into her from behind as another man pumped into her mouth. The men around her, Sara saw, were actually in a line. As the man using her mouth thrust in, a hand in her hair holding her to him, and then stepped away another man stepped up. Another screaming woman was held spread-eagled, a man holding each limb, across a rock as one man raped her, his cock slamming home with brutal thrusts as his hands roughly mauled her breasts. Two men held a woman as another beat her from behind with a stick. Other, less striking and more consensual, couplings were taking place.

Robert led her into the deep water where they sat and soaked for a few minutes. The water, he knew, would help soothe the pain in her back and legs. She carefully tried to ignore the scene taking place all about her, which left her with no one to look at but Robert. She cast about for something to talk about.

"Why are you teaching them a new language, sinjoro? Wouldn't it be easier to use French or..." she tried to remember the name of the predominant native language, "Lingala?"

"Authority, identity, operational considerations, and some other reasons," he replied. "Lingala is the primary language in this area, but we get recruits from all over. They might speak Kikongo, Tshiluba, Swahili, or one of hundreds of local dialects or languages. French would be good, but it has problems. A lot of these folks already speak French. They're comfortable in that language. I wanted everyone out of their comfort zone. I wanted them to have to pay very close attention to what is being said. I wanted them focused on the task at hand, rather than day-dreaming about the meal they are going to eat later or the woman they are going to rape. So I make everyone learn a new language and they focus on me. It's a little thing, but it helps cement my control over them.

"Language can shape our perceptions. By teaching them a new language I can choose the vocabulary they have access to. Remember '1984'? George Orwell? He postulated that you could make a language in which it would be impossible to express the idea of revolution or even non-compliance. I had hoped that I could use this to moderate some of the violence and ethnic strife that are endemic in this area. I haven't been tremendously successful in that regard, though.

"Forcing everyone to learn a new language also creates a new identity. In effect, I have created a new tribal structure to which the recruits give their loyalty. Every human society defines itself by who they are, and who they aren't. There are the people inside the society, and everyone else in the world. So the new language creates a new group. The downside to this is that anyone outside the group is considered beyond the pale; almost less than human.

"Operationally it was important that everyone be able to communicate. We also needed a way to talk over the radio without being intercepted. This is a poor man's substitute for decent encryption. Trying to use code-books with this lot would be... difficult," he concluded.

Sara was amazed. She realized that she had classified Robert as a thug, a bully. But here he was casually referencing Newspeak and basic sociological concepts. 'How could someone intelligent be a party to something like this?' she wondered.

After a few minutes of soaking they trudged to an area in the shallows, ankle deep. Visibly surprising her, Robert grabbed a wash rag and lathered it with the soap.

"Genu," he ordered.

She knelt before him and he scooped and dumped several cans of water on her head. His fingers worked through her hair, carefully removing the worst of the tangles and spreading the soap throughout. Then he rinsed the soap out and braided the hair into a tight ponytail.

"Staru," he said, "Arms over your head, legs spread."

Sara hesitated, clearly aware of the many glances and outright stares she was attracting. But she obeyed. Robert began lathering her, starting with her face. She closed her eyes against the soap and Robert knew that in her personal darkness she could only feel his hands. They roamed purposefully over her body, the rough rag scrubbing at the grime that coated her. Working their way from top to bottom his hands touched every inch of her. She flinched, crying out softly in pain as he carefully cleaned her back, ass, and legs. His hands reached around to scrub her chest, cupping her breasts.

"Kia?" he whispered in her ear.

"Whose?" he repeated.

"Via, sinjoro," she whispered.

He nodded, "Jes."

His hands continued scrubbing, now pulling across her taut belly and descending to the juncture of her thighs. One hand held her hips as the other pushed forward against her back, bending her over. He saw the breath catch in her throat and he reached between her legs from behind, fingers lathering her crotch and cupping her mons.

"Kia?" he whispered.

"Via, sinjoro," she breathed.

He scrubbed the crack of her ass, placing a finger against the brown pucker of her anus.

"Kia?" he repeated.

She hesitated and he applied a barely noticeable pressure with his finger.

"Via, sinjoro," she admitted.

He scrubbed her legs as she remained bent over and then rinsed his hands in the water and stood. He grasped her pony tail and pulled her upright before scooping cans of water over her to clean her. When her face was clean, he placed his thumb over her lips.

"Kia?" he asked.

"Via, sinjoro," she murmured, the words felt on his thumb more than audible.

"Jes," he responded, "Mia. Mine."

He handed the washcloth to Sara, "Wash me."

Sara began to scrub him, tentatively at first, hands shaking, but then with more vigor. When she got to his waist she tried to step behind him, but Robert placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. Pressing down, gently but inexorably, he pushed her to her knees in front of him. She saw his cock, inches from her face, and looked away, her eyes drawn to other women in similar positions, all performing oral sex. She looked away, eyes trying to find something more palatable to look at. She looked up at him and he saw the question behind her eyes.

"Jes," he told her, "You will. But not now. Wash."

Hands again shaking she resumed washing him. She handled his genitals fearfully, unfamiliar and uncertain. When she was able to move on she released her breath, unaware that she had been holding it. Robert chuckled and, when she reached his ankles, waded out into the deeper water to rinse himself off in a plunge. He walked back, motioning for her to follow him.

"Enough. Follow me."

Grabbing their clothing from the rock where they had placed it, she followed him up the path, back to the hut.

At the hut Robert hung his rifle and went to the footlocker. He pointed vaguely at the floor and pulled out a glass bottle, a rag, a small metal can and a metal cup.

"Venu cxi," he said.

Sara dropped the clothing off to one side and knelt down next to him. He poured some of the alcohol onto the rag and began to apply it to the wounds on her back. She yelped and pulled away.

Robert gave her a gentle slap on the back of her head and muttered, "Hold still."

A few moments later he tossed the rags over to the pile of clothing and opened the small can. His fingers rubbed the oily substance inside over the stripes.

"It's oil of cloves and a few other things. I don't get much chance to use it because of the smell; can't play boy-scout in the woods smelling like a dessert."

When he was finished he poured some of the alcohol into the metal cup before putting the bottle and the small can back in the footlocker. He pulled out a tin whistle and dropped into the hammock.

"Bring me the drink," he ordered.

Sara picked up the metal cup and shuffled on her knees over to where she could hand it to him. He took a sip and handed the cup back.

"Hold that for me."

He put the whistle to his lips and played a tune. When he was finished he motioned for the drink and she handed it to him.

"Do you play any instruments, Sara?"

"Jes, sinjoro. The piano," she replied.

"Well, there are no pianos here in camp. Maybe I should tell the boys to steal one the next chance they get."

He laughed.

"I'll give the job to number two platoon. I'd like to see those bastards sweating through the jungle with a piano."