The Smell of Apples

It is December 1988. Marnus is now in his late twenties. He has pursued a military career, much like his father. Now a lieutenant, he has been in-country off and on for three years, part of an elaborate clandestine South African military operation in southern Angola to help that government against the threat of Communist troops, mostly Cubans, who are there to destabilize the region. Like the American military’s involvement in Vietnam, the campaign has lapsed into confusion; it has been mismanaged and lacks a clear purpose and a clear exit strategy (at one point, Marnus hears his father on the radio broadcasting the official government line that no South African soldiers were in Angola).

Marnus’s platoon struggles against the oppressive heat. Information from the portable radio is scattered and often fragmentary. Rations are running low. Summer dust hangs everywhere. Sleep is nearly impossible. Fresh water is all but gone. The platoon bivouacs, waiting for supplies, ever on alert from surprise mortar attacks from the Cuban choppers. Morale is low. The countryside is strewn with bombed buildings, the grim evidence of years of internecine fighting.

At one point, Marnus looks into his pack mirror. He cannot believe how gaunt he looks.