“Keep breakfast for me, Love,” I told Linda. “I’ll try to be home around nine.”
Well, I was, but not at nine o’clock that day; actually it was twenty-four hours later. Linda and I had a quiet breakfast together, then played with Kathleen, our new baby daughter, for a while. Exhausted beyond measure, I lay down to sleep just before midday, expecting not to wake until the next morning.
Around six in the evening Linda woke me. Someone had fallen on Brandwag Peak, above Worcester. Two survivors had come down and were now not sure whether the victim was really dead, as they had first assumed. The survivors were two girls, aged 12 and 14. The victim was a boy of 16. They had gone up to see the snow and the younger girl had left her gloves behind when they rested. The boy, her brother, and cousin to the older girl, had volunteered to go back for them. Apparently, he took a short cut and fell over a cliff. He came down head first and hit a rock which was just below the surface of the snow.
When we arrived in Worcester, we found that an over-enthusiastic local doctor had convinced the older girl that her cousin might still be alive. She now felt that she had deserted him. Responding to this emotional situation, we agreed to go up straight away, in spite of the darkness and the snow. The older girl had to come with us as a guide. Against my better judgement, I allowed the father of the victim to accompany us, thinking that he might be able to help encourage the girl, who was physically and emotionally exhausted. We started around ten o’clock in bright moonlight, walking through deep snow.
About two o’clock in the morning the moon set and we had no choice but to wait until sunrise. We managed to make a fire, and persuaded the girl to get some sleep. The father of the victim paced restlessly all night and our rescue team of four, experienced at this kind of thing, sat on our ropes and waited patiently for morning. I don’t think that we slept much. It’s hard to sleep when you know that there is someone who might be alive and is relying on you to intervene.
As soon as it was light, we had a few small snacks for breakfast, then continued on our way. We hadn’t walked for more than an hour when the girl said that she felt we were getting near to the scene of the accident. Shortly after this, she stopped us and indicated a boulder about 100 metres ahead.
“He’s behind that rock”, she said, “but I don’t want to see his body again”.
We left her and the father with one of the members of our team, and three of us went past the rock. Immediately, we could see that the boy was dead. He had fallen into a depression that was full of snow, but, by the most awful bad luck, he had landed on the only rock that was within about an inch of the surface of the snow. Clearly, he had died instantly as the rock had penetrated his skull, destroying part of his brain. His eyes were still open, and he had bled very little, even from this gaping head-wound.
I made the necessary radio contact to let our base know that they should send the helicopter up. Now came the nasty bit; notifying the father.
Apart from being the leader, I was also the only member of the party who could speak Afrikaans, so it was clearly my job to tell the dad that his son was dead—not a consummation devoutly to be wished.
When I got back to him, he was standing looking towards the grandeur of a Boland(1) sunrise. The breathtaking beauty of the sun’s rays on the snow-covered crags made even a sceptic like me wonder if there really might be some kind of God out there.
“Excuse me, sir”, I called in my rather rusty Afrikaans, which had lain dormant for about ten years, since my military service. He turned and looked at me and I could see that my words would be a mere formality--he knew.
“I’m—, er, I’m afraid that I have some bad news…”.
“Ek weet(2)…. My seun is dood(3)”.
“Ja meneer(4)”, I replied.
He was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Desperately, in my mind I tried to formulate a sentence that would express in Afrikaans what I wasn’t even sure I knew how to say in English. Before I could say anything, he spoke again.
“The Lord has been very good to me. He gave me a good son and he let me have him for 16 years…. The Lord is so good. I am very thankful”.
Even then—although still an enthusiastic and argumentative agnostic—the lines of this magnificent piece of poetry from the Old testament came to mind; what I had always thought of as ‘The Mountaineers’ Psalm’.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
From whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the LORD,
Which made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved:
He that keepeth thee will not slumber.
Behold, he that keepeth Israel
Shall neither slumber nor sleep.
The LORD is thy keeper:
The LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand.
The sun shall not smite thee by day,
Nor the moon by night.
The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil:
He shall preserve thy soul.
The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in
From this time forth, and even for evermore.
[Psalms 121:1-8]
When I got home, much later in the day, Linda was at the door to greet me.
“How did it go?” she asked.
As she put her arms around me, I muttered “terrible”, forsaking correct grammar in the heat of the moment, and burst into tears.
Still, thirty years later, I sometimes wake up and relive that day.
But now I can understand what the father meant.
__________________
1 Literally, the up-lands – an Afrikaans term for the mountainous areas of the Western Cape.
2 I know.
3 My son is dead.
4 Yes sir.