In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

IN SEARCH OF ENEMIES
Angola,. and little medicine. It was a brutal place for the wounds of
war, the kinds that shrapnel from mortars and rockets would make.
Infections were immediate, and without antibiotics even small
wounds could be fatal.
We stood on the Benguela railroad and stared down the visual
infinity of rails and cross-ties: I projected my mind beyond the horizon,
six hundred kilometers to Benguela itself and the crystal waters
of the Lobito harbor. Turning a hundred and eighty degrees, I looked
nine hundred kilometers to Lubumbashi, and remembered the huge
mines which disgorged tons of copper ore to be transported to waiting
ships by an endless string of open railroad cars.
Standing on the railroad tracks in the bare African veld I felt an
almost mystical objectivity about the CIA and the things I had done,
the pointlessness of my operations in Lubumbashi, the brutality and
betrayals of Vietnam, the empty cynicism of the case officer's role.
Savimbi was impatient to move on. For a moment I resented him,
with his clear objectives and clean conscience. He was that rare
coincidence of history, a throwback to the great tribal leaders of
Africa-Tchaka Zulu, Msiri, and Jomo Kenyatta-a far cry from
the conflicting values and goals of America, and of the CIA in its
middle-aged mediocrity.
Our Land Rover left the improved dirt road and growled up a
sandy track, halting in a small settlement. About fifty men were in
view, most carrying weapons. We were fifteen kilometers from Luso
where a bitter fight was taking place.
Savimbi introduced me to a tall, le.an Angolan, General Chiwale,
commanding general of UNIT A's armed forces. The two of them
talked earnestly in Portuguese and Ovimbundu. Savimbi, knowing I
did not understand, turned and explained that Chiwale was going to
commit more troops to the battle of Luso.
Outside, Chiwale gave a number ofloud commands. (Nothing like
"Fall in A and B companies, and the mortar section.") He stood in
the back of a truck waving his hands and yelling, until men began
milling closer with their rifles, a few individuals darting off to huts
to drag out some forgotten piece of equipment. They were almost
silent and looked determined. Chiwale continued at intervals to call
out, until, with little more ado, they were loaded onto small trucks,
jammed together until they became a indistinct mass of heads, arms,
legs, and guns. The trucks sagged and buckled, the springs sitting