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May 23rd, 1960, Maputo, Rhodesia
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Andrew lay in a ditch, dead grass and brush pulled over his head, his breathing harsh and loud in his own ears. His side was on fire, he was sure his ribs were broken, and blood was drying all over his right side from the wound in his shoulder. 

He was trying desperately to control his breathing as the sound of an engine drew closer. He could just see the nearest Rhodesian Security Force ("RSF") heavy vehicle, known locally as the Beast, some hundred yards away. The vehicle was unique to Rhodesia and more terrifying than anything he had seen in the United States. It had the front grill of a Land Rover but that was where the similarities ended. The wheel base was almost twice as wide with massive tires that allowed it to travel quickly over rough ground. A large metal frame doubled as a roll cage with a single driver, mounted machine gun and gunner, and, in the case of this vehicle, two large Rhodesian Ridgebacks sitting in a rear compartment with their handler. 

For seven days he had been running West, stealing a horse at one point to evade pursuit and even throwing himself into a dinghy, barely escaping a Ridgeback who had managed to outstrip its handler. He had been unable to locate any weapons, no white man was going to throw him a spare rifle and a black man covered in blood was hardly likely to engender sympathy and anyone who didn't want a visit from the Police. 

The brush was heavy against his skin, the brambles tearing into his clothes and pressing against his wounds. It was agony. He had barely eaten and only drank from streams and rivers during his journey. On more than one occasion he had killed a domestic animal and used its blood to try and conceal his trail. It had confused the dogs for a while, but each time they had honed in on him again.

The rumble of the heavy engine slowly died in the distance and he risked another look in the direction of his pursuers. The vehicle was moving slowly into the distance and he almost sighed with relief until he realized the dogs were no longer on their perch. A jolt of panic shot through him and he begin to slowly push the brush off of himself, raising his head ever higher and higher, listening, looking, trying to locate the dogs. He feared them more than any man. He had seen them catch a fugitive before and tear the screaming man to pieces before there handlers could retrain them. They were terror incarnate. 

A scream sounded to the west and he almost leapt up and run. Shouts, shots, the roar of the Ridgebacks, all of it rising in a crescendo that told him he was a dead man. Then it occurred to him, the sounds were moving away from him! He rolled to his knees, still in the bottom of the ditch, and risked looking westwards.

He could see the RSF dogman running, pistol in hand, the two dogs bounding ahead of him, their barking high pitched and excited. Ahead of them, in full flight across the landscape, were two black men in tattered bush fatigues.

The sound of a truck engine brought his attention around again and he saw the Beast come roaring back up the narrow roadway that seemed dwarfed by its size. The gunner was leaning back, his field of fire blocked by the dog handler, the drivers teeth exposed in a savage grin as the vehicle hit the ditch, bounced wildly for a moment, and then tore after the fugitives. 

Andrew wasted no time wondering who the poor souls were that had saved his life. He turned, put his head down, and began to run. The nearest copse of trees was several hundred yards away and, despite the pain and tears of agony that coursed down his cheeks, he ran like he had never run before.

Twice he stumbled and each time he expected to hear the sound of the Beast engine, the roar of the hounds, or the crack of a rifle, but nothing came. The trees drew closer and closer, their huge boughs reaching out towards him as it beckoning him into their embrace.

He hit them at a run, smashing through the brush, muffling a scream as one branch slammed into his ribs. He stumbled, the white light of pain blinding him so that he tripped and fell, his forehead shredding into pieces against the ground so that more blood poured down his face. He moaned, tried to roll over, and suddenly hands were on him.

They grabbed his legs, his arms, and another smothered his yell, closing over his mouth with a firm grip. He kicked, tried to swing his fists, fought with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose and then, almost like a prayer, a voice whispered desperately in his ear.

"Be still brother! You are safe here." The voice was friendly, it spoke his language, and, most important of all, it was kind.

He sagged in their grip, his saviours, whoever they were, he couldn't seem them, blood was blinding him but he was safe. He began to sob quietly as two people lifted him by the arms and began to guide him through the trees. He was safe.