A town called Alex - Part 2

Township duty was mostly boring, doing the daily patrol, playing soccer with the kids. Every so often thinks would get ugly, and then it's total confusion and fear for a few hours. Then it's the boredom routine again.

We were on one of our boredom patrols one Wednesday afternoon (which was a bummer because it means we missed sport parade)in the poorer part of Alex, the one with the tin shacks. The guys were talking about rugby, and teasing Dof Stoffel because his girlfriend wanted sex but he came from a farming community and he was worried what his friends would think..

Out of the blue two Ak's went of on full Afrikaans from one of the shacks. Most of the rounds hit the sides of the buffel, no-one was hurt. But there was some chaos and pandemonium. My radioman was screaming into the radio, the troops on the right side were firing back and the ones on the left managed to get off the Buffel onto the ground (for thos who don't know, lying under a Buffel when someone is shooting at you is not a good idea. The v-shape forces all the ricochets down on top of you).

Four troops had managed to get round the back of the shack, but no one was getting anywhere. They obviously had loads of ammo. I was trying to figure out the next move and swearing at myself because I only had my 9 mil with me, when the cavalry arrived in the form of a mellow yellow - one of the police casspirs.

He didn't even slow down, just turned and drove straight over the tin shack. End of story. Now why the fuck didn't I think of that?

What do you do with a drunken sailor?

Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin) – November 1985. I was officer on duty for the night when we got a call from the railway police that military personnel on a Pretoria - Durban train were causing havoc. The train was due to stop in Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin), and could we send some guys over and help restore order?

I sent the MP’s, and since it was a quiet Friday evening, about 7 of them went. It wasn’t enough. In the end I sent a section of sappers to go and help. There were three navy guys on the train (I never did figure out why the navy has a presence in Pretoria), a Petty Officer and 2 sailors. They had trashed a whole coach, then beat up some of the passengers, set off all the fire extinguishers, and were trying to braai in their compartment when the train stopped at the station.

It was about midnight when we got them into camp, still aggressive as anything, trying to explain something in incoherent drunk to me. We chucked them in the cells to cool off, and decided to leave them till morning.

I stopped by to see them at the end of my duty shift, and one of the now extremely hungover sailors manages to explain that it was his bachelor’s party. And he was supposed to get married at 10 am. And he was 500km away from Durban. He was going to miss the wedding.

At 07:30 an Admiral phones me, wants to know what the fuck was happening. Why the fuck had we arrested his future son in law? I arranged for the now very sad sailor to phone the Admiral, and his girlfriend. As I left the room I saw him wince and heard a shrill screaming from the other side of the phone…

Turns out his name was Gary. I gave him a lift to Durban on Saturday afternoon (the next train was only in 3 days time) in my car. I was going home to see my girlfriend in Mtunzini. He wasn’t sure if his girlfriend was ever going to speak to him again, never mind get married to him….

Come to the dark side - we have cookies..

Kerkparade was a big event. The whole unit turned out. Even the Jewish kids (of course after the parade they were sent back to camp to clean dustbins). In basics it was simple. You picked the church that had the best cookies after the service. All the churches in Kroonstad vied with each other. And troepe are cheap. Cookies were enough to bribe them to listen to your particular version of religion. The NG Kerk, had it's church in the base, so if you were Afrikaans you weren't going to see town on a Sunday. And ince they felt they had a captive audience they dispensed with the cookie bribing system. Within weeks their numbers had dwindled to about half a dozen. A witch hunt was started to force the troepe back into the NG Kerk, but it was never very successful. No cookies, no church.

Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin), 1985. I'd come back from a township late on Saturday night. Sunday morning there was a knock on my door and the mess cook popped his head in apologetically. "Sammajoor vra dat jy asseblief Kerkparade toe kom". I'd been in the army long enough to know that no matter what your rank, it's better to listen to Sammajoor. I didn't wear my uniform, but Rodney Green (I think) and myself presented ourselves at church parade in jeans and tshirts. The parade was done, and the troepe were getting into transports to be taken to the various churches around town.

Sammajoor looked at use and said "The army says you have to go to church - which one do you belong to?" He didn't comment on our lack of uniform. Rodney looked at him straight in the eye and said "St Agnostics, Sammajoor".

There was a moment of silence. "Luitenant, we don't have that church in Bethlehem. But the Methodists are similar" Daa gat jy!

Long ago and far away

I had kak dreams last night. In technicolour. Carlo and Steve were there. And Charles.

Here is a link to a video I like:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGMfldP2MMY&feature=player_embedded

Singing

Knew a lady dressed in red
Made her living in her bed

Knew a lady dressed in black
Made her living on her back

Of all the songs we sang while running in a bus, this is the only one I really remember. Strange that. Oh, and there’s a corny one that Richard Savage wrote about
Bossiespruit, still have it written down somewhere.

Bossiespruit is where we train
In the heat and in the rain…..

About the only time we seemed to sing was running in the bus on the way to the parade ground, away from the parade ground or just to prove to the fucking corporal that fucking us around wasn’t really working. Other people marched. We ran. And sang. And when the singing stopped someone would start stamping their right boot to keep the rhythm going. Other than that, there were some soutpiele who sang in the kaserne to amuse themselves and piss others off. And of course the strangled hymns at the daily kerkparade during basics. But church parade is a blog in itself.

Guard Duty

I googled guard duty today to find a suitable picture for my blog. Shit, they do try to make guard duty look like a noble duty don’t they?

Remember we were in the middle of a war. Expected insurgents in red t-shirts were going to overrun every base every night so everyone had to be paraat! (I’m not sure if there’s a suitable English word for paraat). To make sure that that guard duty is done right, procedures were instigated, and troepe were trained for all possible incidents.

Danie may be able to help me (he still has all his notes from basics), but here are the procedures to be followed when you’re on guard duty and you see someone infiltrate the base;
1. Shout. Loudly. “Who goes there?”
2. If no response, shout “Halt, or I will shoot!”
3. If still no response, take rifle magazine from pouch.
4. Tell insurgent. Loudly. “Please wait a bit!”
5. Find in one of your 20 pockets the three (yes, three!) rounds issued to you.
6. With teeth, try and tear off shrink wrapped plastic.
7. Put rifle down carefully, load three rounds into magazine.
8. Pick up rifle.
9. Put magazine into rifle.
10.Shout. Loudly “Thank you for waiting! Halt, or I’ll shoot”
11.Load round into chamber. Shout. Loudly. “Halt, or I’ll shoot”
12.In the likely event that the insurgent has pissed off by this stage, prepare for a bollocking by the sergeant on duty for tearing the plastic covering on your three rounds.

Authority

I’d been sent to Pretoria for a month, to give a practical counter-insurgency course. To a bunch of office clerks. Yes, the army doesn’t always think. Ever tried teaching house-clearing to someone who gets asthma from using a pen? It was long month…

I left early one afternoon when my two instructors were busy with them on the finer art of pushups, and went to a mall in search of a bookshop and some decent coffee. Not in that order though. I went for some coffee first, and had barely sat down when a red-haired corporal and a whole entourage of troops with R5’s came up to me.

“Sir, do you have permission to be here?” he asks. What kind of a fuckwit question is that? Since when do I need permission to drink coffee? I’m allowed to shoot people without authorization, and now I need permission to drink coffee? This conversation was going downhill.

“Who’s your commanding officer, Sir? He asks. “Right now? I am” I tell him. The thing is, he knows, and I know the odd military rule that states that you may only be arrested by someone of equal or senior rank. So this whole thing is getting frustrating for both of us and going absolutely nowhere.

In the end I give him the Devil Eyes De Villiers direct line number. Devil Eyes is the Kommandant at my base in Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin). One liner radios his head office, they phone Devil Eyes. Red head the one liner comes back to me, gives me a very reluctant salute, and fucks off.

I heard later from the adjudant at base that Devil Eyes had lost the plot when they asked him. Amongst other things I was evidently given strict instructions to shoot them if they didn’t piss off. The corporal never told me that though.

A pretty town called Alex

My mind is turning to sludge. I think it was Alexandria, the township just next to Sandton. How a cesspool could get a pretty name like that I dunno. We were doing a late afternoon patrol in our Buffel. There was supposed to be a poliesman with us, but he was busy, and we decided to take a drive, then go home. I’d been invited to a braai that night and there was a pretty girl I wanted to chat to.

We came around a corner into a open area of veld. And the first thing I saw were people scattering. A few people were still milling around. Lying at their feet was some poor sod with a tyre around his neck. He was soaked – I assumed it was petrol. He’d been beaten up pretty badly, and he was barely conscious. The driver (his name was Jannie and he came from Standerton, and I have no idea why I should remember that after 20 years) gunned the Buffel and headed straight for them, hooting.

It all happened in slow motion. The one shit looked me straight in the eye, bent down and lit the petrol. Then he stood up and gave me the middle finger. So I shot him. Another guy threw a brick at the burning man’s head. I shot him too.

Three of my guys peeled off the top of the Buffel with blankets and a fire extinguisher. They managed to removed the tyre with the barrels of their R4’s, sprayed the poor oke till he looked like a snowman, and threw two blankets over him. He was still moving, but he didn’t look too good.

The signals tiffie got hold of the cops while the rest of the guys made a hurried perimeter defence. Everyone was a bit shocked. There was no one in sight. Just as well, the troepe weren’t into winning hearts and minds right then.

I got shat out by some police captain for not doing things by the book while a medic tried to keep the poor man alive. The fuck wanted to know how many rounds I'd fired and wanted me to produce the empty doppies!! Spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening writing out my statement in longhand (no computers in those days). All the troepe were interviewed, and I was confined to quarters. A bokkop major popped into my room just before dinner and told me the cops had decided the shootings were legit and they wouldn’t press charges. But that the paperwork will still take some time.

The braai was good, but the pretty chick was there with a huge rugby forward. What a fucked up day.

Going home

This one didn’t happen to me, but it’s a story worth telling. Piet studied Geology with me. He’d just come out of the army when we met. He’d also been to Bossiespruit, and we got chatting. I asked him about adjusting to civvie life, and besides the normal things like insisting on walking in step with whoever was next to you, he told me this..

Although based in Sector 10, he’d spent 9 months in Angola before he managed to get some time off and visit his family. Now Piet came from the Karroo, from a Calvinistic, God-fearing Afrikaner family. And as Afrikaner families tend to do, the whole district was invited to Sunday lunch to welcome back the prodigal son.

Dad said prayers, and the Mom’s, girlfriends, wives started dishing up food for the twenty or so people sitting at the table. In the middle of this all, Piet leans over to his Mom and says “Ma, pass die fokken botter asseblief”.

There’s absolute silence at the table. Swearing just doesn’t happen in families like this. Definitely not with women and children present. Piet, completely mortified at what he’s just said, gets up and goes to his room. About 5 minutes later his Mom comes in, tells him it’s ok. They all understand, the army was tough, and there were no nice girls, and sometimes these things just happen. But it’s all ok.

Piet looks at his Mom, and before he can even think, blurts out “ Ja ok Ma, maar ek het so ‘n kont gevoel!”

Ja Sammajoor, Nee Sammajoor!

Officers plan, decide what needs to be done, eat nice meals, and do admin. Sergeant Majors get the job done. Never mind the fact that they salute you, or accept orders from you – if you piss them off your day will rapidly become miserable. No matter what rank you are. People are invariable polite to the Sammajoor.

The Sammajoor of the Army was at Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin) on an inspection visit. I’d met him earlier in the day. A short, stocky, quietly spoken, polite and obviously competent individual.

He was standing at the entrance of the HK security area, talking to Blackie Swart when I came out of the office. All the troops were strekking, a couple of flustered one pips saluted him (he saluted them back with a small grin on his face) – all was peaceful.

Then out came “Pete” (I cant remember his real name). Pete was an English Lt from Durban doing one of his diensplig camps. He’d made a deal with devil eyes De Villiers. He’d be called up to Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin) every year, and he’d audit the Regiment’s book during that time. Nice and cushy. He was neatly dressed, wearing his browns, but his long blonde surfer hair was almost at his shoulders.

Sammajoorvandieweermag was a patient man, but this was just too much. “Luitenant hoekomisjoufokkenharesolank!” It was a statement not a question. Pete did the totally unexpected - “Sergeant Major, if you don’t even have the decency to salute me before using such crass language, I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk to you” he said in his best poncy Durban accent. And off he walked. Sammajoor came to attention, gave him a perfect salute, and stayed at attention until Pete was at least 10 metres away.

The next day Pete wore civvies to work. Two days later he flew to Sector 10 to do some mine clearing… his hair was short.

Curiosity

A Captain (for the life of me I can’t remember his name) was in the mess with us in Bethlehem (not the one with three wise men and a virgin). He’d done the EOD course, and I talked him into giving a talk on bomb disposal, booby traps, and what not to do.

He set up his whole collection of landmines, bombs, timer switches, portable x-ray equipment, a box of clothes pegs (you won’t believe how handy they are if you want to make bombs), and some other odds and sods.

All the troepe came into the lecture room. “Ok guys, I’m going to coffee quickly, look but don’t touch. I’ll be back in 5 minutes” said the Cpt, and the two of us traipsed off in search of some coffee.

I don’t think we were more than 30 metres from the lecture room when there as a huge crash, followed by screaming and shouting, and a whole bunch of troepe fighting to get out the door – white smoke billowing after them.

The Captain had attached some of the exhibition to a flashbang or two, and even nastier, to a CS canister taped to the underside of the table. Tear gas really is horrible. It was probably an hour or two before the troepe were in a fit state to listen to lectures. But they learn’t the most important of lessons – don’t fucking touch stuff if you don’t know what it’s going to do…

How to blow yourself up

We did all our explosives training at the outside base. It was far away from town, so we usually made a whole day of it. Even got the base to send out food for us at lunch time. I used to take sandwiches with – cold army food really is gross.

We were doing the basics of explosives with a new intake, and after numerous lectures on PE4, detonators, fuses and safety procedures, we finally give every troop a piece of PE4, a length of fuse, a detonator and a crimper to join the det and fuse. And some matches (remember this is explosives 101 – the simple stuff).

Charles Bester was one of the instructors, sitting with the guys, going through the procedures with them. He was an excellent instructor, always calm – which was good because a surprising amount of people get nervous and shaky when handling explosives. For the non-army people, PE4 (plastic explosives) is very stable. We used to burn it to boil water for tea.

Four of the troops put their rigs together, crimped the detonator onto the fuse, inserted it into the plastic explosives and then walked about 25 metres forward and put it onto the ground to light it. Once you’ve lit it, you turn your back on it and walk back normally (very difficult to do). The fuse burns at a specific speed – so the time is set by the length of the fuse. One of the more nervous guys came back at a very fast walk. Charles had been watching him, and as he arrived back in the safe area, he asked the guy “En waar is jou fokken vuurhoutjies?” and turned round to grin at me. Before we could do a thing, the guy spun around, and ran straight back towards the burning fuse.

Fuckit. Charles and I legged it after the guy, and managed to tackle him before he reached the explosives, both of us crashing on top of him and knocking his wind out. We dragged him back, Charles hit him on top of his boshoed and told him to stop being an eedjit. The rest of the troops thought it was hilarious and teased him for days afterwards.

Route marches

Route marches are an integral part of training. Except at Bossies they were also part of the general fucking around. I think we did at least one route march a week, the times were arbitrary - but usually after 21:00, and of course with 5 minutes notice to "Fokkentreeaanvolkitstaaldakengeweer!!! Nou!"

Then it's off in the dark at a fast walk/slow jog sort of pace. Not sure if there's a name for it, I think the Brits call it tabbing. If the moon was up, it went quicker, but on a dark night the first 30 minutes was always characterized by stumbling, unexpected face plants and a fair amount of swearing. And of course there's the certainty that if your time is slower than last time, you get to do it again.

The photo shows Tony Barnes (left) and I just before a route march. Note the ancient webbing. I think the engineers were sucking on the hind tit when it came to equipment. The note on the back of the photo says our 20km time was 3 hours 20 minutes.

War School 101

I think it was late 1985 when we did our military maneuvers in the Eastern Free State. Lesotho had some internal strife, and it was probably also aimed as a show of force for the rebels in Maseru.

We left early in the morning, driving along the main roads toward Fouriesburg, and then on to Ficksburg, building temporary bridges across what seemed every single stream. In between it all we had ambushes along the road, minefields to clear, wounded people to casevac . The ambushes didn’t always work so well – the sergeant major would shoot at us with blanks from behind a tree, we shoot back, he declares us dead, we say not a fuck and drive off. I think he found it very frustrating.

I was assigned a driver for the Gharrie (the word Gharrie, usually assigned to any jeep-like vehicle, is actually a Swahili word, and is still used ubiquitously in East Africa) as I never got around to getting one. By the 1st afternoon I made him sit in the back and he became my radio operator. He was a useless driver – kept falling asleep at the wheel.

The vehicles in the pic were my part of war school 101, lined up next to the parade ground at 2 Field in Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin).

Roadblocks and boredom

King Jonathan of Lesotho was in danger of being deposed, or he was deposing someone. One of the Squadrons from Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin) had sent a troop to Bloemfontein as engineering support for a planned military invasion. We were patrolling the Lesotho/South Africa border from Ficksburg to Golden Gate.

We’d been manning a roadblock just outside Ficksburg for about 12 hours, checking cars and buses that were taking migrant workers back to Jozi. We’d caught teenager with a bag of shit quality dope. I was going to confiscate the dope and let the kid go, but some gung ho police sergeant insisted on taking him to the cop shop.

Tubby van Deventer (he’s dead now) was bored. He’d taken a rooikat (caracal for the non-Africans) off one of the farmers earlier the afternoon, and decided to play silly buggers. The cat was forced very unwillingly into an old battered suitcase, and the suitcase was placed next to the road, about 200 metres past the stopper group.

Within 5 minutes a very full Toyota taxi screamed to a halt, the suitcase was snatched and the taxi spun off. The rest was slow motion…. people started peeling out of the windows, the sliding door had opened and 3 guys just rolled out on to the tar. The driver just got out – he didn’t brake, didn’t stop. He just exited the vehicle, as the Americans would say. A rooikat probably weighs about 20 kg, but a pissed off caracal inside a minibus must’ve looked the size of a grizzly.

As for the cat, he got away. There was a farmhouse about 500m from the roadblock, and early the next morning the farmer brought us all some hot coffee and homemade rusks. He was bitching about a rondloper rooikat that ate his chickens the night before.

Tuit djou bek!

The mine warfare training in Ladysmith was at their training grounds outside of town. Also doing training there at the time was the Cape Coloured Corps – a delightful bunch of training. Although different to standard operating procedures, their training methods were novel and seemed to work.

They were working on 81mm mortars. Me, knowing absolutely nothing about them went to have a look, and tried to get a couple of freebie lessons on targeting these things. They’d spent the first few days firing practice rounds, then smoke and white phos. It amazed me just how far you could chuck a mortar round.

It was their last day on the mortars, we had just finished our course, and I went to watch them using HE. Boys never grow up – noisy things are always fascinating. I can’t remember, I think there was a battery of 8 or 9 mortars, all making a very satisfying “tonk” sounds as they threw the HE at a target way off in the distance.

Something had caught my eye. The troops manning the tube closest to me had thrown a mortar round into the tube. And it didn’t come out. And then he threw another one in. And another. The last didn’t even go all the way in – the point stuck out of the tube. And very calmly he turned around and announce “loop vol korporaal!”

I turned around to look for the corporal. There was no one within a 100 metres of me. People slowly started appearing, rather hesitantly I thought. The poor troop had by now realized that he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have. His corporal came up to him and quietly said “tuit djou bek”. The oke dutifully pouted his lips and “smack!”, he got klapped in the face. He didn’t even blink.

Everybody looked at me. Couldn’t understand why – until it dawned on me that I was the demolitions guy. And who better to sort out an 81 mil mortar tube full of rounds. Shit, I knew fuckall about mortars, don’t think they even showed us how they worked. Best thing I reasoned, was to get them out of the tube first. So I tipped the tube over, lifted the back end up and let them fall out the front of the tube. For some reason no one wanted to help me, and the bloody thing is heavy! None of them exploded. So far so good. The rest was easy – I destroyed them with some PE4.

The troop? He was single handedly carrying the base plate of the 81mm mortar to the target area and back..about 10km for the round trip

Jackets, warm

It was winter. And in Bethlehem it gets fucken cold. In the mid 80’s you could get ex-German Army cold weather parkas from military surplus stores. I bought one of those, took off the German flag and wore it in the base. As long as you didn’t wear it on parade, nobody seemed to mind too much. In fact it became a bit of a fashion statement among the sappers.

I was sent down to Ladysmith (5 SA Infantry?) to do a mine warfare course for a new intake of troops. They were called storm pioneers (And only the army can think up crap names like that). Anyway, my sergeant and I arrive at Ladysmith, both dressed in our jackets, warm, German issue just as the infantry guys finished their morning parade. A SM saw us and immediately flew off the handle “Wat de fok dra julle!? Dis nie standard univorm nie!!! Ek kla julle sommer nou aan!” We both looked at him in mock amazement. “Maar Sammajoor, hulle reik hierdie goed uit in Bethlehem! Dis mos fokken koud daar!”

He looked at both of us. And decided on another tack “Ek wil ook een hè. Kan jy dit organize?”

We did actually. He was a cool dude. Found a cheap one and had it sent with a consignment of landmines that he’d ordered.

No, it's not me in the pic.

Too much is just enough

A directive had come out – if there were any troop movements in the Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin) area, the senior person with them had to be armed. All officers leaving base had to be armed. It seems the “rooi gevaar” were planning to abduct army personnel and do beastly deeds with their poor bodies.
I drew one of the old standard issue 9mm pistols from the armoury. Simon, a young 2nd Lt from Joburg, pulled rank on the staff sergeant and insisted on drawing a R4, and enough rounds for 4 magazines. He was going home for the weekend and wanted to look like Rambo or something.

Anyway, he only got away after dark on Friday evening. Ten clicks out of town his car crashed into some boulders on the road, and he spun off into the dirt. Some local gangsters had been doing this on a regular basis - put some rocks on the road at night, and when the cars crash they robbed the survivors.

This time they lucked out. Simon was severely pissed off because the car was his pride and joy. He managed to get his door open just as they came running up. According to him, he let rip on R for Afrikaans with two magazines worth, and then went looking for the survivors. He found two guys, amazingly only lightly wounded, but in a state of shock. Two others managed to gap it.

The practice of putting rocks in the road stopped. At least in Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin).

Alexandria - 1985/6

Townships are horrible places. Dusty , desperate, angry places. Alexandria was such a place. Just worse. We were only supposed to be deployed when the police could not manage the situation, and at that level live ammunition was authorized.

The tactics came straight out the (1950’s) manual. I suspect the last time someone used D-formations in riot control was when the Brits were in Aden. And the Standard textbook instructions was that one person would be instructed to fire one shot, preferably at someone identified as a leader in the rioting crowd. The standard instruction would be “One shot. 12 o’clock. Shoot the man in the red shirt” So, if you’re ever involved in a riot in South Africa – never ever wear a red shirt!

So there we were, in our little D-formation. The troops to the front were kneeling, magazines were in, and each had a round in the chamber. The police were somewhere, but not close. This was really not where I wanted to be right now. Two people were dead already. Necklaced. And bricks were lying all over the place (they should have brick throwing as an Olympic sport – we’d win Gold with our 3^rd team).

One silly man (with a red tshirt) got hold of a megaphone and shouted “ We are the people!” And right behind me a megaphone boomed back “Fuck the people, we the people!”. It was my sergeant. I didn’t even know he had a megaphone on him. There was a stunned silence. And then someone in the crowd laughed.

Half an hour later we were playing soccer against the crowd. We got thrashed about 20 – 0.

Code 7 Troops - the nightmare gets worse

So the sports day is done, the buggers won’t transfer me to the border, and I’m stuck in Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin). Devil eyes De Villiers calls me in and gives me the standard pep talk about how important the training function is and that it’s my duty to my country to be used where needed etc etc. Fuckity fuck. I’m now a training officer. Double fuckity fuck. I’ve been given the Code 7’s. My worst nightmare. I go the the Adjudant and apply to do the advanced demolitions course. And the bomb disposal course. And since part of the Regiment has duties in the townships, I want to go there too. Nope. Not now. Triply fucked by the five fickle fingers of fate…

I report to Capt William Endley and Major Johan van der Merwe. Both are cool people, and I end up getting on well with both of them. Tubby van Deventer is my sergeant and the Blackie Swart is the company Sgt Major. And the new troops are the absolute dregs of society. Two of them can’t read or write, most of them come from reform schools, and all of them are at least 4 synapses short of a brain cell. And I’m supposed to let them loose with a rifle and live ammo???

William is Country Manager in Sudan for an American security company. At some stage while he was in Baghdad doing security work he managed to get his hands on all of Saddam’s medals. Johan is head of security for the United Nations in Asia. Tubby and Blackie are both dead now.

Code 7 Troops

We were sitting in the Ops room discussing the upcoming SADF sports championships, when Commandant “Devil Eyes” De Villiers was called to the door. And I heard some mumblings about “fucking Code Sevens”, and then he and the Adjudant disappeared down the corridor.

I hadn’t heard the term before, but it turns out Code 7 conscripts are those with minimal schooling. When I say minimal, it means grade 3 or 4. Without sums. Some of them were just dumb, some never had opportunity, some were dyslexic, but all these people were pigeon-holed as Code 7s. And then they were sent to Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin).

Two of these Code 7 troops had been doing guard duty at the front entrance gate of one of the training bases just outside of town. The two of them were buddies, and they’d got talking about shooting, and how good they were. The one told the other “I could shoot you from here without aiming” And his mate said “Not a fuck, you couldn’t” A quick double tap later, and his best buddy was dead. The two rounds went in less than an inch apart.

Even stranger, the father of the dead kid ended up paying the legal fees of the kid who shot his son. It’s a strange strange world we live in…..

General Magnus Malan (left) was the head of the SADF and President PW Botha, who signed my commission as an officer in the SADF. Not exactly stuff you put in your CV..

False panic

Way back before the army, in my University days, you had to send in your annual exam results to the SADF to prove that you have passed. If not, well, it’s in the back of the Samil with you….

As luck would have it, my exam results weren’t published in time, so in the middle of my December holidays I was sent to Bloemfontein by train (with the exam results firmly in a big envelope) to report to 1 SAI.

Off the train, lots of army personnel with R1 rifles waiting to herd us onto the trucks. Jeez, they think we’ll run away or something? Then, off the trucks, and on to the parade ground. We must’ve been the last train to arrive, as there must’ve been about 8,000 kids sitting there, waiting to be processed.

And then I learn't something new. I came from what I thought was an average school. Everyone (except one guy that I knew of) finished matric, and then everyone went off to university or technicon. Some guys went to the army first, with the idea of studying later. Well, that’s what I thought.

The Sgt Major in the front screamed (even though he was using a PA system) “Al julle fokkers wat matriek het, staan op!” And all of us fuckers who had finished high school stood up. And we were 12. Out of more than 8,000…

They sent me home again after 4 days. And a month later I received my pay cheque from the SADF. Sixteen rand. I bought some beers at the Pig & Whistle in PE with that.

Bethlehem - July 1985

Petrus van Dyk and I were supposed to go to Sector 10 together. Sector 10 HQ was at Oshakati in Namibia, not far from the Namibia/Angola border. My balsak was packed, everything was ready, and we went to see the Adjudant for our travel instructions. He handed them out one by one, till my turn came.

“Luitenant, ek hoor jy speel tennis” says the doos with a grin, and tore up my papers. He’d heard that I played tennis in a previous lifetime, and the Defence Force was having its annual sport week in Bloemfontein. Typical of the army, sport was much more important than fighting a war. “You can go to the border after the championships”. Yeah right. So (temporarily) I swapped my R4 for a tennis racket. We came second in the championships, which made it worse. I wasn’t going to get out of Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin) very easily.

In fact, I stopped playing tennis after that. I did combat pistol shooting instead. And I still couldn’t get out of Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin). 2Field Engineer Regiment, the home of the super sapper, was going to be my home for a while. Fucked by the five fickle fingers of fate…..

At least the surrounding area was prettier than Oshakati..

Basic Training - July 1984

Voeteoppiefokkenkas!!!! Our first instruction on the day basics started. After the haircuts, after collecting all your shit from the stores. The first day of basic training.

Next to each bed was a “kas” or cabinet where your clothes went, and typical army, it was painted a drab green and had little sliding doors that never worked. The kas was about a metre high, so if you put your feet on the locker, you were doing vertical push ups. Minute one of our 3 month basic training and I’d learnt a new word – voeteoppiefokkenkas! (always spelt with an exclamation mark at the end of the word).

We started with 150 push ups. Now half of us were fat bastards, very few of us were fit bastards, so doing 150 push ups on the first day wasn’t going to go well. My bed was right at the top end of the bungalow, next to the window. Next to me was Tony Barnes (he’s dead now). Both of us were pretty fit, but after about the tenth push up we looked at each other from under the bed where our faces were lying flat on the floor, and we started grinning.

By this time one guy was crying (I kid you not), and some other were screaming that this was unfair. I was listening at our corporal (Conrad Ramsay was his name, from Barkly East I think) screaming insults as only an instructor can. Barnes and I got the giggles, and both looked up to see if we’d been noticed. Ramsay was looking at us, with a huge grin on his face. His stream of incessant swearing didn’t stop for a moment, but he knew that we knew that none of this really mattered. And from that first day one he never gave the two of us any shit.

-- I lost contact with Tony after the army, and only recently found out he's died. Conrad and I bumped into each other a few times at the University of Port Elizabeth. We got on well --

This is my rifle, this is my gun......

This is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for shooting, this is for fun….

The age old mantra still runs through my head. Along with an image of some clot marching up and down the barracks, clutching his balls with one hand, and holding his rifle above his head, shouting the stupid rhyme…. Calling your beloved rifle a gun was not a good idea.

The first rifle I was issued with was the R1, the South African version of the Belgian FN. The design was dated, with a crappy stock, a little carrying handle on the top, 7.62mm calibre, 20 round magazine… and lots of little corners where minute bits of dust could collect.

Lesson one was that this was your wife. It NEVER left your side. You slept with it in your sleeping bag, you carried it to breakfast, you had it next to you when you did your washing. And when you really had to put it somewhere, the moving parts were locked in your trommel, and the big bits were locked in your “kas”. And beware the poor sod who forgot to lock it all away. He’d shit bricks for a day or two….

We carried this piece of shit around for more than a month before we actually took it to the shooting range. They made us crawl through mud, just so that we could clean it for them again, we had to take it apart on demand, just so that someone could smack you on the top of your head and make you run for the boundary fence again when the bloody mouse wouldn’t fit in quickly enough… and it never does when you’re in a hurry.

Finally the big day came and we tumbled out of the Bedfords at the shooting range. And then lying down at the 100 metre mark, switch it S for single shot (R for Afrikaans results in unpleasant behavior by the instructors), aiming for the target. Squeeze the trigger slowly, like you’ve been taught… and BANG! Fuck me, the bloody thing worked!!!! I was so convinced they’d given me a piece of shit, it surprised the hell out of me when it actually fired. My head popped up to see where the shot went, only to get a swipe on the top of my doiby for being a stupid cunt and not concentrating….

Sept 1984 - Bossiespruit

Fokkofommiestalleentreeaanjulleheteenminuutdaagatjy! That was probably the first instruction we got at Bossiespruit. Loosely translated it meant that you had to run from the bungalow (barracks) around the stables where the Shetland ponies were kept, back to the bungalow, and form up. In less than one minute. Please.

By the second day, all the instructor had to do was point. And we’d run. Usually between twenty and thirty times. In the three months I was there, we never ever made it in under a minute. We did it in less than one minute one second, but never under a minute.

Most of the Fokkofommiestalleentreeaanjulleheteenminuutdaagatjy!style of running was done early in the morning, before breakfast, but after inspection. The Corporal of Echo Troop (can’t remember his name, but he wasn’t quite as psychopathic as the one Golf had), would come to the door, one of us would shout “kaserne, kaserne, aandag!”, and we’d all stand to attention while he looked at us balefully. The bungalows were divided into cubicles, with a passage down the middle. I was in the first cubicle, right in front. “Die plek is kak! Tree aan!” That was it. Every morning. He’d walk to the front entrance, tell us it looked like shit – and then we’d shit bricks for the rest of the day. He never made it past the 2nd cubicle. In fact some of the lucky shits in the back didn’t even make their beds in the morning. They knew he wouldn’t get that far…

Bossiespruit was legendary in the Engineering corps was being the worst place to be in the army. You tell people you were at Bossies, and you received real looks of sympathy. Coupled with hysterical laughter… The bungalows were crappy pre-fabricated units, the showers were cold, and it was far away from everything. It pressure was definitely a step up from basics. No walking was allowed. You had to run to the mess (15m away). You ran to the washing line to hang your washing, you ran to the pub in the evenings for your regulatory two beers, you ran to the parade ground, you ran around the fucking ponies….. I still hate running.

Bossiespruit was a training camp just outside of Kroonstad, and in our time they held the JL’s (Junior Leadership) training and selection there. I think we lost five guys in our bungalow the first week we were there. Not that you could volunteer to give up. Anybody that said anything about not wanting to do this anymore got smacked so hard on the doiby they’d see stars. (The doiby is the inside plastic bit of your metal helmet (Korea War era) that you wore while you were doing training. It had to be kept polished. Which was better than the marines in Saldhana – they had to square off their toothpaste tubes.

In amongst all the training was the guard duty, some of which was included the ammunition dump on top of the hill. It was horrible in winter. Two hours on, four hours off. You could not get any sleep. The cold winter wind would cut through everything, and even the World War II era “greatcoats, warm” didn’t help that much.

The photo above is of the bungalows we lived in...

Careful who you wrestle with

When I was stationed in Bethlehem (not the one with the three wise men and a virgin), the army had a farm which was used for training (bridge building, mine warfare, explosives etc). It was also a wildlife sanctuary. One of the animals in the camp was an orphaned wildebeest. This one was quite young, about waist high to an adult, and just starting to grow horns.

Every time we came to the farm, my corporal would go look for the wildebeest and play with him. Play consisted of grabbing it by the horns, and giving it a shake. The young wildebeest loved this, and immediately try to head butt him. The corporal (I think his name was Charles Bester) was a strapping young lad, and he’d hold the animals by the horns and play with him.

We went away for three months, I think we went to the townships. When we came back, the first thing corporal did was to look up his mate and give him a shake. Big mistake. In three months the wildebeest must have put on a 100 kilos, and promptly had the man pushed up against the truck, fighting for his life. We were laughing so hard there was no way we could help him. When it really looked like he was going to get seriously hurt a couple of guys gave him a hand up into the truck.

The problem was that every time we went back to the farm to give the troops training, the wildebeest was there, waiting for the corporal. He’s single him out. And insist on playing…

You're in the army now..

Who remembers army training? I remember the running.

The other things like sitting at 3 in the morning getting your bed perfectly square with starch and two clothes irons, using a toothbrush to clean your bedframe, or sitting outside in the freezing cold while you polish your boots so that bits of boot polish don’t fall on the floor – those are all small things.

Basics (or boot camp I think they call it in the US) was a doddle, there was always a slower fat person in the group. You always had a moment or two to rest before you had to run around the tree/bungalow/church/whatever they thought of next again. But then came the leadership courses. And the running started. Running from the bungalow to the showers. Running to the parade ground. Walking was not allowed. Except if you were on crutches. And even then you had to hobble fast. Ten clicks at sun up. With bridge parts. Ten clicks before lunch. With telephone poles. And truck tyres. And a quick ten clicks again at sundown to cool down, this time only with rifle and boots. And in between there’s the hour of physical training. To get fit.

Then we got fit. And the distances changed. Or the time got less. But the running never stopped. I did get fit. Somewhat strangely, I gained weight. But I suppose I was a skinny little runt…

It’s twenty year later. I still hate running. And no matter what people say, I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind.

July 1985 - Three wise men and a virgin

Officers course was behind us, and I’d had a quick weekend at home before I reported to 2 Field Engineer Regiment in Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin). It was a cold winter’s day when I arrived at the main gate. The big sign over the main gate read in big blue and red letters “2 Field Eng Regiment. Home of the Super Sapper” This was the 80's, not 1914. Did people still fall for shit like that?

I parked my car ( I had a white Toyota Corolla in those days) at the visitors parking next to the officers mess just left of the main gate, asked for directions to the security area, where HQ was. The weak winter sun was slanting low over the parade ground. It was already getting cold, and there was a bite in the air. Funny the things you remember. Bethlehem was legendary as the coldest army camp in South Africa.

Wearing my step-outs (army jacket, tie, smart khaki pants and shiny brown shoes, and feeling very self conscious I walked up past the parade ground on the left, and went in through the gates to the security area. I was still firmly convinced that the army had fucked up big time in giving me any form of responsibility whatsoever. I found the Adjudant, a harried PF (Permanent Force) Captain who looked liked a scruffy accountant. His shirt was always hanging out. He told me who to go see in the mess about a room, and waved me into the Kommandant’s office. The Kommandant (the rank is equal to lieut-colonel) shook my hand, asked what sport I did, and whether I was going to the border (Border referred to the Namibia/Angola border, where our little war was) or staying with him. “Border” I said. He looked me up and down and said “Ok, now fuckoff out of my office”. That was my introduction to “Devil Eyes” De Villiers. He was a butcher in a previous life..

One of the cooks showed me to my room. Pretty average it was. A steel cupboard, painted military grey, a worn wooden desk, and a steel bed. But it was mine. I didn’t have to share it with 63 other other guys. The showers were down the hall. I unpacked, got out of my stepouts, and put on my browns, boots and mooi moois (roughly translated it means pretty things, but is used to describe the colourful engineer regiment belt, unit badges and rank that you wear when you're not on operations), and decided to go find the pub.

As I closed my door and started walking off, I bumped into a girl who came very unexpectedly round the corner. There are very few pretty girls in the army, so chances were high she was a civvie. This one was in high heels, tight jeans, had big tits and big hair. “Who are you?” she said. I explained.

She took a piece of paper out of her bra. “Well you not on my list, I’m looking for these guys” She showed me a list of seventeen names, handwritten and numbered neatly” She must have seen the question mark on my face… “One of these fuckers got me pregnant, and I’m trying to find out who it is” And off she trippled on her 6 inch high white high heels…

I never did get a photo of the girl (I heard there were a number of them floating around, mostly without the jeans - but with the high heels) - so I added one of the Bethlehem unit patches instead. Sorry.

Old men

Maybe it's an age thing. It's more than twenty years since I left the army. Yet it left an indelible impression. I'd been working my way through the internet, trying to find out what had happened to everyone... and then out of the blue I received an email from Danie.

We’d been in the army together more than twenty years ago. Danie had gone one step further, and had put together a CD of photographs, as well as a diary of his memories that had me laughing out loud for days while I read it.

Even more amazing, he has managed to find over 50 of us. Four of five have died, some live in New Zealand now (traitors), one or two live in the USA (capitalists). The rest? We’re all older, fatter , probably not wiser, and we all remember those days like they were yesterday.

So maybe the time has come for me to write down some of what I remember, before CRAFT disease gets the last of my memory. I’m not even going to try to get the stories in order. I’ll just write them as they filter up through the sludge…

Oh, and the pic has nothing to do with me. I lifted it off the net.