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…