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 --