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.