Bossiespruit se Bloubos

Bossiespruit is where we train

In the heat and in the rain..

Blou Bos. Its very simple really. 25kg. 10km. 1 hour. If all of you make it, you don't get fucked up. If you didn't? Day became night. Bossiespruit was like that. Black or White. You made it. Or you didn't. Most of the time they fucked you up.

The instructors knew to the last second how long it took a fit person to get anywhere at Bossiespruit. And they gave you one second less than that. So you ran like hell. And when you didn't make it, they fucked you up some more.

Blou Bos was the yardstick. It measured everything. If you were fit enough. If you mind was right. If you helped your buddies. If you could ignore the taunting of the instructors.

We were sitting in the menasie just after lunch doing a course on the rules of driving military vehicles. I still remember rooimoer talking about how long you have your indicator going before you change lanes. And whether dogs tend to change their minds halfway across a road. And then his voice tailed off, and he stared aimlessly outside.

Fullkitgeweerbakstenetreeandrieminutefokkenbloubos! Mad scramble for kit and geweer. Treen aan. Not enough time to fix everything tightly so your sleeping bag is hanging lopsided over your neck. Fuckity fuck, you'll just have to run like that. "Julle vier? Daai fokken tyre? Kry vir julle!" So it's fullkit geweer and tyre today... Fokkoffdaagaatdjulle!

The first time we did bloubos the last guys came in 6 minutes too late. The retraining stopped after ten that night. We made it a week later. By 15 seconds.

Bloubos was a small copse of Australian bluegum trees 5km away from Bossiespruit. Groot bloubos was further away. We never ran that one - althought the implied threat was always there. The pic of Bossiespruit was taken in 2005/6 by Danie.

Die groot dag the big day

What do you take with when you go to the army? Sports clothes. So I packet my tennis kit, including racket. Tennis shoes. Running shoes. The ones supplied by the army were World War 2 era technology. A swiss army knife. Underpants. The SADF ones were legendary. Rugby shorts and 2 tshirts. Brasso, polishing lappies, Kiwi boot polish. NOT Nugget. Only moffies used nugget. Shaving kit. Toiletries. Omo washing powder. Writing paper, envelopes, stamps. I can’t remember writing any letters, although I must’ve. Locks. I took the 3-pack of locks that used the same key. I remember they cost about 5 times the price of 3 separate locks. I also took a high tech lock with a keyless magnetic unlocking mechanism. It lasted two days. A chain to keep your washing from being stolen off the line. I never used it, never lost any washing either. Money - I seem to remember an amount of thirty rand was suggested. I took a hundred. Just in case. I spent most of that on chocolate and coke. And a camera - bought a relatively cheap 35mm. I know the boekie said no, but if it was confiscated it wasn’t a Hasselblad.

The amptelike information booklet also said that once we got there, we would get the opportunity to send our civvie clothes and bags back to our parents. This sounded like too much trouble, so I bought a really cheap plastic togbag from Mr Price in Empangeni, and decided to wear old clothes that I could throw away instead of mailing home. Then of course Moeder insists on a 1st aid kit the size of Alaska. I think the only things I ever used from that were the Disprins. I never got blisters in the army - I must’ve had perfectly average feet.

I have to pack all of this into one bag. After the third re-pack I throw out half of Alaska, and force the zip closed. Bag in the car, off to Durban. The groot good-bye. Mom is teary eyed, Dad gives me a stewige handruk. And a hug. Then all the new guys get herded to the train. The handle of my Mr Price bag breaks off. Fuckity. I carry it the rest of the way hugged to my chest. Find a compartment, put the bag down to introduce myself. The zip tears off the plastic material of Mr Price. Fuckity fuck.

In the compartment with me were Tony Barnes and Wimpie le Roux and John (Sorry, CRAFT disease, can’t remember his surname). John got sick at the start of JL’s and he got thrown off the course. Not sure what happened to him. Tony and I were in Echo Troop for basics and JL’s. Wimpie was in the same bungalow for JL’s.

The train took almost 24 hours to get to Kroonstad. I seem to remember we overnighted on the train at Harrismith station. No roofie ride, no rush. A very polite reception. It seems we had arrived at least five days before the rest of the diensplig inname, and they weren’t interested in us. Yet.

Dankie Tannies

The Suiderkruisvonds was everywhere. Also known as the dankietannies, they organised pakkies for the boeties on the border, usually stationery so you could write to your mom and your girlfriend (who was probably in the pub getting pissed).

I only once received anything from them. Kroonstad, 1984. Basics. We were treed aan without warning in the middle of the week, told to get clean and dressed in 10 minutes. The dankietannies had organised for Anneli van Rooyen to come and sing for us. Remember Seemeeu? Yes that one.

Oh and we had to pay twenty rand for the privilege. And don't worry, it has been taken off your pay packet. Fuckit I was only earning R4.75 a day.

Basics

Staanopsitstaanopsitstaanopfokkofommieboomdagatjulle!

Bushcraft lesson after lunch. The winter sun is warming the back of my neck where we’re sitting in veld. Very peaceful, if it wasn’t for the main highway leading out of Kroonstad right behind us. It's been busy since 3 in the morning, getting ready for inspection, quick opfok (you mustn't look to fucked up for morning parade), PT, the 2,4 and some more push-ups because one of your maatjies was too slow.

And now korporaal is telling us to look for kommuniste from right to left when you lying in the long grass.

Not too long and heads nodding. You’re so tired you fall asleep while you writing your notes. I still have my notebook where the writing becomes illegible and disappears in a scribble off the side of the page.

Jullewillfokkenslaap?! Fokkof ommie bos. Nee! Nie links om nie, regsom, dagatjulle weer! Etters!

Kroonstad

As part of our “training” as CO’s (Candidate Officers) we had to take over the guard duty at the School of Engineers. We would act as the officer on duty, while the real officer on duty went down to the pub for a beer or two. Well at least we didn't have to sit in a cage between two rows of barbed wire any more...

Besides the normal tasks of making sure the guards were properly dressed, sorting out the duty roster and handing out the shrink-wrapped rounds, we aslo had to answer the phone and deal with any emergencies the police of fire brigade might have to deal with.

Just before midnight I get a phone call from a very Afrikaans aunty from the police station. Someone handed in a hand grenade and she wanted to know what to do with it. Jeez, how was I supposed to know what the police did with hand grenades they picked up.

After a couple of question and answer sessions (she I think fell out of the stupid tree when she was small), we finally figured it wasn’t South African so it must be communist (her description, not mine).

Next question (were were on 1st name terms by this time). “Elsa, just a quick check, is the pin still in?” After a brief pause I get a “No man, there’s no pin”……. fuckity fuck.

“OK Elsa, is the handle still on this grenade?” By now she was getting the gist of the conversation. “Jissis, there no handle either. Fokkit, what now man?”..... double fuckity fuck.

“Listen Elsa, you may have a problem. Without the pin or the handle, it means the grenade was armed, but didn’t go off. I don’t know how stable it is, so be careful. Don’t bump it.”

Thunk. I could hear her drop it on the desk at the polisiekantoor. And thunk again as it rolled off the desk on to the floor. And amongst it all very rapid footsteps and lots of screaming…..

We did a follow up phone call in the morning but were told that “it’s all under control…”

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….