by J H Thompson
– John, age 18
We had this arrogant, bombastic commandant at Ondangwa. Everyone hated him. One night, after a drinking session in Chopper Corner (our place to de-stress and dop), we returned to our living area to braai. All the pilots’ – Impala, Light Aircraft, Alouette, Puma – accommodation was in terrapins clustered around a swimming pool. We usually headed back after drinking in the pub, to have a braai on the sundeck or boma belonging to the Light Aircraft guys. We drank together, even though there was professional jealousy between the jet pilots and the chopper pilots. They said we got pissed and flew while drunk, and we said we had to babysit them. We were the ones who had to go and fetch them when they ejected or crashed. That particular night, Roelof, who had very powerful family connections, decided it was time to get his own back on this commandant. In those days all the pillows were feather ones. He took one and filled it with a dozen eggs and a thunderflash. He threw it into the room where the commandant was sleeping. There was this tremendous bang, and the commandant came flying out, covered in eggs and feathers! You can imagine what a mess he looked. He was furious. He told us he would court-martial all of us if he didn’t find out who it was. Roelof owned up, and the next day he was on a Flossie back to the States to be court-martialled. But because of his family connections, in less than two weeks the case was squashed.
– Anonymous
I was on the bridge of a minehunter as we were coming alongside to berth in Port Elizabeth. The minehunters had Voith Schneider propulsion: the propellers were inside the hull, and instead of turning like a regular boat’s, the propulsion system operated more like twin eggbeaters. This meant it was a highly manoeuvrable boat, like a heli-ship. But in addition to trying to berth between ships, I had the captain who was down below watching Wimbledon on a TV with poor reception. He kept calling instructions up to me to swivel the ship to improve the signal: ‘Yes! No! Go! Stop! Yes! Yes! Right there! Yes! Yes! That’s it! You got it!’ It sounded like sex.
– Louis, age 17
There was mutual dislike and disrespect between this Afrikaans adjutant officer and myself. An adjutant officer enjoyed the rank of captain and was responsible for the disciplining of fellow officers, amongst other responsibilities. I was an English-speaking lieutenant with a reasonable amount to say for myself, and even though he was senior to me, I had very little respect for him. Not so much because he was Afrikaans, but given my operational experience and parachute qualifications, I got the distinct impression that I was being victimised for the fact that I spoke English and was not impressed with the fact he had not yet qualified as a jumper. The two of us were sent down to Oudtshoorn on a three-month mortar-training course, and there we shared a room. Over one of the weekends that we were afforded pass, a few of us drove down to Hartenbos to go and enjoy ourselves at the beach. I was a passenger in the adjutant’s vehicle. Everyone had a few beers under the belt. The vehicle in front of us slowed, and I could see that this captain had quite possibly not noticed and showed no intention of slowing. I wondered if I should draw it to his attention, or would he pull rank on me? I elected to say nothing and just braced myself for impact, which I did. There was impact. We got out of the car, assessed the damage, and he went to his boot and pulled out my military sleeping bag. He started tearing the straps off it so he could tie his bonnet down. I said to him. ‘With all due respect, why are you tearing up my sleeping bag?’ He apologised and said he had not realised it was mine, and that he was more concerned about what his wife would say about the damage to the car. From then on, we forged a wonderful friendship. In life, when there is a dislike between individuals who do not know each other, but then they actually get to know and like one another, it seems to forge an even stronger bond than a meeting which is amicable from the start.
However, not long after we became friends, he was taken up to the Border as an Intelligence officer. He missed my 21st birthday at Free State Command. It was Bloemfontein and freezing. I got horribly drunk and apparently lit a fire on the floor, to which I wanted to add a guitar and sheets and things. My friends stopped me from doing too much damage and convinced me that what I had going already was sufficient to keep me warm. I did make it to the unit for parade the next morning, but was called back to Free State HQ because a cleaner had complained that some drunken officer had lit a fire on the mess floor and damaged it. The commandant asked me to explain the damage, and he basically told me that if I wanted to avoid being charged, I would have to replace the floor in totality. I then proceeded to clean those Marley tiles with Brasso to the best of my ability. Coincidentally, he was the father of my friend, the captain who had recently gone to the Border. Over the period that this was all happening, I heard that my friend, the captain who had gone up to the Operational Area, had been shot and killed trying to flush a SWAPO terrorist from a hut. I think he was killed as a result of not having had all the right information. His body was brought back for burial. It’s certainly not compulsory, but it is a sign of respect to salute at the head of the grave during an officer’s funeral. I went and did this, and, as I was saluting, I coincidently happened to make eye contact with his father. I’m sure that is why the whole damaged floor saga was swept under the carpet. No pun intended.
– Dudley, age 21
We revered the helicopter guys because they were there to get us out of trouble. We revered them because they often put their lives on the line. We revered them because they used to pick us up sometimes and give us a lift so we didn’t have to walk three days back home. We revered them because if guys got into shit they just went in and got them out, and they were like, hey, it’s our job. I think they went through more shit than anybody realises. They just went into troubled areas again and again and again. They took bullets through their helicopters and bullets through themselves and they got shot out of the sky. We revered them because they never acted as though they were superior to anyone else. Never. Never. Ever.
– Ric, age 18
We were fortunate, as we were ‘in’ with the air force guys. The Pumas used to come in to casevac guys out, and we had this code that enabled us to get goodies in. We would radio base on our VHF radios and ask for legit medical supplies like Plasmalite A or B, but then we would also ask for Plasmalite C, which doesn’t exist. There’s no such thing. It was a code for goodies like a six-pack of Amstels, dry wors, chocolate – stuff like that. So we would go, ‘Two boxes of Plasmalite C,’ and they would include goodies for us the next time they flew in. We kept the beers reasonably cold by wrapping them in toilet paper, which we would dampen with water. We left them under the vehicle overnight and the evaporation process would cool it a little, so that you could enjoy a fairly cool, not cold, beer.
– Greg, age 25
The army taught me to rely on others. On my buddies. It taught me self-discipline and to control and focus my mind. But it really was a major war, there was a shitload of stuff going on, and most South Africans didn’t know. The guy driving his Mercedes around Sandton had no idea that men were dying or being maimed, losing limbs. Not just ours, but Angolan men, women and children too.
– Greg, age 25
My trip to the Skeleton Coast was the most awesome trip of my life. We were to go ahead and set up camp for all the OCs from every base in Sector 2Ø. This was not a Mickey Mouse trip. There was a signaller’s truck and all its equipment, a chef’s truck, a field kitchen on the back of a Samil 100, gas, food, freezers, generators, water, wood, everything. I was the only National Serviceman on the trip and I had two Ovambos to help me in the kitchen. We had two Samils, a bakkie and a Unimog, and drove them from Grootfontein, right through Etosha, over the pan and through the Petrified Forest and on to the coast. We were just going. When you get to that Skeleton Coast, everything changes – the world is so different. It’s just desert, no more trees, nothing but dunes. It is so beautiful. We hit the coast and turned north towards Angola. At Möwe Bay we checked in with the ranger and his wife, showed him our permits, and he told us when and
where to drive, because sometimes we had to wait for the tides to be able to drive on the beach. It was awesome: we’d been driving on tracks, but soon even those disappeared. Then we were driving on the beach and we passed thousands and thousands of seals. They were barking at us and I was thinking, should I shoot them? Remember, I was a chef and I’d never had a chance to fire my rifle. In the end I settled for looking for diamonds! Some of the big bulls started chasing the trucks! It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.
When we turned slightly inland, we got stuck. All because the stupid sergeant major didn’t listen to me. He wanted to go slow and I told him to go go go. So we get stuck. For a day and a half. Now we knew we had to get there and set up camp at Rocky Point before the colonel and everybody arrived. That’s where we were heading. So we set up camp and we were braaing meat and all these jackals were around us. You must remember I was a city boy, so I was awake the whole night. You could hear them and see them, and I kept throwing wood on the fire, thinking, why the hell are they coming here? They’re supposed to be scared of the fire, but obviously they smelt the meat. We had to dig and stick dry seaweed and shells under the wheels of the truck, and eventually we got out – a day and a half later. I was a chef, for goodness’ sake, and here I was with blisters on my hands!
As we got to Rocky Point, this Flossie came in, roaring low over the desert, and landed. We had been stuck for a day and a half in the sand and here this Flossie just lands in the desert and turns around like it’s on a runway! The Unimog and bakkie went off to fetch the guys. We had slogged through desert for three days with all their shit, and these bastards just walked off the plane with nothing but their toothbrushes and fishing rods. Boy, they were happy! We were supposed to have set up camp at this permanent site. But because of our delay, the camp wasn’t ready yet. The area was a fenced-in area with a gate and prefab bungalows inside. It looked like it had been there for years. The guys arrived, and every single one of them had a moustache. I’ll never forget that. I didn’t know which way to salute first. I was in my vest and browns, ’cause I was told not to wear a beret or uniform. They were all very relaxed and happy and shouted ‘Korporaal! Maak die vuur’ [Corporal! Make the fire], and they all helped set up camp. Within three hours everyone, including those with rank, had helped set up everything: camp and signals equipment. My sergeant major was going around giving everyone Old Brown Sherry. I wasn’t sure why they were all there, but it sure looked like just fishing to me. I went fishing with them and caught 11 fish in one day: kolster and kabeljou. I’ll never forget it. The seals would come right up on the rocks while you were fishing. The beauty was unbelievable. All I had to do was make brunch. They would wake up at five o’clock in the morning. I could sleep, they didn’t bug me. They went fishing with their rods and Hanepoot. They drank so much Hanepoot, ’cause it was so cold in the morning. I made brunch for 12 people, but only at ten o’clock. How easy was that? I made omelettes, bacon, boerewors, toast, sausages. Dutchmen like that kinda shit. They just wanted a big breakfast. I would drive onto the beach, set up the table, lay out the food and whistle, and these big important guys would come running. It was so cool. I would whistle and they would come and eat my food. And I was their Rooinek. We would pick snails and mussels fresh off the rocks, and I made garlic snails and stuff for dinner. They taught me how to gut a fish, how to open it and how to cook it on a fire, using the skin and natural oils, no tinfoil or anything. They all cooked their own catch. The Ovambos cooked pap. I just made sure everything was clean. I was there for about two weeks. It was my best ever.
I remember the one night the signaller came to tell them that this well-known terrorist, Plat Pote, had been shot dead. He was an awesome terrorist. He was brilliant. They’d been after him for ages, and they eventually found out he used to run along fences. Right on the top of barbed wire fences – barefoot. The Bushmen trackers figured it out; they were brilliant too. So that night when we heard he’d been shot, there was a big chug chug. They were, ‘Hey, they got the oke!’ But yet there was respect. It wasn’t like ‘we’d killed a kaffir’ or anything like that. Even though we had killed him, there was still admiration for him. Maybe it was an officer’s way of doing things, but I never forgot it. It was strange. They were happy that the fucker was dead, you gotta understand – they drank toasts to his death – but they were still respectful.
I’ve still got a piece of petrified tree I picked up when we drove through the forest. I’d like to go back to Rocky Point again.
– Anthony, age 18
Somewhere on the Border
I was casevaced from the Border twice. The first time I collapsed from heat stroke while on patrol. That was really weird, ’cause I had an out-of-body experience and remember watching a mate of mine, an ops medic, talking to me and trying to raise a vein. It was only when a doctor treated me at Oshakati that they found out I had hepatitis. During my first night in the hospital there was an attack on a nearby base. Around 4 a.m. they started wheeling casualties, many of them terrs, into the general ward where I was. I wasn’t impressed when they parked a gurney with a groaning terr close to my bed. He was singed and all scrunched up: lying on his back, but with his knees and elbows bent and sticking up into the air. As they were tending to him, a young lieutenant covered in blood and dust came in and I asked him what had happened. He told me a base had been mortared and rocketed. I asked him what happened to the terr, who looked like he’d seized up, and he told me that the guy had been standing behind his mate when he fired an RPG. Ja, a rocket launcher has a back blast of note!
I'll never forget the second time I was casevaced from the Border to Pretoria's 1 Mil, because it occurred shortly after I met Jonas Savimbi. I was with the SA Irish, a unit I was very proud to belong to. On our berets we wore an Irish harp and a hackle – a plume of green feathers – and our boots weren't brown, they were black. This came from the Second World War, when the unit was artillery but was completely annihilated at Sidi Rezegh in Egypt. It was reformed as part of a mechanised infantry division, and in memory of fallen comrades, our boots were black. We had driven from Oshakati to Alpha Tower. The base was situated on a dry riverbed and a bridge spanned across into Angola. There was an MPLA camp on the other side. At last light both camps fired their mortars, not at each other, but merely to say they were awake, alert – there and ready. Every morning after breakfast five guys from each side would meet on the bridge and exchange pleasantries. It was just general chit-chat about what time they would be firing-in weapons that evening and so on. Ten days after we arrived, there was a huge commotion. At first we thought they were just firing-in weapons – we couldn't see, as it was dark – all we could see were flashes lighting the sky. Unbeknownst to us, it was Jonas Savimbi himself! The next morning we walked onto the bridge and instead of the usual five MPLA guys, Jonas Savimbi and nine UNITA soldiers strolled onto the bridge. He was a big man and was grinning like a Cheshire cat. They all seemed very pleased with themselves. Savimbi was very neatly dressed in full uniform, but the other characters were a colourful ragtag bunch in cut-off T-shirts, bandannas, sunglasses and carrying a mixed assortment of weapons. All, including Savimbi, were laughing. Initially Savimbi spoke Portuguese to our interpreter, but switched to English after telling him they had klapped the MPLA base the night before. He was very charismatic and confident, and I felt I was in the presence of someone important and great. He shook hands with all of us, and when he did, his troops on the far side all started cheering and waving their rifles above their heads. You could easily see he was extremely popular with his men. When he shook my hand, I was dumbstruck – all I managed to stutter was, 'Morning sir.' I felt he was really someone of substance and great standing. He was still laughing. What a larger-than-life character.
That night I was in agony. It started as a dull ache, like a badly bruised rib. But then the pain became so intense that I pulled two bars out of my army cot's headboard. Okay, they were only screwed in, but still, it convinced the lieut
enant that I was in excruciating pain. He radioed for a helicopter to casevac me out, but not one of them would fly out to Alpha Tower at night. Eventually, at 3 a.m., a Buffel arrived to take me to Etale. They filled the footwell with ammo crates to make enough level floor space for two mattresses for me to lie on. The doc there gave me two vials of Sosenol. He couldn't believe one was not enough and that I was still in pain. Turned out I had a kidney stone. Eventually I was taken by helicopter to Ondangwa, and then on a Flossie to Pretoria. On both flights there was a dude from the Coloured Corps. How's this for coincidence? He was goalie for the CC in a soccer match, but he had been a lousy goalie and they lost the game. He'd been standing naked, about to get in the shower, when one of his teammates ran in and stabbed him repeatedly in the bum with a pikstel fork! And who did they play against in the soccer match? The SA Irish!
– Clint, age 21
For some reason, along the Mozambican border, we knew the enemy as dissidents, not terrorists. And they were not nearly as confrontational as those from Angola. They were usually teenage boys, often by themselves and armed with AK-47s. They would usually surrender quickly. We had certain rules to put in place when we encountered a dissident. We were usually in a Buffel or Ratel. We would stop a short distance away. You never approached them on foot, because there could be landmines. He had to put his rifle down and leopard-crawl towards you for at least 10 metres before standing up. We’d then arrest him and do a light interrogation, using the trackers as interpreters. This would include a threatening tactic – something like a gun against the head. Strong-arm tactics involved holding a guy down and putting your foot on his throat. But they were very submissive. Generally you could see if they were hiding information, as they were not trained spies. They are looking for refuge – often these guys hadn’t had water or proper food for a long time and wanted some badly. We’d use cable ties or tie them up with a seat belt in the vehicle and take them back to the base.