19 With a Bullet (38 page)

“He killed our two cats while we were away in the bush, staff,” I answered seriously, having regained my composure. “I should have given him more,” I smiled.

Staff Greyling shook his head and laughed. He couldn’t keep a straight face. “Well, you’re in the shit now, my mate ... you’re going to sleep in the
kas
tonight, here with SWAPO for starters, then a whole world of
kak
is going to come down on you.”

He motioned to the skinny black guy in the cell next to me and locked the steel grill.

I never did get to have my shower or change my clothes and I lay down on a thin blanket in my filthy four-week-old bush clothes and listened to the sounds of 1 Para having a celebration welcome-home party late into the night. I had not even got to wash my face.

I spoke to the confused SWAPO suspect in the other cell and told him that I was a SWAPO sympathizer and that he should tell me where his buddies were so that we could get word to them. I was still trying to do my duty, even in the
kas
. He did not fall for my trick.

The next morning I was let out and told that 1 Para had gone on a rampage, that not one infantry troop had slept on a foam mattress that night. Hell, they had been our mattresses when we’d left four weeks ago!

¹⁹
Yes ... and what of it?

HIDDEN FROM VIEW

Whipping post—The Allman Brothers Band

The next morning, D Company rode in Buffels in a long convoy back to Ondangwa. It took extra long because we had to weave through the bush next to the white road due to a recent landmine campaign by our friends from across the border. It was standard procedure anyhow, but this time it seemed to take forever. Kruger and Fourie got into a condensed-milk fight, which had started off as a joke but quickly developed into a real fight with the sticky goo sprayed all over the small ten-man Buffel. Fucking idiots.

The knuckles on my right hand were bruised and painful and I was hardly able to close my fist. Even my knee hurt.

“You did good, Gungie. He deserved every bit you gave him.”

“Yeah, I saw him at the HQ ... he was fucked ... couldn’t even talk. I think you broke his jaw, ’cause he was mumbling through his teeth. Hey, everyone in the whole camp was behind you, I can tell you that. You just had the balls to do something about it. Even Staff Greyling was cracking up when he came to talk to us last night about taking the infantry’s mattresses. Show those fucks not to mess with the fucking Bats! You did the paratroopers proud, boy,” Stan was chuffed.

I sat quietly, bouncing up and down as the Buffel manoeuvred over the rough terrain. I felt depleted, small and weak. But I felt right. Fuck that! I had revolted against the machine and had done right and I had no regrets. I was the guardian of the helpless, I was the bringer of bush justice to tyrants and bullies. I was the slayer of fucking giants who ruled with might and force and cruelty. I was a soldier, out there doing the real thing, killing the enemy, while the bully killed helpless kittens back at camp.

We arrived in Ondangwa, the Parabat home. The big parachute and swooping eagle painted on the sign at the ops room told us so. This was a paratrooper camp, with no idiot infantry walking around like Popeye. The juniors had come up early and taken over Fireforce duties, occupying all the tents. There was an excited atmosphere in the camp as rank hurried across the tent square with clipboards in their hands. Big German-built Magirus Deutz trucks stood in a long line next to the chopper pad, loaded high with supplies. Choppers buzzed back and forth overhead. The activity carried on nonstop till late into the night, the ops room’s yellow lights burning till past midnight. We dumped all our gear against the sand walls at the back and spent the night in the few empty tents.

I had been released and allowed to return with my company, but would go before a court martial in the town of Oshakati, the operational area HQ, 60 clicks from Ondangwa. The rest of D Company was to leave immediately for parts unknown, to start practising for the big operation that was coming off very soon. No one had a clue what exactly was going on but we knew it would probably be against FAPLA,and that this was it. This was the big one. The big game. The rumours were that we might even go in and take over the whole of Angola, including taking on the 40,000-odd Cubans. Others said we were going to occupy southern Angola in a
blitzkrieg
and sandwich SWAPO between the South West African border and our occupying force. But all the rumours had one thing in common—it was going to be the biggest military operation that South Africa had undertaken since World War Two.

“Be sharp, you guys. Keep your heads down. If it moves, shoot it and if it doesn’t move, shoot it until it moves,” was my piece of stupid advice as I helped Doogy and Kurt load their kit onto the big trucks the next morning.

“When’s the court martial?”

“I’ve no idea. Verwey said I must stay here ... soon I guess.”

“Well, looks like you’re going to miss out on the big game, bro. Doep says we’re going to be right in the middle of it ... I don’t know if you’re lucky or not.”

Lucky or not—the words rang hollow in my brain as I handed up Doogy’s heavy LMG to him. I watched the company loading up. We had become like a big family in the last few months. I watched as they excitedly passed up kit, squabbling over the best spots among the kit bags for the long ride to who knew where.

All I knew was that I should be riding out with them, but that now I had to stay behind to be court martialled while I missed the biggest fucking operation in our history! The big operation that I had been waiting for ... trained for and lost all my toenails for … I was going to miss it!

“Hey Gungie, mail these off for me, please bro.” Stan placed a wad of letters in my hand.

Now I was the fucking mail boy.

It caught on quickly. Half a dozen troops came and handed me letters that they wanted me to post off. I watched, clutching a handful of post, as the big trucks rumbled out past the ops room and down the sand road that led out of the vast air force base. I waved and gave a salute. Doogy laughed and flipped me a middle finger.

The next few days passed slowly. I had moved my kit to the farthest corner of the last tent; no one even knew I was there. I sat alone and when I rolled up my sleeping bag and shoved my kit under the bed I was barely noticeable in the sea of naked yellow foam mattresses. I took the opportunity to thoroughly wash every bit of clothing I had, including my war-booty FAPLA outfit. I borrowed a needle and thread from a junior and stitched my favorite ripped brown shirt and pants as best I could, but not being blessed with much knowledge in the craft of needlework, the stitches came out as if Frankenstein had done them. I had to accept that my prized shirt, now faded almost to white, would have to be retired or at least put on light duty till I got home from this bush trip and my mother could work one of her miracles on it.

I kept a low profile and stayed at the back of the camp behind my tent, only coming out to eat with the juniors and then disappearing again. It was a new experience, being alone in the six-man tent and not surrounded by rowdy troops. I savoured the solitude.

I took time to write some long letters to Taina, telling her how I missed her terribly and that she was certainly my true love, and how I would look at our three stars every night in the bush and think of her. I didn’t tell her or anyone else about the incident with the sergeant-major, only saying that I had some time to spend doing Fireforce at Ondangwa.

I told her in code that I had been doing what I had joined up to do. At night I dreamed of Taina lying in bed with me.

I attended the situation report with the juniors in the morning after parade and breakfast. The war was going well; the lieutenant informed us that July had been the bloodiest month of the year so far, with 93 insurgents killed by July 11, and the month ending with 178 insurgents killed in the operational area. I quietly sat and listened, knowing that my name was responsible for a couple of the 178 statistics and that D Company had accounted for more than 50 of the month’s impressive tally of SWAPO scalps.

There was a big drop in SWAPO insurgent activity that month, with only a few locals killed in landmine incidents. It was about this time that SWATF’s (South West African Territorial Force) General Lloyd reported on the news that the security forces had formed a buffer zone by carrying out a series of raids into southern Angola, east of Oshikango, using specialist airborne troops.

Hey, that was us! Operation
Ceiling
had made an impact on the struggle against terrorism. We had actually made a dent. A couple of days later, a skinny clerk from the juniors’ HQ tracked me down in my hidden retreat and told me that I was to go through to Oshakati on the morning Buffel and was to report to the admin offices.

I dressed in my clean browns and polished boots and headed off. After going from one idiot clerk to another I was finally directed into a small office with an empty desk and two chairs. A young redhaired lieutenant came in five minutes later and greeted me softly. He looked nervous when I stood up and chopped him, saluted. He told me to sit down and informed me that he was to be my counsel for the court martial. I was surprised. I never knew that I would be provided with, or even need, a lawyer. I was starting to see the seriousness of the whole thing. He sat down and told me to relate my version of what had happened, without leaving anything out.

I told him how we had cared for and raised the kittens before we left for Angola and how they slept with us on our beds and that when I heard that this prick had killed them, especially the way that he had killed them, I had seen red and kicked his ass. Pretty straightfoward.

“What did you do in Angola?”

“We went up on a seek-and-destroy operation in platoon strength.”

“Yes, but how long did you spend on this patrol?” He studied me attentively, making notes on a couple of sheets of foolscap paper. He looked concerned and sincere, but didn’t come across as very assertive or sure of himself. I wondered if he had done this before as he seemed more nervous than me. He stared at me, waiting for the response.

“It wasn’t a patrol, it was part of an operation—Operation
Ceiling
—and we spent four weeks in Angola tracking down SWAPO.”

“What happened up there? Did you guys have any contact? Was there any shooting?”

I held his gaze and looked at him like he too was an idiot. “Yes, we made a lot of contact ... there was lots of shooting ... our company got almost 60 kills and a few of our guys got shot up too.”

He stared at me and looked as if he did not believe me, searching my eyes for signs that I was bullshitting, but when I blankly held his stare he bent down and scribbled a long chapter of notes and looked up again, seemingly excited, as if he was onto something.

“Were you involved in any of these contacts ... I mean, personally involved?”

“Yes, I was.” I told him about the ambush and how we were led by the SWAPO deserter to his comrades; how we had wiped them all out and how we had to run for it in the night after we had made contact with FAPLA and killed a number of them; and how they chased us with mortars and a BTR or a T-55 tank. I told him about the old man we had shot and how I had bandaged him up and that we had left him there because the lieutenant did not want to call a chopper. He scribbled as I spoke.

“Well, listen, you go back and take it easy ... I’ll send for you in a couple of days, and we’ll talk again.”

“When will the court martial be?” I asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but probably in a couple of weeks.”

A couple of weeks!

I rode back to Ondangwa and took refuge in my hidden corner. I started to get a routine going and would go for an early-morning run down the long road that ran around the inside of the 13-square-kilometre base. After I returned I would sneak of for a shower and then hit breakfast. I knew the cooks well so that even if I missed chow, which I often did, I could still score a plate of hot scrambled eggs and bacon or sausage. I also stocked up on canned food from the kitchen, so that I had snacks at night.

I wrote almost daily to Taina or my folks and my brother. I also started to do some sketches on a writing pad. I drew the ambush scene the way I remembered it, with the terrs sitting and standing by the fire under a tree and us lying just a few metres away, rifles pointed at them, waiting for the sun to rise. I called it the Breakfast Party. I suntanned in a plastic chair behind the tent and sipped on icecold Cokes from the canteen that opened at about 10:00, and for a few days I forgot about the big operation and the court martial.

One morning some Americans and Rhodesians from 44 Brigade, who had their tents just outside our sand walls, pulled in with their Q-Kars. These were Jeeps rigged up with twin MAGs; one even had a 20-millimetre cannon that had been taken off an old fighter jet, mounted with a big steel protective plate in front of it. On the plate was scrawled ‘The Voice of America’ in thick black Koki pen.