19 With a Bullet (42 page)

I looked around quickly over my shoulder.

“He’s over there at the tents. You better go.”

I walked over to the tents and came up to Sakkie who was roaring at some services troops to pull down a group of tents. He looked to be having a good time cheerfully yelling at the sweating soldiers. I figured he was happy to be up in the bush, away from 1 Parachute Battalion. He barely looked at me as I came to a relaxed bush attention.

“Sergeant-Major, I’ve just come in from Ondangwa. I’ve missed all the training. I just got here now.”

I respected him. Even though he could rearrange your hairstyle with his enormous voice, he wasn’t like a lot of the rest of the rank who seemed to have a personal prejudice against the troops. Although he could be a mean bastard (the story went that he once killed a troop doing CD—corrective drill), he was naturally good-natured.

He seemed in a good mood. “Korff ... you the one that fucked up the infantry sergeant-major? What happened to you, shit-for-brains?” he asked matter-of-factly. Word had spread far and wide.

“I got a suspended sentence, sergeant-major.”

“You’re lucky. They should have locked you up,” he said with dry humour.

“Yes, sir ...”

“You can’t go around re-orientating infantry sergeant-majors. What do you think they’ll think of paratroopers now? They’ll think we’re a bunch of hooligans!”

He turned to
Valk
4, some 50 metres away, and shouted at them. “You men, show this man where he can pull new ammunition, grenades, field dressings and rat packs. Show him what we’ve been training for here. Go through trench deployment and bunker clearing and how to work with the panzers.”

I paused and caught him as he started walking away.

“Sergeant-Major, there might be a bit of trouble ... er, the captain at Ondangwa didn’t want to let me join my company … but I came anyway.”

He stopped for a second, eyebrows knitted, trying to figure out what it was exactly that I was trying to say. Then he realized that I was telling him I had effectively gone AWOL to join my company for this operation. The penny dropped. I thought I saw the hint of a twinkle in his eye as he raised his chin defiantly, seeming to take the matter as a personal challenge.

“Didn’t you just get court martialed …?” he asked loudly and clearly.

I said nothing, and looked at him earnestly.

“No, no, no,” he was shaking his head, his mind firmly made up. “There’ll be no trouble from Captain Swart. There are bigger things going on here. Go with them, now,” he pointed an arm towards Stan who was standing nearby.

“Yes, sergeant-major.”

Yes!

I was back home and had just got a reprieve from the man himself. I’d like to see that dickhead captain try and fuck with Sakkie.

OPERATION PROTEA
August 1981

Jinx Blues—Robert Pete Williams

The commander of South African forces in this disputed territory said today that their assaults into southern Angola this month had shattered the command structure of two of the three regional headquarters of the insurgent South West Africa People’s Organization and forced the insurgents to regroup 30 to 35 miles from the border. Maj. Gen. Charles Lloyd denied reports from the Angolan capital of Luanda that his troops had occupied seven small towns in the region
. New York Times, 1 August 1981

Angola said today that two South African armored columns had crossed into southern Angola from South West Africa and were mounting attacks as much as 60 miles inside the country. The Angolan Government announced a general mobilization of its armed forces. The actions, reported by the Angolan press agency Angop, were neither confirmed nor denied by the South African Government, but a military analyst in Johannesburg said South African forces were involved in a major drive against black guerrillas
. New York Times, 26 August 1981

Stan took the job of cramming three weeks of training into a half-hour crash course very seriously. I sat and cleared my magazines of all the old rounds and took a bush hat full of shiny new bullets from an open crate nearby. I went to collect M27 grenades. I took three.

“Take more,” Stan instructed. I finally took seven and stuffed them into a special grenade pouch I had never seen before, which I attached to my web belt. I picked up three or four thick field dressings, while Stan helped me carry a week’s supply of rat packs back to the tent.

I had picked up on the sombre mood that hung around the dirty collection of paratrooper tents. I had never seen D Company like this before. Everyone sat gloomily, frowning deeply as they arranged their kit and cleaned weapons that lay stripped on towels and sleeping bags. It certainly did not look as if they had been having a good time recently.

I felt my jubilant mood disappear as I gazed around the area for the first time and saw that it was, in fact, a huge hidden tent city in the bush. Tents were tucked away behind trees as far as I could see. The red sand lay everywhere, like well-trodden heaps of red flour. The tents and trees and vehicles were all covered with a layer of fine red dust that was kicked up with every step.

I could make out a long row of about 20 Ratels with 90-millimetre cannons, parked in the shade. On the other side I saw half a dozen field ambulances. I had the feeling that everyone knew something that I did not. A Mirage fighter came roaring low overhead with an ear-shattering noise and I ducked instinctively. I had never heard anything that loud before.

“Wait till they come
really
low. There’s about 20 of them we’ve been working with … you should see them coming straight down, firing rockets. Looks unreal.”

“What base are we going to hit?”

“Ongiva. It’s a town and a big FAPLA base about 40 clicks into Angola. It has ten square kilometres of trenches and bunkers. Some trenches are almost three metres deep, with cement World War Two-type pillboxes. They’ve got a battalion of tanks and a thousand troops in the base and we’re going to be up front!”

“Whaaaat?”

“Yeah ... the Mirages are going to come in and bomb them with thousand-pound bombs—big fuckers—probably for half an hour, then we go in. We’re going to do fire and movement into their trenches. That’s what we’ve been doing here for the last three weeks. They also have anti-aircraft guns all over the base, dug into the ground, which they’ll probably put onto us when the Mirages have gone, like they did in Operation
Smokeshell
.”

“Why are we hitting FAPLA? I thought they were protected game in this war. Shit, we almost caused an international incident when we shot a bunch of them by mistake a couple of weeks ago!”

“Not any more, boy ... fair game now. Something about allowing SWAPO bases to be built too close to their own, for security. Who cares, anyway … they’re all in this together. They’ve all got fucking AKs.”

Stan’s words made me queasy inside. I had spoken to an infantry troop who had been on Operation
Smokeshell
when it went wrong. He had told me how they’d been advancing slowly towards one of the many small bases through some trees, and his section was obliterated in an instant by a fucking anti-aircraft gun that was dug in and shooting at ground level. He shook as he remembered his partner being cut in half and his section leader’s head being blown clean off. He was hit by shrapnel but crawled away and finally flagged down a big Ratel troop-carrier that pulled him in. The same guns then took out the Ratel, killing a few troops, and he was hit again, shrapnel gouging out his eye and taking a big chunk out of his head. He said the guns had been so tremendously loud that your brain couldn’t think. He said he dropped everything and ran. I remembered how he was covered with goose bumps and the way his hands shook when he spoke about it.

Stan took great glee telling me in some detail about our impending doom and had a constant smirk on his face as he smoked and watched me fill my magazines. “This is it, Gungie, the real thing. A full-on conventional attack and you just fucking made it too, my bud. We’re leaving tomorrow at 03:00.”

I sat absorbing the unreal information he was feeding me and definitely felt my carefree mood going AWOL. Soon I too had a deep frown on my brow like everybody else.

Our section leader, Dan Pienaar, came into the tent chewing on a rat-pack chocolate bar, with his usual sleepy look and droopy eyelids. “You all got to go and give blood down at the medics, and hurry—we have to be finished in an hour. Also, mark your shirt and helmet with your blood group.

“Who’s the blood for?”

“It’s for you, who else?”

“Oh.”

This was depressing. We went off and stood in line to give a pint of blood for ourselves and I came away feeling light-headed. We went back to the tent and I found John Delaney and Kurt sitting next to their almost-packed kit. Even the irrepressible John Delaney was down in the dumps.

“Big op, Gungie. There’s a thousand troops in the base. Cubans and East Germans too. They’re dug in with …”

“I know, I know. Fucking anti-aircraft guns and all ... I know.”

“Yeah, and tanks. Did Stan show you how to go into the trenches?”

“Ja, kind of. The first man in shoots down the trench and when it’s clear the others roll in, like in the movies.”

“Right, and when you see a bunker, call for an RPG-7. If you’re closest to it and you can, you lob a grenade into it and roll away. That’s all we’ve been doing here, over and over again—it’s been like fucking hell. You’re lucky you missed it. What happened with you, anyway?”

“I got a suspended sentence.” All my good news seemed irrelevant now.

Dusk was settling; the bush was alive with troops loading up gear and locking up kit that was to be left in the tents until, if ever, we returned from the operation. Generators kicked into life and hummed, lighting naked bulbs that hung in the trees and giving the oppressive scene a surreal, gaudy, resort-like atmosphere. We lined up for a hot meal. Cooks slopped a stew onto sticky rice, which we ate in our tents. It all had the atmosphere of the last supper.

“Orders at 18:00. Everybody has to be there.”

At 18:00 each platoon duly gathered around its respective lieutenant. I was in the front row, sitting on my ass in the dust. Lieutenant Doep slowly drew a map of long trenches in the red sand. When he finished he stayed on his haunches and looked at us. He spoke solemnly and I could see how he had matured in the short time since I had done the jump course with him, not knowing at the time that he was going to be my lieutenant.

“Men, as you probably know, we are going to be doing a number of attacks. The first one for us is the FAPLA base next to the town of Ongiva. It is a biggish town with a civilian population and military personal living in the town. Don’t get any ideas; the infantry and 101 are going to be taking the town ... let them take the easy one. We are going to come around from the north and attack the FAPLA base, which is next to and just east of the town.” He pointed with a pen. “This is a big base and at this time it is fully occupied. On this side is an airport which we have to secure.” He drew some more lines in the dust. “Here are the first trenches of the base, which begin at the side of the airport.
Valk
4 is going to take these trenches here.” He indicated with the pen to the network of trenches in the sand.

“We’re going to drive in with Buffels in a spread-out line across a big
chana
here at 06:00. The air force will be strafing the base with thousand-pound bombs at 06:00 sharp and will keep on until 06:30. At this time we will have advanced across this
chana
and will disembark from the Buffels in front of this tar road. Twenty yards past the road are these banana-shaped trenches here,” he pointed with his pen.

“There are bunkers on either side. RPG men—take them out as soon as you can. The Ratels will also be in our line at this time and they will also go for these bunkers straight away. Once we get into these banana trenches [from above they were shaped like two bananas next to each other with the ends meeting], we are to advance to the next set of trenches here, do the same thing ... and so on.”

Doep looked around at his troops.

“This is a major FAPLA base and, as you know, it consists of ten square kilometres of a network of trenches and big bunkers throughout. There are also many smaller ones hidden throughout the area. Be sharp. Do it like you are supposed to. The way that we have been training here.”

“What training? I just got here two hours ago!” I mumbled to myself.

“Any questions?”

I was the first one to put my hand up and almost fell into the sandy mockup as I got to my haunches. Doep showed no surprise at seeing me there. “Where are these AA guns?”

“They’re all around the base but the closest to us are here to the side and we don’t know yet if they’re visible from where we will disembark. But be prepared—they might be active if the Mirages don’t take them all out.”

If the Mirages don’t take them all out! I thought of Operation
Smokeshell
and the senior I had spoken to—his section had been obliterated in an instant by the anti-aircraft guns’ three barrels lowered to ground level.

Lieutenant Doep stood up, looked around and answered a few more concerned questions. Captain Verwey had come across and stood next to Lieutenant Doep with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as was his trademark. With his stoop he looked like a tall stork.

He casually addressed us: “Remember to keep your fire and movement short. No more than three paces, then down. It’s all open ground and they’ll take you out if you stay up any longer than that. Only shoot if you see a target. Aim for the belt buckle. If you see Boy go down, put another round in his head as you go past—we don’t want him standing up behind you. We’ve got a lot of back-up and everything we need if we get into a tight spot, so take your time and double-check before every move. Be sharp men and let’s show them what the paratroopers can do.”

Captain Verwey nodded at us, stood back and moved to the next platoon to convey his message.