19 With a Bullet (29 page)

There was about three hours of daylight left as we formed up, heavily laden with our new supplies and headed in a northeasterly direction for about three clicks before we sat down to eat and make a false TB in some trees.

¹²
assemble, form up (Afrikaans)

¹³
looking for shit (Afrikaans)

¹⁴
Owambo penises (Afrikaans)

DAWN AMBUSH
‘Take no prisoners; kill them all’

Gimme shelter—Rolling Stones

Before we could break out some new cans of rations and a can of warm Coke that had been brought with the supplies, Lieutenant Doep called us all together. He had the skinny black man standing next to him. Doep’s forehead was knotted in a deep frown and he had a serious look in his brown eyes as he stood waiting for us to form in a group around him.

“Listen up, this here is a SWAPO turncoat,” he said in Afrikaans and indicated the shrivelled-looking figure next to him. All eyes fell on the thin black man at Doep’s side who seemed to shrink further into his new, oversized SADF uniform.

“Tonight he is going to lead us tonight to a platoon of his friends who have a small base camp not far from here. Apparently it’s some kind of SWAPO Navy HQ, believe it or not. There are 15 of them. They’re not dug in and have no bunkers or heavy weapons—just AKs, RPG-7s and a few Tokarev pistols. This character was with them until a few days ago, so the information is fresh and confirmed. It looks like we might get some luck here. They’re believed to have a pile of documentation, maps and information that’s important to retrieve as they act as some sort of roving administration HQ. Not all of us are going to go—it will be too noisy. So I’m going to choose a group of 16 of you. We’ll leave at about 21:00.”

He continued, looking around at us all as he spoke in the deep monotone that seemed so out of place with his rosy cheeks, smooth baby face and blond curls.

“He is going to draw us a sketch of how they are laid out, where they sleep and who has what weapons.” Lieutenant Doep stopped talking, his eyes darting around. The night-attack plan was simple.

“When we reach the target, we will form a spread-out formation and go through their TB.”

He paused momentarily, looking around at us, making eye contact, and coldly emphasizing his next order. “The orders are to take no prisoners. Kill them all.”

The words echoed in my ears: ‘Take no prisoners … kill them all’.

I always wondered later why it had been so important that we kill them all, why we were to take no prisoners. Doep stood up and immediately started walking along the group of eager faces, pointing out individuals as he went.

“Kleingeld … Greef … Green … ”

I stood energized, as though a bolt of energy was shooting up from my toes and through my spine as I stared directly into Doep’s eyes, daring him to leave me behind.

Without hesitation he pointed: “Korff …” and then also to John the Fox standing next to me. I was relieved that I would not be left behind on this one! The others, who were not picked, moved away, either disappointed or relieved, and quietly went back to preparing their dinner.

The sixteen of us who had been chosen stood in a circle as the skinny SWAPO turncoat crouched on his haunches and began drawing marks in the dirt. He drew trees by poking his finger into the sand a dozen times and smoothed out the sand with the palm of his hand to indicate a
chana
. Then he drew short lines in the sand indicating how his comrades slept in a sort of triangle. He talked quickly and with new vigour, sensing his moment of importance to the
Boere
, all attention fixed on him.

The black tracker from 101 Battalion interpreted equally as quickly in Afrikaans. “This one has the RPG-7 and the other one on this side has an RPD machine gun. This one is an officer. The documents are hidden in the trees all around here ... and here.”

“Ask him if they stand watch at night,” snapped Lieutenant Doep at the tracker, who rattled off in Owambo to the skinny figure still crouching, staring up at us with wide eyes.

“He says that they do not stand good watch; they feel safe so far in Angola.”

We were told to eat and get ready to leave by 21:00. We went back to our kit, and John and I cooked up a small meal and brewed some tea. I was getting into the tea habit from John Glover who drank tea avidly, good Englishman that he was. We said little, helping each other completely cover our faces and arms with the ghastly camo grease, until all that could be seen was our eyes; not a speck of our tell-tale white skin could give us away under the almost full moon that would bathe the bush.

Then we tried to catch some sleep before the long walk ahead of us but sleep was elusive and my mind raced through a hundred scenarios. Why a night attack? Why not just surround them, wait until morning and then hit them? How will we see who is who in the dark … might end up shooting ourselves! What if this fucker is leading us into an ambush … sacrificing himself for the cause and there are actually 50 of them waiting for us ... or perhaps he could just run for it at the last minute. Has anybody checked out this information of his?

I lay on my back, looking at the bright three-quarter moon that was just breaking over the treetops. It looked clean, clear and friendly; it seemed to have an extra shine this evening. I had always wondered about the moon, ever since I was a child. I was fascinated that every living soul who has walked the earth since the beginning of time had looked up at this very same moon and wondered. This is the very same moon that Jesus Christ looked at. Julius Caesar, Napoleon Bonaparte … how many men have lain unable to sleep on the eve of battle and looked at this same moon, wondering if it might be their last night alive? I thought I might write a poem about it one day. I wondered if the moon was going to be our ally tonight and reveal our targets for us, or would she be on the side of the terrorists and betray us?

I told myself to stop thinking such bullshit and to try and get some sleep. After some forced deep breathing I actually dozed for what seemed like a minute, before the rustling of kit woke me and I quickly rose and kitted up.

There were hushed calls of “Good luck” from the others as we moved out in single file, with only water bottles and battle webbing. The moon shone bright as a torch as we picked our way through the quiet bush, handing each branch to the guy behind so as not to cause a rustle.

Presently we got into some lighter brush; we were able to move quite quickly for a few clicks and dashed across the
chanas
in twos and threes, regrouping on the other side. We passed a couple of dark kraals, the neighbourhood mongrels picking up our faint noise and letting go with a barrage of barking that in this war-torn countryside the locals knew better than to investigate. I was about third or fourth from the front behind Lieutenant Doep. We stopped a couple of times for a rest. Doep inquired through the 101 Battalion interpreter how much farther it was, and the SWAPO would indicate with a hand motion as if to say “Just a little”. We walked and walked and walked, till way past midnight. There were grumbles and hushed curses from behind me, as the slow and careful pace started to take its toll on our energy. A cold midnight chill had set in and we had only our shirts and webbing.

Two hours later Lieutenant Doep, cursing in hushed Afrikaans, grabbed our worthy guide murderously by the throat and slammed him into the dirt, putting his full weight behind his grip. After prising him off, the interpreter said that the SWAPO said he had got lost but that now he knew where he was again and that we were very close.

The line had grown noisy behind. We passed the word down to shut up and that we were close. Suddenly, after about another half an hour, the SWAPO sat down and frantically motioned with his hand just ahead. Doep looked at him viciously but the skinny figure pointed, more precisely now, at a tree line to our front, nodding his head furiously. He whispered something in the interpreter’s ear and the interpreter indicated to Doep that SWAPO were in the trees just ahead.

Doep shoved the skinny traitor aside, indicating that he should ‘fuck off’, then turned to us and pointed to the trees. The moon seemed to blaze like a living thing. It bathed the small open
chana
between us and the tree line that was our target in a silver light, illuminating it like an open beach. The leaves on the trees of the target 40 metres ahead were bathed in silver—just the shadows under the trees were as black as tar. We grouped together in the shadows at the edge of our trees and looked across. We would have to cross about 40 metres of completely open, moonlit
chana
to get to the other side. Then we had to enter the black tree line.

My mind thought uncomfortably what a perfect fucking ambush this was. There could be 50 AKs trained on us right now, waiting for us to start across that
chana
. I pushed the thought aside and replaced it with the now-familiar cold numbness. Let’s get it over with. Let’s just do it.

Doep hurriedly signalled for us to form up in a line and to start moving forward across the
chana
. No one reacted right away; it all seemed too fast and unplanned. No one had discussed any details or come up with a clever plan; we had just been told that we were going to hit them in a night attack and to take no prisoners. Everything hung on the word of the skinny SWAPO deserter who looked like a cunning bastard to me.

Sixteen of us unenthusiastically formed up into a close line that was more like a group. I was one of the first to start moving across the
chana
, with John Glover a step behind me, our rifles pressed hard into our shoulders and trained on the shadows of the tree line now 30 metres ahead of us. I just wanted to get it over with, either way. Halfway across the
chana
our line had become a V, with me at the apex. Not that I was braver in any way, but I was gripped by a strong and single-mindedly emotionless feeling of ‘we have to do this, so let’s get on with it’.

We moved like ghosts. I was now ten metres from the tree line and still expecting a volley of AK-47 bullets to rip through me at any second. When I reached the trees and the shadows I hesitated for a second, surprised that I had made it to the other side. I paused, moved into the shadows and then froze immediately as I saw the soft glow of an almost-burned-out fire just two metres in front of me. I turned to the sweep line that was now in a bunch behind me, held my hand very precisely above my head and pointed up and down in front of me, silently mouthing “They’re here! They’re here!” at the same time.

I moved completely into the shadows, expecting my head to be blown off at any second. My eyes got accustomed to the light and a whole world jumped out at me. There was a dug-out with bedding to my right, with cans of food stacked next to it. Ahead of me were more remains of a fire, whose coals were glowing brightly now, brought back to life by the cold pre-dawn breeze that had suddenly come up. There were racks made from cut branches and what looked like benches made in the same way.

We moved farther into the shadows, all 16 of us now in the black shadows of the trees.

“Where are they?”

We spread out now, creeping like killers through the shadows, rifles pointed at weird angles as we did the duckwalk thing, trying to shrink as low as possible, but still walking and ready. Nothing! They’re gone! It
is
a fucking ambush! Why don’t they fire?

I stood still in my crouched duckwalk position with my rifle tight in my shoulder, straining my eyes, staring into the shadows and willing my eyes to pick up any human form sleeping or hiding in the dark. I was holding my breath to hear better and to pick up any tell-tale sound that would save my life and make me quicker than him, the enemy. Up to now we had crept in on the soft sand, as still as death, and so they might still be soundly sleeping right under our noses. Seconds went by, then minutes, and still no bullets cracked. I breathed deeper again. After a couple more minutes of moving through the dark thicket and finding more bedding and more glowing embers it became clear that our terrs were not here—they had flown the coop. We had now passed through about 30 metres of their deserted base.

We looked at each other. Lieutenant Doep signalled with his hand for us to go forward to the next tree line and then get down and wait. John Fox and I sank quietly down next to each other. I was suddenly very cold and tired; I had a flash of feeling human again. I shoved my rifle disappointedly into the sand next to me and wrapped my arms around myself in an effort to keep warm from the cold, pre-dawn chill that was blowing in pretty strong and cutting through my thin shirt.

No one paratrooper made a sound. No one said “Aw fuck … we walked 20 clicks and missed them!” No one said “Aww … another fucking lemon!”

We lay just as quiet as we had crept in and waited for the sun to rise so that we could go back and get some hot coffee. The sky was just starting to get a blue tinge as the dawn started to creep in. Suddenly out of the darkness there came a short burst of laughter about 30 metres to our left. Then the sound of a can being kicked and a longer bout of laughter. John and I looked at each other wide-eyed and pointed in unison. All 16 of us had heard the laugh and we all rose as one man. I picked up the rifle that I had carelessly thrown down and shook the sand off it. Without instructions we moved forward as one, our eyes trained in the direction of the sound, moving quiet as assassins through the trees—each man on his own, yet together. The thicket of bush we were in came to an end after about 15 metres where there was a natural rise in the ground. Behind this mound was a small, flat
chana
and right there, right at the end of the
chana
, under a few trees not more than 30 metres in front of us, was SWAPO. They had lit a small fire and were joking with each other. I could make out about five figures under the tree. No, six or seven.