19 With a Bullet (41 page)

On the way I spotted my nemesis, the beady-eyed cunt, Captain Swart. He was in the small mess, walking out towards the kitchen.

“Hey, there’s my man!”

I couldn’t wait to give him the good news, that I needed to be taken back to rejoin my company. I walked quickly around the back of the mess and planned to catch him as he came out the other side at the kitchen door. He had just driven in from Oshakati in a big supply truck and was roaring at a dozen juniors who were in the process of unloading the truck, but not quickly enough for his satisfaction. I waited on the side for him to finish his assault, then, as he turned to head back to the officers’ quarters, I jogged up to him. He spun on his heels and glared at me.

I came to attention in the sand and threw a smart salute. “Captain, I’m finished with the court martial. It’s over and I need to get back to my company. They are going on an operation.”

He glared at me with nothing short of hatred in his eyes. “What kind of shit, slack-ass fuck-up of a salute is that? Do it over, troop!”

I was taken back by the ferocity of his response but, nevertheless, slammed my foot hard into the sand and swung my arm up to my forehead and chopped it down to my side like a knife and stood stiffly to attention. “My court martial is over, captain. I want to rejoin my company,” I repeated, louder.

He looked me up and down like I had dropped from the sky or something and glanced down at my blue sneakers. “Why the fuck haven’t you got boots on?”

I had forgotten that I still had my sneakers on. I hadn’t planned on meeting him this way. “My feet give me trouble, captain. My lieutenant has given me permission to wear them. He knows about it.”

He was quick on the uptake. “Your feet give you trouble but you want to go on an operation into Angola with your company?” He looked me up and down again, like I was a piece of shit, sneering as though I was out of my mind to have even considered such a ridiculous request.

“Well, they’re not that bad, captain ... my lieutenant allows me to wear them.”

I knew that he had me well and truly pinned in a corner and that something not good was about to happen.

He responded in a second. “Well, I don’t give a flying fuck what your lieutenant allows you to do, troop. If your feet are injured, then you will sick-report to the hospital and go on light duty. No, you cannot join your company. Yes, you will sick-report immediately and you will bring me the report so that I can see it! Do you understand?”

He shook his head vigorously to emphasize his point. I saw a glint of satisfaction in his eye as he saw I was unable to hide my disappointment. I stared at him, stunned.

“And you do that right away. I’m waiting for the report! You find me and bring it to me
today
!”

“Yes, captain.”

I saluted and turned away, walking back past the mess towards my tent, my mind reeling, shoulders slumped. I sat down on my bed, feeling numb. I stared out at the white sand walls but did not see them. I get through this court martial and now this fucking idiot says I must sick-report and go on light duty! While my company’s fighting FAPLA in Angola I must walk around the camp in sandals, picking up cigarette butts!

In a flash, I knew what I was going to do.

There was going to be no way in hell this prick was going to ruin a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do what I had joined up to do. I had gone through too much bullshit to get to this point ... days—maybe hours—away from taking part in a massive operation into Angola.

I sat for a while and gathered my thoughts.

“Fuck that, let’s go!” I said aloud in the empty tent and stood up. I ripped my folded
balsak
from under my bed and began cramming in clothes, boots and water bottles. I pulled out my big brown H-frame bush-pack and stuffed in my blue sneakers, chest webbing, Fireforce vest and loaded magazines. I peered through the tent flaps to see if anyone was around. There was no one.

I threw my rifle over my shoulder. I was cool and focused once again. I was going to join my company for this operation, even if I had to go AWOL to do it. The captain can go suck on a fucking egg. Cunt!

It was about 14:00 when I slipped, heavily laden, over the sand wall at the back of our tent square with my H-frame on my back, my big
balsak
duffel bag over one shoulder and my rifle over the other. I took the long way, around the air force tents and PF quarters and cut through some workshops, taking the road that led through the huge air force camp to the gates about a click away. I prayed that the dickhead captain would not drive out on the offchance and see me. The chances were slim as he had just returned from a supply run to Oshakati.

Hansen, the pathfinder who had come in for knee surgery, had told me the training grounds were about 80 to a hundred clicks down the main tar road, towards the Etosha Pan game reserve. That was all I knew but it was enough for me. Before I was even out of the main camp, a big water truck rumbled past me. I threw out my thumb. He braked and came to a stop 50 or so metres ahead, throwing up a cloud of dust.

“Yes?”

I ran through the dust cloud with my kit bouncing on my back, reached the door and pulled it open. The driver was a pleasant, overweight chap with a jolly face and a black moustache.

“Where are you going?” he asked in a thick Afrikaans accent.

“I’m not sure where it is, but I’m heading down the main road to where they’re training for this operation. I think it’s about 80 clicks down that way. Where are you going?”

“That’s where I’m headed right now. I’m taking water there ... hop in.”

I hauled my heavy kit up to him and he pulled it all into the cab. I knew for sure now that God was definitely looking after my butt. We drove out of the gates of the air force base of Ondangwa and turned left onto the long black tar road that cut through the bush like a mamba.

“What are you doing that you’re going down there?” he asked, thrusting an open pack of Camels at me. I gladly took one and pulled my own red lighter out and lit it, enjoying the strong smoke. It had been a while since I’d had a Camel.

“I was in hospital for some check-ups, but I’m medically okay and now I have to get back to my company,” I lied.

He puffed on his Camel, pleased to have the company. “You a paratrooper, eh?” he said, glancing at my maroon beret. “I saw your guys training at the grounds. Looks like it’s going to be a big operation. I heard they’re going to hit all the FAPLA bases and the Cubans at the same time and sort them out once and for all. About time.”

“Yeah, it’s about time, alright,” I agreed, puffing on the smoke. Shit, I hadn’t heard about the Cubans bit. That was news to me.

“Are you guys going to jump in? Don’t you get scared jumping out a plane?”

“Naw, you get used to it … it’s like falling out of a tree ... you just let go.”

“You’d never catch me jumping from a plane. I’ve been up here six months straight. I usually drive a honeysucker but I’ve been taking water up to the training grounds for the last three weeks. It’s pretty shit out there, all fine red sand, you’ll see. All the guys are sleeping in holes and they’ve been at it for three weeks now. It must be a big operation if you have to train for three weeks!”

“Yeah, must be,” I puffed on the Camel.

He changed down and the heavy truck shuddered so hard I thought it would fall apart, the gear knob rattling like a Ginger Baker drum solo.

“Does this truck always ride this smoothly?”

“Ja, it’s a piece of junk. This is its third engine.”

We settled down for the ride and I stared out the window at the passing bush and contemplated my situation. Since I had made up my mind to leave I had felt as happy and excited as a runaway kid, but now a flutter of worry lay in my gut.

I had just been court martialed that morning, not even three hours ago, and told not to put a foot wrong for the rest of my service and beyond or I would go to DB for a year. Yet here I was, not three hours later, defying the camp CO’s orders and going AWOL out of camp. And I wondered why I was always in the shit?

I studied the thick thorn trees next to the road and automatically started scanning the bush. Our senior company had killed six terrs walking on this same road just eight months ago. It had happened the first hour we had arrived at Ondangwa as juniors and we had been impressed no end.

I pulled my rifle closer to my leg and slipped off into a fantasy of us running into a group of terrs walking casually next to the road. I knew exactly what to do—shout at the truck driver to drive his truck at them as far as he could as they scattered into the bush, and then to give cover with his R1. As they scattered I would jump from the truck and calmly pour fire into them as they ran. They would be green troops on their first infiltration, and panicking. I would take two or three of them out before they could react and run away. Having no radio contact, we would load the dead terrs onto the side of the water truck and carry on with our journey to the training grounds, rolling to a stop in front of the boys of D Company. As they’d gather around the truck, dripping with SWAPO, I’d hop out of the cab and casually tell them I’d run into some trouble on the way.

I laughed at myself, closed my eyes and tried to catch a snooze but it was impossible in the rock-and-roll water truck.

“It’s not to much further ... I can’t take you into your guys. I’m going on a bit further, but I’ll show you where to go.”

A while later he brought the heavy truck to a stop and pointed through the cloud of red dust. “Just go straight through the bush about two clicks in. You’ll come on them.”

I followed his finger and saw no road or path, nothing but virgin bush. “Where? Through there?”

He laughed, seeing my doubt. “Yes, this is a shortcut, otherwise you’ll have to go all the way around.”

“Okay ...”

“Go straight, I’m telling you. You’re going to come right onto your guys.”

I heaved out my kit and thanked him. He waved a beefy hand as he pulled the heavy truck back onto the road, billowing black smoke. I watched him go and stood enjoying the sudden silence and solitude of standing alone next to the hot tar road in the quiet bush. When the truck was a speck in the distance I hauled up my kit and cheerfully broke into the bush in the direction he had pointed.

Immediately my boots sank into the fine red dust, scuffing up small puffs as I plodded along, pushing branches out of my way. He wasn’t kidding about the fucking red sand! I struggled through the bush with my load and was soon breathing hard and swearing as the awkward
balsak
kept slipping off my shoulder. A beautiful-looking bird with a half-metre-long black tail sat on a thorny dead branch and shrilled at me as I walked past. The truck driver must be mad—there is no one out here! The bush was still, except for the bird that now followed me in a slow manic flight, with its long tail seemingly too heavy for his body. It found a tree in front of me and shrilled incessantly; it seemed to be cursing me for disturbing it. I put my head down and pushed on for a few hundred metres and, as I came out of a thicket and was just about to start cursing the driver, I saw a couple of water bowsers some distance ahead. They were hardly visible and blended into the bush with their matt-brown colouring, but a couple of shirtless troops bent over and washing huge pots caught my eye. I walked towards the trucks.

“Hey, you guys know where the Bats are staying out here?”

One troop pointed casually straight ahead and went back to his chores. I plodded on breathlessly through another thicket, and then literally walked into D Company. I didn’t recognize them for a second because they all looked like hell. They were sitting around in small groups, fiddling with kit and rifles. They were long-haired, unshaven and grimy with red dust. I walked into the midst of them, beaming from ear to ear.

“Hey, hey … look who’s here!”

“Oh no, look what’s come out of the bush ... better warn the sergeant-major!”

“Hey Korff, what happened to you?”

I walked through the small groups of guys, grinning like a Cheshire cat and answering their questions with witty chirps. I saw
Valk
4 over by some tents and trudged over to them, dumping my kit down against a thorn tree.

“Hey, Gungie!” John Delaney looked up. He was sitting cross-legged in the sand, filling his magazines from a pile of shiny new 5.56 cartridges piled in his bush hat, and laying them out on an army towel. He looked sullen.

Stan came zipping out of a tent, looking equally as dirty and worn, but with a big smile. “Hey,
braa,
what’s it? Tell me the news!”

I smiled and lit up the extra Camel that the truck driver had given me. “Aww, I got a suspended sentence. No big deal ... it was worth it. What’s going on here?” I glanced at the sullen faces around me who barely gave me a cursory nod. The platoon carried on with its seemingly urgent rifle-cleaning and packing the big H-frame backpacks, unexcited about my homecoming.

Stan seemed to be the only one smiling. “We’re going on a big op, Gungie. We’ve been fucking training here in this dump for three weeks. We’re going to hit FAPLA’s main base, boy. It’s fucking huge—there must be a thousand troops involved as back-up and stopper groups. Artillery, Mirages, Ratels … the works, and guess what? They’re all behind us. We’re going in front and will be doing fire and movement into their trenches.”

“Trenches?”

“Yeah. Trenches and bunkers. We’ve been practising taking them out every day. And we’re crossing the border tonight, my man. You just made it. Did you know that we were leaving?”

“Naw … I fucking AWOLed Ondangwa and hitched up here,
broer
.”

I had made it just hours before the op. What luck!

“Hey, you better go tell Sergeant-Major Sakkie you’re here.”

I looked at the pile of M27 grenades lying on a tarpaulin under a tree.

“Sakkie is here?”

“Yeah, they sent him up for the op.”

It must be something special if they had sent Sakkie up. Sergeant-Major Sakkie was the RSM back in Bloemfontein. He was the symbol of 1 Parachute Battalion. It took me a year to realize he was only a fraction taller than me as he projected a physical aura so overwhelming that, to me and everyone else, without exception, he looked like a monster. He was a model soldier ... with muscles on his jawbone. When he spoke casually it was almost as loud as a normal man’s shout; he could easily hold a conversation with someone 100 metres away. When he shouted, which he loved doing, it was something to behold and you came away thinking you had experienced some kind of awesome natural phenomenon. He was the pride of the battalion at inter-unit parades too, when he brought the whole Parachute Battalion to attention four times louder that any other unit’s sergeant-major in flawless and perfect time. I always thought he would be killer as a rock and roll singer and had missed his calling.