There were six of them
We where about fifty meters into the shona when there was a loud crack and the front wheels of the mog locked, nearly dumping the entire section into the cab, much abuse directed at the driver who shrugged his shoulders, a small pool of oil was forming under the mog, that was when we saw the crack in the transfer box, this mog was not going any where soon.
The section leader put a sitrep through giving grid reference and asked for assistance, it came in the form of advice, leave the mog under guard and move off to the TB, about 3 clicks away towards Oom Willie se pad. I was not feeling like slogging through the mopanie flies on a sweat drenched march to anywhere in this heat so I volunteered to stay.
The section prepared to move off and the section leader sent another sitrep trough, this was not a particularly hot spot and I should be ok, anyway help should arrive soon, they where needed in the TB to stand in for the other section who would be doing the recovery.
Aah bliss, I prepared myself for at least two hours of ballas bak while I fished out a dog biscuit from my pack, broke off a piece and made myself comfortable on the sandbags on the back of the mog.
Some of the guys had traded one rand notes for ten escudo notes at the last kuka shop we visited, worthless money but great souvenirs of a time spent away from home, The owner offered us a bottle of brandy for ten rand, grossly overpriced, I could buy a rum and coke in the NCO mess for twenty five scents, in fact I could get quite pissed on my daily allowance if I chose.
I remembered the time we clubbed together and bought a goat, the meat was so tough that after chewing it like bubblegum for an hour or two, it had to be spat out onto the ground, where even the ants shunned it, I must have dozed off, the sun and the sound of the utter quietness numbing my mind to the point of oblivion.
I came to my senses with a start and scanned the perimeter of the shona, nothing, something caught my eye to the front of me and I nearly shat myself, there where six of them and they came line abreast into the shona, I made out their weapons and it was not R1's, I knew I was in the shit.
I grabbed my rifle and nearly dropped it, it was boiling hot from the sun, I dove in underneath the mog keeping the right front tyre between me and them, peering around the tyre I saw they had taken up battle formation, three moving forward and three down on the ground giving cover, I realised with a shock that the manoeuvre could have come out of our own infantry training manual, they where well trained.
I squeezed of a shot, much too high and much too soon, I took some incoming then, but they also did not know where I was, they where shooting high, but they where putting down a blanket of fire to try and keep me low, it sounded like someone ripping a newspaper in half.
Two of them was moving off to the left, they where trying to outflank me, but I had a clearer field of fire to them, I realized they still had not pin pointed my position, a bit of a bonus.
I anticipated the next dash and pulled of a shot as the guy came off his feet, he went down for cover again and I realized that I was not aiming, I was shooting too high, calm down, calm down I told myself, they where close now, I realized that to win this one I would need at least a Bren for volume of fire.
I anticipated the move, took careful aim and as the guy took the first running step I pulled off the shot, he stumbled and went down, I could not confirm a hit, I was searching for the next target, the distance between me and them was much shorter now, I hooked my spare mags out of my kidney packs, I would go onto automatic if they get close enough,
Bullets was now striking the mog and screeching off into the air, no two ways about it, I was fucked with a capitol very much, and a rage was slowly creeping into me all the way from my boots, this is dangerous, angry people don’t make good decisions, I started shouting at them, pumping round after round in their direction when the mog broke the edge of the shona behind me, spilling the section into action as they returned fire raising a cloud of dust in the area where I saw the last attacker.
I lay there while they moved past, doing the follow up, I knew the choppers would arrive next, I turned on my back and fished a Chesterfield out of my shirt pocket, The packet was soaked in gear oil, I had been lying in the pool of oil under the mog, but I smoked the fag anyway, Jesus!, it tasted so nice.
George owned the cafe in town, his dad came here before the war and took a local afrikaans girl as his wife. George inherited his build and dark looks from his father, only the good lord knew where he got his ears from, they stood out from the side of his head like two radar dishes, legend has it that old doc was pissed on the night of his birth and yanked him out by the ears, be that as it may ,this feature coupled with his natural tan and volatile mediteranian temper earned him many a blue eye in defence of his honour.
George married Elisabet, daughter of oom Jan and Tannie Gesina of Gatrant just over the rise from the town, I never could work out why, but she adored him. They had a son, a silent little fellow, normal ears, always around his mother and the dog of indeterminal ancestry that always followed him around, the kid found the pup half starved and rib thin near the squatter huts and loved it back to life, first time I saw it I was hard pressed not to splat it with a broom, it looked like the by product of a union between a dassie and a large rodent of some sort, poor thing could not shake the thing that passed for a tail, only thing that moved was his head, from side to side, like some wizend old politician. First time I saw it do that, I thought it was taking a fit, I shouted to the lad to take it out, he looked at me " nee oom, hy is bly om oom te sien", I looked at the lad and for a brief moment I saw the tender love he had for the dog reflected in his eyes and I felt ashamed of my inability to share it with him. I understood then the love his mother had for his dad, it came from the heart and had nothing to do with the eyes or the ears.
George was a likable fellow fluent in afrikaans but he had two faults, he hated his son's dog,he never missed a chance of aiming a kick at it, and he had the habit of going to the hotel every Wednesday night for a few snorts with the boys, arriving home disaggreable and spoiling for an arguement.
George is related to me through marraige, my wife and his' being cousins, Thursdays being the days we went to town, it was a habit to drop the wife off at the house, then I would slip around to the shop and me and him would while away the afternoon in the company of a bottle of old brown. I found him that afternoon with a shiner that would make any boxer proud and a morose look on his face, no he said, he wasnt fighting, it was his dear old mothers ghost that klapped him. When we left for the farm later that afternoon, I could not help cackling to myself while the wife gave me a disapproving stare and blamed poor old George for trying to make a drunkard of me, and as the days went by, I learned what really happened.
As is usual in a bar, a wide range of topics are discussed, usually narrowing down to one, at which point much gesticulation and postulation takes place as male ego's squared off against each other, differing opinions flew thick and fast in the drink sodden conduit of heated tempers. As the drinking night wore on, George became more and more volluble, to the point where he jumped off the barstool to emphasise a point.The problem is that his legs are shorted than the stool and he lost his footing and the seat hit him in the back, he swung around aiming a murderous blow at the imagined assailent behind him , lost his balance and went down wrestling with the barstool. It was at this point that he was refused any more booze and told to go home, he left potesting loudy, as only someone of mediteranian origins could.
George does not believe in ghosts or so he assured me on many old brown occasions,but he walked home down the middle of the road singing at the top of his voice, just in case there where one or two about that did not know that he did not believe in their existance , just to let them know he was on his way and they should leave him alone, in this frame of alcohol induced bravado he came to his gate and lightly launched himelf over it, completly misjudged the height ,hooked is foot on the top and came crashing down, this was when the dog appeared, looking at him with silent reproach,shaking its head from side to side,he sprang up ,aimed a massive kick at the dog,shouting at it to voertsek fell in amongst the rose bushes, and started fighting with them, they fought back,after a few minutes of rolling around grappling with a large bush he gave up with dire threats to return later , with a spade.
He stood at the bottom of the steps dipping, ducking and aiming, then when he thought he had it lined up he lurched up the steps, flung open the door, reached for the light switch and put his hand on the cold,cold hand of a ghost, he looked up and there in the dim light of the passage stood his dear departed mother, complete and resplendant in her flowing nightrobes, then she stepped forward and klapped him in the eye.
Elisabet had a gatvol of his wednesday night drinking, she heard him coming, held her hand in the freezer, and stood waiting for him in the dark passage,putting her hand over the light switch, George got such fright that he brayed like a hoarse donkey and stood petrified, the door swung back from the stops,she reaced forward to stop it, missed and it klapped poor old George on the eye, he went down like a sack of rotten potatoes, she put him to bed, he woke up swearing never to drink again.
As he left home that morning the dog came around the corner and set up a high pitched whining yelping, he was feeling too tender to kick it, but by all he holds sacred, he hated that dog.He looked at me balefully out of one good eye," tell me oubaas, do dogs laugh?."
The base was not a healthy place, we suffered from bouts of dihoeria from time to time, over the course of time that it had been established there, nearly every square inch of it had been dug up for use as toilets.
Military toilets in that era was a slit trench covered by unimog tailgates with openings between them where you squatted down, reducing all ranks to the same level at least once a day.
These toilets was home to millions of flies, you seldom needed toilet paper, the flies picked you clean, standard procedure was to throw something into the trench and try and have a quick shit before the flies settled again, our MO fought a losing battle against them, there was the memorable time that he filled the trench with diesel and hurled a number eight grenade into it, the resultant explosion caused a fine misty rain of brown shit to sift down onto the tents.
Then came the day we where going to have a visit from some vip's, Pik and PW where on their way, this was in the days when he was still minister of defence. Our RSM fenced a section of the parade ground off, cordoned off a section with hessian and constructed a toilet resplendant with toilet roll and paratus (the military magazine), he assembled us all and informed us that he would kill any cunt that had the audacity to use that toilet, it was for the the sole use of Pik and PW.
The pair of VIP's was escorted in by two sections of the Durban Light Infantry, clearly, surfing moegoes in uniform.
The entourage drifted into the mess tent and was plied with midday brandies, the RSM cast a fond eye over towards his masterpiece and froze, lazily turning above it was a fly beckoning to his buddies to join in an anticipated feast, he stormed over looked into the bucket and to his horror saw a coiled up brown turd with the consistancy of something born out of tinned food.
In anger he cast his eye around for the culprit and saw Pik on his way to the toilet, without hesitation he took his hankerchef out wrapped the turd in it, put it in his pocket and walked out, saluting Pik as he passed, he took the hanky out and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The next three months where very uncomfortable ones for us, but I still maintain that it must have been one of thos DLI guys.
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| Fargo pickup truck |
I stopped along the road and watched the old farmer and his labourers fixing up the motor gate post, I went over and made a comment about the car paint I could see on the post, the old man looked at me and he told me this story.
For years he had driven a Fargo, and as time progressed the pickup deteriorated to the state where he was forced to get rid of it, he told me that it had become like a faithfull horse, it knew the way home, after a visit to the local in town he could give it the reins and it would find its own way home.
Throughout the past year he had seeked advice widely on the choice of a new pickup, advice often accompanied by a few brandies at the local, sometimes deteriorating into loud arguments over the virtues of the different makes, but eventually he had made up his mind, and as he told me, after much prompting from his wife, he went into town to get the new one.
Now, buying a pickup is not like buying a cow, you cannot evaluate it on any of the points you judge livestock by, you are completely at the mercy of the salesman, but the seat felt comfortable and the loadbody looked strong.
The purchase was celebrated in the local and toasted with many a shot, widely differing opinions where given but the general consensus was that it was a good pickup.
Darkness had folded the town in its arms by the time he left the pub and settled behind the steering, the old Fargo usually took some time in getting started, first a few pumps of the excellerator then pump the clutch twice and slap it into gear. The new pickup took off down the road at the first pump of the clutch, sobering the old man up to a certain extent while he remembered with a fond chuckle that he was in the new pickup now.
The fimiliarity of the road leading to the farm lulled the old man into complacency . Usually, as he came down the hill approaching the gate, he would start pumping the brakes, then on the fourth pump he would start swinging the wheel, neatly passing through the gate.
On the first pump of the brakes the new pickup stuck its nose into the ground, the oldman got a fright and swung the wheel, accidently tramping on the accelerator and wiped the side of the new pickup against the gatepost.
He said the wife scolded him for being drunk but not so he said, it was the new pickup, it did not know the road home yet. I reflected on the profound wisdom of that as I drove on, in a way it was true
Ek is ook nou nie eintlik mooi gebore nie, nie dat ek lelik is nie, wel nou ja, nie dat ek skreeu lelik is nie, maar ek is nou nie eintlik iets vir die oog nie. so ver dit die ligaam betref, ja wel , ek het al die nodige op al die nodige plekke behalwe nou seker op die gesig.
Soos dit nou is hier op die dorp maak dit nou nie veel saak nie, die mense ken my al van kleins af, my ma het my van kleins af laat hoed dra, nie om die son uit die oog te hou nie maar meer om die gesig uit die oog te hou.
En so deur die jare se loop het my geslag getrou, aangewas en wortel geskiet, en ek het daar op gatrand die jare om geboer. Dit gebeur toe nou so dat ek op n middag na vendusie by die griek se kafee aandoen vir die een of ander ding en n wye draai om die dame loop wat by een van die tafels sit, so dat ek nou nie aanstoot sal gee nie.
Die ou Griek loop al n lang pad saam met ons in die dorp, sy pa het hier uitgeslaan tydens die oorlog en vir hom n boere meisie gevat, en hulle produk was nou die huidige Griek, bakore soos n jakkals maar so Grieks soos sy pa en ons kon lekker gesels, dink die ou het ook maar n bietjie uit gevoel, ook nooit n vrou gevat nie.
Dit is nou so met die uitloop slag met al my negosie ware in my arms dat ek die arme vrou se stoel loop dat hy daar trek, ek laat val en gryp na haar, soos n mens nou na n skaap sal gryp wat uit die dip wil spring, ruk haar skoon van haar voete af en om die val te keer druk ek haar teen my vas.
Man wat n verleentheid, ek draai my kop weg want ek wil nou nie he sy moet twee skokke op een dag kry nie, sit haar neer, krap my goed bymekaar terwyl ek verskriklik eerbiedig om verskoning vra. Dit is toe dat ek haar hand op my arm voel, sy se ek het n mooi stem, ja wel iets op my moet seker mooi wees.
Nou wel, n man is mos ook nou nie n klip nie, en daai hand op my arm het my skoon lam in die bene gemaak en ek het net daar gestaan en haar aankyk en n warmte het oor my gespoel, dieselfde gevoel wat n mens kry as jy na n lammetjie of n klein hondjie kyk, net n bietjie anderster.
wel laat ek julle nie ophou nie, genoeg om te se dat ons is nou getroud, en die les wat ek geleer het was dat n mens se mooi sit binne in jou, jy sien, sy is blind.
Dis nou wragtig waar, as jy in die kak is het jy geen friende nie, hier sit ek nou alleen by die tafel en alles wat ek om my sien word more verkoop, hier gaan mense hier inkom en offers maak op my goed wat jare geneem het om bymekaar te maak, hulle gaan sien hoe ek gelewe het, maar op n koue onpersoonlike vlak, terwyl hulle n waarde plaas op dit wat ek gekoester het, en as hulle klaar is dan stap ek hier uit met net die klere aan my gat.
Hoe het al hierdie dinge gebeur, hoe kon ek dit toelaat, hier sit ek in bitterheid en weet dat al hierdie gemors is my skuld, ek alleen dra die las van verantwoordelikheid vir die gemors, toe sy weg is het dit begin krap, niks eintlik meer oor om voor te swoeg nie, later het selfs die honde op die naburige plase begin jag, hulle is voor die voet van kant gemaak, die bakkie het lankal n paar keer gehoes en toe gevrek.
En more, more, as hulle weg is, stap ek hier uit met nerens om heen te gaan nie, net die horison wat wink, beloftes van plekke waar dit beter gaan, mense wat my nie ken nie, mense wat my nie kan veroordeel oor my verlede nie, al wat hulle sal he is die man voor hulle, en daarop sal hulle n opinie moet vorm.
In die vroe more sal ek n paar goed in die veld gaan wegsteek, om saam te neem, nie te veel nie, wil nie te swaar dra nie, maar ek het n kombers nodig, n koppie miskien n pot, nie as herhinnering nie maar vir oorlewing, hulle het nou wel lyste van die goed hier, maar sowaar hulle kan hel toe gaan as hulle my verantwoordelik wil hou vir n paar kleinighede.
Ja more begin n nuwe lewe, ek sal wegstap en nie omkyk nie, nie na die plek waar ek my lewe om geswoeg het vir niks nie, ek wil gaan kyk wat dit is wat ek gemis het al die jare lank, hoop die kak was al agter die rug, kan eintlik nie wag om in die pad te spring nie.
EK het n meisie geken, mooi, sprankelende oe, lewenslustig maar sy het meer van dagga gehou as van my, uit eindelik het die persoons veranderinge meer geword as die ander voordele wat die verhouding gebied het, en een aand het ek die loop geneem onder n blou swaar hangende dagga wolk uit, en nooit weer terug gegaan nie.
Tussen die gedrang van mense op die stasie sien ek haar, min aan haar om haar aan te herken, maar die meisie aan haar sy is n beeld van wat sy was, die hardheid om die mond en die lyne in die gesig getuig van n harde lewe onder dagga wolke, daar is niks meer in die oe nie, n leegheid soos n maer straat brak, en n moedeloosheid in die geboe rug, gesig weg gedraai, vas gevang in haar eie gedagtes strompel sy verby.
Net eenkeer kyk sy om voor sy by die uitgang uit is, daar is geen herkenning in die oe nie, net n moe swaai oor die menigte wat saamdrom, n oomblik se aarseling, n bietjie wyveling toe sy my sien, maar niks verder nie, en dan is sy weer weg.
Just an ordinary hero
You can find him there at the bar any weekday after work, and through the years he had gained squatters rights there, nobody ever sat there, he would nurse his drink till his instincts bought on by habit told him to go home, just a grey haired old toppy sitting on his own, lost in his own thoughts, and that is where I found him again after years, I glanced across the bar room and wondered how many present there really knew him, he was a hero you see, but he never got a medal for it and the younger generation there would never know.
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| Digging up a landmine, the spook is parked in the background |
We where strapped into our seats in the "spook" anti landmine vehicle, it was fucking hot and the side to side swaying of the vehicle raised small puffs of red dust out of the track that was just two tramped out grooves in the bush.
I was smoking , hanging limp in my harness when Lappies clipped himself loose and bent forward to fish something out of his kit, I saw the most amazing thing, he rose out of his seat in the sitting position and slammed his head on the covering that served as a roof for the vehicle.
I never heard the explosion but instinct told me to get the fuck out of the vehicle, which I did at speed, red clouds of dust billowed into the air and black smoke peeled upwards, I smelled burning diesel and heat, I was at the door first but when I hit the ground there where two guys in front of me, how the fuck did they get past me.
Training took over and I found cover taking on a defensive position giving my rifle a quick once over, we where in a precarious position, only one section in strength and this type of landmine is usually accompanied by an ambush, I scanned around to see where the others where, I should not have worried, they where all around me but we needed heavy firepower in case we got hit.
A dust streaked Colin stood up, walked to the burning Spook, went in and undid the two brownings, coming out with the two machine guns, belts of ammo hanging around his neck, with that kind of firepower we could take on a sizeable army.
I believe he still sits at the bar every day, never taking part in conversation, sharing his private thoughts with his glass, and one day he will pass on into history and nobody will remember, but I will.
A sip of the good stuff
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| Typical still, this one from the movie Gator |
I never knew him personally, but his story is told in the district, and it is verifiable. It was not like he was an alcholic, he just liked the state of mind,
Maybe it was an escape from something, he had a dear wife, a bit on the large side as all farming stock women of the area seemed to be, and he had a tribe of lively children.
He built himself a still near the river where he experimented with different kinds of ingredients until one day that he hit upon prickly pear as a source of the good stuff, he became quite sold on the stuff.
It so happened that from time to time they had to go into town to attend a service and he would smuggle some of the good stuff with him, to be enjoyed on frequent trips to the toilet, on returning to his pew he would launch into his favourite hymn singing with passion, even though the sermon was in progress.
After that his wife always searched for the stuff before they left and confiscated it, this called for some very innovative planning on his part.
He took a waterpipe, welded the one end closed, filled it with the happy juice, slapped a cork into the other end tied a wire to it and stuffed it down the exhaustpipe, the pickup battled uphill snorting and farting due to the outlet blockage, his wife eyed him with great suspicion but she never found anything during her round of inspection. As they trundled into town the plug must have come loose for the pipe shot out of the exhaust with a fiery tail and the old pickup, freed at last from the stoppage lurched forward,
He got another menacing look from the wife as sorrow climbed into his face.
He found the solution, this time he clamped the pipe to the drive shaft with hose clamps, the pickup rattled and vibrated all the way to town, but the pipe stayed.
During his first trip to the toilet he took the pipe off, removed the plug and tried to take a swig, nothing came out, he looked up into the pipe in disbelieve, it had turned into a jelly like substance, he scraped some out with the screw driver and stuffed it into his mouth. Witnesses say that he stood upright, then he slowly bent at the waist and gave a deep mooing sound like a cow in labour.
He stretched upright again and started marching on the spot before going down raising a cloud of dust. Fourteen days in the hospital, and when he came to his first words where "good shit"
There is none of this mentioned in his ephitaph, his gravestone reflects only the bare essentials, I suppose any mention of his capacity for drink would have been considered to be out of place, but they tell me as far as this was concerned, he was the best.
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