January 7th, 1982.
The day started like most other days. I had a cup of cold coffee, courtesy of a mother who insisted on serving coffee at five in the morning. The fact that I didn’t get up before seven had somehow never registered with her. I was fifteen before I realized that coffee is a hot beverage. I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, sipped my cold coffee and enjoyed the fresh morning air drifting in through the open window. I promptly destroyed the moment by lighting a cigarette. As the nicotine started working its magic on my fuzzy brain, a nagging feeling of discomfort began to form somewhere in the back of my head. I thought at first it was the beginnings of a headache, but I had already pinpointed that to a throbbing area above my left temple.
It hit me in the shower, slammed into me with the force of several speeding trains, and really spoiled my day. The complete and unabridged truth, the clear and cruel reality splashed across my brain in full and frightening technicolour. Today was the big day! It was the beginning of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that would burst every patriotic young man’s heart with pride and fill his soul with visions of grandeur—the chance to serve your country for two whole years, wear its uniform with pride, fight the dark forces of the total onslaught and ensure that the white flame of civilization will burn for all eternity in South Africa. There was glory even in death. Those who made the ultimate sacrifice were buried with full military and heroic splendour, their names carved in granite and in a grateful nation’s memory.
I was horrified. I don’t lean towards heroism and I was somewhat less than wildly enthusiastic about the patriotism thing at the time. My delusions were not of grandeur, but rather of healthy and happy mediocrity. Conventional wisdom and the prevailing mood in the country at the time dictated that every able-bodied young man should jump at this opportunity eagerly and with a warm feeling in his heart. I looked for a place to hide.
At breakfast, Mother beamed at me over burned toast and watery eggs. “Today is your big day. I’m so proud of you!”
“Thank you, Mother,” I replied. Oh shit, I thought.
The friendly minister at our local church took me to the assembly point at the old Milner Park showgrounds in Johannesburg. We made the trip in his vibrating green Volkswagen Beetle. It was Mother’s idea. She thought it would be appropriate for a Man of God to deliver me to serve God and Country. She had many strange ideas.
He was a rather harmless old soul, but the social and spiritual divide between us proved to be wider than the distance between the Beetle’s front seats. Our conversation that day can best be described as polite, yet sporadic. We were both relieved when we arrived at the showgrounds. He seemed eager to leave, and I was quite happy the see his green VW disappear into the afternoon traffic.
I soon regretted letting him go so quickly. I stood waiting for three hours in the blazing summer sun, watching the original crowd of several thousand recruits dwindle to a few dozen stragglers. No one came for me or called my name. Finally, I could take no more. I dragged my weary body and my heavy blue suitcase to a small square school desk, behind which a sergeant with a small square head was sitting. He was smoking a cigarette and trying hard to look important. I handed him my call-up papers. He scrutinized the document carefully for what seemed to be an unnecessary long time. After all, he only needed to find my name and Army serial number. He placed the letter on the table, and without once looking up at me or saying a single word, started flipping through a thick pile of computer printouts on the table. After a while he seemed to overcome his unique approach to the alphabet and managed to find the correct page. He moved his index finger down the columns of names and serial numbers with the uncertain, jerky movements of a toddler learning to write. Once in a while he would glance at my call-up papers, where my number (I?) was securely pinned under his middle finger. A vertical frown formed between his eyebrows, cutting deeper into his forehead as his finger progressed down the list.
When he had reached the end of the page he looked up at me for the first time. “You’re not here,” he said. “Oh, but I am,” I replied, looking down at my legs to doublecheck. “What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that you’re not on the fucking list.” I detected a faint note of irritation in his voice.
I waited. He consulted another list. I waited.
When he looked up again his expression was that of a man about to say “eureka!” or, more likely in his case, something like “aha!”.
“You’re two days early,” he said, his tone and manner that of a hanging judge who has just found someone guilty of murder in the first degree. “You must report here on the ninth of January, nineteen hundred and eighty two.”
I tried to point out to him that my call-up instructions clearly stated the seventh as the date to report for duty. When he spoke again, the irritation in his voice was no longer faint or subtle. “Look here, you little shit. According to my list, you will report here in two days’ time. Sharp!” There’s no arguing with a man who believes in his list as he believes in his bible.
That’s when I really regretted letting the minister and his green VW go earlier. I had to walk three miles to the next railway station, lugging the next two years of my life in a heavy blue suitcase. I got home five hours, two different trains and a short bus trip later.
“You’re early,” Mother said.
“They gave me time off for good conduct.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have better luck next time.” Mother was such an optimist.
‘Next time’ came two days later.
“You’re two days late! The MPs are looking for you.” It was the same sergeant with the small square head. I tried to explain.
“Don’t speak unless I give you permission to. I can lock you up for this!” He was getting excited. “Would you like that, hey?”
“No Sir!” I said in my best military manner.
“I am not your fucking Sir! A sir is a thing that floats in the toilet if you forget to pull the bloody chain. Understand?”
“Yes Sir.” He changed colour. A few times. He turned around and stormed away in disgust. I never saw him again.
We were rounded up, quite fittingly, in the main arena of the showgrounds where, on gentler days, proud and overweight farmers parade their proud and overweight cattle. Somehow military order prevailed over the chaos. We were herded into line-ups, then into squads, and then back into line-ups again. Mostly we just stood waiting in the scorching African sun, with the faint smell of grass and the not-so-faint smell of cattle shit in our nostrils. We seemed to be entirely surrounded by shouting, swearing and sweating sergeants and corporals. The few officers present stood in the background and generally tried to stay out of the way.
When everything and everyone had settled into a kind of semi-stationary equilibrium, a horde of military policemen descended on us to search our kit. I learned on that day that my childhood was a very protected one indeed. The search produced enough liquor, marijuana, hashish, cocaine, a rainbow collection of tablets and capsules, knives and miscellaneous chemicals to keep an extended crime family employed for a year. So this is what chemical warfare is all about.
It hit me in the shower, slammed into me with the force of several speeding trains, and really spoiled my day. The complete and unabridged truth, the clear and cruel reality splashed across my brain in full and frightening technicolour. Today was the big day! It was the beginning of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that would burst every patriotic young man’s heart with pride and fill his soul with visions of grandeur—the chance to serve your country for two whole years, wear its uniform with pride, fight the dark forces of the total onslaught and ensure that the white flame of civilization will burn for all eternity in South Africa. There was glory even in death. Those who made the ultimate sacrifice were buried with full military and heroic splendour, their names carved in granite and in a grateful nation’s memory.
I was horrified. I don’t lean towards heroism and I was somewhat less than wildly enthusiastic about the patriotism thing at the time. My delusions were not of grandeur, but rather of healthy and happy mediocrity. Conventional wisdom and the prevailing mood in the country at the time dictated that every able-bodied young man should jump at this opportunity eagerly and with a warm feeling in his heart. I looked for a place to hide.
At breakfast, Mother beamed at me over burned toast and watery eggs. “Today is your big day. I’m so proud of you!”
“Thank you, Mother,” I replied. Oh shit, I thought.
The friendly minister at our local church took me to the assembly point at the old Milner Park showgrounds in Johannesburg. We made the trip in his vibrating green Volkswagen Beetle. It was Mother’s idea. She thought it would be appropriate for a Man of God to deliver me to serve God and Country. She had many strange ideas.
He was a rather harmless old soul, but the social and spiritual divide between us proved to be wider than the distance between the Beetle’s front seats. Our conversation that day can best be described as polite, yet sporadic. We were both relieved when we arrived at the showgrounds. He seemed eager to leave, and I was quite happy the see his green VW disappear into the afternoon traffic.
I soon regretted letting him go so quickly. I stood waiting for three hours in the blazing summer sun, watching the original crowd of several thousand recruits dwindle to a few dozen stragglers. No one came for me or called my name. Finally, I could take no more. I dragged my weary body and my heavy blue suitcase to a small square school desk, behind which a sergeant with a small square head was sitting. He was smoking a cigarette and trying hard to look important. I handed him my call-up papers. He scrutinized the document carefully for what seemed to be an unnecessary long time. After all, he only needed to find my name and Army serial number. He placed the letter on the table, and without once looking up at me or saying a single word, started flipping through a thick pile of computer printouts on the table. After a while he seemed to overcome his unique approach to the alphabet and managed to find the correct page. He moved his index finger down the columns of names and serial numbers with the uncertain, jerky movements of a toddler learning to write. Once in a while he would glance at my call-up papers, where my number (I?) was securely pinned under his middle finger. A vertical frown formed between his eyebrows, cutting deeper into his forehead as his finger progressed down the list.
When he had reached the end of the page he looked up at me for the first time. “You’re not here,” he said. “Oh, but I am,” I replied, looking down at my legs to doublecheck. “What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that you’re not on the fucking list.” I detected a faint note of irritation in his voice.
I waited. He consulted another list. I waited.
When he looked up again his expression was that of a man about to say “eureka!” or, more likely in his case, something like “aha!”.
“You’re two days early,” he said, his tone and manner that of a hanging judge who has just found someone guilty of murder in the first degree. “You must report here on the ninth of January, nineteen hundred and eighty two.”
I tried to point out to him that my call-up instructions clearly stated the seventh as the date to report for duty. When he spoke again, the irritation in his voice was no longer faint or subtle. “Look here, you little shit. According to my list, you will report here in two days’ time. Sharp!” There’s no arguing with a man who believes in his list as he believes in his bible.
That’s when I really regretted letting the minister and his green VW go earlier. I had to walk three miles to the next railway station, lugging the next two years of my life in a heavy blue suitcase. I got home five hours, two different trains and a short bus trip later.
“You’re early,” Mother said.
“They gave me time off for good conduct.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have better luck next time.” Mother was such an optimist.
‘Next time’ came two days later.
“You’re two days late! The MPs are looking for you.” It was the same sergeant with the small square head. I tried to explain.
“Don’t speak unless I give you permission to. I can lock you up for this!” He was getting excited. “Would you like that, hey?”
“No Sir!” I said in my best military manner.
“I am not your fucking Sir! A sir is a thing that floats in the toilet if you forget to pull the bloody chain. Understand?”
“Yes Sir.” He changed colour. A few times. He turned around and stormed away in disgust. I never saw him again.
We were rounded up, quite fittingly, in the main arena of the showgrounds where, on gentler days, proud and overweight farmers parade their proud and overweight cattle. Somehow military order prevailed over the chaos. We were herded into line-ups, then into squads, and then back into line-ups again. Mostly we just stood waiting in the scorching African sun, with the faint smell of grass and the not-so-faint smell of cattle shit in our nostrils. We seemed to be entirely surrounded by shouting, swearing and sweating sergeants and corporals. The few officers present stood in the background and generally tried to stay out of the way.
When everything and everyone had settled into a kind of semi-stationary equilibrium, a horde of military policemen descended on us to search our kit. I learned on that day that my childhood was a very protected one indeed. The search produced enough liquor, marijuana, hashish, cocaine, a rainbow collection of tablets and capsules, knives and miscellaneous chemicals to keep an extended crime family employed for a year. So this is what chemical warfare is all about.
A few feet away from me a very nervous and very thin young lad was trying desperately to hide a 750 ml bottle of Count Pushkin vodka on his person. The fact that he was only slightly meatier than a skeleton and dressed in a T-shirt and torn jeans, didn’t help his efforts much. (I should mention that pre-torn jeans weren’t available then). He became increasingly frantic. His limbs and head appeared to be spinning away from his upper body and I expected him to explode, implode or fly off into space at any moment. Instead, he quite unexpectedly, and somewhat disappointingly I might add, became very calm. A slow smile spread across his face—the kind of smile you see when people know they have nothing to loose. The smile became a giggle, which quickly turned into histerical laughter. He broke the seal on the bottle, threw the cap over his shoulder, and parked his mouth against the bottle. He gulped down the pure vodka like so much water, his adam’s apple pumping up and down with superhuman speed. He was still laughing like a wind-up toy when two medics and a military policeman dragged him off to an ambulance. That’s one way to beat system. I wished him well.
We were given lunch. We knew it was lunch because we were told that t was. The time at which it was served (three in the afternoon) and the menu (stale jam sandwhiches and blue tea) certainly didn’t give us any clues as to what it was suppose to be. “They put the blue stuff in the tea to keep us from getting the horn,” a whizzkid in the next line whispered. I passed on the tea.
After more waiting, standing in line, falling into and out of squads, standing to and standing down, a train pulled into the siding at the north side of the fairgrounds. I half expected a cattle train, Nazi style, but for once my surprise was a pleasant one; the rolling stock consisted of old passenger cars. As soon as the train had come to a stop, a dozen sergeants started shouting instructions at a swarm of corporals, who in turn started herding us into the train cars. We were packed into the third class passenger cars like so many sardines. When all the cars were bulging with the sweating and slowly suffocating pride of white South Africa’s young manhood, more than fifty recruits were left standing next to the tracks. The Army had ordered their train one car short. I learned my first military acronym, snafu: situation normal, all fucked up.
It didn’t stay the Army’s problem for long, though. It became our problem. We were ordered to make room for the remaining fify odd recruits. The fact that doing so required defying several of the basic laws of physics was immaterial. A forty-something sergeant, veteran of many bars and brothels, had no doubt that it could be done. “This train is like an ugly hooker’s heart—there’s always room for one more.” I had to fight the urge to prostrate myself at his feet and chant “Oh, wise One!” repeatedly.
Somehow we managed to squeeze everybody in, or at least I assumed we did, for the train started moving about 40 minutes later. It was hell inside that train. As if the stifling heat and overcrowding weren’t enough, we were ordered to keep the window shutters down. “We don’t want enemy spies to know about our troop movements,” a young corporal explained. Of course, nobody would have noticed us standing around outside in the middle of Johannesburg for the last four hours.
I very nearly suffocated and the fact that I’m prone to claustrophobia didn’t help much either. It was at least 50° Celsius inside the carriage, and the air was steaming with sweat and cigarette smoke. You could smell what everyone had to drink at his farewell piss-up and what more than a few had to eat. What an unglamorous way to die, I thought. And this before I even had the chance to play soldier. There is no glory in dying from heat exhaustion and inhaling stale farts. I lit another Camel and felt very sorry for myself.
We arrived at Middelburg station a few hours later after a most trying and unpleasant journey. I can’t even recall what I was thinking about or who I spoke to during that dreadful train trip. I guess my brain was just to fried and oxygen-starved to register anything. It’s a pity, for it was an important day in my life. It was the first day of the last few weeks of my youth.
Before the train had even come to a full stop, a horde of NCO’s were shouting and swearing at us to get the hell out of there. I tried to hide under the seat. Alas, they found me.
“Come to Mother!” An ugly red-faced asshole with freckless and corporal stripes was inviting me in no uncertain terms to join the party.
“But it’s not my station,” I protested. All in vain. I was bundled onto an idling Samil truck, my heavy blue suitcase nearly ripping my arm out of its socket as I tried to hang on to it.
The sun was setting over the Highveld when our convoy of trucks rolled through the gates of the Fourth South African Infantry Battallion, also known as 4 SAI (four-sye). This was to be my home for the next month. Home sweet bloody home.
It was past midnight by the time we had been divided into platoons. It was much later before we had a place to sleep. By then even the most compulsive jokers were quiet.
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