19 With a Bullet (15 page)

We walked quickly and purposefully through the rows of air force tents, sticking to the shadows. I was hunched over to try and keep the brandy tucked in the front of my pants and from sliding down my trousers. We looked like two fat hunchback paratroopers going for a pleasant evening stroll among the tents.

At night, the big air force base of Ondangwa took on the cozy feeling of a summer camp. Yellow, naked light bulbs shone through the flaps of the long rows of tents occupied by the air force and the paratroopers. The untarred roads that ran between the tents also had the occasional light that shone on camo netting … the occasional roar of laughter or strum of a guitar mingled with a dozen cassette players blasting out a variety of music, all backed by the constant, gentle but insistent hum of half a dozen big electric generators. I enjoyed the nights at Ondangs.

Reaching our tent undetected, we triumphantly pulled out the two bottles of brown gold and disappeared down into the underground bunker next to the tent. John the Fox and Doogy had already made preparations and had some warm Coke, canned sausages and cigarettes at the ready. I was in a great mood, full of energy. We had borrowed a guitar and pretty soon I was hammering out Hendrix’s ‘All along the watchtower’ and some smoky, hazy blues. Dan had come in and soon we were all tanked up and trying to speak louder than the next. I tried to coax Danny into airing his views on South West Africa as he had that afternoon, but with a crowd he was not too eager and made a point of drinking a toast: “May all SWAPO leave clear spoor under the full moon for us to follow!”

We were having a whale of a time when suddenly we had to move the party upstairs in doublequick time after a jealous neighbour tossed a red smoke grenade into the bunker, instantly filling the bunker with thick, acrid smoke and sending us scurrying to the top, coughing and cursing. The red smoke soon enveloped the bunker and wafted up into the tent which we had to evacuate and dangerously take the party out into the open air, in the line of sight of any wandering corporal. I had the presence of mind to unscrew the light bulb on the way out so that the dense red cloud billowing from the tent would not be seen and which now looked like a dark, spooky form rising from the tent.

The grenade had stained the guitar with red dye that would not come off, which made the owner mad as hell when I later returned it.

FIRST BLOOD

Bad moon rising—Creedence Clearwater Revival

I had always loved the bush and was starting to get the feel of Owamboland. I was getting used to the wild, perfumed smells that wafted in from the vast bush and the faint peppery smell of sand that was on everything you touched. I was even getting used to the baking hot sun that had us sweating at seven o’clock in the morning, and the inky-black cold nights that fell so suddenly.

The only thing that I could not get used to was the squadrons of mosquitoes that would rise, seemingly from nowhere, as soon as the sun dipped under the horizon to strafe and torment us till daybreak. At Ondangwa we had nets over our beds that were a blessed protection, but out in the bush we were easy pickings for the marauding squadrons. They would send out a scout to recce the area for targets and once they found exposed white paratrooper skin, it was mere minutes before a ‘Fireforce’ mozzie platoon was called in to relentlessly attack the hapless target. Military insect repellent seemed useless; the only relief was to retreat into your sleeping bag like a cocoon and breathe stale air and vile rat-pack gas and smelly feet. It was a tough choice.

We had been in the bush for three days doing vehicle patrols. We were driving in Buffels, South African-made anti-landmine troop-carriers that carried ten men. The Buffels were high with an open top, allowing us to enjoy the weather, and had a V-shaped underbelly to help deflect the mine blast to protect us from the landmines that were SWAPO’s weapon of choice. I had seen a Buffel that hit a big ‘cheese’ mine just a week before; it had merely lost a wheel and been blown over onto its side. (Cheese mines from their shape, much like a big Dutch cheese.) All the troops were unharmed, except for ruptured eardrums and a few bumps and bruises. They were great vehicles; we could crash through the bush with their big tyres and make our own path, staying far off the dirt roads to avoid the landmines on the established roads that were there, as sure as Monday.

We had been split up; half our
valk
was patrolling with the ruthless Koevoet
⁸
battalion who were stationed at nearby Oshakati. Koevoet were well known for their high kill rate and tracking abilities. Koevoet, much feared by SWAPO, was a special police unit that was very active on the border and had achieved astonishing successes. Many of their troops were ex terrs who had been ‘turned’ and who now fought with vigour on our side against their old comrades. Our half of the platoon had the misfortune to ride with 101 Battalion who were noisy, undisciplined and rowdy. I sat and watched them chattering among themselves, oblivious to their surroundings, their rifles hanging and pointing in all directions.

I was not too eager to go into our first contact with this bunch at my side. To have come through all that training and bullshit just to get shot by a 101 Battalion troop! Our five Buffels were patrolling the cut-line, the no-man’sland between Angola and South West Africa. We had seen the cut-line from the air but this was the first time we had patrolled through it. It was lush, with old buildings long ago destroyed in an earlier war that now stood silent and ghostly, overrun with wild flowers and long vines that seemed to thrive in reclaiming the ruins. The grass and weeds were lush and long from being spared the destructive grazing of cattle and goats.

We rode in the Buffels, winding through the bush, standing up and relaxed, stopping often to sit awhile and make lunch or brew coffee under tall, shady trees. I wondered why it was so lush here when 80 kilometres away it was so sandy and dry. This sector had once been a main SWAPO infiltration route and many a contact and hot pursuit had taken place in this very area. However, now, we were told, SWAPO chose to cross the border in the bushier region around Oshikango, 120 kilometres east of our position. That was where the rest of our platoon was patrolling with Koevoet. We bumped slowly along a green
chana
, while Stan was rambling on about how hot these Koevoet guys were.

“Once these guys get on a spoor, that’s it ... they’re like dogs. They stick to it for days. Boy has had his chips if Koevoet gets on his trail. Their troops are ex terrs and know this bush inside out and they don’t do foot patrols like us; they’re always in vehicles, driving right into the contact ... that’s their MO.”

We had all heard stories about how, once they had identified a SWAPO spoor, they would chase it for days until they got the terrs. One of their legendary top kill-scorers was a Lieutenant Frans Conradie who, over a tenyear span of fighting in Rhodesia and then in South West Africa, had been in over 180 contacts and had personally dispatched something like 1,000 guerrillas to the happy hunting grounds. This must be some sort of all-time record, in any war anywhere. One man in the bush, with a thousand kills!

The story went that Conradie was one of the finest trackers in the operational area and would often follow spoor for three days at a time. He would start at daybreak and follow it at a run until sunset, or until he made contact. He would run on the spoor for 50 kilometres at a stretch, leaving his comrades far behind. One recent story went that he was tracking three SWAPO on the run. For three days Conradie, on foot and running, followed their trail, heading steadily for the Angolan border. When they bombshelled—split up—he followed one spoor at a time until he killed the man at the end of it. Then he returned to the original point of the spoor and started again on the next terr, and so on until all three were dead. He would run on the spoor far ahead of his support vehicles, bare-chested and clad only in shorts and running shoes, rifle in hand. He had mounted a 20-millimetre cannon from a Vampire jet fighter on his Casspir, and apparently this feared weapon had accounted for many of his kills.

“This guy’s a fucking legend; he goes into a contact with music playing at full volume like in
Apocalypse Now
—‘Bad moon rising’ or ‘Another one bites the dust’!” Stan found this intriguing and went on and on about how we should have big speakers rigged on the choppers and gunships and play loud rock and roll when we went into a contact.

“That’s the kind of stuff that we’ve got to do … the Yanks did that in Vietnam ... it freaks them out as you attack.”

I agreed with him that it was a good idea. It sounded right up my alley.

We had just stopped under the shade of a couple of big thorn trees for another afternoon break, about six clicks outside the cut-line. Someone tossed a wire tied to a stone into the tree to get the antenna up high and the radio crackled and hummed to life as we sat down in the sand and fired up a fuel tablet to brew a bucket of coffee. I was sitting with my back against one of the tall Buffel tyres and had started to prepare my small meal and a cup of Java.

After a couple of minutes the 101 Battalion lieutenant, who was preparing his own meal with the radio at his side, quickly turned to our little group and called out excitedly. “Hey! Your guys are making contact right now ... they walked into an ambush!”

I put down the small can of steak and onions that I had just started to warm up. We all stopped what we were doing and moved towards the radio to listen to the contact being broadcast live over the airwaves. The lieutenant told us to go back to our positions and not to bunch up. We sat in the shade eagerly grinning at each other and looking at Dan, our section leader, who was now sitting with the 101 Battalion lieutenant listening to the contact and passing down reports.

“They charged the ambush and are in among the terrs now.”

“It’s close quarters … they’re calling for gunships. Shit! ... at last!”

It was hard to imagine our guys in contact at that very moment; I wondered quickly what Johnny Delaney and Kevin Green and Doogy were doing right this second and hoped that they would be all right. It sounded like a pretty chaotic situation. Now and again we could pick up an excited voice among the static, blurting co-ordinates to the gunships or giving directions to the Casspir drivers—I couldn’t tell which.

We all sat dead still for several minutes, quietly grinning at each other, all our attention on the crackling radio a couple of metres away, passing along information as it came. Even the black 101 troops had shut up for a change, which was no easy task for them. After about five minutes the urgency in the radioman’s voice had toned down, but it still seemed that there was fighting going on. A calm voice was still giving instructions to the gunships that seemed to have just arrived on the scene.

What we could gather was that Koevoet and the platoon of Parabats had found spoor and had been chasing it and ran into to an ambush, which was always the downside of following up on spoor but as it was Koevoet’s trademark action, they had charged and driven right through the ambush with their Casspirs. From the sound of it, they had come out tops. Everyone’s mood had been lightened by the news of the contact; we were chatting and laughing and trying to imagine what it must have been like. We were jealous but also thankful that someone had finally made contact with the everelusive SWAPO. Ten minutes later, the lieutenant yelled again.

“They’re making contact again with a second group of terrs!”

We were ready to mount up, so this time we all stood around the radio and listened. The voice was now calmly directing the gunships to the positions, telling them they should look for the red smoke and to watch out, because our troops were almost hand to hand with the terrs who were making a stand.

“A second contact ... fucking hell, way to go!”

I could not contain my excitement and was now really pissed off that I had not been with the other group. Well, at least our platoon got to have the first contact out of both H and D companies. We listened silently and intently for about five minutes to what sounded like some fierce fighting and then, by the sound of the communication, it died down as the gunships picked off fleeing SWAPO. We sullenly boarded the Buffels and headed slowly back into the cut-line to continue our fruitless patrol.

It was getting late in the afternoon and the lieutenant, sensing our frustration at days of riding around in a dead area, called a halt as we came across a herd of black and brown cattle lazily grazing not quite in the forbidden green grass of the cut-line. He shouldered his South West African-issue G3 7.62-millimetre rifle, took a slow aim and loosed a shot that shattered the stillness and collapsed a young bull to his knees in the long grass, 150 metres away.

The black 101 troops whooped and yelled in excitement and anticipation of fresh meat. They jumped off the Buffel and ran to the young bull that was still in his death throes. The usually surly lieutenant grinned like a schoolboy and quickly told us all to say nothing. His action would be safe with us.

The gunshot was a release for everyone’s energy. We were thankful for the change in activity and watched as the 101 troops expertly and quickly skinned and gutted the young bull. They happily chatted with each other as they cut prime slabs of meat from the loins, neck and rump and fought over the liver and kidneys. They hooted with laughter when the lieutenant, who was a white South West African, told them in fluent Owambo not to forget that we also wanted some good pieces.

They danced a jig which I took as the ‘fresh meat’ jig and rolled the skinless carcass off the hide and onto the grass for the hyenas and jackals. Then they piled the heaps of cut meat into the soft hide of the bull and wrapped it closed in a neat bundle, which we hoisted onto the Buffel. The rest of the herd of cattle had gathered around and stood and watched us dumbly. As we rode off they slowly assembled around their fallen comrade, but bolted when they got too close and caught the smell of his slaughter.