John put six or seven shots through his head. The bullets almost decapitated him. John and I stood quiet for a second or two. In the early morning chill, the hot contents of his head sent up a thick white cloud of steam as if someone had emptied a bucket of hot water onto the cold sandy ground. The vision would stay with me for many years. We quickly went through his pockets and found some propaganda booklets and about R400 in South African money.
“The bastard probably killed someone for this money.”
Then and there we split the cash and without a second glance moved farther into the bush looking for more stragglers. Single and double shots banged around us as troops found and finished off wounded terrs, as per our orders to take no prisoners. Then, slowly, the shooting stopped. After about five minutes John and I moved back. When we passed the old bush soldier, he still held his ‘fuck you’ sign as mute witness to the cause, but his hateful expression had changed and, except for his gaping neck wound, he looked peacefully asleep, albeit without the top of his skull. His war was over.
The sun was just breaking over the horizon. Back at the kill zone the university lieutenant was smiling as the radio crackled to life. “We got a count of nine confirmed,” he spoke into the mouthpiece with a broad grin.
“We got two more over here, lieutenant,” I said, indicating with my thumb over my back.
“No, correction,” he told the radio. “We have eleven, maybe more.” He was as pleased as punch. What a story to tell his mates when he got back to university. Dan Pienaar arrived and reported a further two dead down a path to our right.
“Make that thirteen.”
We stood around for a while. The SWAPO deserter who had led us to his comrades had come out of whichever woodwork he’d been hiding in and now stood gleefully looking down at the bodies of his former comrades lying in the killing zone. He scoffed, swearing at them in Owambo with a smirk on his face. I felt like ramming my rifle butt into his teeth as I watched him.
“Fucking bastard.”
I swore loudly at him in English. He seemed to think I was congratulating or thanking him and he grinned at me, baring rotten teeth. I made a small feint as if hitting him with my rifle butt, then turned and walked away. He looked confused.
We spent about an hour searching the surrounding trees, finding about 30 satchels, bags and suitcases. It was like hunting for Easter eggs—finding them stashed high in the forks of trees and stuffed in bushes. They contained maps, documents, books, propaganda, civvy clothes, soap, uniforms, medicine and food. I found a web belt that had been carefully stitched and completely covered in what looked like python skin. I also took a few items of clothing and a FAPLA tracksuit top which I immediately put on against the morning cold. We had now formed a defensive circle around the sandy killing ground and waited while the radio crackled as the lieutenant tried to get a chopper to come and pick up the small mountain of AKs, RPDs, RPGs, bags and satchels we had stacked in a pile close to the campfire.
It dawned on me that it was Sunday morning. I wondered what my family would be doing now? On the farm, mom and dad would be getting up. Mom would soon be rustling up a breakfast of eggs, sausage and coffee which they would probably eat outside at the round cement garden table. The old man would be reading the paper and my brother probably sleeping in after a night on the town. And here I and my merry band had slaughtered 13 SWAPO in a textbook ambush.
“Let’s get the hell out of here; we shouldn’t stay at a scene this long.”
Some of the guys had got the bad idea of hanging some of the dead SWAPO in the trees to leave a terrifying message for their comrades who found them. Pretty soon there were two or three terrs, with parachutes cut into their chests, strung up from the branches, swinging in the breeze above the smouldering fire.
I was not happy; and the scene was quickly becoming even more gruesome. A small herd of domestic, or perhaps feral, pigs had moved in. They were totally unafraid of us as they snorted with glee and actually started snuffling at the open head wounds of the dead terrs, eating the spilled contents.
“C’mon, now… fuck off, pig,” I swore, as I tried to shoo them off. I picked up a clod of earth and threw it at the big mother pig but she hardly budged. John got up and chased them and they broke away squealing, but were soon back again. John got up again to chase them. I turned to look the other way.
“I don’t fucking believe this.”
We had now been here for about three hours. We waited for a chopper to pick up the mountain of weapons and kit. The morning sun was already blazing down, the bodies on the ground and in the trees already stiff, with arms sticking out at grotesque angles.
“This is bullshit, we’ve got to move! There could be a another bunch of terrs here at any minute.”
“Hey, more kills for us if they do.”
John and I shared a last cigarette and sat eyeing the bush. I did not agree with his sentiment. There were only 16 of us and we had blown out half our ammo.
Dan Pienaar sauntered towards us; he too had a terr’s peaked camo cap stuffed in his pocket. His blue eyes looked weary. He sat down and scanned the bush. “Hey… they can’t get a chopper. Three Two Battalion is in contact right now and all the choppers are taken up. They’re talking about us carrying all this shit back with us.”
“Oh, that’s cool… we have to walk back with all that crap?” I looked at the pile of captured loot and intelligence.
Sure enough, after half an hour we loaded up with suitcases, weapons and satchels, and we began legging it all the way back to the TB, sticking to open chanas. It did not take us nearly as long as it had taken us to walk in the night before. Now, in the daylight, it was only about a two-hour walk. The rest of the platoon at our TB popped a red smoke grenade as we got close to them. They congratulated us excitedly and said that they had heard the sound of the gunshots early that morning and it had sounded like “a hell of a battle”. They gathered around as we told them about it and brewed a hot fire bucket of coffee.
Often, over the years, I have wondered how that SWAPO turncoat had been able to lead us through the bush at night over such a long distance to the exact spot where his comrades were dug in.
And I never forgot the pigs…
DEADLY CLASH WITH FAPLA
The official Angola press agency reported today that Angolan forces shot down three South African helicopters and one fighter-bomber in fighting along the southern border with South West Africa. It quoted a Defence Ministry statement that said fighting was continuing around the border town of Kuamato 10 days after South African Army units crossed the frontier into Angola. The statement said Angolan anti-aircraft batteries shot down the three helicopters as they prepared to open fire on Angolan ground units last Saturday. One of four Impala fighter-bombers sent to the rescue of the helicopters was also shot down, it added.
After nearly two weeks in the bush and a successful ambush under our belts we began to feel and look like real bush fighters. Old sleeves were torn off, army T-shirts were worn out and the only piece of regulation SADF uniform I had on were my ripped browns trousers. I was wearing my dirty blue sneakers and the FAPLA zip-up sweatshirt that I had taken from the ambush. On my head I wore the SWAPO peaked cap, complete with its prized SWAPO pin-on badge, which had a clenched fist that supposedly proclaimed solidarity, freedom and justice. Looking like a bunch of terrorists ourselves, dirty and covered with old camo grease, we headed farther north into Angola looking for more trouble.