We walked back, not in the cautious way we had been patrolling the last three weeks, but crashing noisily and confidently through dry brush and across open chanas as we headed south in a V formation like marathon bush-walkers… not paying much heed to a quiet withdrawal. No one was going to stand in our way.
Besides, we had met both FAPLA and SWAPO in their own backyards and had licked them both.
“Mess with the best; you’ll die like the rest!”
I had my H-frame tied tightly round my chest and high on my back, with my SWAPO satchel over one shoulder, containing my boots and a few water bottles. My rifle strap was looped sloppily over my neck and hung in front of me like a tray on which I rested both arms. Fuck SWAPO and fuck FAPLA. Enough of this bush already. Let’s get out of here, have a nice hot shower and a shave. I knew they would definitely give us a big braai and piss-up after this operation. Who knows how many kills the company had brought in. Our platoon alone had over 20 in the two contacts we’d had. The company together could probably account for maybe 80 kills. Shit, that’s not bad for just legging around Angola looking for trouble, and we didn’t even hit a base really. Worth a braai, I’m sure. Big pork chops and cold beer. To sleep on an army foam mattress sounded like too much to ask.
I realized I hadn’t even whacked off in more than three weeks either. Must be some kind of record.
I was daydreaming of home, of going out with my friends to a nightclub, of dancing and getting rip-roaring drunk, puking and passing out. I was dreaming of Taina’s beautiful big breasts and green eyes and little freckles and…
“SWAPO! There!… SWAPO!”
Bang, bang, bang!
Five figures dashed 50-odd metres in front of us, weaving in and out of the thin brush as they ran. The black 101 Battalion tracker walking point had spotted them first and had already opened up on them with his heavy 7.62 G3, shattering the stillness.
I was close to the front of the formation and snapped out of my dreamland in an instant. I pulled my rifle strap off my neck, flipped the switch to ‘fire’ and started forward, shooting at the running figures as I ran.
John Delaney was at my side, throwing off his bulky kit. I did the same and swore as my SWAPO satchel hooked up in my H-frame but after a few vicious tugs it came loose. I ran a couple of yards, then stopped and fired at a couple more fleeing figures following their comrades. I picked one with a light-coloured shirt and blasted at him as he ran behind some tall grass.
A shout came: “Mortars!”
I had barely hit the ground when a mortar bomb exploded deafeningly 20 metres ahead of me. I was up again, shooting. Because of my forward position in the formation I was in front of the charge with just John Delaney ahead of me and our section leader, Dan Pienaar, abreast of me.
Pop! from behind me.
“Get down, Gungie!” Pienaar shouted.
Boom!… an explosion again just in front of us. I hit the dirt just in time, landing on my side. Mortar shrapnel whizzed overhead like angry bees.
Boom… another one close by, not 30 metres away. Both Pienaar and I turned while still on the ground and angrily shouted at Kleingeld who had hastily set up his 60-millimetre pipe behind us and was popping off mortars as fast as he could drop them down the pipe. Then it registered.
“What the fuck are you doing? They’re landing in among us! You’re too short… you’re too short!” Pienaar shouted at Kleingeld. I made eye contact with the mortar man and he stared at me, momentarily unable to hear what I was saying, but my eyes told the story as I shook my fist at him, pointing to where his last bomb had fallen. By good adjustment or fluke, his next bomb exploded 20 metres behind the last fleeing figure who ran on unscathed until he too disappeared from sight.
More troops had caught up with us now as we ran forward, covering about 30 metres through some scattered scrub and caught sight again of the fleeing band, who were now gaining ground and were about 70 metres in front of us. I came to an abrupt stop and, while standing, let loose a long volley of shots. I thought I saw the lead man falter but he ran on and disappeared again behind trees.
As we came closer I was surprised to see a kraal, a few untidy grass huts nestled behind a cattle barricade made from old dry branches.
“There’s a kraal. They ran into the kraal.” Delaney pointed out to Lieutenant Doep who was coming up from behind, running crouched with his radio handset loose, slapping him in the face.
“Cease fire… cease fire!” he yelled, and the call was carried down. He yelled again as one of Kleingeld’s mortars just missed the small circle of huts.
“Cease fire… spread out in a line… spread out in a line!”
We shook out into an extended line.
“Okay… forward!”
We advanced slowly towards the kraal. Doogy had caught up and was next to me, holding his LMG low and ready.
“Gungie, where did they go?”
“Into the kraal!”
“How many?”
“I dunno… five, six!”
I moved cautiously around the side through some dead trees that had been stripped clean of their branches for firewood. A small herd of skinny goats took off, making me spin around and almost pull off a shot. Doogy and I moved slowly forward together. Everybody had stopped shooting as we crept in a semicircle up to 30 metres from the kraal.
“You see anything?”
“No, watch it.”
I looked down the sweep line. Lieutenant Doep was signalling us to get down. I dropped to one knee, my rifle trained on the little grass huts just in front of us. They would have no chance in a shootout; we’d cut them down.
“Horn, get ready with that RPG right into that hut if they fire!” Doep barked, running hunched over and catching up with us again. He had been on the radio reporting the contact.
Horn went down on one knee with the rocket-launcher over his shoulder and bent his head to the sights. We knelt low in a semicircle, 20 metres from the kraal now, and waited, our rifles trained on the five huts. Not a soul stirred in the kraal.
“Forward!” Doep waved his hand slowly.
I moved forward, around towards a wide entrance on my side of the kraal.
“Get ready, Doogy.”
“I’m ready, boet, I’m right here.” We inched forward as Doogy and I slowly came to the entrance, stepping inside the perimeter of the branch barricade. Not a sound was heard from the huts. I duck-walked around the smaller, outer grass huts and came to a low entrance covered with a hanging piece of cloth. I motioned that I was going to check the hut. Doogy nodded at me, standing back and locking his legs into a wide stance with his LMG pointed stiffly at the hut. I noticed as I moved that John Delaney and a handful of troops had gained entrance from the other side and now moved equally as cautiously towards one of the larger huts. John too was duck-walking with his rifle in his shoulder.
I pushed my rifle in front of me, flipped up the cloth that hung in the doorway, then jumped aside and waited for a few seconds. I looked at Doogy with his LMG, who by now had been joined by Kurt and Greef, both with their rifles pointed into the darkness of the hut. Watching their faces for a reading of what they saw, I was just about to spin into the door when I heard a commotion at the big hut and above the din the word ‘PBs’.{Plaaslike bevolking: local population (Afrikaans)}