“You’re the main fucking guy, hey?… Main fucking guy, killing my cats! Main fucking guy! Stomp on my cats, motherfucker! I’ll stomp on you!”
I dragged him several metres from of the tent as he shrieked like a banshee about to be bludgeoned to death. By now a crowd had come running and stood silent, watching mutely. I dumped him on the sand like a sack of shit, stood back and kicked him squarely in the face and felt the fingers that he held tightly against his face for protection, crack. A deadly flood of pure hate was rushing through me. I had lost control. I leaped up and with both feet in the air, landed squarely on his neck and shoulders. I wanted to feel him break. I did it again as he tried to cover his neck with his arms, howling, squealing.
“Jump on my cats, hey?… I’ll fucking jump on you… jump… on… you!” I shouted hoarsely, almost falling as I lost my balance on his head.
Suddenly, in a giddy blur, I came to my senses and stood back and glared down at the pathetic figure crumpled in the sand. He was lying in a tight foetal position, sobbing loudly. He had thick, sweet blood all over his face and hands and down his shirt. His staff sergeant’s stripes and the castle above them hung torn around his elbow, splattered with blood. Thick snot hung from his jaw that seemed to be at an odd angle. I caught a whiff of shit as he sobbed loudly in the silence that had suddenly fallen.
“Piece of shit… big man that kills cats! Come on, let’s see how big you are now! Come on, let’s see! Stand up, fuckwit… I see you’re not so big now, hey?”
I stood over him with my fists clenched like rocks, daring him to move, but he lay quiet, still curled up, sobbing. A pin could be heard dropping in the white sand as I turned around in disgust and walked towards my kit that was lying by the chopper pad.
A sea of shocked, and delighted, infantrymen parted, making way for me as though I was Moses. I strode mumbling that I should have given the motherfucker some more, to really teach him a lesson.
“Piece of shit…”
The group of about 20 troops stood gobsmacked, not believing what they had just witnessed. A seriously fucking pissed-off paratrooper with a beard, dressed in a torn-up uniform, had pulled their mean-ass company sergeant-major out of his tent by his hair and kicked the living shit out of him. The whiff of shit was still thick in the air to prove it.
All heads turned to watch me as I strode to my kit with deliberate steps. Still not a word was said. I turned my back on the scene and sat down on my kit bag. With very shaky hands I fumbled for my cigarettes, took one out, but was barely able to light it. I sat alone in the mountains of kit. No one dared come near me.
I smoked quickly, threw the butt down half-smoked and lit another one. My hands had started to shake violently and I suddenly felt exhausted. I felt as weak as a skinny kid, like I was about to faint. I took some slow, deep breaths and told myself to calm down and not worry. They couldn’t shoot me. I sat alone for four or five minutes, undisturbed, not once looking back at the scene behind me. I gazed over the sand walls of the camp and out across the open chana towards Angola and the thick bush beyond. A picture of the SWAPO cadre we had ambushed, propping himself up on his elbows, looking at me and calling for his mother as John the Fox blew his brains out came into my mind. The dying SWAPO from the ambush showing me a ‘fuck you’ sign with his fingers on his chest as he died. I then thought of the poor, white-haired old man we had shot and left to die. His leg was clean and bandaged. He was smiling up at me with a slow, morphine-induced smile, clutching weakly at my wrists, looking into my eyes, nodding and thanking me for saving his life.
“Korff!”
Captain Verwey, our company OC, yelled at the top of his voice as he walked across the parade ground towards the chopper pad where I sat.
“Do you think you’re the God of Owamboland, or what?”
I had never heard Captain Verwey shout before. He was usually a very quiet and reserved man. This might have been the only time anyone had ever heard him shout. I quickly got up and went to meet him halfway.
“What in the name of hell do you think you are doing? You can’t beat up a fucking sergeant-major from another unit, man! What’s wrong with you? Do you understand what you have done?”
I had no words and decided it was best to keep quiet.
He was angry and stood looking at me and the gawking troops with disbelief. He, too, seemed at a loss for words. He had had a deep frown which slowly grew into the hint of a smile and I thought I caught a flash of humour in his eyes as he surveyed the scene with all the infantry troops still milling around, talking among themselves in hushed tones. Even the Parabats who had now gathered were, for once, quiet.
Troops rapidly gave way as Captain Verwey and I calmly walked back across the parade ground to the small, whitewashed brick buildings of the HQ.
I stood at ease outside the HQ door with my legs apart and hands behind my back, staring straight ahead over the sand walls of the small camp and into the bush. I had gained control of the violent shaking that had overcome me but still shook my one knee continuously to conceal my tension. I stood like this for a couple of minutes as infantry troops walked by, gaping. One small troop walked hurriedly past and, satisfied that the coast was clear, flashed me a huge grin and a thumbs-up, and then quickly went back to deadpan as a short, fat, red-faced infantry major came barging out the HQ doors like a bull, almost tripping in his haste to get to me.
He rushed at me furiously, stopping only a few centimetres from my face. His round, red, boozy face was contorted with genuine rage. “You’re the troop who beats up sergeant-majors, eh? You want to try me? Eh? Eh? Why don’t you try me, you soutpiel!”
It crossed my mind that, seeing I was already so deep in the shit, perhaps I should just head-butt this stupid fucking idiot on the nose right now and get it over wit, but I decided to ignore him and stared straight ahead. He was about to try and provoke me further when our little Parabat staff sergeant, our acting company sergeant-major, Greyling, came in, elbowed the idiotic infantry major aside and took my arm. He led me away and made a show of holding my arm like I was a captive as we crossed the opposite way across the parade ground to the small camp kas, the jail. As we turned our backs and were a dozen paces from the group of rank that had come out the HQ to eyeball me, he looked straight ahead and gave a huge grin.
He did not turn to me but spoke out the side of his mouth. “Korff, what did you fuck up the sergeant-major for, hey? You can’t do that, man! Why did you do it? What happened?”
“He killed our two cats while we were away in the bush, staff,” I answered seriously, having regained my composure. “I should have given him more,” I smiled.
Staff Greyling shook his head and laughed. He couldn’t keep a straight face. “Well, you’re in the shit now, my mate… you’re going to sleep in the kas tonight, here with SWAPO for starters, then a whole world of kak is going to come down on you.”
He motioned to the skinny black guy in the cell next to me and locked the steel grill.
I never did get to have my shower or change my clothes and I lay down on a thin blanket in my filthy four-week-old bush clothes and listened to the sounds of 1 Para having a celebration welcome-home party late into the night. I had not even got to wash my face.
I spoke to the confused SWAPO suspect in the other cell and told him that I was a SWAPO sympathizer and that he should tell me where his buddies were so that we could get word to them. I was still trying to do my duty, even in the kas. He did not fall for my trick.