“That’s one tough-looking hombre,” said Paul, turning to watch the paratrooper stride down the road.
“Yeah, that’s a Parabat. They’re supposed to be a mean bunch,” I said. I had heard of them, but had never actually seen one before.
“Those guys have pulled some nasty stuff up in Angola,” I said. “My brother told me about them. They’re always in the action. They jump out of planes.”
“Must be fucking mad—you won’t catch me jumping out of a plane, especially into the bush,” said Paul, lighting a bent Camel cigarette and flicking the stillsmoking match in a slow arc to land four metres in front of us.
We cruised around town for a while and then pulled in to a Greek fast-food joint for a bite to eat. There was a lunchtime line and we found ourselves standing near our paratrooper friend who had a far friendlier look on his face—perhaps it was the food, maybe they didn’t get to eat much. I immediately took advantage of his friendly demeanour and struck up a conversation with him, asking him about his unit and his opinion on what was happening on the border.
“Fucked up,” he said, starting on his burger.
“We shoot the shit out of SWAPO. Track ’em all the way into Angola and go in after them. They bombshell but we chase them and usually kill a few of them,” he said, licking his fingers. He had put his beret on the table next to him and it shone deep maroon, reminding me of the colour of a Dinky Toy E-type Jaguar I’d had as a kid.
“We hit their base on an operation in Angola… jumped right into them. Landed through a tin roof… hand to hand… took one of them out with a knife,” he said as he popped the last bit of his burger into his mouth.
I told him it was a good thing that he was doing. He wiped his hands slowly, put on his maroon beret at a rakish angle and lit a cigarette. “You should come down; we need guys like you,” he said and slipped out the door as fast as if he were exiting a C-130.
I was sold. I wanted to get those wings on my chest and wear that deep maroon beret. I wanted to jump out of a plane, land through a tin roof and fight terrorists hand to hand.
“Boy, sounds like these guys do the real thing,” I said, still halfway through my burger.
“Sounds pretty rough.”
“Aww… he’s probably bullshitting. That stuff doesn’t really even happen up there.”
But I knew the Parabat had not been lying. I could see by the look in his eye. I knew that he did jump into terrorist bases and fight hand to hand, and I wanted to do that too. The laughter of girls drew my attention for a moment. They seemed to find something on the menu hilariously funny and were in stitches of laughter. For the moment I forgot about the paratrooper.
INTO THE ARMY
We stood on a dirt parade ground with tall gum trees lining one side and the camp’s tin mess hall and administration offices on the other. Behind us, rising almost immediately from the parade ground, was a large hill covered with scrub and tough thorny bushes. This hill was known as Kakhuis Koppie, or Shithouse Hill. I had been in the army for five weeks, having been drafted into the Engineer Corps.
Ours was a field camp—it lay in a long valley with a creek that babbled past the camp and meandered its way past the shooting range at the far end of the valley.
Under different circumstances it would have been a beautiful scene. We were also close to the town of Bethlehem, one of the highest points in South Africa, and in winter the notoriously coldest part of the country with temperatures often below freezing. I had been advised before coming to the army that the Parabats came around to the various camps after a while, looking to enlist volunteers.
When I asked when the parachute battalion might come looking for volunteers my lieutenant, who was a mean, tough-looking guy with a badly pock-marked face and possibly the most sour and unpleasant individual I had met so far in my life, looked at me like I was a piece of shit and told me sarcastically: “The Parabats don’t come to field camps looking for fresh victims, so you’re here to stay as an engineer. But if you’re so eager for extra punishment, I can see that you get some.”
I was bummed out, but had kept going on extra runs by myself after PT and worked out on the shooting range, just in case the Bats did come looking for a few good men. I had no intention of staying in this dump for all of my two-year national service. Even by 10:00 it was still freezing cold, with the fog only beginning to lift from the valley. We had to run halfway up a hill to take a crap. On one of these cold winter mornings we had been drilling for an hour, and been chased all the way up Kakhuis Koppie a couple of times to fetch a leaf from the tree at the top, only to be told that it was the wrong leaf and to go back again and get the right one. We were wringing with sweat; every troop, every soldier, blew a cloud of cold white mist with every breath.
The camp commandant brought us to attention in our various platoons for his morning instructions for the day. He told us at the end of his rant that anybody wanting to try out for the paratroopers was to stay after parade for some preliminary tests.
Surprisingly, 70 or more guys stayed, and a tall Parabat lieutenant made us line up in front of him as he explained the five tests we had to pass to get 1 Parachute Battalion even to look at us.
He was soft-spoken, with flaming red hair and an easy look in his eye. He told us we would have to run the length of the parade ground and back in 90 seconds—carrying a buddy; do 50 push-ups and a few other tests. The last was to run three and a half kilometres in a specified time. It all sounded easy enough, but right from the first test I began to feel light-headed and out of breath. My heart was pounding and I began getting anxious.
“Don’t fuck this up, boy—this is what you’ve been waiting for,” I told myself. My head swam. I had managed all the tests so far, and many of the troops had already dropped out as we set off up the valley towards the shooting range for the three-and-a-half-kilometre run.
Straight away I knew I wasn’t going to make the passing time. I was short of breath; my chest felt like it was closing, and by the time we reached the turnaround point I was trailing well behind the others.
I couldn’t believe it! I had been betrayed. My body had betrayed me. Why was this happening? This was the very same dirt road that I had run almost every fucking day preparing for this very fucking moment, and now I had fucked it up royally. Halfway back to camp I had to sit on a rock, gulping for breath and watching in disbelief as wheezing troops ran past me. I shook my head and felt weak and useless. I couldn’t believe I had fucked up my one-and-only opportunity to get into the Parachute Battalion. I got up slowly and began walking back along the stony dirt road, feeling totally dejected and mystified by my failure, when my asshole lieutenant drove by in a Jeep and pulled to a halt in front of me in a cloud of dust. He looked back over his shoulder, his one hand on the long gear lever.
“What happened to you?” he hissed. “You’re the one who was always asking to go to the Parabats. What’s wrong? What happened?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. I had no explanation for him. He shook his head at my failure, jammed the gear into first and pulled off, spraying me with stones and dust. When I got to camp the troops who had finished the run stood in line, their chests heaving, waiting to give their times.