“Thank you, corporal.”
Captain Swart, the tormentor! I couldn’t wait to tell him that my business was done and I’d be moving on. I strolled back to my tent, pulled off my army boots and put on my worn blue sneakers, which had become a habit. I lit a cigarette and lay back against my folded-up sleeping bag as I contemplated my good fortune. A hot ray of sun blazed through an open tent flap and burned my legs. It felt good.
If I could find out exactly where the company was, I could join them immediately. They would probably have to send a Buffel to take me out there. They needed every man for this op… shit, if they’re going to hit FAPLA, there’s going to be a small war. Captain Verwey said that I was a good troop who pulled his weight. I needed to be with my company!
I felt a new buzz of loyalty to my company and to my OC, Captain Verwey, and a rush of excitement at the chance of making it in time to be part of the mother of all cross-border operations into Angola. I sat back, deep in thought, and lit another cigarette. I had sworn that I would quit after the retching incident, where I was almost shot dead while coughing and puking my lungs out when we’d hit the FAPLA troops. I would have died in midpuke. What a way to go! I had stopped for a couple of days afterwards but was soon back to puffing a pack a day. I blew a big cloud of smoke and watched it drift lazily to the top of the hot tent.
My 21st birthday was in two days time. This was a good thing, except that for the last two years in a row, the evening before my birthday had been cursed with weird bad luck. On both occasions, almost to the hour, around 23:00, I had been arrested on possession of weed charges and spent both birthdays in jail. I mean, what are the chances of that? It was uncanny and must have had something to do with the alignment of the stars when I was born—not that I believed in that crap, of course, but perhaps there was something to it after all. Anyway, this time it looked as if the spell had been broken and that luck was working for me and not against me. I decided to slip over to the canteen and pick up a couple of ice-cold Cokes and a chocolate bar to celebrate.
On the way I spotted my nemesis, the beady-eyed cunt, Captain Swart. He was in the small mess, walking out towards the kitchen.
“Hey, there’s my man!”
I couldn’t wait to give him the good news, that I needed to be taken back to rejoin my company. I walked quickly around the back of the mess and planned to catch him as he came out the other side at the kitchen door. He had just driven in from Oshakati in a big supply truck and was roaring at a dozen juniors who were in the process of unloading the truck, but not quickly enough for his satisfaction. I waited on the side for him to finish his assault, then, as he turned to head back to the officers’ quarters, I jogged up to him. He spun on his heels and glared at me.
I came to attention in the sand and threw a smart salute. “Captain, I’m finished with the court martial. It’s over and I need to get back to my company. They are going on an operation.”
He glared at me with nothing short of hatred in his eyes. “What kind of shit, slack-ass fuck-up of a salute is that? Do it over, troop!”
I was taken back by the ferocity of his response but, nevertheless, slammed my foot hard into the sand and swung my arm up to my forehead and chopped it down to my side like a knife and stood stiffly to attention. “My court martial is over, captain. I want to rejoin my company,” I repeated, louder.
He looked me up and down like I had dropped from the sky or something and glanced down at my blue sneakers. “Why the fuck haven’t you got boots on?”
I had forgotten that I still had my sneakers on. I hadn’t planned on meeting him this way. “My feet give me trouble, captain. My lieutenant has given me permission to wear them. He knows about it.”
He was quick on the uptake. “Your feet give you trouble but you want to go on an operation into Angola with your company?” He looked me up and down again, like I was a piece of shit, sneering as though I was out of my mind to have even considered such a ridiculous request.
“Well, they’re not that bad, captain… my lieutenant allows me to wear them.”
I knew that he had me well and truly pinned in a corner and that something not good was about to happen.
He responded in a second. “Well, I don’t give a flying fuck what your lieutenant allows you to do, troop. If your feet are injured, then you will sick-report to the hospital and go on light duty. No, you cannot join your company. Yes, you will sick-report immediately and you will bring me the report so that I can see it! Do you understand?”
He shook his head vigorously to emphasize his point. I saw a glint of satisfaction in his eye as he saw I was unable to hide my disappointment. I stared at him, stunned.
“And you do that right away. I’m waiting for the report! You find me and bring it to me today!”
“Yes, captain.”
I saluted and turned away, walking back past the mess towards my tent, my mind reeling, shoulders slumped. I sat down on my bed, feeling numb. I stared out at the white sand walls but did not see them. I get through this court martial and now this fucking idiot says I must sick-report and go on light duty! While my company’s fighting FAPLA in Angola I must walk around the camp in sandals, picking up cigarette butts!
In a flash, I knew what I was going to do.
There was going to be no way in hell this prick was going to ruin a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do what I had joined up to do. I had gone through too much bullshit to get to this point… days—maybe hours—away from taking part in a massive operation into Angola.
I sat for a while and gathered my thoughts.
“Fuck that, let’s go!” I said aloud in the empty tent and stood up. I ripped my folded balsak from under my bed and began cramming in clothes, boots and water bottles. I pulled out my big brown H-frame bush-pack and stuffed in my blue sneakers, chest webbing, Fireforce vest and loaded magazines. I peered through the tent flaps to see if anyone was around. There was no one.
I threw my rifle over my shoulder. I was cool and focused once again. I was going to join my company for this operation, even if I had to go AWOL to do it. The captain can go suck on a fucking egg. Cunt!
It was about 14:00 when I slipped, heavily laden, over the sand wall at the back of our tent square with my H-frame on my back, my big balsak duffel bag over one shoulder and my rifle over the other. I took the long way, around the air force tents and PF quarters and cut through some workshops, taking the road that led through the huge air force camp to the gates about a click away. I prayed that the dickhead captain would not drive out on the offchance and see me. The chances were slim as he had just returned from a supply run to Oshakati.
Hansen, the pathfinder who had come in for knee surgery, had told me the training grounds were about 80 to a hundred clicks down the main tar road, towards the Etosha Pan game reserve. That was all I knew but it was enough for me. Before I was even out of the main camp, a big water truck rumbled past me. I threw out my thumb. He braked and came to a stop 50 or so metres ahead, throwing up a cloud of dust.
“Yes?”
I ran through the dust cloud with my kit bouncing on my back, reached the door and pulled it open. The driver was a pleasant, overweight chap with a jolly face and a black moustache.
“Where are you going?” he asked in a thick Afrikaans accent.
“I’m not sure where it is, but I’m heading down the main road to where they’re training for this operation. I think it’s about 80 clicks down that way. Where are you going?”
“That’s where I’m headed right now. I’m taking water there… hop in.”
I hauled my heavy kit up to him and he pulled it all into the cab. I knew for sure now that God was definitely looking after my butt. We drove out of the gates of the air force base of Ondangwa and turned left onto the long black tar road that cut through the bush like a mamba.