We set up a temporary base (TB) with proper all-round defensive positions in case of a retaliatory attack. Once we had reported the contact to the Tac HQ, we started collecting evidence. Five SWAPO cadres had been killed, but it was clear from the blood spoor that at least three more were seriously wounded. Since the contact had been too far into enemy country, it was decided not to launch a follow-up due to the lack of dedicated air support.
The Tac HQ also informed us that the intelligence guys wanted all the bodies to be brought out, as they considered the collection of weapons, equipment and documentation, along with the actual faces, fingerprints and personal belongings of the cadres, as critically important. So we set about collecting weapons and kit, and started dragging the bodies to an area that we had prepared as an LZ for pick-up.
Two helicopters were dispatched to airlift the teams and the dead cadres to the operational HQ in the area of Ngwezi Pools. After we had been dropped off for debriefing, the bodies were taken to Katima Mulilo for intelligence processing. Our teams conducted two more recce missions to try to locate SWAPO deployments, but by that time all the enemy bases had been abandoned. Operation Saffraan was called off and the unit returned to Omega.
At the time I didn’t give the piled-up bodies at the LZ much thought. The rush of adrenaline and the physical exertion of collecting the bodies and equipment in the heat of the day didn’t allow much time for reflection. But later on I would often think of the people who died at our hands. How did they end up wasted, far from their loved ones, under the harsh African sun? And would their families ever know where they were and how they had died?
3
Brothers in Arms
FOR A YOUNGSTER of twenty, those years at Omega in the Caprivi were pure bliss. As a second lieutenant leading a reconnaissance team of six, consisting of two whites and four Bushmen, I had just enough freedom to mostly do my own thing without having the responsibilities of a more senior rank. We lived for the day – and for the operations that followed in quick succession.
By this time I had signed up for “short service”, which involved an additional two-year contract to the compulsory two years of national service. It also meant a healthy salary package, considering that I was also earning “danger pay” during the three years I served on the border.
At the time, more than 4 000 Bushmen lived at Omega. Of this number about 800 were soldiers, and the rest consisted of their families. The soldiers were divided into four companies: A Company (composed of Baraquenas, an indigenous tribe from the Cuando-Cubango region), B and C companies (Vasquelas, Bushmen formerly scattered across the southern regions of Angola and northeastern South West Africa) and D Company (a mix of Baraquenas and Vasquelas). Each company had its own HQ in front of its living quarters.
Omega was like a fair-sized town and indeed had to be managed like one, as all the essential services had to be maintained. The school used to have in excess of 300 pupils, who were mostly taught by national servicemen. There were about 250 whites, the majority of whom were single men who lived in prefabricated wooden huts (called “kimbos”) at the centre of the base. Three or four of us used to share a hut. For the married officers, warrant officers and NCOs, there were about fifteen “married quarters”, either wooden houses or caravans.
Daily life at the base revolved around the officers’ bars and messes. We were a close-knit community, and an exceptionally healthy spirit reigned. On Sundays the OC would close the bars and the whole unit went to church, after which the bars would reopen and everyone, married couples included, came together for a magnificent brunch. Occasionally we held concerts, with virtually everyone participating, and performing artists also visited the unit.
The recce wing’s training base, Fort Vreeslik, was built in a secluded spot about 14 km south of Omega where few people ever visited. When not on operations, we spent most of our weekdays there. The base was situated in the pristine and unspoilt bush of the Western Caprivi. The huts were built of poles and thatch that we collected from the bush ourselves.
In the centre was a fairly large “lecture hut”, where classes were presented. Since we built the camp ourselves, there was a sense of ownership among the recce wing guys. Every time we visited Fort Vreeslik, we would add a new hut or do maintenance on the structures. It was our pride and joy, and we considered it a special place.
The Bushman soldiers I used to work with in the recce wing were extraordinarily well adapted to the environment. They knew the uses of each plant, recognised every track in the wild and understood the habits of each animal. They were invaluable when it came to making deductions from any disturbance in nature, and they could predict enemy actions from the most imperceptible signs left by an adversary. While the older men were admittedly more experienced in the ways of the bush, the younger ones were equally at home.
In my experience, the Bushmen were hunters rather than fighters. A Bushman soldier’s value, at least from the reconnaissance perspective, lay in his ability to track, stalk and outwit the enemy. Combined with his uncanny knowledge of the bush and his ability to survive, a Bushman made the best of partners in a reconnaissance team.
While there wasn’t much we could teach the Bushmen about the bush, their tactical skills were not well developed. Training therefore centred on tactics and weapon handling. A typical Minor Tactics course would include tactical movement in different patrol formations, ambush techniques, contact drills based on the fire-and-movement principle, and of course reconnaissance skills such as observation posts (OPs), listening posts (LPs) and stalking techniques.
Once we decided to play a trick on the Bushmen while I was presenting a lecture to them. A loudspeaker system was set up on the other side of the base, playing a recording of lions roaring and other game sounds. At some point during the lecture I heard the faint but distinct sound of young lions panting. A visible question mark formed on the faces in front of me and I could hear whispers of “lion, lion”. “No,” I pretended to put them at ease, “you know there are no lions here…”
But I hadn’t even finished speaking when a deafening roar suddenly sheared the afternoon air. They were up like one man, diving for their weapons, which had been left outside the lecture hut. Rifles cocked and ready, they lined up to face the lions, but no one dared go forward. Every time the lion roared, they jumped back into line. By this time I could barely keep a straight face. When an elephant trumpeting followed another round of roaring, they realised that they had been had. Some of them were so angry with us that they dropped their weapons and refused to continue with the day’s training.
Tango Naca was hand-picked for the recce wing long before my arrival at the unit, and he had numerous specialised missions to his credit. As he was highly respected by both Vasquela and Baraquena, the white leader group relied heavily on his wisdom not only in training and combat but also to help resolve domestic problems at the base. With Dumba Katombela he formed part of a formidable team, and during those first deployments I tried to absorb every little thing they could teach me.
Later on, after I had selected and trained the first group of Baraquenas from A Company, Xivatcha Shekamba and Chimango Kanyeti became my permanent team buddies. I soon realised that the Baraquenas were equally well adapted for reconnaissance work, having been exposed to the same hostile conditions as the Vasquelas in Angola. I deployed on a series of reconnaissance missions with them, and today I have to admit that I owe my survival to both of them.