“Captain Hastings has let a situation at the Green Point Soccer Stadium get out of control.
Another communist riot brewing, no doubt.”
Without bothering to explain any further, the Afrikaner strode quickly toward the door, buckling on a pistol belt and grabbing his cap from a hook. Taylor followed automatically.
Reitz stopped briefly in his outer office to snap an order at the pudgy corporal staring up anxiously from his typewriter.
“Find Captain Kloof and tell him to get his company to the stadium immediately. He is to report to me when he arrives. “
“At once, Kolonel!” The orderly hurriedly picked up his phone. One did not dawdle in Colonel Reitz’s presence.
Reitz turned and regarded Taylor.
“Another foul-up by one of my officers!
You’ll come with me, Major.”
The colonel’s personal Land Rover was parked near the Castle’s main gate.
A command flag fluttered from a long, thin radio aerial. Reitz slid behind the wheel, and Taylor jumped into the passenger seat, knowing the Afrikaner wouldn’t bother to wait for him. He fumed quietly.
Reitz continued his lecture.
“I want you to see how I deal with this riot.
I’ve been trying to make you and the other officers in the battalion understand my policies for well over two weeks now. If you can’t or won’t understand, it’s not my fault, but I’m going to keep trying until you do-or until I find men who can. If my orders were executed more energetically and with less insubordinate discussion, this would be a very quiet, peaceful city.”
Taylor nodded curtly, hating himself for having to appear to agree even that much.
The Castle of Good Hope was located across from the main train station and near the city center, and the streets were
already packed with cars and pedestrians on their way to lunch or early-afternoon shopping. Reitz scowled, turned on his Land Rover’s siren and flashing light, and began weaving recklessly in and out of traffic.
In minutes, they were headed at high speed along the Western Boulevard toward Green Point-a bulge of level ground pushing northward out into the
Atlantic Ocean. A thousand foot-high rock outcrop called Signal Hill towered above Green Point’s sports grounds, golf course, beaches, and soccer stadium.
Ordinarily, the area would be full of people enjoying the warm spring weather, but barricades, police vehicles, and SADF APCs now blocked every road and path. Most Cape Town residents, wise in the ways of such things, were giving the place a wide berth.
As the Land Rover roared past two hospitals built on the eastern edge of
Green Point, the buildings on either side fell away to an open grassy area.
Taylor held on tight to the dashboard as Reitz wheeled the vehicle through a traffic circle and onto a small access road. The soccer stadium was visible now, almost straight ahead and surrounded by hundreds of small figures, vehicles, and wisps of white that had to be tear gas.
Noises filled the air. An amplified voice, with the words confused and indistinguishable, could be heard from the direction of the stadium. Some wild-eyed, impractical agitator, Taylor thought coldly. Some idiot who still believed the Vorster government gave a damn about public opinion in the Cape Province. Shouts and breaking glass, mixed with occasional thumping shots from tear gas launchers and the high-pitched, screaming sirens of arriving ambulances, all added to the overpowering din.
Reitz braked the Land Rover beside a roadblock manned by a squad of armed troops. He had to shout to make himself heard.
“Where’s your captain,
Sergeant?”
The noncom stiffened at the unexpected sight of his battalion’s two most senior officers and pointed toward the company’s command post, set up on an open stretch of ground northeast of the stadium.
Capt. John Hastings stood in the shade of a Buffel armored personnel carrier, surrounded by several lieutenants and sergeants, all studying a city map. They looked tired, and one sergeant had a bandaged forearm.
The gut-twisting, acrid smell of tear gas clung to their rumpled, sweat-stained uniforms.
Reitz leaped from the Land Rover and strode over to the group.
“What the devil’s going on here?” he shouted.
Hastings and his command group spun round, startled. They came to attention and saluted.
“Orders group, sir.” Hastings pulled his blue beret off and ran a nervous hand through tousled red hair.
“We’re trying to determine the best way to clear the stadium.”
Another Buffel pulled up, the wheeled vehicle’s angular armored body towering over them. Andries Kloof, a lean, black-haired officer, climbed out of the troop compartment and ran over to join Reitz. More APCs arrived behind Kloof’s command vehicle and halted, engines still turning over, adding yet more noise to the din all around.
“Captain Kloof and C Company, reporting as ordered, Colonel. “
Taylor snorted, but quietly. This wasn’t a parade ground, but Reitz returned the younger Afrikaner’s salute with snap and precision-just as though it were.
“Glad you’re here, Kloof. Stand by for a moment.”
The young officer moved closer and studied the map with the rest of the group.
Reitz, looking impatient, turned back to Hastings.
“Well, Captain? What’s this mess you’ve managed to create?”
Hastings’s snub-nosed face paled beneath its light dusting of freckles, and Taylor saw his jaw muscles twitch as he fought to control his temper.
“We estimate there are two to three thousand people in and around the stadium, sir. Mostly white students from the university, but there are a lot of blacks and colored there as well.”
He gestured to the map.
“We’ve sealed off all entrances and exits to the commons area… “
Taylor listened intently. Hastings and his company were following standard crowd control tactics designed to minimize
civilian casualties and protect his own men at the same time. They were using tear gas to break up organized groups of demonstrators outside the stadium. Once the demonstrators were dispersed and fleeing the gas, a platoon armed with Plexiglas riot shields and batons moved in to haul them off to waiting trucks.
Unfortunately, it was a slow and tedious process. The soldiers carried more gear than the protestors and were finding it difficult to capture more than a handful with each sally. Most managed to evade arrest and reformed-only to be dispersed by new salvos of tear gas grenades. It was a frustrating cycle that seemed to go on and on.
“And what about the stadium itself?” Reitz asked.
Hastings shook his head.
“I haven’t wanted to fire tear gas inside because of the panic it would create. Too many people could be trampled.
We’ve been using loudspeakers to order them to disperse or face detention.”
“And whenever they are ready to leave, you’ll arrest them?” Reitz’s voice was laced with sarcasm.
“Your concern for these hooligans is touching, but misplaced. These people are breaking the law and should be treated as such.
“Now listen to me closely, Captain! I will not have you”-Reitz raised his voice—or any man in this battalion babying these troublemakers.”
He jabbed the map.
“Have your grenadiers start firing tear gas into the stadium. And form the rest of your men into a cordon. Once the gas goes in, start sweeping the area on this side of the stadium. Arrest everyone, and if they run, shoot them!”
Hastings stared at Reitz, shocked, but he quickly concealed it. Taylor noticed the captain’s eyes flicker in his direction. He controlled his own expression, masking his true feelings behind an impassive countenance.
Reitz smiled for the first time.
“You will see, gentlemen. A few bullets will convince these ruffians to stop running and surrender. “