3. Long Train Stopping
Outside it’s very cold. There are lots of soldiers standing on the platform waiting for us. I am expecting the screaming to start now, but it doesn’t. There are smiles instead of screams. We form a line on the platform with our bags and one of the soldiers starts speaking at us in Afrikaans. I can’t understand what he’s saying at all. I know Afrikaans, but he appears to be speaking a different version of it. We start to move towards a convoy of big brown army trucks covered in brown canvas. There are benched seats inside. The 18 year olds are crammed in with their baggage. I am lucky to get a space near the back so I can see whats going on. Wayne told me to expect a “roofie-ride” from the station to the base. The drivers will try to go over as many bumps as they can and stop and start viciously. Okes get fucked up before they even get to the base is what he said.
Our driver is quite civilised. Nobody is complaining about the way he drives. It looks like Wayne was talking shit. Or maybe I just got lucky? The truck pulls up in a parking lot next to what looks like a school hall and a fat, ginger haired man with a handlebar moustache dressed in the brown army uniform with a big red badge orders us out. We line up outside the hall, bags in front of us. They call us into the hall one at a time. I go in and a soldier looks me up and down before throwing a big brown package wrapped in plastic at me. It’s a big heavy, brown overcoat.
Another soldier has a big folio book stuffed with carbon paper. He asks me in Afrikaans what my force number is. I stammer that I don’t know and start fishing through my bag for my call up papers. I know it’s on there. The soldier looks at me and says Leer jou fokken mag nommer, roofie.
I am holding onto the overcoat with one hand and have my civilian bag in the other. Another soldier ushers me out of the hall to a courtyard where there are tables manned by chefs who are dishing out polystyrene containers and plastic cutlery. Inside the container is mince curry and rice. There is also a plastic cup for juice being decanted from another of those big steel urns.
I try to balance the container on the overcoat but I can see that this isn’t going to end well. A soldier says to take the coat out of the plastic and put it on. That way I will have a free hand to carry the food. Thanks.
I find Clinton and the others from the train. They are sitting on a step inhaling the curry and rice. It tastes like real food after a day of not eating much. This isn’t so bad. What was Wayne talking about? I could live with this.
30 minutes or so pass. We are instructed to dispose of the containers and cups in big steel drums and form up so that the Samayoor can address us. Samayoor? A voice from behind me says Sergeant Major. Oh jeez. They’re quite high up, hey? Yep. I feel a little part of me start to panic.
The fat, red man starts to speak in Afrikaans. I don’t understand a lot of what he’s saying because they don’t seem to be talking the same kind of Afrikaans I have heard on TV or in the classroom.
Julle manne moet verstaan dat as enige een van julle die grootjas afhaal, dan haal julle almal dit af. Verstaan julle?
I have no idea. Clinton says that if one of us takes off the overcoat then all of us have to take it off too. Okay. Grootjas = overcoat. Got it.
The Samayoor carries on with his address. I don’t really understand it. All I know is that I am tired and I need to lie down soon. I’ve only slept for about 2 hours in the past two days. The hangovers of the lead up week are catching up with me. They begin splitting us up into groups by asking questions and telling us to stand in front of some soldiers wearing rank.
Wie wil JL’s doen en rang kry?
Wie wil ’n drywer wees?
Wie wil in the stoore werk?
I decided before I got here that I wanted to do JL’s so I stand in front of a corporal with the name Swanepoel sewn above the right side pocket of his shirt. Clinton decides that he would rather work in the stores and goes and stands in front of another corporal. He doesn’t like the idea of driving trucks. They frighten him because he is a tiny guy. I think his Mom has convinced him that he’ll kill himself if he tries to drive one.
The splitting up is done. We are told to pick up our bags and follow the corporals. They lead us away from the hall and towards what looks like an aircraft hanger about half a click away. It’s actually the Kimberley airport. Walking with the grootjas on and my civvie bag isn’t much fun at all. It comes right down to below my knees and we have to keep it zipped up. It’s getting hot now wearing this immense heavy thing and its faux fur lining.
We arrive at the hangar and more soldiers are telling us to form a line. We are going to get issued our trommels and bedding now. The trommel is a large green footlocker. Inside it are 2 brown sheets, a brown pillow case, 4 army blankets, a pillow, a stainless steel eating tray and a knife, fork and spoon set that all slots into one another and a light brown plastic mug. The packed trommel is heavy. Way heavier than I thought it would be. Swanepoel tells us to check that everything that is supposed to be inside it is inside it. Mine is all good. Somebody has etched the words KRY VIR JOU onto the inside of mine. I know what the words are but I don’t know what it means. I am not going to ask. I don’t know any of these guys in my new group.
Swanepoel says follow me and starts walking off at a brisk pace back towards the hall. We are all struggling to walk in the grootjas and carry the trommel and our civvy bags at the same time. Guys are stopping every few steps to gather themselves. The sun is high now and it is getting hotter. I can taste the curry repeating on me. I walk resolutely with my trommel and my civvy bag on top of it but I can’t really see where I am going unless I turn slightly to the side. Somebody behind me trips. I hear him curse as the contents of his trommel spill out onto the tarmac.
We’re still walking. My arms are shaking and there’s this weird twitching happening in my top lip. I’ve never experienced this before. I wonder if I am having a stroke. My Dad said that when he did basics they had to run with all their kit on the first day so I shouldn’t complain. Walking is not so bad. I’m determined not to put the trommel down. I’m following Swanepoel with gusto. I’m going to be the fittest guy in this group. He leads us through the main gates of 1 Maintenance Unit and down what looks like a grid of houses, each with an immaculately manicured lawn in front of it.
Swanepoel stops outside the door of one of the houses and tells us to take our stuff inside and find a bed.
You’re going to stay here for the first week, get klaared in and then when basics starts you will be put into your official platoons and get a different bungalow and a different corporal and looty. Verstaan julle?
Ja korporaal.
Supper is at 5pm. You will form up outside the bungalow at ten to and I will show you where the mess is. Julle can mos ontspan tot dan.
Swanepoel seems alright. He has a bushy moustache and curly hair under his blue beret. He smiles a lot. I hope I get him as my corporal for basics.
I pick the bed second right from the main door. There are 18 beds in total, 9 on either side. On the left side as you enter is an alcove with three toilets and a green painted space with about 4 shower heads. There’s a stainless steel urinal on the opposite wall inside the alcove. Above the entrance to the toilets is painted the word International. Somebody is using one of the toilets already. It doesn’t smell good.
Ag kak, there’s no toilet paper in here. Can somebody please give me some bogroll? One of the group says OK and fishes in his civvy bag for a roll. He lobs it over the stall door. Shot bru.
I am feeling exhausted. The twitching in my upper lip has subsided, but I have a headache now. The bed I chose has a foam mattress with a cover that has blue pinstripes on it. I will come to know this piece of equipment as a pis vel. It is supposed to protect the mattress from troops pissing their beds. Who pisses their bed at age 18, I wonder. The guy to my right has no pis vel on his mattress and there is a female outline drawn crudely onto the foam in koki pen with a strategically placed hole where the vagina would be. He seems unbothered about it and covers the bed with his army issue sheet. The sheet has the remnants of perfectly straight pressed lines that match the size of the mattress. The guy in the bed to the right of me is just lying there, staring at the ceiling. He looks bewildered. Other guys are talking and it sounds like most of us are English and from Durban or somewhere else in Natal. We make introductions.
Next to each bed is a green metal cupboard that matches the trommel. It has two doors. On the right side are three shelves and on the left side is a hanging area. I open my civvy bag, take out one of the brutish sized padlocks I had to bring, put the bag inside the hanging area and lock the cupboard. I put the key into my jeans pocket and lie back on the bed.
4.50pm and Corporal Swanepoel arrives with another soldier in browns. He has a yellow star on either epaulette of his shirt. He has a finely chiselled, almost weasel like face with black eyes and matching black hair. The name badge on his shirt says Van As. Swanepoel shouts out, Manne! Ontmoet vir julle Luitenant Van As. Hy is the tydelike peleton offisier vir International Bungalow tot basics begin.
Swanepoel gets us to form up on the dirt road outside the adjacent bungalow along with 9 other platoons of 18 recruits and their corporals. We take our varkpanne, pikstels and plastic cups with us. These are the implements with which we will eat every meal and we need to keep them clean. We’re all wearing the grootjas over our civvies because as the sun is setting the cold is creeping in. We are Charlie Company, the JL’s recruits. I’m scanning the faces in Charlie for somebody familiar from the train but I see nobody I know. Shit.
A short corporal is standing next to Swanepoel. He’s wiry and has a tanned complexion. His name is Etzebeth and he looks mean as a snake. Manne! As ek kyk en ek weer kyk het ek ’n Chesterfield in my hand. Nobody stirs or makes a sound. We don’t know if this is a trick. The first thing I was told by everyone who had ever been in the army is to never volunteer for anything. Etzebeth looks amused. As ek kyk en ek weer kyk het ek ’n fokken Chesterfield in my fokken hand! It’s still quiet, but somebody in the back row of our platoon gingerly steps forward with a box of Chesterfield and offers one to Etzebeth who pops it in his mouth and jokingly looks to up at the sky as if for a bolt of lightning. The nameless recruit fishes out a box of matches and lights one for him. Etzebeth smiles and lights his Chesterfield. Mooi seun, mooi.
The mess is made up of rows of steel tables and benches bolted to the floor. We slide in six on each side after getting our varkpanne filled with the food of the day. It looks like some kind of spaghetti and meatballs. The smaller section of the varkpan has been filled with jelly and custard. Dessert. Coffee in a small steel jug and a plate with slices of brown bread is dropped off at the end of the tables by the chef assistants but there’s not enough bread to go around. The guys up against the wall are not going to get any bread. I get a slice but there’s nothing to put on it. The coffee tastes weird. Coppery.
We’ve eaten and not died. The corporal watching over us tells everyone to leave the varkpanne behind and form up outside the mess where we were before we came in. Cool. We don’t have to wash the varkpan. Outside it’s very cold and dark now. Swanepoel appears out of the darkness of another building along with the other corporals and loots. They tell us to follow them back to the bungalow for our first company briefing.
International Bungalow is named after the truck brand. All the bungalows are named after trucks. Swanepoel tells us the address we need to use to get our letters from home. It’s about 10 lines long and must include our force number and rank. Our rank right now is recruit. We’re not even privates yet. They still have to determine over the next few days if we are fit to serve in the South African Army. Swanepoel and Van As give us the low down on what we can expect to happen on those days.
Medical examination.
Haircut.
Uniform and kit issue.
Rifle issue.
Once we have ticked all those boxes we will be assigned to our new platoons for basics.
Lekker slaap, manne. More sien ons you weer teen 5am. Daar is geen inspeksie tot basics begin, maar ons gaan vir julle wys hoe om te voorberei.
My nose is still full of crud and I can’t wait for the lights to go out so that I can clear it out in darkness. I have made the bed with one of the two sheets and I pull two of the army blankets out of the trommel to sleep under. It’s seriously cold tonight. Sometime in the night I hear a snore that wakes me up. I think that it’s actually me. But I don’t snore. That can’t be right.
It’s the 5th of August, 1987 and I am in the army at Diskobolos, Kimberley.
