First combat
About a week later, the OC sent Sergeant-Major Ueckerman (the Battalion’s new Regimental Sergeant Major) and I to join one of our platoons in Southern Angola to get ‘front line’ experience. It was with some trepidation that I waited alongside the Puma helicopter for the pilots to arrive. With the attack earlier in the year planned for Dirico, I had almost got over the border into Angola. There had been so much on my mind at the time with the hassles I was having with the communications, that I hadn’t had time to think of some the realities whilst sitting in the dark, waiting to board the assault boats. This time, leaning against the chopper … I had all the time in the world to mull it over as I was about to be deployed into the field as a plain infantryman.
I was about to be trooped into a neighbouring country with whom we were officially not at war. We looked nothing like the regular South African army troops who wore nutria brown bush fatigues and carried unpractical, faded green canvas backpacks. We wore our ‘external ops’ camouflaged battle fatigues with homemade ‘first-line kit’ – chest webbing for spare magazines, together with a pistol, hand-grenades, emergency medical kit and one day’s water and rations attached to a web belt and supported by shoulder straps to carry the weight. The idea was that when you hit a contact, you threw off your rucksack and fought through the action with just your first-line-webbing. This would give you all you needed for a firefight together with a day’s supply of food, water and ammunition if you had to make a run for it. The rest of our kit we carried in Three-Two’s distinctive green, H-frame ‘Machilla’ rucksacks. These were packed with a sleeping bag, bivvy (single sheet of nylon that sheltered you from the rain as a ‘tent’), ground sheet, five days rat-packs (rations), five water bottles, a ‘poncho’ raincoat, spare socks (I soon learned to leave the underpants and go ‘commando’ due to the heat!), spare ammo and, as signallers, spare radio batteries.
We blacked out our faces and hands with ‘black-is-beautiful’ cream so that our white faces would not stick out as targets amongst our black troops, and wore Portuguese style army caps with an impractical sun flap at the back. We carried no identification so that we could not be linked to South Africa if we were captured or our bodies recovered by the enemy. I chose not to carry an AK-47 as we were encouraged to do for external ops, preferring instead to stick with my R1 rifle. The serial numbers had been ground off our R1s so they could not be traced and the 7.62 mm ammunition we were issued with was specially manufactured in Pretoria, with no identification or batch markings on the cartridges. The boots we wore had canvas sides and no markings on their soles. I was still very self-conscious kitted out with our ‘external ops’ kit … particularly when I could see the regular army troops stealing surreptitious glances at us, delighting in the fact that they were seeing something they weren’t supposed to see. But there again, it felt really cool … hey, this was special mission stuff!
The pilots finally ambled out in their loose fitting, green flying overalls. The turbines spooled up and we lifted off, flying at break-neck speed a few feet above the trees. We soon flashed out over the cut-line that marked the border which was absolutely dead straight for hundreds of kilometres, east to west … and then I was in Angola … politics and moralities aside it was exciting, heady stuff. It was an exhilarating ride as I sat in the door with my feet out on the step as I had seen the Parabats doing, my head being pummelled by the slipstream as I looked out at the treetops rushing by barely a metre below my feet. Really, really suave … until the chopper pilot banked at what felt like ninety degrees to turn in towards the white smoke grenade that had been detonated to mark the position of the platoon. I suddenly found myself looking straight down at the ground and kakked (‘shat’) myself! I grabbed my rifle and the side of the chopper thinking I was going to drop out the door, helped along by the pile of head-high rations and ammo behind me – but the strong centrifugal force kept us all glued to the floor. The pilot expertly straightened out and flared the Puma to land gently on the sand. Trying to look cool with my heart still thumping, I jumped out and at long last my feet were finally planted firmly in enemy territory. With the roar of the blades idling above us we offloaded the resupply of rations and ammunition. The silence was deafening after the helicopter had lifted off, rising up out of a mini sand storm before heading south. It took my ears about twenty minutes to return to normal. From then on I wore ear-muffs whenever I rode in a Puma.
We joined the platoon in the tree line, and looking around I slowly started to pick out some of the men spread out in the bush. After being briefed by the platoon commander about our position in the platoon and our responsibilities, we moved off through the bush. Machilla squarely on my back, rifle held at half port across my chest webbing we walked purposefully on our magnetic compass bearing. We settled into the daily routine of ‘stand-to’ at dawn, moving off just after sunrise with a break every hour. From eleven in the morning we would siesta until three in the afternoon to sit out the intense midday heat. We would then move off again, setting up our TB (temporary base) just before sunset. The platoon of some thirty men would arrange themselves in a circle with the platoon commander and 60mm mortar guy and radio man in the middle. Each soldier would dig a slit trench in the soft sand about half a metre deep and two metres long to sleep in, feet to the middle and head facing out. We would all ‘stand-to’ as the sun set – this entailed every man being on guard and ready to fend off any potential attack at sun-up and sunrise, as this was the most likely time for an assault on our position.
Three-Two troops boarding a Puma helicopter to be airlifted into Angola. (Courtesy of Piet Nortje)
After the deep black night had enveloped us we would have our dinner. This was my best time … absolute silence in the vast expanse of bush. Safely enveloped by the darkness, I would prepare a hot meal from my Rat-packs. My only utensil was what we called an ‘Ops knife’ which was a Swiss Army knife we were issued with. I would use the blade as a knife, tea-spoon and fork; the latter by turning the blunt side of the knife against the side of my mouth. I opened tin-cans, cut my nails and tightened screws on my rifle with it. Our Rat-packs had bully beef, baked beans, tinned vegetables, army biscuits, sweets, soup, tea and coffee. I would conserve my water during the day by taking small sips so as to have a full ‘fire-bucket’ of tea after sunset – my logic being that my body would conserve more moisture this way than if I drank it during the heat of the day. I would sit with my feet in my slit-trench, elbows on my knees and with the night offering me a moment of privacy away from the platoon, I would savour every mouthful of the sweet, milky liquid. Looking out into the surrounding bush I would marvel at how much I could see in the darkness … and at how peaceful it was. We always spoke in whispers as the drone of normal conversation carried an uncanny distance. It was weird getting back to base and getting used to talking normally again, as you would instinctively lapse into a whisper!
Ablutions were an issue. Taking a leak was easy … just remember to piss against a tree, close up and at an angle so as it doesn’t make a noise. Anything more serious was a problem. We were encouraged to do our business inside the platoon perimeter for obvious safety reasons. However, I needed my privacy and so this was something I struggled to do. I would therefore go to great lengths to organise an outer perimeter excursion. Yet, I was always very conscious of the incident whereby one of our sergeants did just that and whilst squatting outside the perimeter, some gooks opened fire on his platoon. As the rounds began to fly, he was mistakenly shot through the foot by one of his own troops and landed right in the shit … literally. With this in mind, one postponed these expeditions until they were absolutely necessary.
Near the end of the first week, I had my first contact. We spotted some gooks on the other side of a chana, just inside the tree line. A chana was a slight indentation in the flat expanse of bush and was usually a couple of hundred metres across. In the rainy season it had ankle deep water in it, but at this time of year it had just dried up. While we were working our way around the side of the chana, one of our platoon sergeants opened fire prematurely. The gunships had not arrived overhead so we immediately lost the tactical advantage and were not able to corner the insurgents between the ground troops and the gunships. In an effort not to completely lose the initiative, with Sergeant Major Ueckerman next to me, the platoon commander ordered us to charge over the open chana in a wild, zigzagging run. We started a semblance of fire and movement as we hit the tree line, moving through the enemy TB (temporary base). All we got for our trouble was one wounded gook, the rest having made good their escape, bomb-shelling into the bush away from us. It was sobering to see the tatty condition of the gook’s equipment and it made me appreciate the hardships our enemy had to endure. In one of their abandoned backpacks were some new brassieres, no doubt the gook was taking these back for his lady?!
Our SWAPO adversaries were the quintessential guerrilla fighters, tough as nails, living off the land and attacking only when it suited them. Once out in the bush, they did not have the luxury of resupply every five days, let alone helicopter gunship support in the event of a contact or medical evacuation if they were wounded. After a contact with us they ran, and kept running, either outstripping us, or dying. This war was tough enough, even the way we were fighting it, yet these guys took it to the next level. It was hard to hate them. In fact, I found myself feeling a certain amount of compassion and a huge dose of respect for them.
One of the AK-47 assault rifles we picked up was in pretty good nick and I kept it as my personal ‘Eastern Bloc’ weapon … however, I very seldom took it on Ops with me as I far preferred my R1. Falcon was pleased that Sergeant Major Ueckerman and I had been ‘blooded’, even if he was a little dismissive about the paltry fight the gooks had put up.
I also learned an invaluable lesson about booby traps on that first time in Angola. Whilst on patrol I spotted a Chinese pineapple grenade lying innocuously in the sand. My eyes lit up as this would be a really cool souvenir. As I moved to pick it up, the black Portuguese-speaking troop next to me urgently indicated that I should stop. In sign language and the odd English word he indicated that it might be booby-trapped … and so we made a wide birth around it and moved on. From then on, I avoided anything ‘interesting’, even if it didn’t look suspicious. I am sure what that troop taught me that day avoided me being maimed in the times to follow and in fact, probably saved my life. Booby traps were prolific. Around that same time, one of our platoons found a food cache stored in a bunker in Southern Angola. I was manning the Tac HQ at the time and we instructed them to avoid it, at all costs, until the engineers arrived by helicopter. This took a good few hours to arrange … . the platoon leaders (a Lieutenant and a Sergeant) inevitably got bored and sneaked into the entrance of the cache … one died from the explosion and the other had his legs hideously disfigured. Jam tins filled with pieces of reinforcing rod, cut at an angle, made for a deadly booby trap when detonated by trip wire.
Being on patrol with Three-Two was cool. You settled into a good routine that didn’t push you physically too much. We slept well, ate well, and were well-armed and organised. If a platoon hit a contact they would immediately radio for helicopter gunship support which usually arrived within 20 minutes. With the gunships circling above, the gooks would duck for cover under some bushes. From here they would be flushed out by the ground troops moving line abreast through the contact area. If they broke cover and ran before the troops got there, they were usually taken out by the gunship above. It would become a turkey shoot if the timing between the gunships and ground troops was right. The trick was to find them in the vast expanse of featureless bush and soft white sand and only then initiate the fire-fight when the gunships arrived overhead, or else the gooks would bombshell in every direction. After a contact, the platoon would then be resupplied with ammunition and rations, with the wounded and, mostly, enemy dead carried back by the resupply Puma helicopters.
“When the shooting starts, it’s not the colour of the man’s skin next to you that counts, it’s what he is capable of.” Three-Two Battalion… black Portuguese-speaking Angolans with white South African officers and NCOs. Pictured above are members of Three-Two’s Recce Group (1982). Adding to the diversity of this particular team, of interest is that the three South Africans are all of different extraction: Jewish, English and Afrikaans. L to R Standing: Rifleman Mario Hangolo; Rifleman Bambi; Corporal Martin Jordan, Sergeant Peter Williams, Corporal Patrick Rolf, Rifleman Augustinhos. L to R Seated: Rifleman Paulino; Rifleman Inácio; Rifleman Dumba (Courtesy of Sergeant Dave van der Merwe, 32 Battalion Recce Group)
Even to my rookie eye, I could see that our troops ranked with the best bush fighters in the world. Not dissimilar to the British Army’s Gurkhas, they were professional soldiers doing it for a living – just without typical British pomp and ceremony. Ours was a down-to-earth and practical approach. And I began to notice something very different and very unique about Three-Two. With the political system of racial segregation imposed by Apartheid still alive and well back in South Africa, I slowly realised the subtle difference that set us apart … that there was absolutely no discrimination in the Battalion. Reliance upon each other for survival and the resulting respect for each other’s abilities soon marginalised any racial barriers between black and white. And this came directly from the top too … Commandant Ferreira would get extremely agitated if there was any hint of discrimination against his troops. He insisted on absolute and total equality, which was in stark contrast to any other army unit or the official policies in place back home.
Sergeant Major Ueckerman and I were trooped back out of Angola after ten days on a regular ‘rat-run’. Arriving back on the big Puma, it was good to see the pet donkey still wandering around, and being late afternoon he was still sober. A good shower and a steaming hot monster meal in the mess was followed by a cracking session in the pub, where we happily smashed a good few beers into our faces!
Three-Two Battalion embodied a steady, methodical, no nonsense, and practical approach to the task at hand. The discipline was focused on the essentials such as bush craft, basic hygiene, cleanliness and the operational readiness of our weaponry as opposed to all the usual regular army spit and polish stuff. Our strategic and tactical approach was based on the principles of only attacking under conditions that were favourable to us and the adoption of a ‘live to fight another day’ philosophy … and this clearly suited me just fine!
We knew we were something special, something unique and we carried this attitude with very little ego … we were intensely proud to be a part of the unit.