The physical inspection to determine your classification was held outdoors. We all had to line up dressed only in our army issue underpants. There were these trestle tables in an L-shape and a long row of doctors, about 10 or 15, sitting at them. They were checking in our mouths, looking at our teeth and handling our goolies. For this they used a spoon. They’d shove it at you, hold them and say ‘cough’. They had their fun, but at the same time they took the classifying very seriously. If there was something wrong with you and something happened to you, they could be sued. They’d also check your body for scars and whatnot. Then they would write on your back with a permanent Koki – a big ‘G1K1’ or whatever. This determined what duties you could perform. G1K1 was perfectly fit and capable, while G4K4 would make you a pen-pusher. G5 would exempt you. Then someone would slap you on the back and say, ‘Go there.’ The whole time this was going on, we were communicating. We weren’t supposed to, but we were. Even if it was whispering, communication was going on all the time about what was happening and what would happen to those separated out. I saw this programme on TV about Robben Island and how the prisoners communicated in the jail, and it was just like that – illicit communication going on all the time. Some guys were trying to limp or saying they had problems with their kidneys, as they wanted to be kicked out of the army. Not me – I was very patriotic and I knew I had to be in the bush. I had to have a rifle. I wanted to kill gooks, terrs, guerrillas, whatever, but because of a motorcycle accident in which I had injured my neck and broken one leg so badly that it was shorter than the other, I had a big black G4K4 written on my back. I said to them, ‘Stuff you guys, I’m here, I want to fight!’ so the guys scrubbed the G4K4 off my back and I signed an indemnity form allowing me to perform G1K1 duties.
– Brett, age 18
I had a heart murmur and was classified as a G4K4, or ‘G4K-fucked up’, as we called them. It meant you couldn’t do any physical training or opfok. That’s when they discipline you for failing inspection and make you run. They make you run to a distant tree, pick leaves, and then run even more because you were destroying nature, ha ha. We G4K4s had to stay in the bungalow and drink water. Lots of it. About 13 litres in ten minutes or so. Then, when you puked it up, they made you leopard-crawl through it in your uniform. I lasted one week before I realised I’d rather be running. I got myself re-tested and was found to be okay, so I became a G1K1 – fit for active duty.
– Andy, age 18
It was mid-winter and we were in our grootjasse and army underjocks. This female medic is standing there, perving. When we had to take off our coats, she’s just standing there lagging and looking at our crotches. It was so humiliating. Then, when we had to get our injections, there were two medics who came at you from either side and dug the needles into your arms at the same time, and she watched you squirm. It hurt like hell. The whole experience was undignified and degrading.
– Nick, age 20
During Basic Training we had a meningitis scare and a whole bunch of us had to see the doctor. We were lined up outside his room, all wearing our black gym shorts, brown army T-shirts and lekker brown army takkies, same colour as the shirt. It was my turn next, and I was peeking through the crack of the door and I saw them giving a guy a lumbar puncture. I turned around and I told the guys behind me what I’d seen and ten guys just disappeared. The doc came out and there was no one there! They dragged us back kicking and screaming, but it was just as well, because my headache wasn’t from the physical training as I thought – I actually had meningitis.
– Ric, age 18
Parades were awful. The parade ground was enormous, about the size of four rugby fields, and we had to march on last, in front of all the other troops who had assembled there already. When we marched on, we had to make the sound of an ambulance siren and, with hands at chest height, palms forward, flick our fingers to imitate flashing lights. We were G4K3s and they called us the LSD troops. Die Lam, Siek en Dooies.
– Rick, age 18