Infantry Kill
In February ’87, without prior notice, our routine suddenly altered. Commandant Bok Smit, an infantry war veteran, decreed all non-infantry troops undertake 2-weeks compulsory Infantry training.
Much to the chagrin of the entire Squadron, not least Major Pienaar I think, we abandoned our luxurious rides, bundled on Troop transports (the ignominy!) and shipped off for a fortnight on foot, to help us “ … appreciate and respect the hardship of an Infantry soldier”.
I didn’t have the marbles to say, “ … Let me assure you Commandant, we already respect the fellas who travel on foot, lug uncomfortably heavy loads and sleep on hard ground exposed to shit weather with nothing more than a thin nylon tarp (bivvy) for shelter”.
Photo 11 Back to Basics. (Sheldon Victor)
Of course Smit knew we’d been through this shit during Basic Training. We’d all done the sleepless uncomfortable nights, freezing cold, faces heavily daubed ‘black-is-beautiful’, and then the long route-marches to hone navigation skills combined with combat drills with little respite in order to test our resolve and competence under fatigue.
Most guys, myself included, considered the two-week Infantry jaunt a punishment for being sleg (lazy), rather than a training exercise, but we’d certainly take a dreadful amount from it, maybe another piece of the puzzle?
Humping all our shit on our backs like tortoise at the remote training area felt like we were back on Basics again, it was kinda humbling, camping under a sheet, cooking rations in the dirt rather than on the running board on Ratel’s flanks, our faces painted like Rambo and most importantly, re-learning how to walk as a Platoon in ‘V’-formation.
Unfortunately we mastered the ‘V’-formation too well, my Platoon held good form.
For obvious reasons, tank and armoured car crewmen are not the biggest (heftiest) people, so when it came to selecting a light machine gun (LMG) operator, one guy from the Assault Pioneer Platoon recently attached to Charlie Squadron was deemed most suitable. The product of an outdoor childhood, he was physically stronger and therefore most well suited to handle the cumbersome 7.62mm LMG as far as the Loot and I were concerned.
We worked for about a week refining tactics, techniques and formations until the Squadron was finally ready for the ‘live drill’ phase scheduled to last three days. At around mid-morning on the first live drill day, 7 February 1987, as we slowly advanced to a copse of trees at about 250m, the radio crackled to life warning of “ … incoming enemy activity from an area near the trees”.
The Platoon dropped, as one, into the savannah-like grass just tall enough, at about 3ft in length, for us to be invisible to anyone on the plain, except the guy immediately ahead in formation.
The first part of the drill had gone well, everything was in place, so we held our positions for a few minutes waiting for the command to approach or attack the incoming ‘enemy’.
Then we received confirmation that the phantom ‘enemy’ was at our 12 o’clock and moving steadily towards us, so the action called for us to wait for them to get closer before launching a surprise frontal assault.
I held my position rear of the left flank of the V-formation which consisted five soldiers, LMG two or three paces ahead of me.
A single sharp high-powered gunshot shattered the morning silence, before the ears adjusted to the dying echo, someone shouted, “ … who the fuck was that?!”
And then “NO, NO, NO!!’ – an anguished scream from the guy just ahead of me.
Protocol dictated that before we engaged the ‘enemy’, safety catches were in the ‘on’ position. The LMG gunner had jumped the gun, his safety catch already in the off position, weapon cocked and loaded.
Due to inexperience, or perhaps just a momentary lapse of concentration, he’d tickled the LMG trigger just hard enough to release the hammer onto the chambered round.
That was the most fucking unbelievable bad luck for Trooper Johann Labuschagne, crouched three metres ahead of the LMG in our perfect V-formation!
The bullet could’ve travelled anywhere, 99.9% of available trajectories would’ve seen the supersonic projectile, about the size of a baby’s thumb, fly harmlessly for a few kilometres quickly discharging its kinetic energy until harmlessly dropping to earth under gravity, hurting nobody, the whole incident nothing more than a disciplinary and a few hours opfok.
Sadly, the high-powered bullet’s trajectory was on the 0.1% route through Johann’s head, accelerating still as it punctured the base of his skull, pulverised his brain before punching a fist-sized, exit wound through his left eye-socket.
This was my first encounter with violent human death but I instinctively knew that Johann died the moment that 7.62mm bullet struck, and I took some solace from that knowledge afterwards.
Just one look at his lifeless body, deathly yellow pallor and ghastly exit-wound highlighted the futility of life-support, but none of us spoke of it. We’d fight for him until ordered to stop!
In an instant we transformed ourselves from mock Infantrymen to real-life medics. A team of four or five of us administered first-aid, alternating between heart massage and air supply.
Realising his airways were blocked, Ops-medic Dion Cragg inserted a large clear oval-shaped plastic pipe deep into his throat which helped to get air into the lungs far more easily but I think his jaw was badly broken, and then we realised the vital air we were forcing down into his lungs was partly escaping from his puckered grey shattered eye socket area. We shared the grisly task of applying pressure to the thick wadding where his eye had been, to prevent air escaping.
He didn’t bleed profusely, the small puncture wound at the base of his skull was almost cauterized by the muzzle flash, moreover his heart had stopped immediately, so to assist his body we elevated and lowered his legs to stimulate flow. But all this was obviously in vain, our efforts almost worthless.
When the doctor’s helicopter finally touched down, almost two hours later, he immediately pronounced Johann deceased, at which point we had no choice but to stand-down, accept the inevitable and say totsiens (goodbye) to one of our own, a decent boy, a loving son, a fallen patriot. RIP.
Once the body had been taken from us we turned and went back to the business of being mock Infantry, the Squad numbed by our first encounter with sudden loss and violent death.
The incident was never properly discussed, we just started packing stuff into the strongbox many soldiers keep tucked away in dark recesses of their less-well functioning grey matter.
There wasn’t time for talking about it openly or allowing emotion to bubble up.
The army moves on, soldiers must follow.
There was another less obvious casualty that day. The LMG lad was removed, never to be seen, or heard of, again. We thought he’d get some jail-time and if lucky, some psychological support.
Labuschagne’s parents visited the base at Omuthiya, met with some of his close friends and then showed Oshivello the very place Johann gasped his last breath, the scene of such senseless end to their baby boy’s life; the place also saw the birth of a lifetime of anguish for his family.
We didn’t have words for them. We didn’t know how to deal with our own feelings, let alone offering support to grieving parents. Sorry.
We were too damn young to fully comprehend the extent of their tragedy and, as ever, the world just kept on turning while the unflinching demands of the army remained, unrelenting.
The Infantry phase was foreshortened; it had been a fucking bad idea from the start anyway! Armour boys were ill-equipped for the rigours of running about with heavy LMGs, we were far more accustomed to the Browning 7.62mm turret-mounted variety.
The Commandant must’ve copped a Samil truck full of shit-stew for allowing Johann’s death to occur on his watch.
Within a month Major Pienaar announced he would be leaving 61 Mech for a plum role with Mechanised Training Wing, his replacement, the diminutive Captain PJ Cloete, who had about six months remaining of a five-year contract then became the only permanent force (career) soldier in Charlie. He made up for his lack of stature with his authoritarian bark. A fiercely religious man, Cloete had just completed a rotation with 32 Battalion, those boys knew all about life on the bleeding edge of warfare and this guy seemed to be in competition with Bravo Company’s Lotter to be the strictest boss on base.
When Pienaar departed, our days as the most chilled squad on base ended and another piece of jigsaw dropped in place.