Don’t Fly Virgin
After almost five months on the Border I celebrated my 19th birthday. We were growing up fast, toughening up and most importantly, with the combination of field training, Comm Ops and a handful of Squadron outings to Tsumeb, we’d begun to pull together as a tight unit. We wore the squadron flash, a lightning bolt gripped in a mailed fist, with pride and swagger. However, some lads continued to be a little harregat (hard-arse or bad attitude), still unwilling to take what they deemed to be spurious orders from the JL’s.
To be fair, most of this banter was conducted in jest with one memorable exception: during a gunnery session Bobby Robbello and I had a squabble that turned into a rather embarrassing wrestling match in the dirt in front of the Ratels. I resorted to biting his ear about one second after he grabbed my nut-bag and squeezed! Biting wasn’t really good sport, it was admittedly a dirty desperate move but, in the testing circumstances a very acceptable defensive tactic because once Bobby employed the nut-crush action, my gloves came off!
Simultaneously we both experienced excruciating pain, less than a second later the squabble was over, a draw, for which I was quietly grateful because fighting was not really my modus operandi, certainly not a strength of mine.
Lucky also not to get spotted by a PF (permanent force) guy, invariably a person of rank who would most likely punish such transgression, and it would’ve been far worse for me, the senior guy in the spat.
I wasn’t serious, nor formal enough, for the liking of Capt. Cloete who was a ‘by the book’ type who would’ve doubtless taken some pleasure from the opportunity to discipline this sleg Soutie.
My childhood had been largely free of significant violence; sure there was the occasional bit of playful wrestling with pals in the neighbourhood and even my membership at the local Karate school was going well ‘til they introduced ‘full contact’ sparring which normally involved me getting punched in the face by my ‘mate’ Sean. I quit Karate soon thereafter and the only other ‘fight’ I’d had since was in first year high school (Standard 6), age 13.
These dickheads at school, who later became some of my best friends, decided they didn’t like me, for no good reason. Scotty, a frustrated Glasgow Rangers fan, had been niggling at me for weeks, and then one day he pushed his pal Pete directly into my path as I walked past them down the corridor during lunch break. This farcically choreographed stunt was designed to deliver the pretext for a rawl (fight).
Pete, who packed a mean right hook, immediately stuttered a ‘challenge’ to meet him behind the Fairydene Hotel after school that same day. There seemed no alternative but to accept his challenge, if not the abuse would’ve escalated from there.
If Mom had known about this she would’ve stepped in, like she did the time some twat bullied me a bit in junior school.
This time I had to stand on my own and face the music.
The Fairydene Hotel was only two clicks from home so I jogged the short distance barefoot and shirtless, nerves rattling, palms clammy as I steeled myself to face the bully-boys.
Pete turned up with two guys, one his older boet (brother) David who was much stronger than me, so I feared a gang bang, but thankfully he didn’t intervene until the end, and in truth, the hotel’s name, the venue for our rumble, was quite apt.
We were like a pair of fairies dancing around each other, me trying to avoid Pete’s club-fist until finally I got in close, grappled and wrestled him to the ground immediately deploying my fearsome ‘scissor grip’.
With my legs locked tightly around his skinny mid-section, the ‘scissors’ seemed to be having a dramatic effect although he somehow still managed to land a painful right hook to my skull which only seemed to increase the power in my legs.
Pete was squealing so loudly I thought there was a Black Mamba (snake) in the grass or something … turned out he was calling his brother over for an assist. When David ambled over, unlaced my legs to free his bro, I thought we’d have to continue but thankfully Pete was willing to concede the fight.
I’d won the first, and only, proper street-fight of my childhood but there’s no doubt things could’ve gone badly for me if Pete had made facial contact with his bony club-fist, so the win didn’t presage more fighting. Fighting, I realised, wasn’t for me, I tried to avoid bullies and was far happier ‘playing the lover’ than ‘being the fighter’.
Unsurprisingly, the National Service call-up system was inherently sexist, racist and disableist. You wouldn’t be called up if you were functionally disabled, you definitely weren’t required to go if you were black and there was no way to get called up if you owned a fanny, and that was probably a good thing because most of us were desperate for any sort of female attention.
For one, if they allowed punda in the mainstream army, all sorts of draconian rules and regulations would be needed to control access to sexual intercourse, and the showers, which at the time, seemed a recipe for disaster because a lucky few would inevitably get discovered shagging somewhere on base or during boring guard duty, leading to demotion, shaming and possible expulsion altogether.
Invariably, scuffles would ensue with brothers-in-arms reduced to scrapping over the affections of sisters-in-arms, or worse still, getting slapped down by a lesbian Looty who fancied the same girl!
As it was, some guys went to the extent of feigning illness in a bid to get close to the 61 Mech doctor who, at times, seemed like the only female in the world!
The base literally was in the middle of nowhere so if we wanted to see girls we had to visit Tsumeb, but these scheduled monthly trips were far too infrequent, and the female population far to sparse/conservative for the demands of our young loins.
Once again, the key to a form of freedom was the celebrated Sport Pass. Unable to make the 61 Mech rugby team, I found the perfect sport for me, Tou-Trek (Tug o’ war).
Joining the tug o’ war team meant we scored a few Tsumeb trips for local tournaments, which really meant an opportunity to hang off the back of a truck desperately trying to catch a glimpse of frock as we drove through the tiny town.
Team coach Major Danie Laas, second-in-command 61 Mech and an avid enthusiast of the sport, drilled us hard. Months into the ‘season’ our calloused hands had become almost as tough as the unshod feet of the Owambo goat herders we met on Comm Ops.
Tug o’ war competitions were based on strict team-weight criteria meaning light-middleweights like me didn’t get ripped off the rope by a team of 120kg heavyweight oxen. Eight guys to a team, the anchor and front man controlling the pull we spent hours on fitness work and forearm strengthening, but mainly we spent our time trying, without success, to rip a large tree from the ground using only a regulation-sized rope and seven spindly pairs of legs, plus the anchor (who was normally the opposite of spindly).
Despite our best efforts, the tree remained rooted to the light brown earth and our 560kg team reached its competitive zenith during the annual SWA National Tou-Trek Championships held in the tiny city of Swakopmund on the country’s south-west coast.
Getting to the championships at Swakopmund meant a 1,000 mile round trip on hard, metal benches of a Samil 50 transport truck, but the opportunity to get an overnighter in a small city within sniffing distance of attractive ‘wench’ more than made up for any discomfort, however, in truth, as we contemplated our tug o’ war defeat on the 10-hour drive back to the border, there was no ignoring the fact I wasn’t making much progress in the girl department either. Shyness, desperation, pressure, insecurity … whatever the reason it was becoming too much to bare.
Admittedly, in the last year of high school there been a few missed opportunities to ‘break the seal’, but back then it just didn’t seem to matter quite as much, perhaps it was fear, or maybe the ‘no sex before marriage’ mantra inculcated at a young age was still influencing me at some subconscious level.
Whatever the reason, during high school years, I was happy to draw the line before the big bang occurred. For example, one weekend, at two different parties, I kissed a handful of different girls. Some lucky ladies even got ‘treated’ to a little hip-grind action while others were ‘grateful recipients’ of a wandering hand!
Mysteriously, it seemed everyone was satisfied with this arrangement at the time but, in retrospect, had I been braver and pushed a little harder, doors may’ve opened and the virginity issue could’ve been put to bed.
There had been an on again/off again relationship with a girl who I thought had the voice of an angel. There’d been times when temptation to cross the line with her was hard to ignore but I wasn’t sure she was ‘the right one’, or maybe her Catholic upbringing curtailed her cravings.
She and I happened to be ‘off again’ when 61 Mech was sent on the first of two scheduled three-week-long passes in April ’87.
The logistics of getting 400 guys back to South Africa meant the usual weekend pass (WP) arrangements we’d enjoyed during year one weren’t at all feasible. Instead, the entire unit was scheduled to shut down for three weeks. While we were gone, security on base would be provided by soldiers shipped in from SA, their role was not designed to replicate the battle group, merely tend the base in our absence.
We were dispersing across South Africa and the logistics guys did a good job of organising flights to get each of us to our nearest large airport, thereafter the guys were on their own, hopefully not too much hitchhiking would be required.
Toughened by five months in searing subtropical heat, intensive mechanised bush warfare training, Comm Ops and the Labuschagne debacle, our crew cuts, deep suntan and slightly arrogant demeanour marked us out as ou man (old man) Squaddies.
Being one of the Durban boys, I was flown (Troop transport class, which on this occasion included regular seats and some attractive young stewardesses like Tracy Robb) to Louis Botha International Airport. Walking through the terminal I felt extremely proud to be representing 61 Mech while sporting the orange, white and blue armoured corps dress belt (same configuration as our national flag). Faded Corporal stripes embellished with three orange streepies (small stripes) projected my ou-man status to all who cared.
The three small orange stripes were a localised semi-formal method adopted by mechanised Infantry units to denote seniority between Platoon Corporals and crew commanders who were also full Corporals. The most senior, Platoon Sergeant (acting), wore three small stripes.
Armoured Corps crew commanders needed only to be Lance Corporals. They only had a gunner and driver to manage and therefore didn’t have the same hierarchy problem but nonetheless we’d adopted the practise at 61 Mech.
The fact is we were required to assume a Sergeant’s role. We had no ‘Sa’Majoor’ in Charlie squad and only occasionally a single PF Sergeant which meant everyone shuffled up a bit to fill the gaps in Charlie’s ranks: Therefore our working title was that of Troep Sersant (Troop Sergeant).
On the 20-minute drive home from the airport with my folks, I shared some stories of things we’d experienced on the border before discussion turned to planning the remaining twenty days of my three week pass.
It’s fair to say there was a little tension relating to my proposed schedule of events which mostly revolved around my mates, alcohol.
To me, there was only one other important thing to do during the break – to take, and successfully complete, the civilian vehicle driving exam. Failure was not an option!
Failure would’ve precipitated a shower of abuse back on base because, like me, most guys held a number of army driving licences for a range of heavy vehicles and what’s more, anyone who’d mastered the ancient Noddy Car should find a civilian car child’s play.
Ironically, I took the test in a VW Beetle, not dissimilar in look or vintage to the Noddy, but when the examiner turned up I started to wonder if I’d brought the wrong size car. The guy was a freaking monster, he must’ve weighed at least 130kg, most of it fat. As he shoehorned himself into the creaking passenger seat the shock absorbers settled deeper than they had at any time previously during the car’s two decades on the road, I imagined little scabs of rust popping off the coil springs and consciously gave the battered VW engine a bit more juice than usual on the hill start, and when it came to manoeuvring I had to lean forward a bit, peer past his beer-built bulk in order to see the side mirror!
He was an impressively well-fed human, and a bit of a handicap in the passenger seat, but still it was much easier than driving Noddy.
The test seemed to be going well until he instructed me to detour down the steepest road I’d been on since De Brug driver training ground at Tempe.
The deviation from planned route was perplexing until he instructed me to pull the car to a stop in front of a small house under construction. Unsure how this could be part of the test I hopped out and that’s when he told me the house we’d stopped at was his!
He’d just wanted to swing by and inspect the builders progress that day. In the middle of my driving test he’d got me to run an errand for him … only in South Africa!
I figured if he intended failing me he wouldn’t have bothered to show me his house and sure enough, as the rickety Beetle painfully pulled off back up that steepest hill, under perfect control, he announced that I’d passed.
The following two weeks were awesome, almost. Something was still missing … but in the final week Dad ambushed me, “son, we’ve arranged a three-night family break camping at Midmar Dam so we can spend some time together as a family before you go back to the border.”
Immediately I kicked back, “Midmar Dam!?” I didn’t swear, but wanted to. I never cussed in front of the folks. “We [my crew] are going jolling (partying) Friday and Saturday night, I can’t be going on some boring camping trip!”
“David, it’ll be fun!” Mom always called me David, “We’ve had precious little family time together, you’re leaving again soon so it’ll be great to spend some quality time together camping”.
Mom understood the value of spending time with loved ones, I didn’t, and countered, “Please don’t use ‘fun’ and ‘camping’ in the same sentence … seriously Ma, all I do is camp. My life is like one continuous camping trip at the moment!” But I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t really the camping I was rebelling against – camping was normal for us guys on the border. Nor was it time with family that bothered me, rather it was my need to party and find a way to pop my fucking cherry that really mattered to me.
It really didn’t matter what excuses I wheeled out, Mom had made up her mind and the rest us fell in line. She was RSM ‘Snor’ of camp Mannall.
Trinity, the cool 90mm gunslinger from up north, recently driver’s licensed, Comm Ops veteran leader-of-men had had his wings clipped and was pissed off at the prospect of heading back to the Operational area none the wiser with the womenry and probably beginning to wonder if he could find that route back to the firm Owambo girl before she ended up looking like her mother with those breasts like Cocker Spaniel ears.
Photo 15 Midmar dam, the night Queen V called. (David Mannall)
Monosyllabic grunts were the extent of my surly exchanges during the two-hour drive to the dam; long faced, I helped set up the caravan and tent while reflecting on a disappointingly unproductive three-week pass crowned by the ignominy of spending a few nights caravanning with the folks and my sisters.
However, as they often do, things took an unexpected twist when, on the second day, a couple of female Pietermaritzburg University students, one of them very tasty looking indeed, erected a small tent at our twelve-o’clock position, less than 40 metres from Camp Mannall.
Girls that do camping! This was a fantastic coup; all I needed was some way to break the ice without assistance of my wingmen and brown bottled Dutch courage!
Suddenly the heat of the day got to me, I needed a swim and headed toward the water’s edge. As I ambled past the new arrivals, noticed they were struggling without a mallet, offered ours and was in! Now, I didn’t mind the heat quite so much and was quite willing to postpone my dip.
We kinda hit it off right away, conversation flowed easily, so after a good few hours chit-chat we agreed to hang out later that evening.
That night I wolfed down the braai (BBQ) food, eager to get back to my new friends, hoping my ‘smooth’ credentials weren’t too badly dented by the hideously uncool act of eating a meal with my parents.
After helping wash and pack away the dishes (or not), I excused myself, got a bit spruced up, clean t-shirt and pit-spray, making it more likely, hopefully, I’d impress my new girlfriends.
The ladies, both 21 years old, were a lot older but, surprisingly, were still keen to hang out with me. Right from the start I had a really good feeling about this one.
A bit like going into battle, the events of that momentous evening were something of a blur punctuated by climactic moments of digital clarity.
I won’t belabour the friendly contact in this, a war story, but it appears, from the moments I can recall, the more attractive girl seemed to be paying me a fair bit of attention, we then decided to go for a walk round the dam or at least part-way round the dam, it was a long walk. It needed to be, I felt the physical sexual tension building, knew there was some sort of mutual attraction but just didn’t know how, or when, to fire my opening salvo for fear my intel was inaccurate.
There was flirting, some hand-holding and, by 22:00, there was kissing and very appropriate touching. This was especially nice, she seemed uninhibited, happy for me to touch her firm firmness while reciprocating in equal measure. I may not have been very experienced with touching techniques but something seemed to be working because soon thereafter we were seeking privacy. My mind was racing. Does this describe surreal? My young brain performing cartwheels of joy, this thing I’d wanted and fantasised over for so long finally was right here in my hands, it was on the cards, we both knew it and yet I maintained the cool demeanour that had impressed this young lady so.
We obviously couldn’t penetrate Camp Mannall during the coming fire-fight but I knew a lot about camouflage techniques so it was no problem at all finding a suitably secluded spot near the dam from which to escalate the friendly action.
For the sake of propriety I shan’t recount everything I remember about this friendly-fire incident, but before we knew it, the sun was licking at the horizon and this woman, let’s call her Queen V, had taken me to places I’d not known existed.
I’d watched one or two stretched 70’s style porn movies on VCR and from this limited and very hairy vantage point thought I had a fairly reasonable understanding of how things looked and where things fitted together, though admittedly there were a few intriguing gaps in my knowledge.
Lots of people told me their first time had been something of a damp squib but Queen V more than made up for my lack of time inside.
Fortunately it was quite a mild night and dark shadows cast by the bush I’d selected offered sufficient cover to feel confident enough to ignore the outside world as we tore each other’s clothing off until we were both lying naked on the tiny blanket she’d spread. When the moment came to cross her threshold she was more than willing to guide me all the way until we could be no closer.
Oh, Wow! So this was what all the fuss was about, I didn’t want it to end and I couldn’t figure why we weren’t all at it much more, like rabbits!
Hot sex beats firing a 90mm cannon hands down, like I said: “ … lover not fighter!”
It had been, without doubt, the most thrilling night of my young life, firing 90mm HE (High Explosive) rounds at soft targets didn’t come close! Watching the target explode with pleasure had been an unexpected bonus for me and Queen V until finally, the cursed virginity business was unequivocally and most assuredly a thing of ancient history, which at some level, made my return to the Border far more palatable, safe in the knowledge that I too was now, ‘a complete man’ and as such could finally join in the [honest] telling of war stories all of my own – including one from that same night where I spent over an hour in Midmar dam ablution blocks with the Queen of V, showering with her, touching, exploring, licking, until the communal water tanks eventually ran cold.
This shower-room exchange had to have occurred circa 03:00 the following morning. Experience taught me that good camping types rise early before coming to shower from around 05:00 onward. We needed to have come and gone before then, hopefully the hot water tanks got re-heated in time, if not, sorry, fellow campers, hope you agree it was worth it.
After sneaking back to my folks caravan to grab a fresh set of clothing, slightly ashamed by my sex-before-marriage ‘misdeed’, we returned to her tent, for some post-coital sleeping-bag spooning – as if I did this kind of thing all the time. I very much doubt I admitted she was numero uno, but it sure felt like it! Maybe she knew.
Laying there, pressed up against her firm, 21-year-old butt, it dawned on me how precious time was – we delayed no more and tried not to wake her girlfriend in the process.
What a view I had, looking out over her through the half unzipped tent flap, the still smooth lake’s surface rippled only by the majestic passage of a small family of ducks.
For the rest of that wonderful day I was like a cat that just licked full-fat cream out a Ming Vase, I’d gone from zero to three in a single night and could hardly thank the folks enough for taking me on such fantastic camping trip. This had to be one of the best days of my life, it had all gone so incredibly well and it seemed the folks were none the wiser.
Sadly, that was the last time I saw Queen V as she and her friend were only staying that one night, but her mission was accomplished, even if she didn’t realise it. She’d shared with me a wonderfully magical thing and, what’s more, ensured I’d not fly Virgin, whenever my number got called.