Midnight in Mavinga
As we lazily stretched ourselves from a full night’s sleep that crisp spring morning of 3 September we had no idea that SADF artillery boys were just completing their very first night of fire plans, that the opening salvos of Operation Modular had been exchanged while we’d been sleeping peacefully.
After a box breakfast and some last minute vehicle servicing, we rejoined the northward trek for another ten hours on the ‘road’ before we got our first proper spike of adrenaline when we observed thick plumes of dark, oily smoke rising ominously a couple clicks ahead. We wondered if this was to be our first enemy contact. Ninety millimetre rounds were quickly chambered, Browning cocked, everyone steeling themselves for a first taste of action, or an order to respond.
Unsure of neither origin nor cause of the oily smudge rising in the baby-blue sky, we fanned out from the track adopting defensive positions until things were clarified a nervous half hour later.
Black smoke was still belching from a UNITA logistics (log) base which had sustained an arson attack the night before completely destroying the 44,000 litre diesel storage bunker from which our fuel trucks were meant to have replenished. This was already feeling like hard-core shit, now, it seemed, someone was trying to slow our progress. The battle group meant to refuel at that strategic jungle gas station, we didn’t have sufficient fuel bunkered to reach our next key milestone, the rebel stronghold at Mavinga. All available diesel bunkers were despatched to the next nearest jungle fuel stop, meaning a 24 hour delay.
Ratel was equipped with two 50-litre water tanks, one either side of the vehicle tucked behind thick steel armour wall just above and between the massive double rear axles.
If used sparingly, 100 litres was quite a good ration for three crewmen, we seldom ran out of water whereas mechanised Infantry lads had the same water ration but shared among ten or eleven crew. We sometimes ‘loaned’ them the odd litre, never fully appreciating how much we depended on regular water replenishment until much later in the operation; like the time one of our water bunker’s took friendly fire from a Mirage fighter jet meaning a week in the heat without resupply. Nothing happened quickly when moving around South Eastern Angola.
The unexpected hold up at log base was like a mini spa vacation for the exhausted crewmen of Charlie Squad, a nearby river provided a perfect setting for a luxurious ‘bath’ in its waters which, it was said, were infested with crocodiles. The opportunity to cool off was too tempting, so some guys stood guard with their R4’s on auto to ensure health and safety.
33 Bravo, commanded by lance Corporal Francois Fouche, developed a major engine problem un-repairable in the field forcing them to stop at the log base to await delivery and installation of replacement engine. 33 Charlie, commanded by Lance Corporal Wayne Mills, was ordered to ‘buddy up’ with 33B for protection. Wayne, and his gunner Gary Pearman-White were both Durban boys and quite well practised at chilling, their driver Frikkie ‘Bees’ De Jager was a live-wire always planning some little mischief. At first it seemed a bonus few days for some fun but it would take a week to truck in and swap out the damaged two-ton engine and a fortnight before ‘Bees’ and the boys finally caught up with Charlie Squadron, by which time we would’ve already greeted the enemy, blooded.
Once diesel bunkers returned replenished and refuelled, it took two further days of unbroken, jarring, dusty driving to travel the remaining 120 clicks to rebel stronghold Mavinga which, in the darkness, resembled a land-locked version of the floating outpost (atoll) in Kevin Costner’s massively over-budget movie ‘Waterworld’ – except that there were no cameras here, nor was there anything over-budget about this place. The heroes here were cash-strapped UNITA rebels who’d been using this outpost to stage counter-offensive operations for almost ten years. The rebel base comprised a few small buildings, houses and mostly medium-sized tents, similar to our base at Omuthiya but without the same sense of order. Long strings of electric bulbs, powered by a cacophony of noisy diesel generators, cast low arcs of artificial light and inky dark shadows deep into the pitch-black jungle.
Amidst the blackness of the surrounding jungle, Mavinga’s yellow, electric aura gave it the appearance of a remote 3rd world Las Vegas. Battle-hardened soldiers, AK47s slung over their shoulders, moved purposefully about their business; informal traders and small shops plied brisk trade despite the late hour.
On 6 September, expeditionary SADF ground forces from 32 Battalion made first contact with FAPLA advance units of TG2 and a Squadron of 21st Brigade MBTs.
Word filtering down from the cheese was that 61 Mech was urgently needed in theatre and as we’d lost a day at the destroyed log base, there was to be no respite as we rolled slowly through the grimy settlement towards an enemy now less than a day’s drive away. We were about 50 clicks from the frontline, from the underside of the ‘pocket’!
As we moved through the brooding Angolan frontier town at around midnight, almost a week since entering the country, we crossed an invisible line into the hot-zone where everything became a potential target, including us!
Once clear of Mavinga, the convoy finally rested. Crews moved their vehicles into defensive formations, covered them with stretched-out cammo (camouflage) nets, and dug their foxholes.
A foxhole is a pit dug large enough to offer shelter during artillery bombardment, or air-strike. The last thing anyone wanted was to be running round like a blue-arsed fly seeking cover when bombs were landing – that would probably be too late boetie (little brother)! On this occasion we dug our foxholes willingly. We came to discover that UNITA and FAPLA fighters with years of hard-won combat experience had taken foxhole design and construction to a whole new level, sometimes spending months developing elaborate subterranean complexes for defence, protection and accommodation.
Photo 27 Three zero (30) Alpha crewman du Toit takes shelter in his foxhole while MiG’s circle overhead. (Len M. Robberts)
Unfortunately, these complex camouflaged trench systems had a sinister sting in the tail for mechanised forces. Aside from the obvious difficulty of dislodging defenders during ground attack, moving through enemy emplacements which were crisscrossed with deep trenches raised the spectre of beaching a wheeled vehicle. If one or more tyres dropped axle-deep into a trench, there was a high probability the vehicle would need recovery, in fact, so hazardous were these defensive trenches they directly contributed to lives lost during Operation Modular. Some of those who undertook the immensely dangerous task of rescuing beached vehicles during battle would be awarded the Honoris Crux medal (top bravery award).
Digging foxholes became a part of the daily routine, whenever we moved (which occurred almost every day), we dug. Even the laziest Troopers dug ‘foxies’ without being ordered to do so.
Despite our ‘foxy’ preparations, there would be occasion we’d hear the whistle of incoming enemy ordinance but be unable to reach the nearest foxhole in the precious few seconds before impact. If caught out in such a situation, we’d simply dive into deep tyre ruts carved in soft sand and pray they weren’t ‘air-burst’ bombs. Following one such incident, we couldn’t help laughing at the sight of Steph Rossouw speed digging himself into a rut with his bare hands like a turtle digging a nest on the beach to lay her eggs. Rossouw probably laid something a little smellier than a turtle egg that time.
Fortunately that attack was harmless, about 100 metres off target. Trooper Warren Adams aptly characterised his experience of being bombed while out of foxhole range as ‘digging-in by using his eyelashes’. On another occasion Dries Rheeder gashed his head open with a shovel in his haste to dig a foxhole during enemy bombardment. Unfortunately, his would be about the least remarkable injury sustained that day.
We knew that when bombs started landing, the smallest sliver of hideously jagged razor-sharp shrapnel whizzing around at near supersonic speeds, could easily tear a limb off, or worse. Anyone running round aimlessly looking for a ditch to hide in when the music stopped playing was dicing with death.
Since leaving Mavinga the risk of shit hitting the fan had increased exponentially and no one enjoyed playing ‘musical chairs’ with foxholes. Soon, every guy dug and ‘owned’ his own pit, no argument!