Bootlaces
By the end of September, after almost a month, the three battle groups of 20th Brigade had clocked up some serious mileage shuttling back and forth along Lomba’s Southern bank living under almost constant aerial threat from everpresent MiG and Sukhoi jets whose uncontested presence this far in-country made any daytime travel arrangements a very unhealthy proposition.
When required to relocate TB or get nearer a staging point for our next contact, BG Alpha always travelled in convoy only fanning out into battle formation when enemy contact was imminent, or adopting a defensive platform in the event of unforeseen action.
Upon arrival at a temporary base, in yet another nondescript swatch of jungle, we’d laager the vehicles in relatively tight clusters and make sure that at all times we stayed within close proximity for personal health and safety reasons.
On days when no action was planned, we’d hang-bal (hang-ball, which means ‘laze about’), sometimes catching rays, sometimes sheltering in shade, but always keeping a watchful eye on the MiG’s and an ear on comm’s for any radio alert. These were the most enjoyable moments, no-one chasing us around just left to do our own thing, enjoying close camaraderie of guys who, by now, were bonded together by shared, incredibly intense experiences. We’d all seen our share of enemy action, so the ‘fuck-em-all’ hare-gat (hard arse) attitude from our early days together as a Squadron were now a thing of the past. We were comrades-in-arms.
We relied implicitly on one another to ensure our survival in combat. During down time we only had each other for company – 24/7. There was really only one good way to get out of Angola, and that was all of us, together, still breathing. The alternative didn’t bare thinking about, but as we’d taken no serious casualties in the Squad we didn’t have to think about it … much.
Every 7–10 days the postal service got through to us on the frontline, sometimes the Samil 50 transport truck also brought with it a small consignment of ‘wet rations’, fresh food that was, unfortunately, past its sell-by date (this got more noticeable the longer we spent in Angola. Conversely, the longer we spent in Angola the less we worried about things like ‘sell-by date’).
Guys always cherished pos paraade (post parade), but perhaps now even more so than during Basics when still acclimatising to army life.
Correspondence from home was normally opened at a quiet moment so each word therein could be savoured and slowly digested, reread, and then read again, especially if they were love letters from a girl.
One guy got the dreaded ‘Dear Johnny’ breakup letter! His girlfriend sent it to him knowing he was in the middle of a war-zone.
Tight-knit though the boys became, we rarely had to suffer the ignominy of having to take a turd (shit/crap/poo/dump) inside the Ratel laager. Normally the furthest we’d have to venture for the daily bos-kak (bush-shit) was 30-100 metres, determined by density of forest, wind direction and size of the layer-cake laager.
Of course, given the nature of our diet, there were days we bos-kakked more than once; for example, if the fresh blue meat delivered with the postal truck really was too frot (rotten) to have eaten, or the bush alcohol we were brewing had a slightly unsettling effect on the bowels, or some naughty half-wit put stool-loosening tabs in your chow. Needless to say the rat-pack diet played a vital part in this aspect of life at war.
Naturally, the bos-kak wasn’t the ‘civilised’, seated affair most people in the West are accustomed to; resting on a pristine porcelain bowl with a heated soft-close seat and Sunday paper for company. No, the Angolan bos-kak was like a journey back in time when life was still harsh and barbaric, so it seemed quite apt we should defecate like this while prosecuting the oldest and most barbaric of human rituals – warfare.
It came as no surprise to discover human beings are still extremely well adapted for bos-kak, and, for that matter, warfare.
When taking a dump in the Angolan bush, there was always significant threat of our enemy dumping projectiles on us, so there were precious few reasons to dilly-dally with newspaper anyway. Thus, the bos-kak was usually completed with the minimum of fuss and in fairly short order.
Other than for the use of highly prized, precious and limited stocks of that relatively modern invention, loo paper (white gold), bos-kak protocol differed from that of our forefathers in one other way – we normally took with us a shovel with which to dig a mini-foxhole, into which we unceremoniously buried the remains of yesterday’s rat-pack.
When it was time to find a bush, I’d pull on my overalls, slip bare foot into my well-worn army-issue leather boots, sling the R4 over my shoulder, grab a battered army issue bog roll and shovel, then slope off to find a suitable environment, my long untied bootlaces dragging untidily behind forming snake trails marking my route over the soft sand.
Happily I can report there were no major incidents associated with this ritual, however, on more than one occasion I returned to a standing position only to discover one of my bootlaces had got itself into a little trouble by somehow slithering into the mini-foxie. When this happened, there really was only one sensible course of action; to decapitate boot-lace with shovel as swiftly and humanely as possible, ensuring all soiled sections remained behind forever entombed with the remains of yesterday’s rat pack no.5.
I tried to remember to tuck the bootlaces into my boots but forgot enough times until eventually my laces became too short to get themselves in trouble.
So while days of indolence were spent hanging around being scruffy, the buzz around TB was very different on days before possible enemy contact. Most guys developed pre-battle routines, or rituals, as part of their mental preparation for impending conflict. Lance Corporal Donald Brown always kept a packet of expensive Camel cigarettes stashed next to his two turret radio sets for that first post-battle puff. He smoked cheaper cigs during downtimes.
The ritual I developed … I always went into battle as cleanly washed as was possible given the circumstances, maybe as a good luck omen, or maybe just in case the next person to see me unclothed was a mortician. I tried to ensure a clean pair of underwear, socks and tank suit were always available in case tomorrow called for contact. During downtimes, like most lads in the unit I lolled about in whatever army-issue gear I felt most comfortable, wearing as little as possible due to oppressive jungle heat.
We were dirty most of the time with unkempt hair (except Brad Saunders) and looked quite scruffy once the regular army discipline of daily shaving and frequent buzz-cuts got suspended.
Patchy outcrops of facial hair on dirty skin left some of us resembling the unkempt homeless character in a Jackie Chan movie, our slothful appearance and crumpled attire would never have passed muster back on base but up there on the front we were more likely to meet our Maker, than find a Sergeant Major concerned by our state of dress. Of cardinal importance however was the health and readiness of our vehicles and weapon systems, but there again the brass didn’t need to be too concerned because they knew that not much inspires a gunner more than to ensure his weapon’s readiness, or a driver to maintain his vehicle, when living so close to the real and very present threat of enemy contact.