Floats like a Butterfly, Stings like a Bomb!
The type of Corporal that was our role model during JL’s was a hand-picked, alpha male, bawl-in-your-face type like Cpl. Dubuisson had been.
So when deciding which route to take through Junior Leader training I really didn’t ‘connect’ with this stereotypical Corporal mould considering myself instead far better suited to the more intellectual ‘we don’t get our hands dirty if we can help it’ ranks of the officer class, which doesn’t meant to say that among the officer classes there weren’t some prize control-freak fools – of course there were, and doubtless still are. Equally, some of the most competent soldiers were/are NCO’s. To assume one group better/worse than the other is to buy into the class-war, they have different tasks, each to be done to the best of an operator’s ability.
My untimely eviction from officer training in ‘86 left me little option but to take the other route, the non-commissioned route, my snobbishness be damned but it did make my year as a Corporal (Troop Sergeant) somewhat challenging.
It might even be suggested that before entering Angola I struggled to motivate erstwhile hard-arsed Troopers. Some guys were naturally more compliant or respectful and willing to follow orders, but others required additional incentivising. Of course, in character, I probably dealt out a few opfok of my own in ‘87 but have little or no memory thereof, however Colin ‘Donkey’ van Aswegen, Eugene ‘Mossie’ Mostert, Don Brown and Wilco Brooks assure me I did, though in my defence, most opfok’s probably decreed from above rather than me trying to punish my boys for some ‘serious’ infraction of ‘rules’.
Happily, there were far fewer rules in Angola, mostly they were important rules, rules of the kind that were life-sparing. I found this to be the best type of ‘carrot’, and as such never really needed the ‘stick’ of an opfok.
Digging foxholes on the south side of the Angolan border, even south of Mavinga would’ve been considered a chore, but not here, not at Lomba. Here they didn’t need coaxing, threatening or opfokking, self-preservation was the greatest motivator of all.
Fortunately for us, digging into soft Angolan soil was normally quite easy, except for side-wall subsidence, which every kid learned to deal with when digging sandpits on the beach by forming an outer rim wider than the foot of the pit a bit like the world renown Kimberley diamond mine. For some guys, foxhole digging became something of an obsession, sometimes spending an inordinate amount of free time designing the most ergonomically engineered and strategically well-placed foxhole.
To me it mattered not a jot how neat the thing was; what mattered was how close you were to foxie when needed.
MiG and sukkhoi fighter jets were a constant annoyance, an almost daily presence during Modular. The soundtrack of our war would include an extended-play version of the high altitude air-rending roar these beasts made when on patrol. We likened them to malaria-carrying mosquitos buzzing just far enough out of reach to swat, normally nothing more than an irritation to be mindful of.
We’d all been issued anti-malaria pills in advance of our sojourn to the subtropical area of operations because the insect-borne disease was quite prevalent up there.
Unfortunately we didn’t have suitable anti-MiG pills in the form of modern warplanes or anti-aircraft installations, when MiG’s swooped in for the kill someone was likely to get stung.
Once bitten, death or disability invariably followed.
Our best defence against the sting of Russian aircraft was Mother Nature herself. Mature forests typical of the area offered pretty good cover from air reconnaissance and, unless we were on the move or caught in an area of open Shona, we became increasingly confident of our relative safety under the leafy blanket offered by a fairly extensive forest canopy.
Crewmen soon became adept at selecting a tree, or trees, best suited for sheltering their steel limousines from irritating mosquitoes above.
When arriving at a new TB it was essential to first find a good sized tree near or within laager. Sometimes we might move TB more than once in a 24-hour period, sometimes we might not move for a few days, normally we knew in advance and this too would have a bearing on our laagering arrangements and configuration.
Crew commanders guided their drivers to the most suitable trees, seeking out those with sufficiently thick canopies, preferably with large overhanging branches making cammo nets easier to stretch over the Ratel ’s roof and protruding cannon.
Hooked up onto a branch, the net created an artificial ceiling which blended seamlessly into the natural surroundings – at least when viewed from 10-20,000ft.
Photo 39 Storey, Pretorius and du Toit on 30 Alpha, chilling under cammo following a long night in the saddle. (Len M. Robberts)
The longer Operation Modular continued, the more refined cammo-net arrangements became, eventually evolving into spacious areas under which we’d cook and commune (except when curtailed by operational and environmental constraints).
The tension of preparing for contact, exhaustion of nights in the saddle, and freakish intensity of battle itself was in stark contrast to indolent days of downtime. By now it’d become much easier to dismiss the perilous state of our existence, almost dismissively living on the bleeding edge of danger and potential death. We joked that some people shelled out thousands to experience raw African wilderness while we, on the other hand, were in fact getting paid extra to be there. Our adrenaline junkie package deal included hard core weaponry (not of your own choice) unlimited fear, fuel and ammo! Which sounds good while standing at the glossy sales desk, but check this ‘Danger Pay’ shit out!
The additional danger experienced by a soldier on the frontline attracted a monetary bonus, recognition that things were somewhat tougher up there than they were at, for example, Natal ‘Hotel’ Command on Durban’s beachfront.
Natal Command had a great reputation, guys who had their shit sorted managed to wangle themselves a state sponsored beach holiday at Hotel Command, they’d go to local bars most nights and enjoy weekends where the only statistic that mattered was the number of prime punda-pulling opportunities that scored a bulls-eye earning another notch on the bedpost.
So, to account for this disparity we were getting just THREE RAND more per day in Angola than some guy doing 9-to-5 paper-push, where his local Health and Safety nerd probably decreed the risk of paper-cut was pipped into second place by Chlamydia. Sunburn came third.
I shan’t belabour the absurdly extreme disparity of my Angola vs. Durban comparison, if you’ve read this far you already know, but in cold hard monetary terms the difference (Danger Pay) was valued at about R150 per month (£10/$15 at today’s exchange rate but in ’87 more like £40/$60 per month). The amount we got was based on rank and seniority, perhaps my troops got even less than I, so it’s no wonder Durban boys Wayne and Gary on 33 Charlie were bitching about wanting to get back to surf their home turf on October 6th.
As nights got warmer in the weeks before the rainy season kick-off, my preferred place to sleep was on a flat section of Ratel roof behind the turret, an area that is mostly ‘all business’, with various mountings, hatches and of course the massive spare wheel bolted to engine flaps, so at first glance this might not seem a promising place to sleep at all, but by traversing my turret 90 degrees from centre, a single-bed sized section of perfectly smooth steel was exposed. A centre seam weld which fused the left and right halves of her body was the only blemish in an otherwise perfectly flat and smooth mattress.
Lying in relatively tranquil surroundings of our wild safari game lodge TB on my steel bed atop my new Ratel I read and reread the beautifully penned love letters from my girlfriend, savouring every word and nuance, her perfectly spaced immaculate handwriting on paper seemingly impregnated with the most sensual perfume imaginable. Probably fair to point out by this stage I was so grubby a cheap toilet spray over a long-drop latrine would’ve pleased my sense of smell.
David the driver preferred sleeping under our Ratel on the velvet-soft Angolan soil. Although it offered a more ergonomic and comfortable sleep than my steel sheet on the roof, sand was my third choice of sleeping arrangements because it always found its way into my foul brown sleeping bag and moist parts of my face etc, etc.
Zeelie and I were more than happy with his choice but mainly ’cos of the frequency of his wet-dreams, the boy was like ‘Old Faithful’!
Who knew war was an aphrodisiac, or maybe his subconscious was trying to jack the Ratel up for yet another tyre change? Whatever the cause, the number of such occurrences during Modular became a standing joke. Sometimes, in the morning, he’d crawl out from under 32 Alpha with a broad grin on his face, look over at me, and offer a number of fingers between one and three.
Herb Zeelie mostly preferred stretching himself out on the long, hard rubber bench, right-side, rear cabin, which might otherwise be used by a half-a-dozen sweaty ‘Boknaai’ (‘Buck-fuck’, the nickname Infantry boys got given). Zeelie’s bench was my second choice, on rainy nights we’d have to shuffle things around a bit. Corrie could still sleep underneath unless the ground was very wet before arrival to laager.
Despite the odd hardship, 90mm crews luxuriated in the extra space we had when compared say, to our Infantry brothers.
Among our kitbags in the rear cabin, we’d built up an enviable reserve of spare ten-day rat-pack cartons and many thousand 7.62mm ammo rounds neatly boxed in their 200-clip belts, and then there was always room for the odd alcohol ‘still’ fashioned from 90mm bomb canister.
Because we were operating two Browning per turret it was quite normal to burn through between ten, maybe fifteen belts (2-3,000 rounds) of ammo in a single contact. A troop therefore could chew some 10,000 rounds, or 50 belts in a morning. Easily.
My role as Troop Sergeant included responsibility for food, fuel and firepower so it was quite acceptable, prudent even, to build up a healthy stock of 7.62mm ammunition in the event of emergency.
Of course a Troop Sergeant could only dispense goodies if such goodies were efficiently managed and delivered by scores of logistics support personnel along our supply chain, from preparation to procurement, and aircraft Load Masters to truck drivers.
Despite great distances, demands and inherent hazards faced by the Logistics Corps (Echelon), they almost always maintained good supply lines, but it paid to be prepared, so vehicles begun to look like mobile mini-arsenals.
Weekly armed convoys, laden with ammo, rations, cigarettes, Dankie Tanie (thank-you aunty) gift parcels and letters from home ran a gauntlet from Mavinga to the front, sometimes with close attendance of Russian fighter jets.
The occasional truck got whacked, one time our convoy took a hit by our own air force! [I think I acquired a brand new bush jacket from just such an incident. The destroyed truck had been carrying nothing more dangerous than a fresh set of threads for soldiers of 32 Battalion, at the time I’d hoped for some FAPLA cammo, far more sought after. Some guys built up a full set of enemy clobber even though we were advised it would be confiscated by MP’s on our way home.]
On chilled days, when our Danger Pay better reflected risk, we bakked-bal (baked-balls, killing time), had plane spotting contests, maybe did some prep, equipment maintenance and more mundane tasks like those that sometimes involved decapitating shoelaces.
Strictly verboten but we also tried tuning our radio’s in to SA music station Radio 5 which was extremely difficult so far from Johannesburg. Tuning in was something of an art-form because apparently the frequency was different depending on time of day and weather conditions. I got tuned in very rarely but they were special in that context, a fleeting connection with civilisation.
Unless we knew our enemy was nearby, or attack imminent, evenings in TB were pretty chilled. Sometimes the lads would be required to do a stint of guard duty but that was an occasional imposition, they probably would’ve stood guard more often back at Omuthiya.
When close to enemy positions at night we were ‘dark’ – lights off, no fires and very little noise – but at other times, when the enemy was farther away, we’d get together in groups to share stories, tell jokes and enjoy light-hearted banter. During these get-togethers each guy contributed a number of rat-pack tins to make a great big ‘tasty’ potjie (pot) for the evening’s ‘banquet’. So far from home, at our Safari lodge, those banquets always tasted really good no matter what shite got tossed in the pot even though boys often brought their least popular tins for sharing, but also explains why Mrs Ball’s Chutney, dried herbs-n-spices and salt were such highly treasured commodities.
Photo 40 Willemse, Coetzee and Linde bak bal (bake balls – chillin) in the Angolan bush. (Martin Bremer)
The rat-pack burger was another favourite; it was made by inverting a foil-lined cereal sachet then carefully inserting a sandwich made from thick dog biscuits (there were two types of dog biscuit: thick – which was nice – and thin – which was dry/bland/shit). These thicker more tasty biscuits were found only in rat-packs # 1, 3 & 5.
To make the rat-pack burger:
• Spread contents of Cheesie on a biscuit.
• Thinly slice two vark-pielle (Pig-dicks, or mini Vienna, aka Ovumbo-piel, only found in two varieties of rat-pack), lay atop cheese.
• When available, add one thick slice of raw onion.
• Firmly press second dog-biscuit onto the cheese, onion, piel combo and gently ease raw burger inside inverted sachet.
• Add 5ml water, be very careful with this measure, too much and the burger will be ruined. Too soggy.
• Reseal cereal sachet.
• Heat gently by holding sachet directly over an esbit (fire-tablet). About 45 seconds on either side.
If the water level was correct and the burger not undercooked, those thick swollen hot biscuits with triple filling made an extremely tasty treat – the Angolan Mc Donald’s Zero Pounder.
Up there they seemed just as tasty as the real thing but at a fraction of the calories leaving plenty of space for a bowl of milkshake-flavoured cereal or my preferred rum-n-raisin energy bar.
Long-term guests at our Angolan Game Lodge’ who enjoyed getting bit of a buzz on, starteded concocting a fruit-based, puke-coloured alcoholic stew. This gloop was fermented in empty 90mm bomb canisters, perfectly suited to the task thanks to an airtight screw-cap seal.
Yeast required for fermentation was occasionally trucked in along with ‘wet’ rations (ostensibly for making bread – or vet-koek, dough fried in oil which we only scored if we could scrounge some from the well provisioned command vehicles). Rat-packs provided tinned fruit and sugar. Warmth (from the sun) and water were on tap, most of the time, and within a week we’d have an alcoholic fruit drink that had less punch than my preferred Castle Lager but since conventional beer was such an rare commodity so deep in Angola, and Mohungu Juice was nowhere to be found, our improvised ‘Mavinga Moonshine’, or ‘Lomba Liquor’ was a whole lot better than nothing at all.
Some guys cut 90mm bomb canisters in thirds, using one end or other to make man-sized coffee/moonshine mugs onto which they then carefully melted a plastic handle taken from a 7.62mm 200-belt-box carrying strap.
Buried as we were so deep in the Angolan forest, we relied totally on external support of every kind, chiefly intelligence, without regular updates we were little more than sitting ducks, with little or no idea where enemy forces were, what direction they were moving in, whether to attack, defend or withdraw.
SADF had robust spy and intelligence gathering operations in place, augmented by fairly modern electronic equipment and counter-intelligence techniques but relied heavily on reconnaissance boys on the ground or information harvested from POW’s.
In the weeks before Operation Modular started, at about the same time we got robbed of our three-week pass, a small band of Recce’s got dropped deep behind enemy lines all the way back above the ‘pocket’, at Cuito Cuanevale, where they combined with UNITA forces to communicate key coordinates and enemy movements including aircraft sightings as flights departed the garrison’s airfield, this is also how we knew the size of FAPLA forces that had descended into the ‘pocket’, now almost two months earlier.
In addition to ground force reconnaissance, our air force early warning radar network also detected flights as they popped up from Cuito, the nearest enemy airbase about 120 clicks north of us, they also detected flights lifting off further north, at Menongue some 200 clicks NNW.
As soon as a sighting was noted by radar or Recce, Intelligence officers immediately broadcast ‘Victor, Victor’ alerts back up the chain, meaning incoming vyandelike vliegtuig (enemy aircraft).
Four days after Adrian Hind was killed, news from the cheese was getting increasingly bullish.
59th Brigade was already moving two of its Battalions north, their ranks swelled by former 47th survivors. The 21st were definitely drawing back to the north bank, hopefully the brief clash we’d had the day before was to be our last. It seemed FAPLA was preparing a wholesale retreat from Lomba.
If this was accurate, it surely meant they were walking away from their main objective; to wipe out Jonas Savimbi’s strategic base at Mavinga and ultimately capture Jamba.
It didn’t require a University degree in Warfare to recognise this was a major turning point in the operation.
They’d failed to achieve their goal and the impending November rain would soon make conditions more difficult, by December the terrain would be almost impassable for heavy weapon systems. It had to be game over.
All this bullish brouhaha bolstered our belief we were facing imminent cessation of hostilities, a draw-down from the front, following which we imagined we’d drive our trusty Ratels out of Angola, get given a heroes’ welcome back at Omuthiya, perhaps even a few nights with some Scope magazine playgirls’ with those starry nipples would also be on the cards. … Surely that was the least a nation so grateful would proffer us boys of 61, 32 and 101 Battalion’s for their pivotal role in the sudden and dramatic expulsion of an erstwhile marauding mechanised commie-fuelled monster?
At about the same time we heard reports that 4 SAI (South African Infantry), which would be known temporarily as 62 Mech, were being called up to the front to join us. This didn’t really make much sense given that Operation Modular had achieved its stated objective. We reasoned 4 SAI had likely been mobilised before our game-changer on 3 October, and the cheese were thinking, “ … they’re already en route, why not bring them in for insurance?” We were even told: “4 SAI is on their way to give you guys a break from the frontline.” However, rumours that as many as four died en route didn’t augur well, I’m sure this was overexaggerated by the long bush telephone, but I know for sure one guy died asleep under his Ratel! They forget to put the handbrake on and the giant slowly rolled over this poor guy. Crushed him to death.
Photo 41 31 Alpha – crewmen Dries Rheeder, Cpl Sievert Wiid (who replaced Venter) and charismatic driver Gert Niemand. (Martin Bremer)
Us weary warriors were pleased with the idea of a break, but (slightly arrogantly) uncertain about the competence of 4 SAI green-horn warriors if they already lost four guys before making contact with enemy forces!
By this point the South African Government had given up its diplomatic charade and finally committed overtly to military action which at last meant releasing the Elephants, the Olifant Squadron from School of Armour, call-sign: Echo Squadron (Five Zero).
E-Squad makes for quite an entourage and would’ve significantly swelled 4 SAI ranks such that she must have looked more potent than even a 61 Mech convoy as it travelled through South Africa and on into SWA, but they only moved at night, again, for security reasons.
The Tank Squadron came equipped with its own compliment of support, maintenance and ammo trucks. The large tow trucks that dragged our damaged vehicles 4-500 clicks out of Angola may’ve been monsters, but when it came to recovering a 55-ton tank, they needed something super-sized, so E-Squad mechanics’ recovery vehicle took the biscuit, she looked like an Olifant on steroids.
It was about fucking time too. These lads, and I knew most of them from my year at School of Armour, had been living it up like kings of Tempe, it was long overdue they got front-line dirt under their nails.
SADF MBT’s had never been deployed in a conventional setting since World War 2, the ultimate big beasts of mechanised warfare hadn’t fired a shot in anger and killed a main battle tank in 40 years, fact! They must’ve been itching to get in on the action, particularly now the Armour boys of 32 & 61 Battalion’s had between them notched up about 40 MBT’s on their collective bedpost.
A retreating enemy and a rejuvenated hardened SADF holding the pocket closed on Lomba, it seemed our war was all but over.
I was more than happy to hear that fresh-legged 4 SAI and the ever-so-slightly arrogant Tankers would be taking the lead. We didn’t yet realise it would be three-weeks, or longer, before these reinforcements finally arrived up on the frontline, by which time they’d simply cross over Lomba at the former 21st Brigade bridgehead, easily and safely moving north into the ‘pocket’, most of them blithely unaware of sacrifices we’d already made to win this blood-soaked territory.
And Charlie Squadron had more sacrifices yet to make.
October 8th 1987 started unremarkably enough, a pleasant day at war with no contact scheduled nor ‘Victor Victor’ alerts. The air was cool and crisp but started warming early on, the sky light blue and cloudless.
Five days since the destruction of 47th Brigade we were skirting Lomba, now looking for a route into the pocket itself. Charlie Squad was assigned to escort a convoy of supply vehicles to 61 Mech’s new forward operating base, a sign of increasing confidence against what clearly now seemed a retreating force.
Annoyingly it seemed we’d changed gear from a defensive to offensive force.
Our relatively small group of about 20 vehicles had been on the move since 23:00 the previous night, Squad not at full strength. Captain Cloete was travelling with the command circus while Bremer was sent to collect 2nd Lt. Kobus Boshoff (from 202 Battalion at Rundu who’d been flown into Mavinga to replace Hind) and Gawie Combrink, a Tank commander who had previously been assigned to command vehicle Zero Bravo (OB) tasked with filling O’Connor’s chair on Three Two.
I seem to recall Squad command was handed to 2IC Lt Robberts on Three Zero Alpha (30A) but unsure who was responsible for mission navigation in the absence of Three Zero (30), anyway, it seemed an easy enough mission and we were likely to be following easily identifiable tracks of vehicles that had gone ahead to establish a new TB.
Nine of our twelve Ratel 90’s were available for the mission, more than adequate to safely escort a convoy of about ten or twelve logistics vehicles.
Estimated completion of mission, 05:30, but this was Africa time so no later than 06:30, after which we’d get the remainder of the day off for R&R.
Coincidentally, 8th October would be the first time 61st Battalion reunited since that electric ‘morning after the day before’ on October 4th, as we’d been separated since then for tactical and operational reasons, including that last pock at 21st on the 6th, but now, since the scale of what we’d achieved on the frontline, and its significant contribution to our combined victory had surely been made clear to all and sundry, Charlie’s boys could hold their heads high when cruising round the laager later that day, we were heroes to a man!
During the night of the 7th a couple of logistic trucks developed mechanical problems, then, at some stage our navigation got fucked up.
Blokes are notoriously shite at stopping to ask for directions, but as sunrise approached even we became increasingly concerned by the spectre of deadly Cuban mosquitoes buzzing in to sour our breakfast. When the sun eventually crested the forested horizon at our six, we knew for certain we were behind schedule and whoever was calling the play up front was starting to cut things a little bit too close for comfort.
There was surely no doubt in anyone’s mind we had to be under cover and cammo’d long before Mozzies started buzzing around us.
Despite the delay and rapidly brightening surroundings this was Africa and we were fairly confident we had time to spare before a pair of Cuban Mig 23 pilots initiated pre-flight checks at Cuito.
After five weeks of fairly relentless, but thankfully unsuccessful harassment from Russian fighter-jets our little Squadron might be accused of being a tad gung-ho travelling during daytime; perhaps the trucks we were escorting were needed urgently at 61 Mech TB. Maybe we didn’t want to spend the day out on our own, I don’t know, but whatever the reason, we pushed on secure in the knowledge Victor-Victor alerts would be issued when enemy sorties departed Cuito Cuanevale.
The convoy, having resolved its mechanical and navigational issues, was now moving at a relatively brisk pace, partly due to its small contingent size but mainly because it was daylight and risk of attack from the air was ratcheting up every second. We reassured ourselves we’d reach 61 Mech before long, maybe 30-60 minutes, no later than 07:00, just outside the safety window.
Other than minor navigational and mechanical niggles, and risk of aerial attack, there was very little to trouble the crews that morning. The route was now clear, we needed only to follow some tracks along mostly open Shona, clear of trees and obstruction making for very easy driving by comparison to the long night we’d just had, so there was a pretty chilled atmosphere on Squad-net.
My mate Wayne Mills was bitching down the radio, “Dave, I’m fucking exhausted man! The first thing I’m doing when we arrive to TB is grab some sleep.”
During the dark hours of night, turret crew on ‘low risk’ actions like this could take turns to snatch a little broken sleep while seated upright, head resting against, and bumping off, the turret’s internal ironmongery. Drivers could expect no such luxury, but after such a disjointed night, all of us were dog tired, there’d been no opportunity for any sleep.
07:00 came and went, still not within striking distance of 61 Mech TB as expected, by now the aerial threat level had risen quite sharply. Thankfully, the blue African sky remained satisfyingly clear of Mozzies and our radios reassuringly silent, no ‘Victor Victor’ warnings.
Moving at dizzying speeds of 30-40kph, our convoy was moving briskly but also generating a sizeable dust plume in its wake. Speed was the priority.
On our convoy’s tail the crew of 33 Charlie munched on dust kicked up from 32 Alpha (the 2nd) and we both ate 33 Alpha’s dust. The remaining six Ratels were interspersed front and centre in convoy.
Herb was snoozing fitfully next to me on the right-hand side of the turret. When he stirred, the perennially cheerful, freakishly buck-toothed gunner smiled to reveal his trademark ‘travelling brown’ front teeth. Normally, his teeth were pearly white, but because his parents never got around to getting them straightened when he was kid they protruded some funky distance out his mouth, even when the fellas lips were sealed his buck-teeth protruded noticeably from his face always attracting a thick coating of dust like a swarm of flies on an exposed bos-kak. The unfortunate guy also attracted a swarm of abuse on account of his tusks, so I mostly avoided making unkind jokes at his expense.
[Many years later Herb won himself a place on a reality TV make-over show where they pay for all the cosmetic stuff, I was very happy to learn of this but have yet to meet him again since the war.]
Admittedly this quirk of nature was a source of frequent banter, we couldn’t resist poking a little good-natured fun at the Freddie Mercury lookalike on Troop-net that morning. We were having a giggle with the usual stuff like, “ … Herb, you could munch an apple through a tennis racket”, or, “ … bru! With tusks like that, don’t let elephant poachers catch sight of you!” He knew we loved him like a brother so he accepted the banter in good humour but our playful exchanges soon gave way to increasingly nervous chatter, all of it concerned with the exponentially increasing risk from above as the sun crept ever higher into the sky … “How far to go? … Why the fuck are we are not there yet … Who’s leading this fucking thing?”
We’d never previously had so much difficulty reaching an overnight objective before sun up but clearly, on 8 October, something had gone wrong.
The radio-waves were still clear, but then someone chirped up, “Guys we really need to think about taking cover.”
Enemy observation posts (OP’s) could easily plot our little convoy’s progress as the dust storm kicked up by our tyres rose like a brown scar in the clear blue sky. Shortly before 08:00, we finally agreed the risk was too high to continue, so we performed our usual visgraad (fish rib) manoeuvre, spreading out under cover of a fairly dense copse of trees at our three o’clock position, while those in charge sought further clarification from Battalion command.
The visgraad manoeuvre was intended as a short pit-stop (15-20 minutes) to establish whether we should press on or hunker down near our present location for the day.
On this occasion, the general consensus was that we were quite close to our objective and therefore likely to be asked to complete the mission before resting for the day.
The convoy slowed and, at an agreed signal, simultaneously performed a hard right-turn to drive away from the track about 200 metres until we entered a nearby tree line.
After continuing 50-100 metres further into reasonable dense forest, we stopped under the protective canopy of some large Ficus trees. It seemed to us the area offered ok cover, the tallest trees standing about 20 metres tall and a similar distance apart. This wasn’t by our standards excellent, or even good cover, so if we did receive an order to hang-bal (hold tight) for the day we’d probably move a few hundred metres deeper into the forest to improve security from airborne attack.
David steered our Ratel in tight, the left flank almost touching up against a good-sized tree facing the direction we’d been travelling before visgraat.
By virtue of the distribution of relatively sparse surrounding flora, the three Ratels on our convoy’s tail loosely adopted a ‘U’ formation, a little pocket, when parked: 32 Alpha on the left seam of the pocket about half way down, 33 Alpha on the right of the pocket, nearer the top, and 33 Charlie completed the underside of the ‘U’ pocket at around its centre point. Both 32 and 33 Alpha were facing the general direction of travel, while 33 Charlie remained facing toward the three o’clock position, in other words, ‘Bees’ DeJager had steered his Ratel right off the track and found cover without ever turning the steering again.
The remainder of the convoy were scattered loosely in a 50-metre-wide stripe spread some 300 metres or so up-range parallel to the track we’d been travelling.
We expected a rapid reply to our urgent call for further instructions and within minutes either be on the move again toward TB, or heading deeper into the forest to find safer haven, so I dismissed the need to spread camouflage nets or dig foxholes, logic dictated we’d simply hold cover for a few minutes and then respond to which ever order we received.
The orientation of our vehicles under cover that morning was mainly dictated by the direction of larger lower-hanging branches as we moved into our positions in the pocket.
We knew of no ground-attack threats in the area – all enemy forces were believed to be north of Lomba. We made best speed north, so our formation didn’t need to follow any defensive doctrine particularly, but I think habits died hard as Mills guided his tired driver, Frikkie, directly into the tree line where they found suitable cover under a large tree, the trunk of which stood a meter or two off his vehicle’s right door and 15-20 metres diagonally behind 32 Alpha’s rear end.
After many hours in the saddle and with a few minutes to kill, the guys got out to stretch their legs, share a smoke and maybe brew a coffee or catch up with mates. Understandably everyone was a little unhappy about the “fucking delay” and the breaking of the “do not travel during daytime” rule.
Wayne decided to forgo the nap he’d promised himself instead relinquishing his place on the rubber bench in the rear cabin to his exhausted driver.
Cigarette in hand, Mills ambled over the soft sand to 33 Alpha, a distance of around 30 metres, to catch up with his pal Warren Adams.
Some crews started setting out camouflage nets, particularly on logistic vehicles, these guys were a little less accustomed to life on the front while others begun digging foxholes to pass the time … we were beginning to get a little agitated.
We’d expected to be underway without too much delay, and yet 20 minutes after leaving the track, we were still no clearer as to our next move.
“Jeeeezeusss Christ!” I instinctively ducked.
A split second later an almighty, gut-rending roar tore the air, as if the sky had been ripped apart by Zeus himself!
In less than a second a pair of MiG 23’s shot directly overhead our position! So low, almost scything the treetops, disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared, now obscured by the canopy.
Hardly able to hear my own voice above the ringing in my ears, I turned to Zeelie, “Did you see that!?” This was of course, a rhetorical question!
Their flight path perfectly bisected the long stripe of chocolate brown-painted steel lying in the forest beneath them. The pilots hugging the Angolan treetops so closely, their cockpits were less than 40 metres above our heads!
Even in the fraction of a second they were directly overhead, a red Cuban star was clearly visible on both pilots’ helmets; even their faces identifiable. The jets were so close, small print on the fuselage was visible and a few of us even saw one pilot’s lips move as he communicated with his wingman.
We looked at each other in disbelief, they’d somehow not fired on us, and they weren’t even Angolan pilots, though that was a less important fact at that moment. There’d been no ‘Victor Victor’ warning at all which made no sense, but the most disturbing aspect of this incident was that we’d not even heard them coming. This had never happened before – we’d always heard fighter-jets diving in from altitude on bombing runs. This time they were out-pacing the sound of their own engines. A disturbing thought crossed my mind; they can hit us without us even knowing they’re coming!
The guys weren’t all sure they spotted us, but whatever, the morning had gone from good, to fucking ugly in a single heartbeat.
It’s fair to say we weren’t in great cammo readiness but at least the convoy’s dust cloud had long-since settled before the Mozzies crashed our party. They’d flown so fast and low there was an outside chance the pilots hadn’t even seen us. Maybe we just happened to be on their flight path toward some other target further down-range and parallel with the track we’d been using earlier.
There was one thing we could all agreed on – we fucking-well shat ourselves, we really did not see that coming, at all!
We remained on hyper alert in those electric few moments following the dramatic fly-by, adrenaline still flooded our bodies faster than pumps feeding jet-fuel into the Mach 2 Tumansky twin-spool turbojet engine afterburners as they’d thundered overhead our elongated loose laager formation.
… 150 seconds to impact.
We were shocked to say the least, none had been so frighteningly close to enemy aircraft, despite weeks of them seeking us out. We’d seen our own Mirages come over at low level and we’d grown accustomed to watching enemy fighters cruise the skies like hunting sharks at high altitude. Typically bombing runs were launched from high altitude, like a hawk they’d dive steep and fast coming in directly onto an identified target, release their bombs, rockets, 23mm buzz-saw or a combo of two, regain altitude as quickly as possible then hightail back to Cuito or Menongue.
Mostly, Cuban and Angolan pilots missed their target, but not always. It was also rumoured that Cuban pilots were better than their Angolan counterparts, I never had a means of knowing who was who, and so far Lady Luck had looked after Charlie Squad quite well.
We listened out for the familiar crump of heavy ordinance exploding in the near distance and imagined the two MiG’s then screaming skywards, seeking safety in altitude, but it never came.
Some guys hurriedly started digging foxholes; others still preferred to believe the fighters wouldn’t be back.
Perhaps it’s the nature of conditioning that comes with having lived in constant danger, but on 33 Charlie, Frik De Jager was barely roused from his sleep by the din of the fly-by, and gunner Gary Pearman-White continued to attend his breakfast preparations.
We couldn’t hear the MiG’s at all now. Nonetheless, a guy was despatched to climb a tree to try catch a glimpse of the warplanes and give us early warning if the nippy bastards came back.
… 120 seconds.
Now, some guys were digging furiously, others calling in the near-miss on radio net.
During Operation Modular, our standing orders were to avoid wherever possible swatting at these annoying mosquitoes with our outdated double-barrelled 20mm Ystervaark (Iron-Pig) anti-aircraft weapons in preference to letting the UNITA boys have a go with their American shoulder-launched Stinger missiles (each with its own complementary CIA minder).
Far as we knew, neither 20mm Ystervark nor black American’s with Stingers were anywhere near us that morning. We were on our own.
But then again, had the pilots really spotted us? Surely they were long gone by now weren’t they? It had been more than 30 seconds since fly-past.
We realised now that our deep tyre tracks must’ve been like a beacon in the sand to the jets’ pilots, indicating the precise point we turned in for cover within the tree-line. We were however, quite unaware of a single vehicle bumbling along the same bush track our convoy had been using 15-20 minutes before. It seems someone else was en route, just a couple clicks to our six, still churning up dust!
Angolan radio intercepts later confirmed the two Cuban pilots were indeed heading for the dust-churning laggard.
… 60 seconds.
Rossouw, Adams and Mills were on the adjacent side of their vehicle deciding whether or not to crank up an esbit fire lighter and get back to making coffee.
At 33 Charlie, Pearman-White walked round to the left hand side water tank (standing inside the ‘U’ shaped pocket) to grab a drink. On realising his left tank was empty he stood up and headed round the rear of his Ratel and back toward the right-hand side (now on the outside of the ‘U’ shaped pocket) then stooped to take a drink from the right-hand water tank located between the two large rear wheels.
… 30 seconds.
Corrie was some way off yakking with pals.
Herb Zeelie and I stood some ten or fifteen metres to the right of our vehicle, near the centre of that little three vehicle ‘U’ shaped pocket at the tail of the visgraad, still ill at ease, still ruminating over risk of return, ears straining for the slightest sound.
3-400 metres up front of our visgraad formation, guys were busying themselves with cammo nets.
Four point five seconds.
Then it happened!
Fast!
They were on an identical flight-path, maybe ten or twenty metres higher altitude, not much more.
This time we spotted them earlier. Time slowed down like it did that time with the RPG coming at my head, maybe even more so with this sight, if that’s at all possible.
Four seconds.
I was transfixed for what seemed an eternity as two parachutes blossomed then snapped to full size 40-50 metres above the ground, 200-250 metres directly ahead of Herb and I.
Three point five seconds.
The red and white panelled parachutes seemed as large as those used by our Parabats, but that’s where the similarities ended; each of them supported half-a-ton of dangerously high explosive, and they were hurtling toward us at very high speed!
Fighter jets were long gone, and of no concern.
Didn’t need to be a Isaac Newton to work out detonation would be observed five seconds after such fiendishly low-altitude release.
Three seconds.
We stared slack-jawed at the surreal scene unfolding in the patch of blue sky visible through the canopy. I even had time for a quick thought: “Hey! We didn’t get taught about bombs with parachutes attached to them, did we?” Then again, maybe we did, and I just wasn’t paying attention that particular day at School of Armour, we’d never need this info …
Then the parachutes were less than 100 metres up-range, slowing rapidly.
There wasn’t time for sightseeing but apparently my brain found time to mull over the new discovery: “ … bombs are deployed with parachutes and, moreover, the manufacturer has taken the trouble to design a chute with red and white silk panels for his Communist client, Impressive.”
From the chutes’ initial trajectory and velocity my brain, working at Cray super-computer speed, deduced that the ‘thousand pounders’ had been released too late and would cruise overhead before detonating harmlessly in the forest behind us, at our six.
However, as their chutes ‘bit into the air’ and bomb velocity bled off rapidly, it eventually dawned on me the retarded payload’s trajectory was also altering. Gravity combined with lower velocity and begun dragging the payload onto a new heading, one which might very well lead them close to the very spot where Herb and I were standing.
My world, and everything in it, shrunk down to just those two bombs and me, Herb and the Ratel.
Two point five seconds.
They were! Now they were fucking definitely headed right at us, but I couldn’t just stand there and wait to be vaporised!
Two seconds.
As if waking from a dream, “Cover!!” I grabbed Herb by the arm, sprinted, almost dragging him, over the heavy dune-like sand back to the protection of our Ratel. Other guys who’d seen the parachutes and bombs knew the danger and frantically sought cover wherever they could. Every man for himself.
Guys further up the formation watched helplessly as the bombs shot past them just overhead.
One second.
The right-side vehicle door had been left open. That was fortunate. I shoved Herb inside and followed immediately, simultaneously dragging the heavy steel door shut behind us. Wide-eyed, we stared at each other as we awaited moment of impact …
Zero.
A flash lit up the inside of our Ratel, the explosion’s concussive force thumped our lungs, tugged at our skin, rocked the 18-ton vehicle and buckled all three steel engine-firewalls (though we only realised this later). 32 Alpha bucked as she bore the brunt of the massive explosion. A storm of shrapnel blasted her metal body.
Our brains, overwhelmed by the ferocity of the onslaught of sound were, for an instant, overloaded.
One second.
Everything was still, except for a loud, high-pitched ringing in my eardrums.
Two seconds.
Stunned, shocked, disoriented, Herb and I stared at each other in utter disbelief. By some miracle we seem to have survived hell.
Our new vehicle, 32 Alpha the 2nd, had just earned her place on the team. Incredibly she’d saved us from a ton of high explosive detonating only metres from us, sustaining nothing more than a few bruises.
Four seconds.
“Help … help … ”
An urgent plaintive cry from outside snapped us back into action and on opening the door we’re confronted with a scene of utter carnage and, still Cray Computing, immediately evaluated the devastation that lay before us.
Five seconds.
Wayne’s Ratel, 33 Charlie, some fifteen metres down-range of my position, had been perpendicular, directly in line with and just in front of ground zero.
Six seconds.
The 18-ton Ratel had been blown askew liked a toy truck kicked over by a careless kid.
Eight seconds.
As we ran towards the damaged Ratel, the black splashes I’d noticed on Charlie’s bodywork revealed themselves as hideous, misshapen holes, some larger than a clenched fist. Massive chunks of shrapnel tore right through her half-inch thick steel left flank.
The area immediately surrounding 33C was a scene of total devastation; foliage and bark had been stripped from trees for about 40 metres down-range. And this, as it turned out, was the reason we’d survived the cataclysm; the majority of force radiated away from ground zero in a kind of ‘V’ shape. The point of impact marked by two large craters a few metres short of 33 Charlie, only a few paces from the spot Herb and I were standing 15 seconds earlier, but because 32 Alpha was almost perpendicular to ground zero, she was a few metres outside the ‘V’.
Time was still moving super-slowly but, very quickly, the rest of the day became a blur.
We later estimated the two explosions shunted the 18-ton Ratel between 5 and 10 metres, sideways! Both MiG’s dropped a brace of 500kg bombs but one pilot released his ordinance a second too late and it detonated harmlessly some 300 metres down range, while the more well-targeted ton of high explosive that floated in like a butterfly stung the ground just short, and towards the rear, of 33 Charlie’s left flank. Some say we were also fired on with buzz-saw 23mm’s as well, Cray, it seems, was too busy to be aware of this.
Photo 42 Gunner Mackinnon standing in one of two MiG-made craters at ground zero on 8 October. (Len M. Robberts)
On the opposite side of our little three vehicle pocket, Wayne Mills and Warren Adams had sought cover on the ground beneath their vehicle and seen shrapnel take out one of their tyres but because they too were outside the ‘V’ shaped bomb dispersal pattern they came to no serious harm.
Only 33 Charlie was fully down range of impact and well inside the arms of the ‘V’ blast pattern – she and her crew never stood a chance.
Twelve seconds.
Like shell-shocked holocaust survivors, guys nearby began emerging from their places of refuge while others, from vehicles further up range, came running towards us.
Then we heard again that plaintive cry, this time clearly coming from the opposite side of 33 Charlie.
As we rounded the rear of 33 Charlie the full horror of FAPLA’s MiG strike unfolded. Two guys were lying prone on the ground next to 33C, both very badly injured.
We assumed they’d either taken refuge inside or behind the vehicle but this had offered woefully inadequate protection against two half-tonners. Even the steel door had been blown clean off its hinges; the boys were in deep shit!
It appears Gary and Frikkie didn’t know the bombs were dropping. In the seconds that elapsed from ‘bombs away’ to detonation, there was too little time to react, and if unsighted and only relying on the sound of jets overhead, would have given them perhaps a three-second warning but none whatsoever of the deadly silent parachutes floating towards them.
The butterfly bombs made no discernible sound as they floated in, certainly not enough to be heard over the rapidly receding roar of the two MiG’s.
It is probable the two crewmen believed the second flyby to have been just that, another harmless over-flight. Having seen the MiG’s flash over the roof of their vehicle and disappear over the close horizon, they probably believed the danger was past, just grateful the MiG’s hadn’t strafed us.
The silence betrayed them. With only three seconds to impact, everyone was scrambling for cover – except them.
Frik De Jager sat, or lay, in the rear cabin while Gary Pearman-White leaned closer to the water tap to take another sip, apparently oblivious to the impending danger.
At one second before impact, Herb and I assumed the foetal position inside our Ratel; Warren and Wayne bit the dirt; Gary and Frik were just chilling – and then their world erupted in a cataclysmic force of such magnitude I struggle to describe, or even imagine, their experience.
Sure, they were shielded from the blast’s full force by their vehicle, and had Gary stayed on the left side water tap he would’ve been pasted over his Ratel’s flank because even as it was, on the right side, a Ratel proved woefully inadequate so close to ground zero and so deep inside the ‘V’. Chance had put them in the wrong place.
Mill’s earlier decision to visit Adams was the difference between helping his friends live, or being another one of our brothers lying in agony on the sand. Anyone or anything inside the ‘V’ would’ve been fighting for life – unless they’d been in a deep foxhole.
Under Dion Cragg’s guidance we began triage, initially tending their wounds right where they’d fallen next to the wrecked vehicle. The Doctor who had temporarily been assigned to ride with Charlie arrived carrying his heavy medical kit and quickly took charge.
Someone got on the radio, called in the strike and requested immediate cassevac.
We moved our vehicles, distributing them more deeply into the forest.
Gert Niemand, Tomey, Storey and Dries Rheeder stood watch on the roof of a Ratel, their R4 machine guns ready, like some tin-pot anti-aircraft installation. Although a feeble defence against the MiG’s, if they returned we had nothing to lose by using them; our stealth and cover was already betrayed by the smouldering Ratel, and anyway these guys needed to do something, anything to feel useful on a day when we could do nothing to defend ourselves or prevent what had just happened to us.
Pop, pop, pop … it sounded like the crackle of small-arms fire, a bit like the sound made when a bag of M&Ms (candy-covered chocolate sweets) are emptied onto a marble floor.
But ‘M&M’ popping heralded a new and unexpected twist; 33 Charlie’s ordinance was starting to cook-off – fires inside her cabin were growing in intensity and boxes of 7.62mm ammo were overheating and exploding.
We prepared to move Gary and Frikkie away from their stricken vehicle on a stretcher ride that would forever sear itself into my memory.
As I helped carry one of the stretchers, I was struck by the sight of a foot and leg bobble independently of each other.
A three-inch section of Gary’s lower leg was completely missing, just a strand of tendon connecting it to an otherwise perfectly intact foot.
Gary was in a lot of pain, screaming for his mother who, I was sure, had died when he was much younger.
It seemed, as they were blown backwards along with the Ratel, shrapnel had reached Gary and Frik two ways. Firstly, it had travelled through the open space under the vehicle between the two rear tyres, slowing imperceptibly as it collected the lower portion of Gary’s leg. Secondly – and this was harder for us to accept – shrapnel shredded 33C’s left flank like stones thrown through a large wet paper bag.
Some big chunks had continued unchecked to punch smaller holes through the opposite wall, Gary was peppered with tiny bomb fragments, his eyesight also at risk but, incredibly, no vital organs punctured.
Inside the cabin, happy go lucky Frik De Jager’s luck finally ran out on him as a swarm of angry shrapnel continued in and through him, some of it pinging off the opposite wall and catching him on the rebound. He had multiple organ damage, maybe his lungs were punctured too. He was already deathly pale and uncommunicative, maybe he never even knew what hit him.
Cragg hit the boys up with morphine, tended their wounds and called for blood from guys with matched blood groups (we all knew our blood group, it was also written clearly in thick felt tip permanent marker on our web-belt and stamped into our dog-tags, for moments just like this).
First we’d been hit by the Mozzies, and then the flies came. Attracted by the metallic tang of fresh blood oozing from countless puncture wounds in Frikkie and Gary’s bodies, they homed in on a feast!
A team of guys spent the day fanning away a never-ending swarm of flies from their friend’s wounds and blood soaked clothing, otherwise, within just two or three seconds, dark patches of flies would quickly form in tightly clustered islands around each wound, and there were a lot. Of flies and wounds.
A few other guys did catch a little shrapnel coming back from the ‘V’ but this was so insignificant in context it barely warrants a mention.
Didn’t take long for doc to run out of blood and plasma so some guys who were blood type-matched, got hooked up to transfuse blood directly into Pearman-White veins and De Jager’s near lifeless body.
Just as with Labuschagne six months earlier, there’d be no giving up on De Jager but the grim truth; there was no way to staunch so much internal bleeding in the field. Other than blood transfusion and pain relief it seemed there was very little that could be done for Frikkie, apart from making him comfortable and whispering big white lies … “Everything’s gonna be OK, you’re gonna be fine, just hang in there buddy … ” He was unresponsive, not in a coma, just incapable of communicating at all.
Both guys urgently required medical assistance and emergency surgery, but it wasn’t coming. Not yet.
SAAF flights couldn’t operate safely this deep in country during the daytime. We were advised to “ … sit tight, it’s impossible for our Alhouette helicopters to cassevac in such hot conditions … ”
They wouldn’t even scramble the Mirage fighters to cover us, the sanctions-limited stock of fighter jets more precious than a few grunts on the ground and, as we’d established, Mirage F1AZ could not match the MiG 23 killers we’d just encountered.
We had no choice but to wait it out until dusk.
A second enemy strike was considered likely but we were unwilling to move until our wounded boys had been shipped off to safety so we dug foxholes and prepared inadequate defences.
Doubtless jubilant Cuban pilots meanwhile made best speed back to Cuito Cuanevale calling in the successful strike, mentally notching up a kill. Another virgin kill?
Some good news followed about an hour after the strike. A Stinger missile was reported to have taken out one of the two planes. Quid pro quo motherfucker! Thanks Uncle SAM.
That, we hoped, would keep the Mozzies off our backs, for a while at least.
Of course not! FAPLA commanders seized the opportunity to inflict yet further damage and scrambled a Squadron of MiG’s to hit the convoy again.
The flurry of unusual activity at Cuito did not go unnoticed by forward UNITA and SADF reconnaissance teams near the garrison.
Incredibly, it seems, as the Squadron took off from Cuito, a SADF Ystervark 20mm AA battery scored their virgin, very first ever, direct hit on a fighter jet aircraft!
What incredible good luck for the Charlie convoy, the double-barrelled Ystervark clipped the MiG wing, prompting all four jets to return to base, one of them limping badly, ending the mission before it began, and in so doing, probably sparing Charlie a lot more pain and heartache.
The ammo in the burning 33C was beginning to crackle and pop with alacrity, at times blending into an unbroken cacophony of explosions, like a large city’s entire New Year’s Eve fireworks display accidentally firing off inside a shipping container. The internal fireball hungrily consumed thousands of machine-gun rounds in a chain reaction that begun to engulf 90mm ordinance in bomb racks.
When 90mm rounds eventually began to blow we maintained safe distance for about half an hour until it seemed all 71 bombs had cooked off, then Robberts and Sergeant Schidlowski – the only career soldier who’d been riding in convoy – drove a Samil water bunker alongside the doomed AFV in an attempt to extinguish the raging inferno.
While this was happening, we were unaware of a Squadron of MiG fighters taking off and then quickly landing again at Cuito. We knew rising oily smoke was a tempting beacon in the azure sky and likely to attract another attack, but we could at least be thankful that enemy ground-forces were headed north, if this incident had happened a week earlier, enemy gunners would’ve found us with their artillery within half-hour, easily.
By midday the firestorm in 33 Charlie’s belly was finally extinguished. It was astonishing to see her reduced to little more than a blackened steel box; pretty much everything familiar in the turret, including the steel-tube turret chassis, had melted like candles left too close to an open fire.
During the day we received an order to destroy the Ratel lest she end up in enemy hands.
Storm Pioneers attached to Charlie Squad, like Corporal’s Vorster and Briers, carried plastic explosives for times like this when shit needed blowing up, but there wasn’t much need for that here, 33 Charlie was by now useless to all but a scrap-metal merchant.
The only personal item Wayne Mills recovered from the conflagration was his shrapnel pitted arm patch with a single stripe denoting his rank, this he found in the dirt some distance from his dead vehicle.
When we discovered there’d be no cassevac until dusk, almost ten hours after attack, we were more than pissed off.
Regular doses of morphine kept the wounded boys relatively comfortable but Frikkie was slipping away from us, I didn’t think he’d be able to hang on long enough for the chopper to arrive. His shrapnel-riddled body had ballooned twice its normal size, a consequence of massive internal haemorrhaging.
Before dusk some of us set about preparing helicopter LZ then, on final approach we tossed coloured flares.
Even before the windstorm abated Frikkie was stretchered onto the recovery chopper.
As Gary’s stretcher slid in alongside he watched and wept as his friend and crewmate released one final sigh, and then, as the last flickering light of life was extinguished, permanently.
Frikkie’s drawn out death and Gary’s serious injuries, combined with the shock of the MiG attack itself probably made this our toughest day at war.
Learning of a comrade’s death on the field of battle had been painful enough, but watching that death slowly unfold over many hours took a far greater toll on morale, perhaps most especially for lads who’d shared a bungalow with them at Zeerust and then later a tent at Omuthiya.
For crew commander Wayne Mills, the shredded arm flash denoting his rank came to symbolise his reality – his rank, command and, critically his crew, had been shredded in an instant. The nineteen year old boy was devastated, probably never recovering from his loss.
We’d never felt quite so vulnerable, and though we understood and respected the difficulties faced by our air force, because they’d lost pilots to the enemy’s advanced anti-aircraft capabilities, we also thought, “ … so, we spend months in direct line of fire against superior weapons, for friend and for country, but when we get whacked you don’t wanna risk sending a fucking helicopter in?”
That shit is kinda hard to swallow at any age, let alone age 19!
We’d all heard the word about a MiG getting whacked that morning, “ … so why don’t they take a risk man?”
In the cold light of day, I knew Frikkie’s wounds were not survivable and a rapid evacuation would not have altered the final outcome for either him or Gary. But just like with the Labuschagne accident earlier in the year, you don’t give up on your guy, even if it seems all is lost, we had to fight and we HAD to be angry our people weren’t taking our concerns to heart. We’d have done anything for our boys.
Once the helicopter lifted off we mounted up and moved off into the early evening to complete our disaster-plagued task of escorting the convoy. Within the hour we reached TB and numbly attended normal procedures, setting cammo and digging foxholes.
The joy of surviving 1,000kg of explosive which floated in like a butterfly, and stung like a motherfucker, was hollow. There was little appetite for celebrating survival when the Squad itself had been so badly hurt.
Photo 43 1000 yard stare already evident among Charlie’s boys after the loss of Frikkie de Jager the previous day. (Len M. Robberts)
Charlie Squadron never felt quite the same after that day; any illusion of invincibility blown away in five deadly seconds, our innocence shattered forever.
Later that night some lads in Troop Two and Three approached me with a mini-revolt.
They really didn’t want to go into contact again, a sentiment I secretly shared, but despite my misgivings, I encouraged them to push on, honour our fallen friends by continuing the fight.
What the fuck did I know?
A few tears were shed, and for the first time during Modular I found myself needing to really cajole the guys to stay the course. We’d been through so much together without flinching, but somehow the brutality of one MiG attack had shocked us deeply, and now we knew … this is what it felt like to lose at war. We had dealt out so much more but now we got a taste for ourselves and it was fucking bitter, rancid in fact.
It would be nice to say I delivered some heroic William Wallace (Braveheart) rabble-rousing speech from atop my Ratel that night, but instead I spoke gently with my guys, reminding them we were still a proud team, the enemy got a lucky strike and we were very close to achieving our personal mission – to get home … alive.
If Troop One and Two had issues of lowered morale, Troop Three must’ve been totally fucked up! They were now at half-strength having lost a second crew in less than a week.
That night Ops Medic Dion Cragg expressed how he was feeling by writing a poem …
REMEMBRANCE (A HUMBLE TRIBUTE)
Hello son – welcome aboard
Fill in your name and pick up your sword
We’ll go on a journey – see parts of the world
Forget about your family, forget about your girl
I’ll look after you – never fear
You go on ahead – I’ll cover your rear
I’ll show you a land so tranquil and green
See how it bleeds under man and machine
Watch the ground soak up the blood
As we trample the damned into the mud
Hear them scream as they cover their heads
Fear and pain from bullets of lead
What about your friend – oh he did his duty
Just one of many but he was only a Looty
Yes the other – he nearly lost his eye
Well at least he isn’t going to die
Why do the men hide in the ground
Are they afraid of the clouds
But was that just thunder I heard
Or was it the roar of a metal bird
Don’t worry son I know how you feel
You’ll get used to the mingling of flesh and steel
What now – you want to go home
But you can’t leave me your leader all alone
Dion Stuart Cragg, 8 October 1987
Waiting for us at TB that evening were two Lieutenants sent to replace Charlie’s missing officers.
[No recollection of replacement officers joining Charlie. In my bomb-scarred memory of the remaining seven weeks on Operation Modular, I retained responsibility for Troop Two throughout. No disrespect to either man but it’s quite remarkable I have no memory at all of this change. It seems very few memories survive the period at war after 8 October 1987, but I shall endeavour to recount the retained few. There were scary days that followed, but again I recollect very little of these. Perhaps a ‘shield of armour’ I’d been laying down to protect the young kid since Basic Training has just become a few inches thicker.]