The Rumble in the Jungle (Tank Ambush of the 16th Brigade)
The Angolan war had now become a lot more personal, some seemed inured to the idea of killing more enemy combatants. It was easy to believe, somehow, that their lives didn’t count as highly as ours. Perhaps this was the point of training and team building, it was mental and physical conditioning intended to produce human weapons capable of ending life without hesitation, without compunction.
Violence and death compartmentalised, locked away in dark places deep in the recesses of human psyche; this might explain why some cultures and societies become, or are, more bloodthirsty than others. I think this is known as ‘environmental conditioning’.
Charlie Squad had become conditioned to the violence of warfare, even if we didn’t know it.
Before sunrise 9th October we were on the move again, this time only moving a few clicks east of the main body of 61 Mech’s TB.
The journey was uneventful and safely navigated.
Overnight, a replacement Battalion Dominee (Church Minister) joined Charlie Squad for a few days to offer prayer and support to the bereft lads.
The civilian priest had just begun a one-month Citizen Force ‘Camp’, part of a legal requirement imposed on all former National Servicemen. Camps didn’t always run as long as a month and very seldom dropped participants directly into the cauldron of conflict. This was his first full day on the job, he was understandably eager to help mend the broken-spirited boys of Charlie, so he offered to conduct a Memorial service for Adrian Hind, Frikkie De Jager and all the other boys so badly wounded.
Sergeant Schidlowski and his echelon support crew, set about preparing a makeshift pulpit in a clearing about 80 metres from the Squadron’s laager and, given the events of the previous day, dug a good sized foxhole adjacent the pulpit. Normally a Sergeant would assign an underling such a menial task, but perhaps helping prepare ‘facilities’ for the boys’ memorial service gave him a deeper sense of contribution to, and control of, the event – a profound contrast to 24 hours earlier. Or perhaps this was just his way of saying goodbye to Frikkie.
The Memorial service was scheduled for 14:00.
As we ambled towards Schidlowski’s carefully prepared ‘Church’ the sky was ripped apart once more!
One second.
The deafening roar of supersonic jets at treetop height spiked adrenaline as we hit the ground, our eyes searching for incoming ordinance.
Two seconds.
The minister was next to react – he dived into his newly carved foxie, swiftly followed by six or seven guys, almost crushing the poor bloke.
Five seconds.
Still hugging the ground, tight as possible.
Silence.
Six seconds.
Just as we’re thinking: “Groundhog Day, they’re coming back”, a laugh erupted as someone realised they were just a pair of Mirage fighters.
Much later, radio contact with command confirmed this.
Bit fucking late, mate! The Mirage had been on final approach to bomb 59th Brigade just over the river from us.
We normally got the ‘heads-up’ whenever friendly aircraft were passing nearby, but once again the warning system had failed, though this time the painful consequences of an airborne attack were experienced by the opposition team north of our position.
To his credit, the Minister pulled himself together and gave a moving tribute to our lost and injured brothers.
Then just as the Memorial service was being wrapped up, the familiar whistling of incoming projectiles getting louder warned of incoming rocket fire. The swooshing sound made by a swarm of Stalin Organ Multiple Rocket warheads streaking through the sky was unmistakeable.
There was a good chance FAPLA’s artillery would miss. They usually did. As yet it was impossible to pinpoint their precise trajectory but they were definitely heading somewhere near us.
Four seconds.
“No, fuck that! Take cover!”
We were still near the ‘Church’, our foxholes in the laager too far, no room in Schidlowski’s rapidly repopulated pit adjacent the priest’s pulpit.
They were much closer now.
Three seconds.
We sprinted to find anything that resembled a ditch or hole to throw ourselves into, and for the second time in two days we found ourselves under enemy attack, without foxholes.
The swooshing was louder, much closer!
Two seconds.
It was always hard to tell exactly where the missiles would strike. Those of us without a ditch, knowing the music was about to stop, launched ourselves into tyre-ruts in the soil.
“They’re about to hit!”
One second.
Still frantically digging, squirming, trying to push ourselves deeper into the soil like a giant earthworm performing ‘eyelash excavations’.
Zero.
The thunder-like rumbling of high explosives detonating in the nearby forest for about ten seconds rolled over us as more than 50 telephone pole sized rockets detonated 2-300 metres east of our position.
We also learned this was the first time chemical weapons had been deployed against us. Fortuitously, the rockets struck downwind of our position.
As soon as the rumbling died down we returned to our vehicles and relocated the Squadron post haste.
The day after this attack, Bremer gathered the Squad together to prepare us for chemical warfare. Gas masks were issued which we practised putting on during a mock gas attack, using real tear gas.
The enemy, it seemed, were getting desperate if they were resorting chemical warfare.
Intelligence was now confirming the wholesale withdrawal of FAPLA forces.
On the ground, there was still uncertainty as to whether SADF would chase the retreating FAPLA or allow them to run home tail between legs. It was thought among our lads that the latter was a more likely scenario.
However, the dramatic turn of events on 3 October presented new opportunities for big cheeses. The imminent arrival of ‘fresh as daisies’ 4 SAI, and E-Squad Tanks would more than double our mechanised presence in theatre, so it must’ve been tempting for them to imagine that the phenomenal achievements by 61 and 32 Battalions, with light Infantry support of 101 Battalion and UNITA, would be overshadowed once heavyweight Olifant tanks came into play. This enhanced force offered the potential to inflict permanent and lasting damage on the wider Communist threat to the whole region, so with the original brief of repelling the enemy at Lomba achieved, the goal posts were shifted and this then became our new objective, the new big prize.
Photo 44 Trying new gas masks for size. These were delivered after intelligence reports warned of possible further chemical warfare attacks. (Len M. Robberts)
The wider geopolitical situation at the end of ’87 would surely have also influenced the decision to extend Operation Modular objectives.
Castro’s forces, despite the assistance of their powerful allies, were ‘all-in’, but on the back foot while the government in South Africa were probably seeking to strengthen their internationally unpopular grip on power. What’s more, it probably wouldn’t help the provincial situation if five or six enemy Brigades were to garrison at Cuito during the wet season – they’d be banging on UNITA’s front door as soon as the ground started drying out in February/March ’88. This threat was real and perhaps too serious to ignore.
Two days after the MRL gas attack, new orders confirmed our suspicions – fucking goalposts were being shifted! The temptation to cause FAPLA lasting damage had proved too great for big cheese to ignore. Our new mission: chase retreating FAPLA forces, frustrate their progress while reinforcements (4 SAI) move into theatre.
The plan, it seemed, was to prevent retreating forces from crossing the Cuito River some 80 clicks north, and reaching the relative safety of Cuito Cuanevale.
For almost two weeks BG Alpha engaged a deadly cat-n-mouse chase with 59th Brigade while plans were drawn up to confront the remaining four enemy Brigades in an area south of Cuito, toward the top of the ‘pocket’. This was a period of strict night-time disciplines and frequent disconnection from supply lines.
16th Brigade, who’d been dug in NNE of the Lomba crossing, were at the vanguard of the pocket’s eastern corridor moving northward to hold a strategically useful position in support of the retreating 21st Brigade. To achieve our recently extended objectives, this tactical move by enemy forces needed to be countered by SADF, but with insufficient ground forces in the arena, plans were drawn up to insert a regiment from 1 Parachute Battalion behind enemy lines. This force would join with ground forces in disrupting and slowing the retreat of 16th Brigade
As we chased 59th our supply lines became precariously stretched out over territory that until very recently had been FAPLA’s stomping ground. Now, landmines were added to the smorgasbord of deadly threats.
Without access to logistical support we had to make do with our remaining supplies. I don’t want to infer that we starved during this phase but rations ran low enough that even the least favoured foods were eaten. Smokers ran out of stocks too and in desperation a few guys smoked animal dung.
When the Sergeant finally caught up with us a fortnight later, we washed our foul bodies under a ‘shower’ from the taps of a brim-full water bunker, a cause for much celebration in the stifling heat of an early African summer.
Threat levels remained stubbornly high but no-one died during this phase of the chase.
Then, without warning, we were ordered to break off pursuit and got given four or five day’s respite from frontline action.
4 SAI was apparently close enough to take up the chase while battle-weary 20 Brigade was rested before the next phase. Known as ‘The Chambinga Gallop’, this was in effect a race to gain control of strategic high ground in an area known as Chambinga near the Cuito river. Dominance of this area would be a significant tactical advantage to whichever side controlled it.
SADF began the chase almost a week behind FAPLA, we needed to slow them down hence the planned Parachute Battalion’s night strike and ongoing harassment by our Artillery, who never got time off.
Summer rains were imminent, and once the deluge began in earnest the typically sandy Angolan terrain would become impassable for mechanised warfare. The race was therefore against two enemies – FAPLA and the tropical wet season.
It never quite made sense that 61 Mech were granted time off from the chase but perhaps big cheese thought we were shell-shocked and needed respite if we were ever to be of any further value.
After two solid nights in the saddle, we arrived at an old logistics base some 30 clicks south of Lomba River.
Captain Cloete immediately made a big noise about having a bath as soon as we arrived that morning and ordered Schidlowski to set about heating a drum of water.
A bathing area was created near the rear of Cloete’s command vehicle – a hole dug in the ground lined with a plastic bivvy; a most perfect bush-bath in fairly tranquil surroundings. I’m sure our Captain deserved a treat given all the hardship’s he’d endured.
The Squad Sergeant was one of the most rustig (chilled) PF guys we’d ever encountered, but we never got to spend much time together during the operation ‘cos he was normally ferrying in and out with a convoy of supplies before returning south to replenish.
Soon after arriving at the logistics base/holiday camp, Sarge called Charlie’s Troop Sergeants together and ordered, nay, compelled, the three of us, to urinate into the drum of water he was heating for Captain Cloete’s bath.
Photo 45 Bremer enjoying one of the luxuries afforded us on our break from the frontline. (Len M. Robberts)
By now, well-conditioned as we were to following orders, we complied unquestioningly, putting every last drop of effort into our task. We may even have helped raise the temperature of Cloete’s bathwater.
Unfortunately, he shaved and brushed his teeth from the very same warm water.
[I’m not sure I’m proud of this revelation, however the insight is interesting in context.]
Later that day, NCOs and officers received a ‘formal’ invite to dine with the Captain at his vehicle. The three of us wondered if we’d been found out, Cloete would’ve been more than a little pissed-off had he learned the truth about his bush-spa’s secret, anti-aging ingredient, but I’m not entirely sure what kind of punishment he could’ve meted out even if he had known.
When we arrived for his dinner party that evening, Cloete looked fresh and rejuvenated, youthful even. Not too bad for a 25 year old.
To his credit he’d secured some quality wet rations and I felt a bit like Oliver Twist arriving at a sumptuous all-you-can eat buffet laid on by Fagin.
During our stay at the holiday camp we had a pep talk from, none other than, Army Chief, General Jannie Geldenhuis.
I only recall one phrase “ … the battle on October third, causing the destruction of 47th Brigade at Lomba River represents the single greatest battle victory in SADF history!”
Fuckin-hell bru!
We thought we’d done something pretty special that day, and here, three-weeks later, the really big cheese was crowing about it. However, celebrations were hollow, by this stage we cared less about major victories than we did over the untimely loss of our friends, moreover, we’d been pulled from the fire and the longer we were out the further fear began seeping deeper into chinks in our armour. We were scared this could happen again, a prospect that was all too real now SADF was fully committed to further overt action.
A few days later, rested and clean(er), we prepared to mount up and return once more to the frontline. At about the same time 1 Parachute Battalion was making final preparations for Operation Firewood, but we were oblivious to this ‘need to know’ detail.
Word was we’d soon be deployed in integrated formation alongside the Olifant in battle. Frightening!
“Fuck! Imagine going in with a Squadron of Olifant MBTs alongside us! If those Russian Tanks got taken out by our Ratels, they’ll get properly annihilated by the Olifant boys! Bring it on!”
Two days back in the saddle heading north, almost into the middle of the ‘pocket’ now, we arrived near advance SADF units including E-Squad Tankers who’d stopped because they were lost.
David steered us between the stationary beasts, I was looking for one call-sign in particular, Five Zero – Last I heard, my mate Greg Hodges was still gunner on Echo Squadron’s command tank. I spotted my target and guided my driver alongside Five Zero (50), I pulled off my helmet, jumped down off my turret and clambered up onto the Olifant.
With broad grin on my face, I whispered to Major Retief to hop out so I could surprise my mate who, I’d had it confirmed, was sitting in the gunner’s chair deep in the beast’s bowels.
I leaned down over the turret rim and startled him by slapping his helmet. Despite retaining so few memories from this period of my time at war, I always retained this one, partly I think because the shocked look on Hodges clean shaven face was so memorable – it took him several long seconds to work out the identity of the wild-haired dirty creature staring down at him – and partly because, seeing South African Tanks for the first time really boosted my morale. These powerful machines promised to give us a significant advantage on the ground. I knew we could hold our own, we had combat experience, and scars, to show for it, but these leviathans surely held the key to total battle field domination.
It had been 40 years since South African tanks killed enemy MBT in combat and Echo Squad boys were, they said, primed and ready to break their drought but, unsurprisingly, these boys were somewhat less willing to engage in dialogue involving the number of days it had been since their weaker cousin, Ratel 90, killed enemy MBT.
Their circus moved on to a different objectives directly after this encounter. Two weeks later my mates from Echo Squadron would meet us again, but this time under very different circumstances.
About two weeks before this brush with E-Squad Tankers, 61 Mech was united as a single fighting entity once more, this time Bravo Company was given the honour of leading the formation as we ‘stalked’ up behind elements of 59th Brigade, the same guys that had been loitering at the river had retreated all the way back to Catato Woods about 50 clicks north of Lomba.
32 Alpha gereed (made ready), not very happy, but very ready.
I made my usual pre-fight preparations: put on clean, army-issue underwear, Tank-suit, checked weapons and psyched up my Troop.
After a normal early morning start our convoy made steady progress over fairly easy terrain following distinctive tracks freshly minted by at least one T-55.
After a time the broad track markings disappeared into what looked like a solid wall of 10ft tall foliage. The guys were concerned about entering the forest without knowledge of what lay ahead, nevertheless we pushed on, forward into the unknown.
The formation went in two-by-two, the eight 90mm Anti-tank detachment of Bravo Company up front.
Guys were chattering on comm’s. At driver eye-level, visibility was less than five metres. Herb opened his hatch to take a peek at the weird surroundings. “How thick is this wall of frikkin bush Corporal, it’s much darker than usual.” He was blind through his sights.
My mind began to play tricks. I imagined us to be very near enemy forces but unable to hear them above the noise of our machines. Were they there, just ahead?
My eyes searched for signs of enemy soldiers I would not have seen even if they’d lain in wait three metres or more to my left. We rolled slowly forwards until we became totally ensconced in the densest most unusual flora we’d encountered in Angola. I was uneasy and nervous but made every effort not to let it show in my voice during radio exchanges with other crews. The uneasiness in their voices evidence they too were anxious to emerge from this bizarre ‘Honey I Shrunk The Kids’ scene in which our battle group had been shrunk down to the size of a toy army lost in a long neglected overgrown weed-entangled garden.
After fifteen minutes of slow progress the visibility got even worse, if that were possible! We were so totally enveloped, completely blinded by what is best described as a forest of four metre tall timber fingers with the appearance of giant Twiglets (a wheat-based snack that looks like a thin knobbly twig).
Everything was brown and dead-looking, even the harsh African sun could barely penetrate the deep gloom where millions of these strange ‘fingers’ were so tightly clustered together we could see no further than the tip of my 90mm barrel.
Ratel had no difficulty flattening the freaky flora as we crept forward, twigs snapping easily, before disappearing beneath her angled, armour-plated nose, leaving in her wake a clear passage for following vehicles.
Every second seemed to last ten, and the feeling of being in imminent danger from an unseen threat was akin to scuba diving in the murky waters off South Africa’s east coast, visibility near zero, but you feel a dozen sharks are circling just out of view.
The vehicles to our right were out of sight but, by standing high in the turret, I could see 32 Bravo’s whip-antennae, there were no vehicles to my left. The vehicle behind was some 20-30m off my stern.
It was slow going and quite stressful, thirty minutes since entering gloom forest (Catato Woods) we’d probably only made about five or six hundred metres.
BOOM!!!
A single, large unseen explosion erupted nearby. My adrenaline level spiked.
The radio crackled. Cloete was angry. “All vehicles halt! Who fired that round?” A flurry of negative responses came from crew commanders in double-quick succession.
Had Bravo Company’s lead vehicles tripped a land mine, or provoked an ambush? They were still in two-up formation and apparently could not identify any clear targets, nor deploy in an offensive formation in such thick bush. It seems they had little choice but to withdraw.
In response to the threat, Cloete immediately ordered a number of Charlie Squad guns to provide a defensive cordon to cover the withdrawal.
Immediately, I ordered Corrie to push out wider toward our left flank and we rushed forward blindly into unseen danger. With no small serving of trepidation we cut a line through some 30 or 40 metres of dense shrubbery, absolutely bricking it, maintaining close lateral formation with one adjacent vehicle.
I ordered David stop, the other vehicle in Troop Two that had followed my move pulled alongside 32 Alpha, and together we held the left across what had just become a narrow 100 meter-wide front, but we were blind, and unmoving.
BOOM! A second shot rang out.
We’d approached a killing zone blind, unable to retaliate against an invisible enemy who might be anywhere. Meantime, the boys at the centre of Charlie’s defensive cordon reported seeing Bravo boys rushing backwards “ … pale in the face”.
Whatever they’d encountered it couldn’t have been very pretty, although I only really recalled hearing one shot, the second and possibly more shots never reached my conscious brain. Reports from participants are confusing.
We waited for what seemed an age for an order to open fire or retreat. Zeelie had a round up the spout, obviously.
We were primed and prepared to shoot, but even if that order was given we’d be firing blindly into a spaghetti of twigs and branches. In this thicket there was always a chance we’d start shooting each other. We waited, expecting another enemy shot, or volley.
Finally the order came: “ … pull back in overlapping jumps.”
Once Charlie began its withdrawal we reversed in coordinated 50 metre jumps in concert with Bravo until finally exiting the forest of twigs where we swung through 180 degrees and hightailed out of there, unscathed.
There were obvious questions but few clear answers following the near-disaster in the twig forest.
We were told we’d driven blindly into an enemy tank ambush, apparently a Squadron of T-55s was formed in a ‘U’ shaped pocket just ahead of our position. The two speculative shots fired served as an early warning which undoubtedly saved lives, the weird forest had both hindered and shielded us. Both teams went home unscathed.
Battalion commanders were viscerally unhappy at being forced to engage mechanised forces in such heavily forested terrain. Bok Smit voiced his displeasure to the big cheese. He was relieved of his post.
Seems an odd time to remove the head coach of one of your star teams, such a ignificant change in management could’ve impacted on the final outcome of the Operation, it’s hard to know.
Then SADF suffered its single biggest setback of the entire Operation, certainly in terms of lives lost. The action to get Para’s behind enemy lines and create havoc (Operation Firewood against 16th Brigade) was a total fuck-up! The boys rode right into an ambush in the dark.
Unsurprisingly, the 16th Brigade did everything they could to neutralise the threat leading to one of the most intense and bloody fire-fights on our side of the Angolan war.
That any of the men, including my school pal Carl Robberts, survived the ambush is testament to the quality of our soldiers, their training and an innate human desire to survive against the odds often prevalent in soldiers of this calibre, but that one disastrous night cost fifteen young South African soldiers their lives, including that of a school mate, Hughes De Rose, and one other of my alma mater, Raymond Light – young lives extinguished far too soon.
The survivors fought through hell to make good their escape. Some of fallen were only recovered later the next day.