SPUTNIK & the SPY

SPUTNIK & THE SPY

copious imbibing madness from Air Force Base Rundu Sector 20 South West Africa 1988/89
Timeline: 03 August 1988 to 13 April 1989
.Basics to Border.

I matriculated from school in December 1987 and was ready for my compulsory military service of two years to begin on the 3rd of august 1988. I was in the second call up period and i was super stoked and could barely wait to get into military uniform and embark on an adventure. The 7 months i had to play with between January and august were spent “training” really hard for my new career in the military. I partied till i sometimes puked and drank like there was no tomorrow and when tomorrow came i shrugged the hangover off and launched a fresh attack . The women , wine and song ROCKED!

The 3rd of august rolled around and i had my call up papers in pocket and was sitting on the train at Johannesburg station readying to depart for basic training at Valhalla air force gymnasium. Basics in the air force was a run of the mill affair, there was the running, marching and esteem breaking/ building tasks necessary to build a soldier fit to be part of the greatest army in the world. That was the handle the military played and i accepted this to be the truth. I started off as G1 K1 ( fully fit and able bodied) but after a week i was re classified to G3 K2 ( not entirely medically fit) this was due to an accident i had been involved in as a young child leaving me with a foot that had a collapsing arch and was two sizes different from the other. I wore a size ten shoe regardless and the sliding around of my stunted foot had aggravated my scar and so i was duly reclassified to the “bomb squad” the name used to denote the G3 squadron at the Valhalla gymnasium. Not all our G3 compatriots were crocks, we had in our ranks a professional national tennis player and golfer, they were sent to the G3 squadron to prevent injuries and impede their game. Anyways G3 was a doddle and a shorter basics program than the G1 K1 program. We were situated conveniently at the bottom of the base and our bungalow was adjacent to the perimeter wall. This allowed us easy access in and out of the base to get to the liquor store and local Kentucky Fried Chicken a few blocks away in the neighbourhood. Having a dad that worked as an area manager for a booze company also had its benefits. I had a very lucrative “business” running during basics supplying all and sundry with booze at a premium price. The guys happily paid two to three times the cost for the booze i had to sell. Our basics open day (the day when family came to visit) was a particularly drunken affair as the guys were allowed to drink at the beer garden and obviously it all went pear shaped quickly. Once my pals had left and my then active girlfriend ,i embarked on the planning of a cunning plan to go AWOL and spend the weekend with her. Over a few beers we (my two fellow inmates and i ) had laid our plans out and gone through our very sophisticated escape and evasion plan. We were basically going to jump the perimeter wall and run like hell through the field along side air force base Zwatkops across the road and hike along the highway. Brilliantly cunning plan i thought. That night the three of us hopped the wall and ran swaying side to side through the veld, the swaying was not a diversionary tactic so much as simply the inability to walk in a straight line due to the copious amounts of beer and whisky we had consumed. We eventually were given a lift by two permanent force members going to Johannesburg on leave, they were driving a Toyota Cressida and had the cassette tape of U2`s the Joshua tree playing. The song that was playing when we got in was “I still haven`t found what i am looking for”, which is still in my personal top 20 all time favourite songs. We were dropped off in Hillbrow and legged it to the rendezvous point we had arranged with our “outsider”. The outsider was the brother of my compatriot and worked as a DJ at a club called KISS DISCO. It was a seriously dubious dive but the beer flowed freely and the females keen to dance with us AWOL renegades. Things get a tad fuzzy and my recollection fades. I awoke the next morning though in bed with my girlfriend. Apparently my buddies had dropped me off at her place in the early hours of the morning. Her name was Charlene and was a belter of note, her mother was a hard core Christian but seemed to really like me and did not seem at all phased by me being there in her daughters bed in the morning, she brought me coffee and welcomed me with a big smile. On return to Valhalla we slipped over the wall and rejoined our flight ( air force equivalent of the army platoon). Monday morning was hell, the hangover was ringing in my head like a cathedral bell being rung by Quasi Modo! Then came the daily “opvok” PT session designed to expressly destroy mind body and spirit, add this to a hangover of biblical proportions and you have an effective torture ritual. We were lined up and then asked to volunteer our names as to who had gone AWOL over the weekend. The silence of the lambs fell over the entire squadron as thoughts of punishment and other horrid means of punishment ran amok in our minds. A few of the wankers in the squadron decided to volunteer some names of their pals who had gone AWOL, these good citizens were told to go and sit under the shaded tree. To avoid being pimped by my supposed comrades i stood forward and told the Sergeant present that i had indeed gone AWOL. I was soon joined by a few others. The Sergeant then handed over proceedings to the PTI corporal in charge and he read a list of names of those not present at Sundays roll call. Those names were sent to stand in another place and the small group of us that had admitted our guilt were asked by a particularly gnarly corporal “ did you guys have fun?” we all muttered that we indeed did have a fucking fantastic time. He congratulated us and dismissed us and sent us back to our bungalow. The “pimps” were then hustled off from their shaded tree and taken to the parade ground where they spent the remainder of the day being suitably punished for dropping their mates in the shit. Those that weren’t man enough to fess up were given the remainder of basics “mess hall duty”, we all hated mess duty. Peeling veggies and serving up food like a servant to the rest of the guys. We learned our first real lessons in camaraderie that day.

Our basics was shorter than the G1 K1 and thus were busy with our second phase (course) within our varying fields. Some were sent to air force security, some to intelligence, others to be mess hall bunnies and i was off to ops course. I was super stoked as i was going to be doing something more meaningful than peeling carrots all day. We were ferried daily to Pretoria central where we learned all about flight plans and related procedures that we would be using soon. I had volunteered to go directly to the border and was told one morning that i was to go off to air force base Rundu in Sector 20 in South West Africa after completion of the course. Once again i was super stoked and i celebrated that evening at a bar in Voortrekker Hoogte after once again jumping the wall. It was October when i boarded the Hercules C130 transport plane (flossie) and left for Rundu and the adventure of a lifetime serving our country in what was still war time. Life in Rundu was grand and i thoroughly enjoyed the whole idea of being on the border. We as airmen ate in the communal officers mess out of plates as opposed to the infantry who were still eating out of varkpanne (pig pans) and living under silly draconian laws like only being able to drink two beers a day. The Rundu bar was amazing and every Friday saw the bar open in the evening to the song “all fired up” by Pat Benetar off her album that had just been released, the bar man was a dedicated permanent force flight sergeant and we all wanted his job! The bar area and attached thatched entertainment area was called the “Shitingura”, and we had a small pool. This was the life. Much heavy drinking was practiced at the bar and many funny instances occurred leading sometimes to discipline being instilled in those that went a “bridge too far” so to speak. One Saturday afternoon a pile of air force security guards went on a drinking binge and were totally pissed by the time it came for them to stand “beat” (guard duty), one particular idiot went and passed out on the grassy area right next to the runway and when the daily “flossie” came in for landing they radioed in that there was a dead dude lying on the runway approach with his weapon next to him. All hell broke loose as the “flossie” did an overshoot and climbed rapidly to altitude out of reach of shoulder fired anti air craft weapons such as RPG`s and such. The entire security section mobilised and raced to the afflicted soldier only to find him gormlessly drunk. The security section were effectively banned from the bar for a month as punishment. Naturally we could not allow this unfair practice to be unleashed on our pals and we also could not allow a money making opportunity pass us by. We milked these sods for all their daily danger pay in exchange for beer. The guys would bury the beer in the sand for an hour or so and then drink them in one go through a straw to get the desired effect from only one beer. We sat in the shitingura and sipped our ice cold “frosties” in comfort. At 85 cents for a beer and the same amount for a can of coke a cola it was therefore superfluous for anyone to drink cold drink, why drink a coke when beer costs the same? Fridays saw the tradition of “greenies & brownies”, greenies was a mixture of peppermint schnapps , sambuca and a beer chaser that was given to new arrivals. Brownies was a double shot of Stroh rum , kahlua and a beer chaser. Sometimes a “weekend warrior” from head quarters would get his greenie and brownie in the same evening. We scoffed at these arse holes as they were there to simply say they were on the border. A weekend of relaxation at the Shitingura didn’t count as border duty! One Friday evening my friend Dion and I sat and drank till we had our fill quite literally. There was simply no space left for any more liquid in our systems. Dion leaned back on his bar stool and fell straight off the stool onto his back on the bar floor narrowly missing a dart that had been thrown by two guys playing a game of darts. Dion was lying there on the floor doing back stroke, he truly believed he was swimming in the pool. I left him there tanning at night and swayed off back to my crater but i was too out of it so i stopped and slept in a vacant tent. I awoke in the morning with my arms hanging out the tent and i was puking all sorts. I must have been propped up with my arms over the tent side for some time as i was severely chafed under my armpits by the coarse canvas of the tent. I started sweating in the heat and the pain from the chafing and sweat was unbearable. I walked around with my arms slightly raised like i had such big muscles that i could not put my arms down. One guy retorted that i looked like i was carrying watermelons under my arms and wanted to know if i thought i was Lebanese? . I made a mental note to myself to never hang my arms over an army tent ever again. Dion was duly banned from the bar for a month, luckily he had an insider that could bring him beer and other treats back to his tent. He had not yet been lucky enough to be issued a crater as he was still tagged as being a “bos roof” (bush raw recruit). He arrived after me by a few weeks and the military had a complex series of levels. These were . “ rou roofie” ( raw recruit) like in basics. “Roofie” the months after basics. “Bos roofie” a “bush raw recruit” . “blou gat” (blue arse) this is a mid term national service man and then there is “ouman” old man , this is the national service man that has less than three months left of his national service. ” bos oupa”, bush grand father , this is the highest rank in the military. A national service man that will clear out of the military in less than three months and is still on the border. These men are the most respected people in the military next to a camper. ( a civilian force member called up for duty after leaving national service) reserve force. I left the border as a blougat and very proud of my time on the border. I received two certificates , a medal (eventually by post in 1995) and promotion to lance corporal after arriving at air force base Waterkloof.

One evening in November just before my 19th birthday i embarked on a drinking spree of legend! Armed with R100 my mom had posted to me for my birthday i sauntered into the bar like John Wayne and got busy. At 85 cents for a beer and 15 cents for a tot of vodka it was surely going to be a hairy operation. After the assault on my sobriety i made my way back to my “crater” (concrete bungalow) where four guys shared the space. We had a silly tradition of punching holes in the ceiling board when we got pissed, nobody knows who started this dilly practice but we carried it on as if by law. I got on my short “kas” (green army steel cupboard) and let rip with a punch of note! Little did i see that i was punching in the area of a piece of brandering but also managed to connect the nail head that secured the brandering to the wooden beam in the ceiling. The pain even in my drunken state was so intense that i fell off the cupboard in agony writhing as if i had just been given a prostate exam by a giant. My right fist swelled and started resembling something in a cartoon. My party came to an abrupt end and i slinked off to bed to lick my wounds. A while later i had the need for a huge pee and i got up swaying and bumping into stuff in the dark, i was so out of it that i was convinced that i had walked for at least a mile when i bumped into something metallic and cool. i took this as the urinal in the toilet block and duly whipped it out and started to pee. All of a sudden there was a light to my lower right and a face was staring up at me! I shouted in disgust

“what the fuck are you doing you sick fuck, are you spying on me while i piss, are you a moffie?!?!?!!”

The reply came “

dude ,you are pissing in my cupboard”.

I looked down and the fog cleared from my eyes enough to confirm the statement as true and i duly crimped the end of my tally whacker to try staunch the flow but it just made it spray all over the place, so i turned and stumbled out pissing all over the place as i went. By now i was laughing and gagging at the same time, my friend whose cupboard had been utilised as a urinal was not yet finding the funny side of it all. When morning came the hilarity started setting in with all the guys and even the poor guy who i had accused of being a spy and gay was laughing at my stupidity. I however wasn’t out of the woods yet, i would first have to wash all the guys clothes that were in the cupboard, his blankets, pillow, boots et al. Rewinding back a tad. Imagine waking up to someone pissing passed your face into your cupboard and then being accused of being a deviant sexual pervert. I stood there in the bleeding hot sun with all this guys clothes hand cranking the Sputnik (manual spun steel drummed washing machine ) i was turning this behemoth 100 turns in one direction followed by 100 turns in the other, take all water out add clean water for the rinse cycle, a further 100 spins of this by now “wheel of misfortune”. I started looking a tad green around the gills and soon i was puking my lungs out giving the other guys much to laugh at. A couple turns and a wretch followed by a few more turns and some more puking. I ended up at the medics on a Dextrose drip but i had at least completed my task of washing all the clothes. I was somewhat of a celebrity when i left the medics later that evening and arrived in the bar for a “regmaker”( hair of the dog) . By now my exploits had made its rounds through the air force part of the base and the mean as hell RSM( regimental sergeant major) an acting RSM as he held the rank of Flight Sergeant named Itel Zurich still managed to commend me on my stupidity. I got off easy considering the poor guy whose cupboard i peed in was branded as a “ peeping tom” from then on. (Hence the “spy” part of this story). My 19th birthday passed by quite tame in comparison to the pee “event” that preceded it.

Just before new years eve a friend of mine whom we called “DEKKIES” short for dextrose and i went on a bender and got up to all manner of mischief like riding the Met monkey`s (meteorological / weather man`s ) little Suzuki 1oo up and down the runway at top speed while pissed as coots, we would later tell the ATC(air traffic controller) we were conducting runway checks. Anyway , dekkies and i decided we wanted to go into Rundu town and visit a civilian lady who worked for the army as a secretary of sorts, she was known to be quite keen on air force personnel and was not a difficult snag. The only catch was that this flame red haired freckled faces “overweight” / plumpish woman was as ugly as all sin! She was collectively known as KMS kilo mike sierra( kokorot met snawel or translated as cockroach with beak). Anyways we were pissed and horny as all hell ,so we in our infinite wisdom hatched a diabolically complex plan to get out the base and ride the Suzuki to Rundu town and shag this easy roller. Our plan was two pronged, we would ride to the gate of the base and then turn left and ride to Rundu. However our well laid plans were thwarted by the army security at the main gate. They would not let us out the gate because we didn’t have a signal giving us permission to leave the base with a regimental vehicle after hours and obviously while intoxicated as skunks. The army guys were helpful and told us of the gate at the far end of the fence line that had been washed out by the recent heavy rains that left a deep chasm under the fence that we could possibly drag the bike through and set off for our meeting with “KMS”. Apparently they had all heard of her too and showed us the direction to head off into. With no front light and me wearing a staal dak( steel outer helmet) and my pal donning the “doibey” (inner plastic helmet) we set off down the dirt track at speed hurtling at what seemed near breakneck speed, the tears flowing in my eyes from the wind. The staal dak was spinning around on my head like a carousel as we rode and dekkies was clutching a bottle of brandy in one hand and a beer mug in the other. I tried my best to keep to the track but did not see the fence that was jutting out in our path and we hit the chain link fence at speed. We crashed to the ground and petrol was pissing out of the tank and all over us. Dekkies was moaning that his hand was sore, and when we checked he had a huge gash across his inner palm up to his thumb and it was deep. He was bleeding like e pig at slaughter and my back was sore. Undeterred we picked the bike up and attempted to proceed however the front fork was bent and the tyre was flat, added to that we were worse for the wear and the hollow under the gate was not deep enough for us to get the bike through, we decided to call it a day and limped the Suzuki back to the ops room and left it where we found it. By now dekkies was delirious and in need of medical attention. We walked to the medics and he was put onto surprise ,surprise a dextrose drip and had his palm stitched. A week later he was transferred to 1 military hospital to “dry out”. I believe he may have had a drinking problem? In the morning the met monkey went ape shit when he found his Suzuki standing there covered in blood and dust with a bent fork and flat tyre. I professed all innocence and assured him that i was firmly tucked into my bed the previous evening. “everyone believed me”. The C ommandant did find this a tad humerous and i think chalked it up to youthful exuberance and was not to worried about the motor bike as we were busy “pulling out” of South West Africa and were told that we would leave nothing behind in a serviceable state that could not be returned to the Republic. We destroyed our ops room under express orders from the Commandant. 320 FACP( forward air command post) within the army ops centre was totally wrecked, with all maps, photo`s , signals, flight plans and equipment destroyed and burned and buried. One Sunday while the UNTAG contingent were having a big slap up luncheon put on by the SAAF at the officers mess , we were busy loading all we could on a bakkie ( pick up truck) and heading off to the end of the runway near the engineers section where they had graded an enormous hole earlier with their bull dozer and we put everything in the hole. Trammels ( foot lockers) with thousands of papers inside were tossed in along with “balsakke”( duffle bags), we climbed into the hole and poured many litres of AVGAS(aviation gasoline) all over the contents and then left ten or so open jerry cans in the hole. We retreated to what we perceived was a safe distance and one of the guys threw a pencil flare towards the hole. Before the flare got to the hole it erupted into a huge orange fireball. Apparently AVGAS fumes are highly flammable and the resultant eruption left us all very “sun burned” and my one eyebrow was totally singed off. The smell of singed hair mixed with the smell of AVGAS was overbearing. The fireball was massively spectacular but short lived as it burned out very quickly. The engineers got busy grading the whole lot closed very quickly so as to “hide” our activities. The UNTAG compliment was not that large at that time so it was easy to pull the wool over their eyes. We retreated to the bar for well earned beer and become the laughing stock due to our newly acquired sun burns and” eyebrow augmentation.” From new years day onward we were transferred from 320 FACP to base ops at the flight line.

With the arrival of UNTAG our collective drinking skills were once again brought to the fore and we were commended by the career soldiers of the Finnish army on our prowess when it came to the imbibation of copious amounts of alcohol. We were all between the ages of 18 and 21 and out drank the career soldiers whose average ages were 30. Many “drinkathons” were embarked on with our new found friends from Finland, they were however very badly suited to duty in the hot South West Africa and they fell early by the wayside during our “pissups”.
The military was a great place and i loved every moment of the time spent in uniform and i was very serious at my job when i worked. However when work was done i partied hearty like i was on a mission from god or some other deity. We played hard but we also worked hard. It wasn’t all beer and sunshine but it was the greatest time of my life both the good and bad times.

The border was a great place and there is no doubt in my mind that today`s youth are desperately lacking in the fibre and moral direction required to become true men. The easy way out has become the order of the day with today`s youth and even through all the wild antics we got up to we were a disciplined well orientated bunch of young men.

Michael B Da Silva , Lance Corporal 85639201bt
www.michaelbdasilva.20m.com