My Military Career

 

The Defence Amendment Bill, designed to make military service compulsory for White men, was passed on 9 June 1967. It meant that all White males between 17 and 65 were required to undergo military training in the Army, Navy or Air Force for nine months. I turned 17 five months later and in January 1968 I was issued with two train tickets, one from Fish Hoek station to Cape Town, and the other from Cape Town to Kimberley.

While the train travelled northward my anxiety increased as more young men climbed aboard. Many of them appeared so oafish as to be barely recognisable as human. I was standing in the corridor when a middle-aged gentleman tried to enter his compartment but recoiled in shock. He said that one of these brutes was fornicating with a schoolgirl who was partof a touring netball team.

On arrival in Kimberley the following day we were taken to the military base and addressed in Afrikaans by an officer. He warned us that this was not a holiday camp, and that we might be sissies and poeftes now, but the Army was going to make men of us. 

We were led to a hangar-like building that contained rows and rows of beds. I was allocated one of them and was told to change into a khaki overall, socks and boots. The rest of the day was spent learning to march. Links, regs; links, regs. Day two was dedicated to more marching interspersed with press-ups and star jumps, saluting, standing at attention and then at ease, and getting used to being shouted at.

On the third day we underwent the medical. In batches of 30, we were taken to a building, told to strip naked, handed a glass beaker and ordered to piss in it. Unlike other men who enjoy a sense of camaraderie in places like showers, change rooms and urinals, I have always found it difficult to urinate on demand, and especially in the presence of others. Accordingly, I asked another recruit ,who was holding a full glass, to share it with me, and he happily obliged. It turned out that there was nothing wrong with his specimen, and I then underwent an eye test, which I failed. I took my turn to be examined by one of two military doctors. He looked me up and down, inspected my genitals and listened to my lungs. When it came to my heart, he seemed to be taking his time. He told me to stand to one side and wait. Being somewhat self-conscious, I found the next ten minutes agonizingly embarrassing, and was relieved when the other medic came over and put his stethoscope to my chest., He, too, took his time, then nodded agreement to his colleague and I was dismissed.

On the morning of the fourth day, after roll call, a sergeant read out a list of the dozen or so recruits who had failed the medical and were permanently exempted. When I heard my name called, I was suffused with feelings of humiliation and joy, with the latter far outweighing the former. We were ordered to surrender our military kit, change into civvies and gather in a billet to await transport to the station. While lounging on the stoep of this building, a few of us derived some fun from calling out, ‘links, regs; links, regs’ as a squad of non-rejects came marching past. The corporal in charge screamed at us but we laughed derisively and made hand gestures, knowing that we were now untouchable.

I thought it a fitting end to my military career, and I enjoyed the ride home in an almost empty train. It gave me time to come to terms with the fact that I would not be required to kill any Communists or terrorists, and I would never experience what it is like to step on a land mine or be shot with an AK-47.

More than 40 years later I drew on this brief episode to write a chapter in my book about the escapades of Frikkie and Plug, which will appear in the next blog post.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Memory Project: The .22 Pistol

During my childhood I saw my mother in tears on many occasions. Her distress stemmed from hardship and homesickness. Separated from her family by 6000 miles, in a foreign country on an outlandish continent she often felt lonely and deprived of both physical and emotional support. It was a struggle bringing up three young children on the meagre income my father could provide, and at times she would become tearful. It was always the same lament containing recrimination aimed at my father, and vitriol for the hostile environment and the horrible people she shared it with. Why had he forced her to leave family and friends and come to South Africa where she knew no one, and then, just as she was settling down, why had he insisted on dragging her and the children off to this godforsaken place?

It took her a good 20 years to shake off her homesickness and chronic nostalgia for London and the English way of life. I used to think my father had made a huge mistake in bringing her to Africa. Right up until after her death I held the notion that she just wasn’t the pioneering type. But in the last decade or so I have come to realise just how strong and adaptable she was. Considering her background and her gentle nature, it must have taken a great deal of bravery to endure some of the demands that were made on her.

One of the ordeals that she had to endure was being left alone with three young children for a week or two at a time while my father was away in the bush. Admittedly there was little crime in Gwelo in those days, but the fact that my father bought her a gun is an indication of how nervous she must have been at night.

The gun was a Beretta .22 pocket pistol. It was so small it looked like a toy, and the cartridges were tiny. When he brought it home, he showed her how it worked, and set up a tin drum against the kaia wall to shoot at. She fired a few shots but was clearly reluctant and apprehensive, and relieved when the exercise was over. She used to sleep with the loaded pistol under her pillow, but I doubt whether she would have been able to use it had there been an intruder.

After my father’s death My brother asked me if I was interested in taking over the gun, which was unregistered and therefore an illegal firearm. Foolishly, I declined and now regret it. It would have been a valuable memento and I know my son would be keen to try firing it. Maybe Alan still has it stashed away somewhere?

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Nursing Notes

Henry Fuckit (my alter ego) worked as an orderly at Groote Schuur Hospital in the late 1970s. When he applied for the position he was interviewed by Matron Sharp, who described in much detail the duties of a nurse and what would be expected of him as a nursing assistant. She also issued him with a warning.

“In order to cope with the emotionally and psychologically distressing aspects of caring for the sick a certain degree of objectivity and detachment must be maintained. This is natural and healthy. But there is the danger of losing empathy for the patient and falling into the trap of regarding the sick person as an object and not a real person. Once this happens it is easy to see the patient's behaviour as irritating, or disgusting, or pathetic, and deserving of contempt and ridicule. Should you reach this state of callous lack of compassion your own humanity will be in serious jeopardy.”

Henry’s final interview with Matron Sharp.

When he handed in his notice, the briefest of missives which started with the words 'I hereby', he had the distinct impression she had been expecting it. Her face betrayed no surprise, or any other emotion. But she took too long to read it.

'I would like to thank you…' He really shouldn't talk shit to this woman. This was a good woman. 'My three years is nearly up and I must move on. The long and winding road, you know. I've been keeping a record of my impressions.' From his breast pocket he produced a piece of foolscap folded in half and half again, and waved it in front of her. 'This is my eight-page notebook. I've filled a few of these; quite a few.' He returned it to his pocket. 'I have written them up neatly in an exercise book, something like keeping a diary. I wondered if you'd care to look at it - some of it's quite amusing. You could browse through it, look for bits that appeal to you. You might find it interesting, see the hospital through the eyes of an orderly. Of course, I'm no Samuel Pepys or James Boswell. Just bits and pieces I've jotted down during quiet moments in the ward. Thirty escritoires to choose from. I've conducted many an interview from the overbed table parked at the foot of the bed. Did you know Hemingway preferred to write standing up? I suppose it could be considered a trifle unethical; a violation of privacy, trust; contravening the Florence Nightingale Pledge, especially the bit about holding in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping. A bit rough, too. You might find some of the details just too explicit, the verbatim reportage embarrassingly exact. Just turn the pages, skim through it and pick out anything that catches your interest. You might find it tiresome, pointless, depressing. Like reading a Samuel Beckett novel, drivelling on about nothing in particular except that it's all rather desperately funny and wrist-slittingly nihilistic. Feel free to slam it shut and push it aside with a grimace of disgust. I'll fully understand if…'

'Mr Fuckit. I would like to read it. Thank you.'

The ebook is available from Amazon and Smashwords.