Lurking at the periphery of all I did, learnt and experienced during my military years was a paranoid terror of accidentally violating the Official Secrets Act, to which all SADF soldiers were subject. Such was my fear that I would not even participate in any informal discussions with colleagues on subjects like politics, the war itself and its likely outcome, anything to do with apartheid, the influence of the church or questions related to the strategies and objectives followed by our military leaders. Not that these kinds of discussions were commonplace. On the contrary, I think most of us involved, at least at junior officer level, felt enormously discouraged from questioning the status quo.
Consequently, little photographic evidence of any phase of activity in the operational area was recorded, and media reports on events that took place were rare. Access to day-to-day developments in the Border War was limited to a few authorised personnel. Those of us who participated in the fighting were under threat of severe prison terms, or worse, should it come to light that we had discussed our experiences with anyone – friend, family or even professional counsellor.
So, as far as family, friends and even the majority of young men who spent time in the operational area south of the Yati Strip, also known as ‘the cutline’ (the 100-metre-wide, 440-kilometre-long zone that formed the border between South West Africa and Angola between Ruacana and Katwitwi in the Caprivi Strip), were concerned, we spent our days drinking copious quantities of cheap booze (five cents a tot for Beefeater gin, for example), puffing away at Camel Filters (20 cents for a packet of 20) and acquiring a deep bronze tan, using a mixture of brake fluid and used cooking oil as suntan lotion. We also busied ourselves with finding innovative ways of disposing of the compulsory stocks of anti-malarial Daramal, because we believed that Daramal caused our hard-earned tans to fade too soon.
I also learnt to curse for 60 seconds straight without repeating a single swearword, fantasised endlessly about what I’d do with it if I ever got hold of whatever was hidden behind the strategically placed black stars in Scope magazine, and, like most of the other chaps there, remained firmly seated on the ground for a long time after watching the odd blue movie smuggled into the base by our own resident Radar O’Reilly (a character in M*A*S*H).
Days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, and the daily routine of an Alo pilot based in Ondangwa didn’t vary much. Normally, I was awake by 05h00. After showering, shaving and brushing my teeth, I’d go down to the operations briefing room with the other crews, where I’d wolf down a cup or two of steaming tea or coffee (sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference), accompanied by biscuits and rusks and small dried-out sandwiches. There we’d all receive the day’s flying activity briefing. Then it was to the aircraft for the pre-flight check and back to the technical hut to sign the F700 form, by virtue of which you accepted that the aircraft allocated to you was serviceable and flight-ready. Take-off followed as soon as all formation participants were ready to go.
It was rare to have a day off, and even when this luxury was bestowed you would almost certainly still be required for stand-by duties. If you did have a day off, your primary concern was to sleep in as late as practically possible, ease into the day when it got too hot to remain submerged under the mosquito net, and later repair gently towards the small splash pool located adjacent to the accommodations. ‘Nothing rushed’ was the strict order on those days.
So, when news reached us that AFB Ondangwa had a new RSM it barely raised a blip on the chopper pilots’ radar. This news was particularly overshadowed when the operations officer informed all Alo crews that there would be no flying for us the next day. In our minds, the two events were not even remotely linked.
The advisory to the chopper pilots, delivered just before closing time in the pub, that the new RSM intended holding an inspection parade at the officers’ terrapin quarters the following morning, on a rest day, was dismissed with the contempt it rightly deserved. At precisely 07h00, while we were all still deeply asleep, the new RSM marched smartly up to the door of our digs, crashed to a thunderous halt, ripped the door open and shouted, as only an RSM could, at decibel levels bordering on the criminally negligent:
‘OFFICERS… ATTEN… SHUN!’
A few seconds of dead silence followed and so he shouted again, even louder than before, ‘OFFICERS… ATTEN… SHUN!!!!!’
‘Fuck off!’ said the eight-strong pilot complement of the two adjoining terrapins simultaneously.
‘I am the RSM and I am authorised to inspect the officers’ quarters with adequate warning!’ wailed the startled but still indignant man. ‘And I gave the notification to you all in the pub last night!’
‘If you come through that door, we will fucking shoot you!’ someone shouted.
Discretion being the better part of valour, the RSM immediately stalked off in a great huff to Major Newham, who later told us what had transpired.
‘Major, the chopper pilots are undermining my attempts to improve discipline!’ the RSM whined when he entered Newham’s office.
‘What happened?’ Major Baz asked quietly.
The RSM puffed up his ample chest, stood smartly to attention, staring straight ahead, and related the exact details of the events of the preceding minutes.
Then Major Newham, in measured tones, said, ‘RSM, if you ever again tell my chopper drivers to ready themselves for an inspection by you or anyone else, without discussing it with me, and particularly on one of their off days, I will shoot you myself!’
The main road that connected South West Africa to Angola ran north from Windhoek through the town of Ondangwa, and then skirted the Ondangs airfield just to the east of it, before heading almost dead straight northwards to the border at Oshikango Gate. The border post on the Angolan side is still called Santa Clara, and five or so kilometres into Angola is the small town of Namacunde.
Intelligence sources had reported that a large group of PLAN soldiers was gathering just across the border. A raid was planned by the SADF to deal with the proximity threat they posed and to discourage the meeting. As raids go, this was a small one, and only two chopper gunships were allocated to provide air support to about 200 infantrymen, supported by a few Buffel landmine-protected troop carriers and a handful of Eland armoured cars. The Eland, a South African-built, modernised version of a French design, was colloquially known to the troops as the ‘Noddy car’.
It was my first operation.
The mission briefing took place at a brand-new army base called New Etale. The old Etale base, located nearby, was due to be closed and all troops stationed there moved to the New Etale base, which was better positioned and resourced. During the briefing, I didn’t really know what to expect. I was the nominated wingman to Captain Chris Stroebel, an experienced chopper formation leader.
‘Stay at 600–800 feet AGL and take up a position 180 degrees opposite me in the orbit around the target,’ advised Chris. ‘Look for anything threatening or out of the ordinary and make certain that it’s the enemy you’re looking at before you open fire. If you’re unsure, rather don’t shoot because there’s no way to undo a 20 mm’s mistake,’ he added.
I remembered this sound counsel, and offered it to other newbies throughout my gunship career.
The raid was launched at around 11h00 with the Buffel-mounted infantrymen rushing across the cutline from two crossing points situated about 1 500 metres apart. Once in the vicinity of the PLAN gathering, their brief was to debus rapidly, spread out and encircle the PLAN fighters and cut off the escape route of the enemy soldiers caught in the pincer movement.