We would take the normal large Small Team pack for the infiltration, and switch to the pack designed for the explosives on the night of the penetration. During the final inspection our equipment was once again thoroughly checked and scrutinised for non-traceability. Not one single piece of equipment could be linked to South Africa. Then each operator handed his Captured Info document to Oom Boet for safekeeping, the contents securely committed to memory.
Our choice of weapons was, as always, meticulously planned: I would carry my trusted Hungarian AMD and silenced pistol; Diedies had a silenced BXP and a pistol (without silencer); and José da Costa took a normal AKM (the modernised version of the AK-47) and a Russian-origin Tokarev pistol. Since I was doing the navigation on the route in, I would be armed with a non-silenced weapon – to work in our favour during an initial engagement. We knew from experience that silenced weapons did not hold the enemy’s heads down, presumably because they did not realise they were being shot at. Likewise Da Costa would have a non-silenced assault rifle for support fire. During the penetration, Diedies would lead with the silenced BXP, ready for initial contact. If I had to do a stalk on an aircraft, I would approach with the silenced pistol and keep the AMD on my back for firepower in case we needed to fight our way out.
Our lunch before the deployment was a lavish spread, and a cheerful atmosphere reigned. Boet Swart proposed a toast to the “conquering” of Lubango. He joked about the packs being bigger and heavier than the operators themselves.
“Small team, big pack, small brain…” he said, as so many times before. “I’ll never understand the small minds of the men with the big packs. They could have all this wonderful food, a warm bed to sleep in, pretty girls, and yet here they are off into the bush again…”
The huge packs were loaded onto the choppers on the hardstand before start-up. Both helicopters had been prepared for rappelling, and the A-frames had been fitted in a closed hangar the night before. The system used for rappelling from the Puma at the time was a frame that fitted into the helicopter, with extension arms that contained the anchor points for the ropes. The frames were intended to prevent excessive external force on the superstructure of the aircraft. The plan was for the operators to rappel down first, after which the heavy packs and cache equipment would be lowered by a pulley system.
At 14:00 the Pumas, each with two additional ferry tanks mounted on the inside, had taxied out and waited for us in front of Fort Rev. We flew to Opuwa in the Kaokoland, where the helicopters had to refuel. I tried to sleep on the way, but was too excited.
This deployment was the one we had been living for; it was a textbook Small Team operation. To me it felt as though we had spent a lifetime preparing for Lubango. The very name of the place had a mysterious ring to it. Strangely, a deep and profound calmness had come over me, and a determination I had not quite experienced before. I visualised how we would fly back in the same helicopter a month later – having achieved success. I had a distinct vision of how we would approach the target and work our way from aircraft to aircraft.
This new feeling did not at all mean that I was not afraid. I did not have a death wish, nor was I under some wild delusion that we would rush in and show everyone how it was done. After weeks of meticulous planning and preparation, the sessions with Johnny and the few days I had spent alone along the Orange River, I felt content and at ease with what lay ahead.
While we waited for last light, Oom Sarel shared the customary communion with us under a cluster of trees. His message took me back a few years, to the moment before my very first Special Forces deployment with 53 Commando at Nkongo, when he had built mountains in the sand to explain the meaning of Psalm 125:2: “As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people now and forever.”
He made this verse applicable to Lubango, and reminded us that, as the mountains surround the town to the south and west, the Lord is always there, with the only difference being that He completely surrounds us. Oom Sarel’s message was simple and to the point and added to my sense of calmness and determination. Never before had the wine and bread had such a tangible meaning for me as on the eve of our deployment to Lubango, when I shared it with my comrades and Oom Boet.
After the short service I asked Diedies how he felt, knowing full well that his priorities had shifted now that he was a married man. But if I had forgotten the iron will and unique fibre of the man, his big smile and quick answer reminded me promptly. “Camels don’t cry, Kosie,” he said, referring to the motto displayed on the 52 Commando logo. I knew Da Costa was okay; he was as solid as the very mountains around Lubango.
Just before last light we received a message that the jets were airborne for their top-cover job. We flew straight from Opuwa to the border and crossed the Cunene River in the area west of Swartbooisdrift, then nap-of-the-earth towards the LZ, following the valleys and depressions of the rugged southwestern Angolan countryside. Diedies, Da Costa and I were in the first chopper, along with the two dispatchers. The packs and the bulky cache equipment were in the second one, with two dispatchers ready to let the equipment down by pulley.
Three minutes from the LZ the doors were opened and the struts from the A-frames pushed out. We hooked up to the anchor points and got ready to swing out onto the steps. After orbiting the LZ area once, John Church, the lead pilot, approached a protruding rocky ridge and eased the aircraft into a hover. On the dispatcher’s command I swung out onto the steps, with Da Costa following behind. As I was about to launch, I felt the dispatcher’s hand on my arm and saw his outstretched hand in a “don’t go” gesture. The next moment the helicopter lifted off and we started flying from outcrop to outcrop, looking for a smoother surface on the rugged mountaintop.
But I was in trouble. Da Costa, who was on the strut in front of me, was pushed against me by the rush of the wind. I held on to the rope for dear life, but felt it slipping slowly from my grip. I pulled the loose end around and tried to hold it down tightly against my body with both hands to improve the friction on the descending device, but slowly and steadily it slipped. Da Costa’s massive weight, compounded by the wind rush, was now squarely on me, and my cramped hands couldn’t hold any longer.
After what felt like an eternity, the aircraft reduced speed and slowly moved into a hover. It was not a moment too soon. Without waiting for a signal, I let go, and had to use both hands to control the rope as I descended slowly onto the rocks below.
Da Costa followed, while Diedies had already touched down after descending from the port door of the helicopter. The second helicopter, carrying the equipment, moved in. The three of us received the packs at the bottom, unhooking the karabiners as they touched down. When I received my pack, I realised its frame had broken under the weight of the kit. As prearranged, I gave the rope three fierce tugs to inform the dispatcher that we needed a spare pack. For some reason there was no response and the helicopter took off. As the aircraft moved away and the noise subsided, we informed the pilots that we needed another pack. However, since they had been circling the area considerably longer than planned, they thought it better not to return for fear of giving our position away.
This left us in quite a predicament. The frame of my pack was completely shattered, and the only alternative was to use one of the much smaller packs from the cache. I packed the explosive charges, night-vision goggles, as much water as I could force in and some of my rations. The rest of the food was shared between Diedies and Da Costa.