We used the rest of the night to cache the extra food, water, batteries and a radio. Since we were quite high on a rocky outcrop, we considered it safe to stash the kit in hollows among the rocks. After first light we sterilised the area, checking that the outcrop was free of tracks, everything was hidden and the vegetation restored to how it was before.
For the remainder of the day we remained on a nearby peak, watching the cache area and the valley below. Except for dogs barking and a cock crowing in the distance, it was quiet. We didn’t see any people, nor did we hear any vehicle or aircraft movement, so we decided not to waste any time and to start moving that night. Even though I had strapped some extra water bags onto my rucksack, I was still carrying much less weight than Diedies and José. I took the lead, navigating along the mountain ridge leading north towards Lubango. It was hard, meticulous work, as I had to find the easiest route in the rugged terrain, all the time considering my two heavily laden comrades, but at the same time keeping high enough up the mountain slopes to avoid the areas where people might find our tracks.
By first light every morning we moved as high as possible up the mountainside, carefully picking our hide in thickly vegetated or rocky spots to ensure we stayed off the beaten track. After we had settled down on the slope, I would take a day pack and move to the top of the mountain ridge, from where I could keep a better lookout and at the same time plan the route ahead.
The infiltration did not go without incident. Late one afternoon while waiting for the sun to set, we watched an old man armed with a bow and arrow walking straight through our hide, not looking left or right. To this day I don’t know if he saw us, but we soon packed up and anti-tracked away from the area.
Another incident took us completely by surprise. Diedies was studying his map when a huge snake appeared out of the blue and sailed right across his lap. We must have been in its territory, for it whiled away the rest of the afternoon in Diedies’ company. Fortunately, our comrade was so stunned that he could not move, and just watched the snake until it eventually disappeared into a hole.
As we closed in on the target area we passed a plateau with spurs sloping down to the savanna below. Early one night we were moving past one of these ridges when all of a sudden we heard music high up on the mountain. We moved into cover, took our packs off and listened to the noise. It gradually grew louder and we soon became aware that it was the sound of a group of men singing in harmony. There was a fence line running down the mountain straight towards us, and we realised that the singing voices were moving towards us along the fence. We ducked into cover and waited.
A group of about twenty men appeared, singing a touching song about the ANC martyr Solomon Mahlangu. It was the same song I had heard during the Know Your Enemy course as part of my Special Forces training. Listening to those beautiful men’s voices in the still night air, singing a song that, to me, was completely out of place deep inside Angola, was a strange and quite moving experience.
The men were passing barely ten metres from us when, suddenly, one of them jumped over the fence and ran towards the cluster of bushes where we were hiding. The singing died down, as everyone waited for their comrade, who stopped close to our hiding place. The sound of a bowel movement shattered the silence as he took a crap almost in our faces. The rest of the “choir” burst out laughing, making funny comments about the man’s running stomach. We literally had to clamp our mouths shut not to join in the laughter.
Soon the stray soul rejoined the group and the singing resumed. We listened in stunned silence until the sound eventually faded away far down the mountainside. Then we finally gave in and laughed until we could no more.
That night we had yet another strange experience. We had moved down a depression into a thicket where we wanted to grab two hours’ sleep before establishing an OP for the day. Just as we had taken off our packs and settled down, Da Costa jumped up with a muffled scream. Diedies and I grabbed our weapons and rolled around into cover behind our packs. I quickly realised what was happening when I felt the sting of ant bites all over my body. Unknowingly we had bedded down in the path of a colony of killer ants; by the time we realised it, they were all over us – into our kit and under our clothing.
Da Costa was dancing around like a madman, ripping his clothes off and slapping the tiny creatures from his body. Diedies and I soon joined in, but then realised that our efforts were fruitless, as we were still in the colony’s killing zone! With no regard to tactics or silence, we grabbed our garb and gear and moved to “safety”. After testing the ground a few times – in a very literal sense – we found an antless spot, and took our time to remove our clothes and shake out the little beasts. For days after that, right up until we reached the target area, we still discovered ants in our kit.
One evening when we were about 20 km from the target, passing through the Huila district, we decided to make up some time by moving barefoot on a sandy pathway running along our bearing. It was pitch dark – ideal for the penetration. Once again I took the lead, walking without night-vision goggles, weapon at the ready, and relying on my senses to pick up any sign of people approaching. Diedies followed with the night vision, using it intermittently to detect sources of light such as the embers of campfires. Da Costa brought up the rear, cautiously checking behind for anyone who might be catching up on us.
Smelling rather than seeing the vegetation, I realised that we were passing a built-up area with bougainvillea along its fence line. It turned out to be a Roman Catholic mission. As we passed a gate in the walled perimeter, Diedies pulled me by the sleeve and handed me the night-vision goggles, indicating that I should look at the wall. The eerie green light of the night-vision equipment revealed a larger-than-life statue of Christ. It was almost like a vision, and the three of us moved off into the night, the image clearly imprinted on our minds.
Before first light we were atop the mountain overlooking Lubango, where we had planned to spend three days watching the area and building up a picture of the target itself, the routine, best infiltration route and escape routes. But we were in for an unexpected and unpleasant surprise: the whole mountain had been stripped of undergrowth, leaving no cover for us. We also discovered smouldering moulds used by the local population for the manufacture of charcoal. What we hadn’t realised from the aerial photos was that the lower brush had been removed to feed the smoking coal ovens. The tree canopy shown in the photos had suggested that it was a thickly vegetated area, but the reality on the ground was vastly different.
We were in trouble. We searched frantically for any kind of cover, but the mountain offered nothing. It was now broad daylight and we had nowhere to hide. Below us we could hear the buzz of the town as it awakened to the new day. In the distance we could see aircraft activity on the airfield. Finally we decided to lie down in a slight depression and wait out the long hours. We covered the kit as best we could. Diedies got up into a tree, while I made myself small between two packs. Da Costa, who had a Cuban peaked cap and FAPLA officer’s insignia, would act as our deception.
Before long we could hear people coming up the mountainside, and soon groups of women and children swarmed across the open terrain in search of more vegetation to destroy. Da Costa and I made ourselves as small as possible, and managed to survive until mid-morning when two women with a string of children in tow walked straight into our hide. Da Costa had no choice but to get up and wave them away. They got such a fright that they dropped their bundles there and then and started running down the mountainside, howling.