SADF July 77 intake

SADF

JULY 77 INTAKE

SADF

JULY 77 INTAKE

a conscript’s story

PAUL ZUNCKEL

Copyright © 2019 Paul Zunckel

Published by Paul Zunckel Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Paul Zunckel using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Colleen Figg for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: reach@webstorm.co.za

Paul Zunckel

pzunckel@gmail.com

"If you would like to relive some memories or gain an insight into life in the army machine in the 70s, you will enjoy Paul’s story and his rough and ready ride through a difficult period that will never be repeated in this country"

the north coast COURIER

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Author’s note

1. Roofie Ride and Sadist Instructor

2. Basics

3. Home and Boyhood Memories

4. Second Phase

5. Border Duty

6. Convoys

7. Jail Time

8. Boys Will Be Boys

9. Landmines

10. Five Months and Counting

11. Complacency

12. Bomb Shelters and Dancing Girls

13. Stateside and Homeward Bound

14. New Horizons

15. Life as an Ou Man

16. The Commandant’s Cortina

17. Forty Days

18. Civvy Street and Camps

19. Old Times but Not Forgotten

Where are they now?

About the Author

Acknowledgements

To my fellow National Servicemen, Frank, Russell, Dave, Richard, and Rob. Without you this book would not have been possible.

Jason and Lance, thanks for your input.

Toine and Rita, thank you for your countless hours of reading and correcting. Your suggestions and support were invaluable.

To Megan for getting me started.

And, Matthew, for your assistance and patience in formatting the photographs.

To Reach Publishers for your caring and professional approach.

Author’s note

This is a time that many, if not all, men and women who served in the South African armed services cannot forget. With the change in dynamics our country’s policies have, whether right or wrong, resulted in a decline of pride, discipline and general lack of direction for many of our youth. Compulsory conscription, even though begrudged by many at the time, created a sense of purpose and belonging for many young men. The sacrifices by so many and the questions raised as to the end result of the twenty-seven-year border war have created three generations of South African male conscripts who look back at this period in their lives with nostalgia, sadness and fond memories. But mostly this period is remembered by many of these brave individuals as a time of pride for their service and fellow soldiers.

In our current climate of political uncertainty and with the demise of the SADF, once the strongest and most efficient fighting force in Africa, many of these ex-conscripts have now reached an age where they want to rekindle memories of these days and share them with family and friends.

All events described were as experienced by me during this period of my life. The majority of photographs are mine, taken with my camera. The only change I have made is to the surnames.

Chapter 1

Roofie Ride and Sadist Instructor

With a wild jerk the old vasbyt bulldog Bedford emitted a petrol smell, only common in the Highveld, and laboured out of Kimberley train station with me on board, bound for my new home for the next twelve weeks. 1 Maintenance Unit, Diskobolos was a thirty-minute drive by normal standards, but the ou man (National Serviceman who had served for longer than a year) behind the wheel turned it into an hour of jerking, screeching brakes and went out of his way to make the roofie ride as miserable and uncomfortable as possible. I clutched onto my rucksack, which would later be used to send my civvies I had arrived in home, while I wished that I could go back with it. A final jerk, with added help from the hand brake, brought the roofie ride to an abrupt end alongside the base parade ground.

I was dog tired after a long train ride, and feeling the stress of entering unfamiliar territory. My little country hometown of Colenso in central Natal was too small for the troop train to stop at. My parents had to travel the short distance to Ladysmith and deposit me on the northbound platform of the railway station. A number of my friends were also there to say goodbye. Like thousands before and after me, budding young men with long hair and pimples said their goodbyes to moms, dads and girlfriends. With the latter, many promises of waiting faithfully for their brave boyfriends to return in two years’ time were made. Most of these promises were broken after the first month. Corporals were shouting and generally trying to make an impression. The compartments were all full and everyone seemed to know everyone else. I was the exception and had to stand in the corridor for the duration of the trip to Kimberley.

The day progressed in a blur of shouting, long lines, a haircut and the soon-to-be frequent ‘hurry up and wait’. Someone with an unknown rank instructed those with driver’s licences to stand to one side. Thoughts flashed through my mind. Which function offered the cushiest position? A storeman, clerk or petrol jockey? But my adventurous side took over (deep down I was quite paraat) and decided there and then that I needed to do something that would make my parents proud. I moved into the licence group.

You lot are now 32 Transport Company, shouted the same voice with the unknown rank.

I looked around hoping to see a friendly face. There was no one from my home town that I knew, but surely there might be someone from school that I could recognise? Not a soul. Just like the old cocktail party syndrome, again. Everyone seemed to know everyone else except for me. We were divided up alphabetically and broken into squads and allocated bungalows.

Most bungalows were basic and clean at 1 Maintenance Unit with attached bathrooms housing clean toilets and basins. All were named after famous machine guns, such as Vickers and Gatling, except, of course, the bungalow my squad was assigned to, which was a much older, dilapidated building and did not resemble the more modern bungalows at all. Named Spookhuis for whatever reason, it contained two large dormitories dominated by old wooden floors with showers and toilets in a separate building about fifty metres away. The thought did cross my mind that waking up and going for a leak in the middle of the night could pose something of a problem. Little did I know that we would, for the better part, not have to wake up as we would be awake throughout most of the night!

Having been divided up alphabetically, I was lumped in with the Van der Merwes, Steenkamps and Veldmans. I frantically tried to identify any English-speaking guys, eventually finding only two: Nick from Cape Town and Wally, a short, rough and tough character from Carletonville. Wally had taken time off from working on the mines to complete his two years’ National Service. Both were in the adjoining dormitory. In the bed next to me was Markus. He was thick set and had bushy eyebrows; I soon discovered these were not his only defining features. He had the smelliest feet known to mankind. Markus was from Graaff Reinet in the Karoo.

My entry into hell arrived when the Squad’s instructors made themselves known to us. Corporals Fouche and Heymans were to take charge of the other two squads in 32 Transport Company and Corporal Martin the squad housed in Spookhuis. Martin was a two-stripe corporal. He lined us up; we were still in our civvies and proceeded to vent his opinions. An English speaking corporal—my luck was changing, I thought. But no, although he was from colonial Natal and English speaking, Corporal Martin would only hold forth in Afrikaans. He had small, ankle-high chains around the insides of his tucked-in brown combat trousers to create a perfect circle around his boots and ultra paraat-gyppo seams. These portrayed Martin as a neat and tidy no-nonsense instructor. But that is where it ended. He had bulging eyes with puffed out cheeks, all bordered by wispy sideburns and a desperate attempt at a moustache. The resemblance to a chipmunk was uncanny. His searching eyes found mine. I held his gaze, instantly seeing the flash of anger in his eyes. I believe this moment sowed the seeds for his immense dislike of me.

Martin lined us up and pointed (marching was unknown at this stage) in the direction of the sick bay. When we arrived there, medics began our medical examinations. An NSM Second Lieutenant designated me a G1K1 and, at this stage, unaware of the implications, I was quite proud of my excellent health. My one English squad mate of the paltry two I had, Nick, came out as a G4K4 and was destined to join the ranks of the sick, dead and dying. Next it was the stores for clothes, boots and all the other kit that goes with it. Despite the stories I had heard of boots of any size being thrown at one and being told to make the most of it, the storeman, all ou manne, were helpful and considerate making it a less than traumatic event. Everything was piled into the standard trommel and carried back by its new owner to the bungalows. The next day we went to the armoury where they issued us with rifles. Clutching the standard issue R1 assault rifle, dressed in my new browns made me feel proud and I wished my parents could have seen me.

We walked back to headquarters, where Company Commander Captain Larkin introduced himself and Lieutenants Brink and Meyer. All three were PF. The message was clear. From tomorrow onwards, starting from roll call in front of the Company HQ at 05:00 hours, formal basic training would commence. No roofie was to be seen walking—everything had to be done on the run! Inspection was at 07:00 hours and Commandant’s inspection was every Friday. Further details would follow from our corporals, we were told.

That evening was somewhat chaotic with none of us sure what we should do. Niels, two beds down from mine, maintained that he had heard that beds had to be ironed to produce ninety-degree angles. Vollie, further down the room, mumbled something about the whole thing being a lot of kak. Vollie was from Stilfontein and could barely muster two words in English.

At that moment two ou manne stepped into the dormitory. Both wore red armbands with RP highlighted in black. They looked very important and everyone stopped talking and froze. Privates Stegman and Landman grinned and informed us that, although they were of senior standing and highly regarded by the SADF in their Regimental Police role, they would give us a quick rundown on how to make a bed, lay our rifles out and where to position things for inspection. So much for Corporal Martin showing us the ropes.

The next morning, after roll call in a freezing July wind, and a greasy breakfast where we tried to master the art of separating eggs from porridge in a varkpan, the first inspection of bungalow Spookhuis took place. Corporal Martin burst in at 07:30 hours on the button and immediately tried to exert his authority and portray his immense importance. Expecting to find a bungalow in complete chaos because he purposely had not shown us what was expected (unlike the other corporals with their squads) he was completely taken aback by the relative preparation and order. A silent thanks went up to Stegman and Landman. But Martin would have none of it. Striding across to my area he seized the closest item to him, which happened to be my cup, and threw it with a vengeance against the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Next he turned on Markus, tipping his bed over and sending the neatly-laid rifle working parts in all directions. Martin’s attention was then drawn to the old wooden floorboards.

Not up to standard! he fumed in Afrikaans, "utter