Landmine

The Ops clerk came running out of the bunker… “Majoor!!! Majoor!!!…radio van twee een, landmyn!!!” The Company Commander came running out of the mess hall, and disappeared into the Armco bunker covered with sandbags.  In a minute, he reappeared, sending the clerk to call Peter’s and section one one. The two ten man sections gathered around the sand model outside the Company Ops room. The Major showed on the model where there had been a landmine explosion and tasked the two sections to go with the medics and clear it up. Even for such an operation, full orders were given…Own forces actions in the area, what possible enemy strengths and positions in the area were, Phases, tasks, admin and log, synchronizing of watches…The sections mounted up on the buffels and with rifles between the legs, all strapped in tightly, the loot tapped the driver on the head through the little U opening between them. “Ry pielneus!” was all he had to say.

For the operation, Moses, an “ex terr” was allocated to Peter as an interpreter. Several “ex terrs” were used by the security forces as guides and translators. Most of them were men and women men who had become disillusioned with the promises of the PLAN leadership. Moses, with his mop of lobsided afroed hair and marked limp had escaped from Camp Quatro in Angola where he had been severely tortured…to the extent that he would forever walk with a visible limp.

The bombed out yellow Volkswagen Kombi was hardly recognizable as such. It was torn to pieces by the anti vehicle land mine on the two tracked road just meters from a kraal. Body pieces lay every where, reminding Peter of the butcheries on the trees next to the road all over Ovamboland. According to the drills, the sections proceeded with caution…soek stokking their way forward.  The PMD-6 is a wooden version of a box or “shu” mine with a two-piece case. These were the favorite of the PLAN soldiers. The lower section is a rectangular wooden box housing the main TNT charge, the MUV-type fuse, and the detonator. The lid section is hinged to the lower box at one end and is designed to close over the box. In the armed position, the lid rests on a striker retaining pin at the end of the fuse. When pressure is applied, it would easily kill or badly maim a soldier, never mind a child walking to the closest shona to collect water. It was PLAN tactics to plant anti personnel mines around the area of an anti vehicle mine, knowing that the Security forces would come to the scene after the explosion. The Medics stayed in their Casspir until they were given new orders. The one section made their way around the kraal, the surrounding fence made with big hardekool logs simply buried on end in the ground, next to each other. It was possible to see in at places, and it was deathly still, no movement, just the incessant wailing of women grieving the dead… Approaching a kraal was always a tactical nightmare. On many occasions, security forces would be fired apon from inside a kraal. That was always a stuff up as civilians were inevitably caught in the cross fire. Dirty fucking tricks, in a dirty war…where only one side had to play by the rules.  The Loot and Peter waited patiently at the kraal gate for someone to call them in as the ComOps lecturers had taught them.  An old man approached the single entrance…”Whalalaopo!” the mutual greeting was given. Peter had been given a 3 month crash course in Ndonga, one of the 8 languages and dialects spoken in Ovamboland, in Kimberley, and could follow the gist of the conversation. Language was a hassle…Kwanyama and Ndonga were probably the two widest understood languages in a desert of Babel.

 Inside the kraal it was monochrome brown. The old man led the Loot and Peter with Moses to the meeting place, where the fire always flamed. The clay pot of mahangu beer was passed around…it looked like someone had puked on the top of it. “Volk and Vaderland” Peter thought as he swatted away the flies and took a courteous sip. After lots of deliberation on the rain, the millet, cattle and the weather as was custom, Moses began translating  Peter’s questions.  The headman’s daughter, her husband and two teenage children, visiting from Katatura. had been killed in the Kombi. The headman blamed Kalunga their spirit god. There was simply no other explanation. Moses translated Peter’s statement that the Landmine that killed them was planted by SWAPO. There was a silence. As the old headman looked up, there were tears in his eyes, and a sad hate filled look on his face and he started talking. Moses translated simultaneously . “You guys don’t understand” he began. “Today you come here with White Horse whiskey and Horseshoe tobacco, and toffees for the children and we are friends. I understand you want good for me and my country. Tonight SWAPO comes here and fucks my daughters and steals my muhango and I must listen to him because I fear him. He has a gun and I must listen to him because the man pointing the gun is the King”  Tears ran down his dark weathered wrinkled cheeks. The old man began sobbing and continued “ They kill my daughter and her family like animals”  The soldiers let the statements sink in before continuing. “But Moses, ask him why? Why his family? What had they done wrong?”. Moses translated the question and then translated the sad reply. “Peter, he says it is because he told the Political Commissar of Bravo detachment on Tuesday night that his son was not going to join the struggle, he wanted him to go and study engineering in Windhoek…that’s why”. It sunk in. It sunk in fucking heavily. Almost as heavily as the headache inducing Muhango beer.

The headman turned away and spat in the dry white sand. Moses continued translating. “You South Africans don’t understand Africa” he stammered. “You watch,  SWAPO will come to power in this country, and the same team will come to power in South Africa, probably after I am dead, but they will come to power through fear, intimidation, promises and lies” he became still and Moses prompted him. “You think being nice to people makes them respect you? No, soldiers, it doesn’t, this is Africa. Fear and power yields respect” he burst into uncontrollable sobbing, his knotted hands slamming his chest and head. His tears and sounds mixed with those of his wives, his children and the ashes of his forefathers.

That night Peter lay underneath the mosquito net thinking about all he had heard about the “Unjust war”…the “Focus on Namibia campaign” lead by NUSAS on campus back at Wits. He thought of some of his mates from school who had gone to England to avoid conscription, supported by the “End Conscription campaign”. “Fuck” he thought…”.I would love to bring those mother fuckers here and take them to see the meat of harmless civilians hanging from trees, blown apart by their freedom fighters.” …“Their ANC buddies …this is the way they operate…and they wanna run our Country?”  He didn’t sleep well. His dream was a kaleidoscope of Jane and Willamien and flashing disco lights, of a little girl’s ankle and white bloodied shoe in the dust of the African soil; and of passages of  Alan Paton’s “Cry the  Beloved Country”.