RIGOR MORTIS

By the time we arrived there, Cahama had been almost totally demolished by battling armies who seemed to change sides at the drop of a beret.

It was a small town in southern Angola; about 200k’s northwest of Pereira de Eca, our first point of entry into Angola, after crossing the Cunene.

It was completely deserted – except for flocks of goats, stray sheep, chickens and a few emaciated dogs.

Only a handful of buildings, bomb-ravaged and bullet-ridden, stood precariously amongst the ruins.

It was a scorching-hot February when we arrived in Cahama to set up positions which would help block possible Cuban/MPLA advances southward. So we were told.

We were the first “civvy” regiment to go on active duty in a war zone outside of South African borders since the Korean war of the early ’50’s.

I was assigned to the 60mm mortar section of one of the infantry platoons in this regiment.

Originally trained in our teens as riflemen, all of us, apart from our mortar sergeant, were suddenly enlisted in a week’s crash course in 60mm mortars at Grootfontein, the base in then South West Africa, where South African troops were re- trained and equipped, and from where we moved into Angola.

We spent close on six weeks in and around Cahama.

Waiting for the MPLA.

Waiting for the Cubans.

Waiting for attacks by SWAPO.

On our way into Angola in early January 1976, the MPLA and the Cubans were our enemies.

Unita were our allies. And nobody seemed to know exactly on whose side the FNLA stood.

On the way out, in late March of ’76, FNLA troops were our friends (or we, their protectors?) and accompanied us back to “The States”.

Unita became our enemy.

And of course, the Cubans and the MPLA remained our enemies.

It was all quite confusing.

To us, the rank and file, our real enemies were the flies and the mosquitoes.

And they weren’t even commies. Although they were referred to often by some as “fucking little black bastards”.

The flies! The mosquitoes! Now they were real warriors. There was never a frontal or rear attack on their part. They surrounded us totally, attacking with ease.

We spent much of our time planning ways to stop these monsters, against which there was little or no defence.

At the crack of dawn - referred to in military parlance as “Stand To” - there was perhaps a pause of a minute or so between the daily retreat of the mosquito hordes and the onslaught of the fly battalions.

At dusk – “Stand Down” – there was about the same brief pause between the withdrawal of the flies and the continuing onslaught of the mosquitoes.

At night, during the height of that blistering Angolan summer, we slept fully dressed; every milimetre of our bodies covered and wrapped in ponchos, balaclavas and tucked and zipped into sleeping bags.

Still the mossies attacked.

Until enough was enough, and, breaking every rule of warfare, (bush, conventional or other), we built huge log fires that would burn throughout the night; and slept beside these.

Just far enough so as not to be incinerated; yet close enough to keep the enemy at bay.

Mosquitoes hate fire, and smoke in particular.

It worked, sort of. The odd “special forces” mossies got through and wreaked their bloody havoc on us.

It also worked, sort of, until our platoon commander got cold feet and put a stop to it.

It would give away our positions, he said.

Fair enough.

But, because we were so bored, frustrated and angered with the waiting, the anxiety and anticipation of impending attacks by the “other” armies, with terrifying thoughts of pitched battles, fire-fights, hand –to –hand combat, we told him we couldn’t give a fuck.

Either way, we insisted, let’s get our part in this fucking war over so we can be dead or go back home. Where we actually should have been.

Letters from home – when we got them – informed us that we were actually in SWA; and nowhere near Angola. Letters home were handed in unsealed and rigorously censored. I suppose the powers that be, then, did not want to alarm our families. And so they lied to our loved ones.

One night, way after midnight, all hell broke loose.

A gunner manning one of the two Ratels assigned to our platoon “lost it” (its called going “bossies” or “bos-befok”) and opened fire on the mossies with a 7,62mm Browning machine gun.

Most of us were dead asleep. We awoke, startled and frightened, to the chilling, rocketing sounds of whistling rounds with an awesome display of tracer bullets pouring into the black sky; lighting it up in a fluorescence of green and pink.

“YOU MOTHER-FUCKING MOSSIE BLACK BASTARDS” … he screamed

“YOU MOTHER…” And kept firing until a couple of troops close to the Ratel, who had quickly assessed the situation, clambered up onto the vehicle and pulled him down. He had to be forcibly restrained.

The rest of us thought that we were finally being attacked.

Without any clear orders in the midst of the chaos, some froze where they were sleeping, or standing guard; some fled from the scene far into the dark bush to take shelter and wait for the shit to subside and just go away

Just go away. Please.

Some okes were so pissed, they missed the fireworks. The adrenalin rush.

The next day the gunner was taken to a field hospital.

We heard later that he had been sent back to the “States” and into a psychiatric ward at No 1 Military Hospital in Pretoria.

That’s how powerful this mossie army was.

Devious, cunning and relentless in it’s endeavour to beat us into bloody submission, it provoked a severe, though fruitless counter-attack.

The flies were no different. There was simply no defence against them.

Except for one little strategy that threw them off for a few moments.

But only if you needed to have a crap. This was the one and only opportunity you had to be rid of them for a while.

It worked like this: You’re covered in flies and you’re dying for a crap. So you go a little way into the bush, quite a way away from your existing position, dig a hole, drop your webbing, drop your rods; crap. Then you slowly lift your rods, fasten your webbing, buckle up, grab your rifle and spade, and sprint as fast as you can away, away, from that pile of shit that’s now writhing in flies.

You’ve now thrown the fuckers off. And you can now enjoy a few moments of bliss.

Until the next wave of attack.

Meanwhile.

We waited in vain for the Cubans, the MPLA, SWAPO.

But they never arrived.

There were so many furtive shadows in the night; so many strange, unfamiliar sounds.

Apart from the foot patrols on which we were sent from time to time - out into the hinterland, scouting for possible enemy positions or movement - it was an excruciatingly boring existence.

Until one morning there was an urgent call to action.

The entire company was summoned to a parade.

We were informed that a certain General would be inspecting our positions.

We were ordered to clean our dirty selves up– some hadn’t washed for weeks – launder our “browns”, render our assortment of weapons spotless and in perfect working order; and generally clean and tidy up our trenches and positions.

There was a lot of excitement amongst the troops.

At least we could look forward to a little break from the monotony; the boredom; the inertia. Maybe even have a braai and some beer.

The rest of that day, and half that night, we went about the business of carrying out these orders.

The next day, as promised, the General arrived with an entourage of officers.

Our mortar section stood to attention beside our spotless positions. Everything was in perfect order.

The General exchanged a few words with our mortar Sergeant and proceeded with his inspection.

Already the flies were probing and parrying.

After the General and his officers had scrutinized our persons and our weapons – R5’s, mortar tubes, base-plates, crates of mortar bombs - a young, squeaky–clean lieutenant stopped and stood before me.

In a lowered voice he asked: “Are you guys 60mm mortars?”

“No lieutenant”, I answered with a straight face, standing stiffly to attention.

“Rigor mortis!”

He smiled wryly. And moved on, following the General, the other officers, and a fast-gathering army of flies.

A Short Story by Mario d'Offizi. (c) 2003: (1441 Words)

First published on www.jhblive.com, as Read of the Month (October 2003).