(Experiences in the South African military, some mine, some Jack’s, part 1)
The people who design military bases are the ones who couldn’t get into prison design school. Rejected, they set about trying to prove themselves. This much was clear to me on the dreary morning I arrived at Voortrekkerhoogte for basic training. There were fences everywhere, high walls, drab buildings, and little by ways of colour. I had dreaded this moment ever since I’d turned sixteen and the Defence Force had started sending me yearly call-up orders. Now I handed these to the guard at the gate and went inside.
On the parade ground young men stood around awkwardly. More arrived in busses from the station, conscripted to the base from elsewhere in the country. They had travelled far and looked haggard. They disembarked and disappeared into the crowd of waiting men. We were left to our own thoughts, to fidget with our small bags of personal belongings, and to watch one another. Like sheep dogs, sergeants and corporals barked orders to herd us together, but otherwise they left us alone.
It’s strange to see how quickly one’s idea of what’s normal can change. Within minutes we looked motley and absurd. Through a separating fence we could see troops drilling in another part of the base. They looked uniform and spruce. A soldier ran alongside a marching platoon with his R4 rifle across his shoulders like a yoke. Even he looked neat. In comparison we were tattered, unchoreographed, and vulnerable—new inmates in the prison yard. We were together for now, but there wasn’t any safety in the loneliness we shared.
Around ten o’clock a sergeant with a megaphone stepped onto a crate near where I stood. He was sinewy and tough, with bandy legs and a chin so weak that his face ended in a wide moustache. He looked like a shaved ferret. He triggered the megaphone and made it honk.
“My name is Sergeant Sinden!” he squealed.
He paused to let this information sink in. While he looked around, handing out hard stares, I tried to imagine that he’d always had that name, as a baby and later as a small boy—Sergeant Sinden.
“Has Sergeant Sinden made a poo-poo,” his mother crooned when he’d soiled his nappy.
I could see him called forward in kindergarten to hold up a crude drawing of a house and an outsize cow. It was signed Sergeant Sinden in an uncertain hand. Maybe he also had the moustache—
“What the FUCK are you smiling about!?”
Sergeant Sinden was looking straight at me.
“Nothing,” I called out.
Sinden almost fell off his crate. Then he was on top of me, in two quick strides, thrusting the megaphone into my face.
“Sergeant,” I tried.
He was springy with anger and had turned a darker colour. He held the megaphone to my ear.
“Sergeant! Nothing Sergeant!”
“That’s better! Now get the fuck up!”
He got back onto the crate while I picked myself up under his unwavering gaze.
“I’ll kick your arse so fucking hard,” he crowed, “you’ll have a brown taste in your mouth.”
He looked around and collected himself. Then he delivered a speech of goodwill intended to welcome us and dispel some of of the misconceptions we might have had about the Army. One of these wrong ideas, he said, was the notion that swearing was condoned.
“So,” he shrieked, “if any of you cunts hear instructors using words like fuck or shit, you come and tell me!”
It was clear that the no-swearing policy had been conceived somewhere above him. He honked the megaphone again, like a bosun’s whistle. We were to line up for hearing and eyesight tests, and to pee on paper strips which would test for blood and protein in our urine.
The Army wanted us to have no blood or protein in our urine—at least, not yet. The idea, as we saw it, was to have blood and protein in our urine already. One guy poured a Coke onto his strip and I stuck mine up my nose before I peed on it. It got all bent and didn’t look right. I threw it away and went to ask for another one.
“Buggerfuck me!” the medical officer roared. “You shit on it?”
“I lost it, sir.”
He put his nose very close to mine and bounced my fringe with his voice.
“And I feel for you like a mother with a wooden tit!”
Then he gave me another strip and followed me to make sure that I peed on it. He escorted me back to the rows of tables where the medics inspected it and sent me along in the snaking queue herded by shouting men. They called out our service numbers one by one. Service numbers started with the two digits of the year they were assigned. From these I could judge the ages of the other men. One man with thick glasses had a service number issued ten years before mine. When his number was called out he went up to Sergeant Sinden who was still standing on his crate. He explained something to him.
“Doctor!?” Sinden mocked him, using the megaphone. “Well, well, fucking well. Fancy that!”
The man said something else and appeared to make a helpful suggestion.
“Fall in, Doc,” Sinden brayed, making the megaphone squeak, “or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll have with a whole new blood type!”
With their printed lists and practiced voices the instructors shouted us into groups. Each group numbered around forty men, but not all the men had arrived. We sat in the dust and waited.
“Just look at them,” the guy next to me said.
His name was Andy. He had long hair, all the way down his back, and a well-travelled look. He lay against his bag, one leg over the other, his hands locked across his chest. He seemed very relaxed at a time when the rest of us were very tense.
“Have you noticed,” he said, “that none of them has a proper chin?”
I looked at the corporals moving between the new conscripts, shoving them and shouting. They all seemed to share a basic body plan that suggested generations of unschooled sex.
“Only a recipe with very few ingredients could produce such consistently similar results,” Andy remarked.
As we watched them, Doc tried his luck with another sergeant, but Sinden spotted him. Soon he was doing pushups with Sinden’s boot in his back.
“Old Doc there is in for a hard time,” Andy said. “He thinks he can convince these people that he doesn’t belong here.”
When Doc started struggling after a few pushups, some of the corporals gathered to jeer at this outrage of physical weakness. One leant in and counted for him, shouting near his ear. When Doc’s arms gave out, he was yanked upright by the men who surrounded him. They abandoned their requirement of pushups and taunted him with questions instead.
“Doctor fucking what?” one of them howled.
“Palaeontology,” Doc explained glumly.
His face was red and dusty.
“So you’re not a doctor then?” another corporal asked.
“Polly-fucking-tology!” Sinden announced over the megaphone.
“If you had any expectations involving culture,” Andy warned as he chewed on a blade of grass, “it’d be good to adjust them now.”
The instructors lost interest and left Doc alone. He stood with his bag on the ground between his feet, cleaning his glasses. Then he sat down to wait.
A few minutes later, a stocky corporal with particularly simian features waded past.
“The People versus Natural Selection,” Andy snorted when the corporal was out of earshot.
Doc overheard this and smiled to himself.
“What’s up, Doc?” Andy called to him.
There was a moment of silence as Doc considered this question.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” he quoted from the seventies movie.
Andy sat up and smiled. He looked at me, and then at Doc.
“You know what?” he said. “It’s going to be alright.”