Chapter 7: RLI - By C Bone

We're in the Army now...

training troop.

I always remember being impressed when I heard that someone had a military background, and now I am able to say that about myself. I was a regular soldier for two years and during my tenure as a paratrooper I had the opportunity, on more than one occasion, to stab the odd scarecrow with my bayonet.

I joined the Rhodesian Light Infantry which was an elite small-arms battalion of commandos. I was there because the presiding judge had decreed that my only salvation lay within the structure, organization and discipline of the army. I listened to him with the full realization that I was being given a second chance.

Thus instructed, I arrived unannounced at the RLI barracks, brandishing my court order. I handed the piece of paper over to an administrative officer who looked like he knew what he was doing. He studied the document.

"Come back here next Sunday night. You're in intake 158." This I knew was the new recruit squad which would undergo tough initiation tests and was something I should avoid at all costs. I had to try and avoid Phase One, as this was the break-in period.

"Sarge?" I asked. The man looked up – not too happily either. "Sarge, I've already gone through basic training, can't I join the guys in 157?"

"Okay, go and get your kit from QM stores," he said without hesitation. Jeez, that was easy! So I joined a group that had already done three and a half weeks of training. As I went to the quartermaster to collect my new army gear, I remembered the old army adage that there were two sizes in the army – too big and too small. Always go for the too big rule, because you can always make a plan. I drew my equipment from a skinny young man who looked out of place – he should have been selling lengths of ribbon in a haberdashery. There was another soldier glaring at me from behind him who was wheelchair bound, an infamous pursy of a QM Sergeant who had been shot with a .22 revolver in an argument over a pool game.

I went to a designated barrack room and put my kit away in an empty locker. I took my time and really dragged things out because I knew that the instructors were not yet aware of my presence. I actually lay down on a spare bed and wallowed in my last few moments of freedom and then I got up and went to the armoury and drew a weapon before finally joining my new squad. This was my home for the next two months.

I psyched myself up for yet more drill and fell onto my polystyrene bean bag and hit the rapids. I spent the first couple of days getting to know the system; I had an idea of what was ahead of me, so I had no qualms about the discipline and training. Fortunately I had already done drill, or more like drill nearly did me. Wow, it was hard! I have the coordination of a racehorse on an ice-rink and, in retrospect, it would have been easier for me to send an e-mail on a Chinese typewriter than try to keep in step with everyone else.

I was in a group of about 70 recruits and amongst them were a couple of familiar faces who had seen my artwork and knew that I was an artist. One evening Shane Stringer approached me.

"Hey Bone, come and meet a friend of mine, he's also an artist. He's in the next barrack room." I followed Shane to where his friend sat on his bed hard at work with his art.

"Hey Trev, show Bone your art." Trevor Sutherland was a young 19 year old with false teeth. His party trick was to kiss a girl and leave his rack in her mouth. Trev held up his handiwork for my professional opinion. The artifact was a wooden carving, about a foot in length. It was quite detailed and I could see that the guy had some sort of talent, but it was the subject matter that was a little disappointing.

"Who's it for?" I asked.

"My chick," he responded. I nodded because it made sense, so I smiled and pointed at it.

"If I made that, I would have to call it a self-portrait!" I said. The two recruits laughed at the obvious reference to my surname. Trev held the artwork out for me to inspect but I declined the invitation; somehow the idea of handling the gadget grossed me out – it didn't seem right somehow to be weighing Trev's anatomical replica. The guy was breaking new ground though: he was the ultimate mother of invention – it was 1976 after all – and a good while before the arrival of the first handy pocket rocket.

Here are a couple of interesting stories I remember about my time in training troop.

Firstly, when some of my fellow recruits learnt that I was in the Police, they suspected that I was a plant; sometimes the police would try to infiltrate the military to weed out the weed smokers. One young man approached me, not too delicately, and questioned my presence. He was a tall South African biker who liked to smoke a bit of twack, and he was heard bragging one day about pouring petrol over sleeping tramps in Hillbrow in Johannesburg, and frying them. He came straight up to me.

"You better watch out, we don't like little pigs like you!" he spat at me. There were other recruits around – it was clearly test time so I stood my ground and came right up to his face, but not so close that he could head butt me. I was wise to the 'Glasgow Kiss' as I had once had six stitches put in my lower lip.

"Aren't you the guy with the amazing talent?" I asked demurely.

"What?" he retorted.

"I heard you could sleep with one eye open. So if you fancy the idea of waking up every morning with all your tusks, I would suggest you do just that! Now press on sunshine." Fortunately some of the guys there had read of my escapades in the newspaper so I was cleared of the going undercover suspicion.

This South African was later 'accidentally' killed in a firefight. The story came out that he was pestering another soldier's girlfriend. Although he had been warned to keep his distance, he continued pestering her. In fact the situation got ugly and he became very unpopular with his compatriots. It all came to a sticky end one day when a machine gunner 'mistook' him for a gook, and he ended up with a gut wound where he suffered a painful death. Sad – maybe he was hard of hearing.

Training troop was also the place where we got introduced to a new language. The RLI had its own vernacular and even in training troop you couldn't help but pick up the lingo – an odd kind of slang that only the soldiers understood. For the benefit of my old chinas in the Commandos, here's an imaginary letter from a troopie to his buddy overseas. For my foreign readers, you won't be able to make any sense of it whatsoever, so feel free to skip this bit.

This RLI language helped weld the troops together; it was the common thread for the potpourri of individuals. It's funny, but years later I came to one obvious conclusion about the Rhodesian army whilst watching TV. It was Mayday and there were a whole lot of Koreans marching past; the squared-off blocks of troops must have looked a bit like a table cloth from space – the neatness and precision of the blocks of soldiers marching was certainly impressive.

What puzzled me was the fact that when the Rhodesian troops were marching they were in step but definitely not in a squared off block. Then I got it – the Asian troops were all the same size and shape! For a country our size we couldn't call up all the 5ft 9in guys who weighed in at 160 lbs. Shoot, we had guys called High Tower, Shorty, Pudding and the Beast.

I had an interesting time on the drill square one day which involved a congenital birth defect of mine. Under my bottom lip there is a small dark spot where a blood vessel comes to the surface and, when the vein gets nicked, it bleeds profusely, often taking as much as ten minutes to coagulate.

So there I was standing at attention in my squad being inspected by a Colour Sergeant. The man came up to me – he was a fierce tough individual, and not at all pretty; definitely designed by the same committee that put the warthog together. He used to scream at us like a bull horn, his demented eyes just two inches from ours. On this particular occasion he froze in front of me and stared at my bottom lip. Then his drill stick shot up and rested on my chin, "Whassat on your face, you disgusting little man?!" he screamed at me. This affront did not really come as that much of a surprise because I knew that he was referring to the spot around the blood vessel where I was afraid to shave.

I paused – every soldier knows that the tongue is the neck's mortal enemy, so I stammered, "Colour, I...

"

"Get off my parade square now!" he yelled. "And sort your horrible little face out now!"

"But, Colour, I...

"

"What did you call me? Butt? Are you calling me an arse recruit?"

"No, Colour, I...

"

"Ontha double!" I ran off the parade square cradling my rifle and raced back to my barrack room. Once there I grabbed my shaving bag, ran into the bathroom and quickly dry-shaved my bottom lip. The razor cut away the tiny bristles and opened the sluice gates; the blood practically bubbled out of the nicked vessel. I packed away my bag and ran back to the parade square.

I stood on the perimeter of the holy ground and waited for the signal to rejoin my troop; I didn't have to wait long as the Colour Sergeant quickly signaled me over. I sprinted up and regained my position, watching the instructor out of the corner of my eye as I did so. I waited for the inevitable response, and it didn't take long! In no time I heard the crunching of the beast's hob-nailed drill boots descending on my position again. The soldier's soldier was as noisy as a steel-shod cart horse on English cobbles as he bore down on me. He came to a crashing stop and stared at me in total disbelief. Before him stood a recruit who looked like he'd had his face cleaved open with a machete. There was blood bubbling all down my chin and shirt front.

"What the hell is this?" he finally screamed. I didn't answer.

"Tell me, recruit!" he commanded.

"Colour," I began matter-of-factly, "I have a facial defect. I tried to tell you. But it only happens once a month." This was in part reference to some of the man's somewhat limited and demeaning vocabulary that had been used to describe my unsavory existence on the Hallowed ground. My squad mates all around me erupted in laughter in a very unprofessional outburst. But joining them was a flicker of a smile from the colour sergeant who was also able to recognize the humour.

He leant close to me, and very quietly whispered, "Bone, get off my square now and tidy yourself up. Find yourself a camouflaged sanitary towel or something." I doubled off, chuckling with every step. I knew the guy was a softie on the inside, you know, like the saliva you find around incisors.

One lecture given to us by the Colour Sergeant was at two o'clock one afternoon. I was sitting down with the other recruits in the tree shade, and I wasn't the only one struggling to stay awake. My mind wandered off its moorings and I dreamily came to the conclusion that drill instructors were just like table tennis bats, and we were the ping-pong balls. In my semi-comatosed state I summed up the reality of it all: upon entering the army we were white, cozy and full of the air of our own self-importance, traveling along comfortably in one direction, then we were suddenly and violently stopped dead in our tracks, only to be sent screaming off at the double in another direction, and then sucked back and bashed again.

Anyway, under the tree, the instructor asked everyone if they had any questions. I put up my arm and asked him if he had gone to Prince Edward School. Shoot, you would have thought that I had accused him of showering with his undies on. He was a Plumtree boy, but I had to know; even in training troop I wouldn't tarry in my endeavor to expose as many Prince Edward boys as possible. I expected to unearth a few dozen, and it didn't take me long to uncover one recruit with the surname of Passaportis. This was a Greek surname that was well known in Rhodesia, and I have a story connected to the clan.

One day I bought a brand new colour TV, and it didn't take long before I realized that I had bought something from the Mediterranean. In those days, because of widespread economic sanctions, you never knew where the goods in the shops might have originated from. When I got home I tore into the big fancy cardboard box, set the TV up with the correct wiring, then tried to switch it on. Nothing happened so I reluctantly went in search of the instruction manual, and blow me down if it wasn't all in Greek. Hmmm...

now who do I know who is Greek? One of my neighbours went by the name of Alan Passaportis and, yes, both he and his extended family (about two dozen of them) went to THAT school!

"Hey Greek," I said on the phone, "you have to come over for tea, I need your help." Jeez, as luck would have it he didn't understand a word of Greek, and neither would any of his relatives, he assured me. What were the chances?

My family sat for a week watching Aljazeera TV with the green menu chart covering everything, and the only sound we could pick up was spillage from the local radio station, which was an ethno-static assault on the senses. How grumpy were my kids! Eventually I managed to get hold of a farmer who moonlighted as a computer wizard, and he managed to break the code, using some arcane cyber secrets to unravel the mystery.

Early one morning, I mean seriously early, I was standing outside the training troop barracks with the other recruits waiting to do our early morning physical training exercises. We were dressed in standard-issue, drab green vests, shorts and cheap canvas hockey shoes; as usual, we all had our FN rifles at our sides. We stood shivering in the cold and dark, waiting for the instructors to arrive; all of us somewhat apprehensive about what lay ahead of us – the PT instructors had wicked imaginations. The worst being a crushing physical test that was known as the wildebeest; this was done in the Army gymnasium and its main objective was to subject each soldier to an endless series of grueling exercises until barely a handful of die-hards were left standing. Jeez it was horrible!

So, with great trepidation, we speculated over what might be in store for us. Our hearts sank when we saw the instructors approaching out of the gloom and there was a low moan in the ranks because there, leading the way was Mr. Hell on wheels. He was a seasoned old soldier who had a disturbing presence, like a dent in a dewdrop. He had a body like Tarzan and a Rottweiler's temperament.

In no time Mr. Hell had us running past the drill square towards a small forest of fir trees; we dreaded that place because we half-expected to find the remains of a few Polish officers there.

"Right, lie down!" the Rottweiler barked. We guessed what was coming – we were going to spend the next half an hour raising and lowering our legs, all the time doing bicycle kicks. It was a killer.

The instructor growled at us, "There have been some complaints from you girls that you're having a hard time. That's incorrect. Today we will show you fillies what is a hard time!" Inwardly we all winced – this wasn't going to be good.

The sky was getting a bit lighter by now and we knew that it would be more difficult to dodge doing some of the exercises.

"Put your hands by your hips!" This instruction had stomach crunches written all over it.

"Raise your...

"We waited. "Little fingers!" We didn't understand but we did it.

"Lower your fingers!"

"Raise your thumbs!"

This continued for twenty minutes, and we were all very suspicious, but we did nothing more than finger exercises.

After half an hour of less-than-strenuous exercises we all ran back to the barracks and went to breakfast; I think the lesson for us was to expect the worst and hope for the best. Works for me.

About two weeks short of our three month stint of military training we were sent on classical warfare training exercises. We spent the days route-marching around the bush, covering about twenty miles a day, often walking deep into the night. Along with our weapons and backpacks we were also given a heavy log to carry; this thing was about six foot long and shaped like a melted-down toothbrush. It was a nasty device, difficult to manhandle, and was aptly nicknamed Mugabe.

The forced marches were stressful and demanding, and I along with my compatriots concentrated on making sure that our bodies stayed injury free. I subscribed to the old soldiers' adage that so long as your feet were alright, you could march for days, but once you started developing blisters you would have serious problems down the road. Well armed with this advice, I would strip off my boots and socks whenever I came to a stream, and after crossing the water I would dry my feet and then put my foot gear back on. The guys with me grumbled about the lost time, but I didn't care.

One morning, after an arduous thirty mile hike through the bush, we all gathered at the top of a rocky hill for some classical warfare exercises. We were each issued with a battered old army helmet and shovel, while one old, grumpy, seasoned warrior issued instructions.

"You will wear your headgear types protective at all times. You will prepare a hole types shell six feet by four feet by four feet and be in it by 1800 hours. Start digging!" I put my brain bucket on my head. Let me describe this contraption that was second cousin to the metal dustbin lid. For a start the thing weighed a ton, and I concluded that some semi-retired graybeard deep in the government quartermaster's stores designed the darn thing. Deep in the bowels of his overstuffed warehouse, this intrepid utilitarian must've found himself a boatload of unwanted military hardware, and put his conjuring mind to good use. Where mere mortals might have seen but a surplus of Bedford hubcaps, our intrepid milliner saw fashionable headgear for labouring recruits. Not short of resourcefulness, he then mined his middle-man supplier for a container-load of defunct Nam dog muzzles. Once attached to the inside of the hubcap, each un-sanitized muzzle made for a perfect webbing, mercifully preventing the cranium from making direct contact with the 28 lbs of solid steel perched above our heads. A users' manual must have been produced alongside these hideous helmets, page 14 of which assured the wearer that bullets would bounce off these like acorns off a sunroof.

So about a hundred of us stood with these Normandy sun bonnets wobbling on our heads, and started to dig. About twenty seconds into it I heard my first crashing sound; one soldier had found it impossible to dig with a hollowed out ball-bearing on his head, so he tossed it to one side. We all looked over at the instructor who just smiled – we got the message that he probably agreed with us that it was a stupid idea to ready ourselves for beach invasions in the middle of Africa. But it was his duty to tell us to wear them and what we did with this instruction was up to us, so we all took them off; they would be brought out again for the next intake.

We tried the digging part. After another twenty seconds of spade work we had made little or no impression on the rock-hard ground – this was like giving pallet knives to the stone masons on Mt. Rushmore to work with. Even the nail file in the complimentary gift bags from the Grammys would have been more useful, and one-by-one we gave up – it was a waste of time even trying. The afternoon was then spent sleeping or cleaning weapons.

At six o'clock the old war dog shouted for everyone to jump into their foxholes. No one knew what to do, so we all lay down on the flat ground feeling ridiculous. We just smiled at each other under the helmets and waited for the legend to arrive. We knew there was an ill wind coming our way, and like a hurricane he would sweep through – breaking everything in his path. We girded our loins, expecting the worst, cognizant of the fact that we were going to get crucified – they had sacked Rome for less! The centurion walked between us, but inexplicably he acted blind.

"Well done troops, this is more like it! You will all make fine soldiers." It was on occasions like that when I loved the army. The instructor knew that we were all expecting some serious punishment, but he was there to make us stronger and wiser, and he knew that we wouldn't learn anything by doing pointless exercises.

That evening we bivvied up, ate supper and made tea or coffee. It was wonderful camping under a galaxy of stars with scores of like-minded men as company.

But we knew we weren't over it yet, as there were still a couple of hard days ahead of us. I guessed that the instructors would task us with some hard trekking over hills, down ravines and through thick, unwelcoming bush. I was correct – the next forty-eight hours were unforgiving.

I remember stumbling into our last rendezvous point at two in the morning; we took off our backpacks and webbing and lay down where we stood and instantly fell asleep. Three hours later, at dawn, we were up again.

In my group were about six RLI recruits and in the growing light we discovered that we were not alone. Because we had bedded down so late the previous night we were not aware of the dozens of soldiers sleeping around us. As the sun rose, about a hundred weary, passive recruits were assembled for a briefing. The instructors broke everyone up into small sticks and then introduced twenty new recruits who were officers in training. These guys were the same age as us – but officer material. Superior stuff!

Technically the young men weren't yet officers but we had to pretend as such. We were allocated a young Rhodesian who was a classic example of a shiny all rounder; he was ex-university, had cricket and rugby colours, and was the kind of guy who wrote to his Grandmother in boot camp. He introduced himself – his name escapes me now – but we'll call him Gootsa, a contraction of 'goodie two shoes.' Gootsa tried to befriend us, while at the same time gently reminding us that he was definitely in charge. I can't say I didn't like the guy but I didn't have much space left in my hospitality drawer at that stage.

After a quick bush breakfast, we all followed our dashing leader Gootsa a short distance to an impromptu bombing range, where an Air Force Hunter jet was supposed to bomb an old school in front of us. We gathered a safe distance away, but nothing happened. Eventually a civilian Air Rhodesia Viscount plane flew over us on its way to Kariba, and we all fantasized that it was a military jet on its way to bomb Zambia – we weren't very impressed.

Following this we were sent off to another RV (rendezvous) point about ten miles away, which we covered quickly, and were soon humping along briskly with our fearless leader Gootsa barn storming ahead, keen to keep to schedule. Along the way we stopped occasionally for the mandatory smoke breaks.

On our first stop, our intrepid leader started issuing instructions for everyone to do a dog-leg around on our own trail, which was a standard army procedure which enabled you to ambush anyone following you. It was just an extra precautionary measure, a bit like meeting your mistress in the coffee shop and taking a seat facing the door and beside the back exit.

"Sir," we reasoned, "this is bullshit."

We started testing him, and pushed his leadership qualities to the limit, watching closely as he tried to stay firm and resolute. We finally resorted to mutinous scare tactics, which he countered by saying, "You know I have to make a report."

"So do I," I replied, "you see, I'm not really a recruit."

This set him back, "You're not?"

I didn't answer him. We walked the rest of the afternoon, up and down hills and gullies. I was carrying a machine gun, and the going wasn't too bad as I was starting to get used to the heavy weight; you could liken the hulking weight of the cumbersome MAG to carrying your sleeping six year old son back from Wimbledon during a train strike. After a while you learn to switch off and plod along, dreaming about a good night's sleep.

At six o'clock that evening we hooked up with everyone else and pulled out our canteens, opened up a tin or two and laid out our beds.

Gootsa came over, "Well done guys, excellent work today. We move out at five tomorrow morning. Have a good night's sleep, you've earned it." We knew that the speech came right out of the manual – show the men you cared for them.

I wearily lay my head down on my sleeping bag. I hadn't washed for a week and was feeling tired and bruised. The one comforting thought I had was that I was nearing the end of the classical war exercise and after that there was the pass-out parade, and then I was in the commandos. I looked up at the clear night sky, my Rhodesian sky, and the colours closed.

It must have been only twenty minutes later we were all shaken awake; I had been in a deep sleep and I immediately felt for my gun beside me. We normally slept with the carrying strap around an arm because it was a serious offence if someone was able to remove your weapon from you while you slept, and some guys put their rifles either in or under their sleeping bags. Months later I had a bad experience when I was separated from my weapon.

One night about twenty of us bedded down on the slopes of a small hill. We had been chasing Charlie all day and we were all dead beat. I lay my gun down, unbuckled my webbing, climbed into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep; for some reason I woke up at midnight in a panic. Something was wrong! Everything was dead quiet and I knew that we had a couple of guards awake, so I didn't feel in danger. I reached for my machine gun but couldn't find it. Holy moly! This was serious – like getting back from Wimbledon without the boy – shoot, I must have dropped him when I scampered across the tracks at Victoria Station! I felt around in the dark and eventually found the gun, almost six feet upslope of where my sleeping bag was positioned. It turned out that gravity had slowly pulled me down the slope during the night – an action slicker than a broody spinster. I wrapped my arm through the sling and finally got back to sleep again.

But now, in the middle of the night, Gootsa was moving between us, whispering us awake, "There's an emergency. Salisbury is going to be attacked!"

I looked around and in the dark I could see bodies mobilizing everywhere. I half-expected this, as I knew there had to be some sort of ruse – there was no way we would be allowed a full night's sleep on the last day of our training. Our group stood up, kitted up and stood silently with our eyes closed waiting for the next instruction from Gootsa, who stood before the six of us.

"Guys, bad news, we have to RV at the main Mazoe and Bindura turn-off. It's about twenty- five clicks away. We can do it. Let's show the rest!" With that he went away for a final briefing.

One of the guys amongst us, Jonny Buckle, signaled our squad closer together and whispered a suggestion.

"Listen up, this happened with the last intake and everyone got lost. It took the whole day to get all the recruits back together. Let's lose this character!" A plan was set in motion.

Gootsa came back cradling his rifle. "Okay, let's move out," he commanded.

One of us mocked his enthusiasm, "Let's do it guys, we'll kick ass tonight!" In the dim light I saw Gootsa positively straighten up with pride – the gelling effect of his leadership skills were binding us together as a tight professional group.

We walked for about an hour and strangely we weren't tired. There was a half-moon out and I was about three from the front behind Gootsa, who was charging ahead. In no time we came to an area of badly eroded terrain which consisted of ditches, rises, and stony river beds. I was just about to scramble down a small slope when I felt a heavy slap on my shoulder. The guy behind me pointed to a big black pointed hill and then ducked off and disappeared. I then waited until I hit a rough area and accelerated up to the guy in front of me and in turn slapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the hill. The young man nodded his head and I ducked off and noiselessly made my way up the hill.