Day 60 – G1 K1

On facebook recently I found a closed group called Infanterie Skool, Oudtshoorn. I am not one to hang onto the past, I prefer to look to the future to be honest, but for a year in my life, at the back end of my teens and straight after school I found myself here, in Oudtshoorn. Let me tell you the story…

Back then in the good old bad days, National Service was an obligatory service to your country. You could evade it for a while, you could duck it but they always caught up with you at some point. National Service was something everyone did, and your friends, family and community considered it your duty to do it. So off I went, straight after school, still wet behind the ears and barely shaving. Initially I was drafted to 5SAI in Ladysmith. Couple hours from Durban, not too onerous. But, being this ambitious and impatient and some would say stupid person that I am I decided that if I had to do this shit for two years I may as well as make the most of it. So I volunteered (I only found out later that in the Army you never volunteer!) for Infantry School and officer training. In Oudtshoorn which is a long way from Durban.

(as a side note, the Army’s measurement of your fitness was graded, if you were classified as G1K1, which was a requirement for Infantry School, you were deemed to be a combat trainable soldier. A while ago while walking through a mall I saw a wannabee musclemonkey guy wearing a designer shirt with the letters G5K5 emblazoned across his chest. In the army, if you were classified G5K5 you were virtually a one eyed, stone deaf, illiterate, mute retard. Made me cackle.)

And so, after a barrage of tests to check we could tell our left from our right, our fitness and our leadership capability those that remained were herded onto buses for the seriously long drive to the Cape. Were we in for a fright!?

From the minute we arrived and for the rest of that year we ran and polished and ran and polished. Being potential infantry officers meant that we had to be the fittest, the strongest, the best…it also meant that we were most likely to be put in harms way. Remember this was 1988. South Africa was at war in Angola and in every township in the country. The odds of being shot at were not in your favour.

Infantry school is a place revered by those who went through its system. At the time we hated ‘vasbyt’ – 90km walk in three days with full battle pack, we hated trench warfare phase – 6 weeks in winter sleeping in a hole in the Outeniqua mountains, we hated the opfoks given to us by bitter and twisted can’t make it in the real world PF’s, we hated the shitty food that we had to eat in seven minutes. We hated that our beds that had to be as flat as ironing boards and perfectly manicured. We hated guard duties, especially in winter and even the dumbest of us questioned why we were only given five bullets to guard the entire base. We hated the theory lessons, usually given straight after lunch, just when the tiredness of the morning kicked in. We hated the fire and movement drills, over and over again often under live fire, we hated it when the platoon sergeant stuck his noisy face into our bungalow at stupid o clock in the morning. We hated running with the poles, we hated not being allowed to move while our formation was bombed with teargas. There wasn’t much to like one would think. At the time.

It took me a while to realise the value of the lessons learnt in those times. It is difficult to explain but there were friendships forged under very trying condition. During border phase we jumped repeatedly out of a moving buffel (armoured vehicle) trying to simulate ambush conditions, we sneakily bought and drank beer from the kuka shops while on patrol, we bathed in the cattle drinking pits, we stole goats to slaughter and made fire. We slept fitfully, wondering what the next day would bring. We learnt to be self confident in a hostile environment, we learnt to take charge of situations and most of all we learnt the value of discipline. Obviously there were other lessons, like stripping an automatic weapon under fire, to clear a stoppage, pulling the pin on a hand grenade and hoping like fuck you could throw it far enough. We learnt about the pride our parents had in us, we saw their emotion at our Commissioning parade, proud but wondering if we would be alive at the end of next year. We were officers in one of the finest armies in the world (at the time it has to be said). We were respected by other young white men who also had to do National service. Our placements, mine to 101 Bn was waiting. Action was in front of us. And action we found.

Until tomorrow.