Zulu Foxtrot Reloaded

1

Shit Happens

The pitch of the plane’s engines changed slightly and brought me to the present. We were making a gradual descent.

Suddenly the left wing dipped and we started a fast downward spiral. ‘We’re going to crash, have we been hit? I didn’t hear an explosion,’ I thought. What the fuck is going on? Is this the end?

I was being sucked down into my seat as we went down. I couldn’t lift my hand up, and my cheeks were being pulled down by the G-force.

Suddenly, at about 200 metres, the C-130 levelled out and landed in an instant. ‘Fuck, these pilots are damn good,’ I thought.

The plane stopped and I heard the whine of an electric motor driving the hydraulics to open the rear cargo door. Bright white sunlight streamed in. After four hours in the darkened plane, the intense sunlight was harsh on my eyes, but I could see two Alouette gunship-helicopters still circling. They were providing air cover for the C-130 to land at Ondangwa airbase.

The C-130s and C-160s that we called Flossies transported police and military troops, civilian passengers, as well as cargo. They also carried our dead and wounded back home.

They landed like this, not to give the passengers the thrill of a lifetime or to terrify them, but to avoid the possibility of the plane getting hit by enemy fire.

Most feared was the SAM-7 surface to air missile. The RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenades were a threat too but had a maximum range of only 900 metres and weren’t all that accurate while a SAM-7 was very quiet, capable of bringing any aircraft down with deadly consequences. An insurgent needed to be within an effective range to fire and hit an aircraft with any weapon and that’s where the circling helicopter gunships came in. Any insurgent firing anything at the Flossies or other aircraft could possibly be spotted by the gunships circling and their deadly 20 mm auto-cannon with optical sights hardly ever missed a target.

However, a few missiles had been fired at the Flossies and other aircraft in the past, such as the DC-147 that had its tail shot off by a SAM-7 but miraculously a skilled pilot was still able to land.

A complete SAM-7 (Soviet Surface to Air missile) at the time was worth about $120 000 on the black market in the Middle East. I can’t remember what ‘kopgeld’ (bounty) was paid to our black members to be shared among themselves when we recovered or captured one. It was probably about R 1000-00 which was the same price for a captured SWAPO PLAN or R 800-00 for a dead one.

A SAAF C-130 that we called the Flossie

We had headed south that morning from Eenhanna, down through the ‘rugraad gebied’ (backbone area) on regular patrol, stopping at the kraals, questioning the locals while our Ovambo members kept a keen eye out for any suspected enemy spoor. At about 10:00 our trackers spotted some enemy insurgents’ spoor and soon we were after them and almost onto them. With some persuasion where the spoor passed some of the locals’ kraals, the locals confirmed that we were chasing four SWAPO PLAN insurgents.

We flanked our trackers on the ground with two rows of Casspirs on either side, each row’s Casspirs one behind another. Two Casspirs rode up ahead to see if they could pick up the spoor in order to gain on the enemy or possibly by chance bump into the enemy.

We progressed pitting our tracking and all our skills against the enemy’s skills of avoiding and getting away from us, for the rest of the morning into the midafternoon.

At precisely the right time after consulting with our trackers Pete had placed the gunships at Eenhanna on standby. Now it was time for them to come. The spoor was hot, very hot.

‘Sersant, hulle gaan nou kak,’ (Sergeant, they are going to shit now), Bennie said to me.

The pitch of the sound from Alouette III gunship helicopter’s rotors changed to a harsh dull, thuck-a-thuck-a-thuck as it turned above us, sounding almost like loud automatic gunshots but we knew the sound of gunships’ 20 mm auto-cannons that sounded like lightning thunder in the form of retribution being poured down from the heavens above when the gunner/engineer would have the enemy in his deadly accurate optical sights and open fire. The sound from the rotors gave me a surge of adrenaline and boosted my confidence. If the enemy heard it too, it would demoralise them.

‘Wessie, can you see the gunships anywhere?’ I called to Wessie over the RSA 53 short distance FM radio in my Casspir.

‘No I can’t see them,’ Wessie replied. ‘Perhaps they’re out of range, flying too high so I can’t see them. I doubt they’d be able to see the enemy on the ground from that height either,’ he added.

We were being sarcastic and knew exactly where the gunships were while we could see them. We wanted them to come down and fly at treetop level. They were obviously fresh gunship pilots with crews.

The gunship guys were a different breed of men who often defied their standing orders and went way beyond their call of duty to assist us with their marvellous flying skills and close support.

In fact a lot of Koevoet’s successes were owed to these brave men who had even on occasion airlifted some of our wounded to the primary trauma unit at Ondangwa airbase.

The pilots told us that their standing orders were that they were not to fly lower than 300 metres in altitude while they were providing air support for us but soon they would learn that this order was ludicrous and made no sense. Flying low at treetop level had many advantages. For one thing they would stand a better chance of getting a visual on the enemy and flying low was more effective in demoralising the enemy. Also, it was in fact safer for them. At 300 metres they were still well within range of enemy RPG and small arms fire but passing over the enemy at tree top level the enemy would have little time to get them well within their sights in order to fire at them effectively.

‘Stop talking so much shit over the radio and get on with the job,’ Pete cut us short but then he got into a conversation with one of the pilots. They started talking about getting together for a braai the next weekend at the pilot’s quarters at Ondangwa airbase or possibly at Pete’s house at Oshakati.

‘Fuck it, Pete,’ I thought, ‘you tell us to stop talking shit over the radio and now you launch into a long private conversation over the radio with one of the pilots about your weekend plans?’

It was great to keep a good working relationship with the Alouette gunship guys as their contribution was a great asset to our successes.

Arthur Walker HCG and bar SM was one of their legends, a pilot who had twice been awarded the Honoris Crux Gold. The Honoris Crux was the highest military award for bravery awarded to members of the South African Defence Force.

Arthur had flown air cover for our teams on many occasions. After the attack on Alpha Tower in late 1982 our team Zulu Golf that I worked for then, chased the spoor of the attackers the next morning into Angola. Most of that day Arthur flew top cover for us.

I wondered what he had thought when our Blesbok driver strayed from the follow up and got lost. Arthur could see our Blesbok from up above and called our driver telling him to follow him back to the rest of the team. Our driver just couldn’t understand how Arthur was trying to help him; how on earth was he supposed to follow a helicopter up in the air while he was driving a Blesbok down on the ground? Arthur just gave up and left our driver to find his own way back to join up with our team.

Our unit had wanted to have Arthur awarded the South African Police medal for combating terrorism but a South African Police medal couldn’t be awarded to a South African Defence Force serviceman and vice-versa. Arthur was later awarded the Southern Cross Medal for his work in helping to develop Koevoet.

Our team carried two drums of AVTUR helicopter fuel on the back of our Blesbok in the hope that it would enable the gunships to refuel, either during a follow-up operation or preferably just after a successful one. This would gain valuable time for them and for us as it would enable them to stay airborne with us for longer without having to return to a base to refuel during the operation.

It was important for us to check the expiry date on the drums. It had happened that one of our teams had supplied them with contaminated fuel so some were hesitant to refuel from us. Pete reassured them that our fuel was fresh and ready if they needed it and if they chose to land and refuel from us at any stage.

It was a bit of a sore point among some of the pilots and crews that the spoils of war from contacts that they were involved in and where they achieved enemy kills were not shared with them. Some of the AK, SKS bayonets, Russian and Cuban belts, buckles and badges as well all the souvenirs that we stripped and scored from the bodies of the dead enemy insurgents were sometimes not given to them. Our team saved such items from contacts, even some from contacts that the gunships weren’t involved in, but they didn’t need to know if they were old souvenirs and we made sure that they received them, especially if they landed to refuel from our Blesbok after a contact.

The gunships turned overhead and circled to the south while our Casspirs bashed their way through the bush flanking our trackers on the ground on both sides.

It was hot, bloody hot; and the air was dry as our Casspirs bashed their way through the bush. I could smell some of the fresh sap left by broken trees and shrubs. Insects, debris and everything up in the trees that could fall tumbled down on top of me. Branches whipped back, whipping my arms and face while some thorns on thorn branches tore at my clothes and skin.

I ducked the branches, moved from side to side trying to judge and avoid everything I saw that was coming my way to inflict pain, while I held onto the handgrips of my 20 mm auto-cannon and .30 Browning machine gun in front of me. I visually scanned and searched the bush in front of us for any movement or sign of life.

Forward view from behind my guns on my Casspir Zulu Foxtrot Three while on patrol

I had been in this same situation a number of times, more that I could remember, but still my heart beat with ferocity and the adrenaline surged through my body making me feel a bit high, as if I was actually loving the moment. I anticipated the moment when that first shot would be fired or an explosion would rock the air blocking out all the other noises, then ‘Contact, contact, contact’ would be called by someone who had seen the enemy over the air.

Perhaps the gunships’ auto-cannon would suddenly erupt up ahead from above and pour bursts of rounds down to earth, sending the insurgents to be liberated in hell, bringing a sense of relief to me that it was over but still an urgency to race to the contact point.

Then it happened, the call came from one of the gunship pilots over the radio, ‘Contact, contact…’ moments before his gunner opened fire and the insurgents were condemned to hell but not all of them, only three were despatched instantly.

Hiding in a bush, one had been missed, overlooked by the gunship gunner but it didn’t take long for one of our Casspirs to arrive at the contact point and realise that one of the four was missing as only three bodies lay where they had fallen in a bloody horrible mess, blown to bits, blood, broken bone and brains spilled all over the soft white powdery sand of Ovamboland.

Our trackers were quick to locate the fourth and finding him intact, instead of immediately despatching him with the other three to where they all belonged, our trackers took him alive.

There was work to be done; mopping up after the contact, enemy weapons to be accounted for and recorded, their bodies and kit to be searched for important documents and souvenirs to be collected.

‘Fuck, man, it’s not a fucking 82 mm mortar pipe you thought it was when you first arrived.’ Someone shouted, ‘It’s a fucking SAM-7!!! ’

The gunship’s rounds had missed it; it lay there near the dead bodies perfectly intact. The long tube was a darkish green colour and although it could easily have been mistaken for a Soviet 82 mm mortar pipe at a glance from a distance it was a SAM-7 surface to air missile. But where was the rest of it, where was the valuable, reusable part of the weapon, the trigger mechanism? There was more work to be done, another task to be completed. We wanted the trigger mechanism.

‘Take him behind the Blesbok, strip him and secure him,’ I instructed some of my section members.

I pushed the latches up on the back flap of our Blesbok and let the flap swing down with a loud clank.

Elau, our Blesbok driver helped me to move away some of the equipment around our petrol driven arc welding machine.

I took the one end of the one cable and I attached the clamp to the insurgent’s foot, he was well secured with his hands tied behind his back, laying on his back and blindfolded. He was totally naked.

I then found the other end of the cable as well as a steel rod and clamped the rod where one would usually clamp a welding rod.

Elau then pulled the cord that started the arc welder. It spluttered a bit then purred to life.

‘Tell him that he must speak the truth. If he doesn’t then evil demons will take control of his body and they might kill him.’ I instructed Elias to translate to the captive.

The information that we wanted to extract from the insurgent was where the trigger mechanism for the SAM-7 was, where the SAM operator was as well as if he had any knowledge of where any SWAPO arms caches were and if he would know where to find them and show us?

I didn’t wait for Elias to finish translating what the captive replied; instead I stroked his neck, shoulder and arm with the steel rod. The arc welder was set to maximum amperage. The electrical current passed through his body which went into involuntary spasms as he could not control his muscle movement.

He had been trained that in his current circumstances he should accept his death in the name of the cause that he was fighting for rather than to reveal any information to us.

Elias and the others fired their questions at him knowing exactly what to ask him as they had done similar, several times in the past. So I didn’t have to tell them what to ask our captive. They knew what to ask him. If I needed any additional information I would tell them to ask him.

I decided to give the captive a full dose of treatment as I wanted to get the job done and the information out of him as quickly as possible as there wasn’t time to waste.

I stroked his body from his neck down to his abdomen then placed the steel rod on his penis. He wriggled and writhed while his entire body went into uncontrollable spasms.

He screamed blue murder in his native language, Kwanyama.

He urinated but this didn’t bother me as it only served to help to conduct the electrical current with greater effect.

I gave him a chance to speak and to answer the questions.

After about just 15 minutes we were satisfied that he was speaking the truth and we had extracted all the information that we wanted from him.

He was one of the four insurgents that were taking the SAM-7 tube to meet up with another two, one of whom was the SAM operator. Their mission was to shoot an aircraft down from the vicinity of Ondongwa airbase.

We grilled him about his knowledge of hidden arms caches until he told us that he might be able to remember where one was. I believed that he was just saying this as he wanted to stop his torture, for us to spare his life and just to please us. I knew that he would take us on a wild goose chase digging with his hands in the ground and various places and wasting time, just as some other insurgents in his same situation had done in the past. If he did indeed know where there were some buried weapons caches, he would have told us with more confidence. This could wait until later. What was most important was the trigger mechanism for the SAM-7 and where the trigger and operator could be found as he and his buddies had intended to meet up and supply the operator with the tube.

We headed off south in the direction of where our captive was taking us. We were about 15 kilometres north of Ondangwa airbase when our trackers spotted two more sets of spoor and quickly our team was after the owners of the spoor. Two of our Casspirs went ahead in their direction.

A very sudden but brief contact broke out up ahead of us. The rest of us heard the contact and raced forward. By the sound of it, the contact was over in about 30 seconds. Our two ‘voorsny’ Casspirs had driven into the two insurgents and in a hail of automatic machine gun and R 5 rifle fire the two insurgents were also despatched straight to hell.

During the mopping up, retrieving their weapons and equipment, it was always a race for our trackers to be the first to get to the bodies. The risk involved was worth it as the insurgents may have been carrying money, jewellery or a nice wrist watch. In their dying act they may have booby trapped themselves or an explosive device that they had been carrying may have been hit by a round and become unstable and dangerous. However, our trackers were always prepared to take the risk.

Going through the two dead insurgents’ kit we came across a brown leather satchel. Often we retrieved the canvas cloth satchels with a red cross on white circular background that indicated that its owner was a medic.

Someone opened the satchel and inside we found, wrapped in a cloth, the trigger mechanism for a SAM-7 missile.

It was getting late. We still had the prisoner and work to do with him, looking for arms caches that he might know of. The mood among our team members was almost ecstatic and very jubilant as adrenaline levels subsided.

It was decided that we weren’t going to waste more time by possibly going on a wild goose chase with the captive.

A few of our Ovambo members took the prisoner from the Casspir he was sitting in and led him away a little distance into the bush. From where I was standing I heard some of their R 5s erupt on automatic for a few seconds. They returned to our Casspirs and we prepared to ride on. It was time to head back to base, where the recovered weapons had to be handed in as proof of the contact and the kills. The serial numbers that had been radioed through after the contacts had to correlate with the numbers on the weapons handed in. Then kopgeld (bounty) could be claimed for our black members to split among themselves. The SAM-7 with its trigger mechanism was a great prize and would fetch a handsome bounty.

A SAM-7; surface to air missile launcher that our team captured

2

Changing Times

The best part of five years had passed since my friend Rob Mitchell and I had first nervously walked into the old house on a quiet street in the town of Oshakati in Ovamboland Northern Namibia and asked if we could join the unit simply known as Koevoet which was a secret unit of the South African Police security branch Special operations (K).

Koevoet always had a shortage of competent members while members came and went at quite a rate. It seemed that it had become increasingly difficult to join the unit and there was now a stringent process as well as a brief extremely tough selection course before one could join the unit. To add to the shortage of manpower the unit was growing in size and several new teams were being established.

Koevoet had changed a lot over the years since I had become a new member back in October 1981 when there were about 18 fighting teams and the HQ or office, as we called it back then, was the converted house on one of the streets of the town.

When I had joined there were a lot of officers, lieutenants and captains, now there were a lot of lower ranks.

Instead of ‘going to the office’ in the mornings in civilian clothes, as we had in the past, we now had to report to our headquarters at Okave base and stand parade in uniform.

Even the days were gone when we were summoned to gather and sit under the big tree behind the ops room at Okave base and listen to Brigadiers Dreyer’s speeches and talk, ‘Guys, you must stay away from the International Guest House. Who was involved in the fight with the army at the Guest House over the weekend? Do you realise how much damage you caused and who is going to pay for all the damage? Put your hands up.’

After a ‘groot uitkak’ (shitting on us) he would quietly ask, ‘And who won the fight?’ And we’d proudly reply in unison, ‘Ons het, Brigadier,’ (we did Brigadier.) then he would walk away and we knew he was smiling.

Our uniform had changed twice from the original South African Police camouflage uniform, together with whatever we could get our hands on, to the South West African Police camouflage uniform and now to our own unique plain olive green Koevoet uniform.

The old MK I Casspirs had been replaced with newer MK II turbo Casspirs and new Wolf Turbos. New Beretta side arms were issued to white and senior black members. The old G3 Heckler and Koch assault rifles that had been made in the Heckler and Koch factory in Portugal and bought over from the Portuguese army when they withdrew from Angola in the 70s for R90 a piece with ‘disposable’ magazines had been mostly replaced with the new R 5 automatic assault rifles made at Pretoria under licence to the Israelis. The .50 browning machine guns had arrived from the USA and new .30 Browning’s from the South African factory at Lyttelton Engineering at Pretoria. The Barlow-World TR 48 ssb radios, some even with hoppers, had arrived.

Better equipment, uniforms, vehicles and weapons rolled in while the garage and stores just past Okatana and the unit’s dairy farm just outside the town had been built. The food and provisions stores remained at Ongwediva due to the refrigeration facilities there.

The unit had also changed from a unit of the South African Police Security Branch Special Operations (K) Koevoet to the South West African Police Counter Insurgency Koevoet and we were all now seconded to the SWA Police. With the change came the bigger budget.

Order and discipline had crept in, much to the delight of Warrant Officer Chris Nel who, if Koevoet had ever needed or had a Regimental Sergeant Major, would have been the man for the job or who considered himself that anyway.

Some of the old members had packed up and left due to the new order, to be replaced with new younger members.

With Frans dead, Frank and Alf gone, it just