In the Rhodesian Bush War’s later stages, white men to age 60 were called-up for military service in the army or police reserve. Younger men up to the age of 35 could expect to spend alternating 6 weeks in and 6 weeks out. Often, when they returned home from their present call-up, the papers for their next stint waited for them. With luck, you might get a short period of grace before your inevitable call-up papers arrived. No, they hadn’t forgotten about you, after all.
The call-ups interrupted careers, romances and everyday life, but sometimes there was a silver lining. My silver lining occurred when I served with the Rhodesian Corps of Signals at KGVI Army Barracks in Salisbury.
Early in the Bush War, I received call-up papers for a two-week stint. Another signalman and I were to accompany two regulars from army stores to Kanyemba, which sits at the tripoint where Rhodesia, Zambia and Mozambique met. The purpose of the regulars’ trip in the army pickup truck was to resupply the Kanyemba army camp. The other signalman and I would fill-in for radio operators on leave.
We left Salisbury on a beautiful August morning, sunny but not hot. The single-cab pickup meant we’d have to sit in the tray in the back, on whatever supplies we found comfortable. The pickup’s canvas canopy promised protection from the sun on the five-hour drive.
On the tarred road, we made ourselves comfortable on sacks of something or another. It’s what soldiers do best. But the tar roads soon ended. Dirt roads, bone-dry towards the end of winter, soon replaced them. Choking dust poured into the pickups covered tray like a sandstorm in the Sahara. Hankies tied around our mouths didn’t do the trick, and soon we banged on the back window of the cab, trying to get the driver to stop.
Rough roads are noisy, and with the driver and his companion absorbed in chatter, it took time for them to hear us. Eventually, they pulled over to find us and the supplies camouflaged in dust. After a discussion, they removed the canopy.
For safety, we needed to hold on to the canopy frame/roll bar next to the cab. Two rows of commercial-sized silver biscuit tins, tall and rectangular with round lids, stood between us and the frame. We had to stand on the tins and hold on tight. Then ensued a wild bumpy ride to the border.
Each pothole or bump launched us a foot or more into the air before we crashed back onto the row of tins. Fortunately, they withstood the hammering with no sign of damage. Sitting in the tray risked being ejected from the pickup. It was like riding a bucking bronco and a lot of fun.
At one point, we entered a dark forest where the canopy blotted out the sun. It resembled a fairy tale, but instead of stumbling upon the witch’s cottage, we encountered a Rhodesian Army camp of about forty men on the roadside. We could easily have missed the well camouflaged camp in that dingy forest. The two army stores regulars wanted to be home in Salisbury before dark, so we stopped for only five minutes.
Farther on, in a more open area, we disturbed two roan antelope, fighting. Our pickup startled them, and when they pulled apart, they each lost one horn. We saw little other wildlife on the drive, but the changing scenery engrossed us. Our route hugged the Mozambique border as we descended into the Zambezi Valley.
At last, we arrived in Kanyemba, where the 2IC RAR (Rhodesian African Rifles) captain greeted us. Before I could respond, I needed to race around the corner of the building to bring up the dust I’d swallowed before the pickup’s canopy removal. Talk about first impressions!
The administration building comprised an office and officers’ quarters, fronted by a long veranda where we sat, watching the Zambezi flow past as the last rays of the sun played on the water. That first evening, I felt too queasy to accept the beers the captain offered.
Our radio duties started the next morning. The two of us, together with an RAR radio operator, manned the radio around the clock. A brilliant one-hundred-watt incandescent light bulb beamed from the low ceiling of the tiny radio room, which boasted a single camp bed for the off-duty operator to rest. But when you’re tired, the loud crackle and hiss of the radio and the brilliant light bulb do little to prevent sleep.
The first week with the disciplined RAR soldiers was a pleasure. They were professionals who exuded a reassuring confidence. Off duty, I spent my time watching the river and reading the magazines on the veranda of the administration building. Today, I’d spend good money to be on the Zambezi, drinking beers and watching the sun set. It was so peaceful, despite a couple of fleeting contacts the RAR had with terrorists in the surrounding area.
The second week was different. I was disappointed to see the RAR leave and a contingent of South African Police (SAP) arrive. Within half an hour, the SAP ensconced themselves in their canvas barrack room, cleaning weapons. A volley of shots rang through the camp, and one police officer was hauled in front of the commandant. An accident, of course, but it was the first time I’d seen someone consigned to peeling potatoes and kitchen duties; just like Beetle Bailey in the Dell comics.
What a contrast between the SAP and the disciplined RAR! The former took me back to the American war movies. While the RAR spent their days on patrol, the SAP were more often in camp. The SAP glamour boy was the chopper pilot. Worst of all, we were no longer welcome on the administration blocks veranda. But it gave us a chance to socialise with the SAP constables, many of whom spoke little English. Overnight, the quiet professionalism of the RAR transformed into a party atmosphere with the SAP.
One morning, a Rhodesian Army intelligence major arrived at the camp. He planned to go into Mozambique and needed two bodyguards. The SAP could only spare the two Rhodesian signalmen. Our plan to travel in the SAP chopper ended when the pilot said it needed repairs and was dangerous to fly.
Our only alternative was to go by motorboat down river into Mozambique. We collected our rifles and ammunition and joined the major. After a pleasant fifteen-minute boat ride, he pulled into a spot across the river where he tied the boat to overhanging tree branches. We walked into yet another dark forest. Nowhere did sunlight pierce the canopy. The tall trees stood on spindly trunks on bare ground. I can’t imagine where the chopper would have landed.
After about ten minutes, we noticed several well-worn paths in the surrounding forest. Then, there in the gloom, stood an old Portuguese store/restaurant. It was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by paths converging like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. In mid-morning, no customers visited, making it the safest time for the intelligence major to meet the Portuguese storekeeper.
The storekeeper gave us two large bottles of Manica beer. We sat at a table at one end of the store while the major and storekeeper huddled at a table at the other end, speaking in hushed tones. Those delicious beers were so cold, when we poured them into our glasses, the froth turned to ice. With each sip, the frozen froth breaking under my lips sounded like wind chimes. Forty minutes later, we were on the return journey.
The SAP were a friendly bunch, but I was glad to leave them at the end of that second week. I don’t remember too much about the return journey to Salisbury. Perhaps a fortnight of revolving radio duties wore me out. Only later, looking back, I appreciated the wonderful experience of those two weeks. For many Rhodesians, the beauty of some places the army sent us compensated a little for the endless call-ups.
When I was in Kanyemba, the Rhodesian Army administration block was the only permanent building in sight. Today, on the Zambian side, a sizeable township has blossomed. In Zimbabwe, an immigration and customs post, and several scattered houses dot the area. In Mozambique, significant development at Vila do Zumbo is taking place. The peaceful remoteness of Kanyemba during the Bush War is no more.
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