On our first day in the army, the stores staff issued us uniforms. Some items required a little work. The shapeless, bottle-green, felt berets had a leather trim around the edge, holding the long, narrow-ribbon drawstring.
A couple of guys in the platoon were familiar with preparing berets. First, we wet them in a basin before wringing out the excess water. Next, we put on the damp berets to adjust for size, and when satisfied with the fit, we tied a knot in the drawstring.
We wore the damp berets until they dried, periodically shaping them to make sure they looked right. When they dried, we cut off the excess drawstring and tucked the ends into the leather trim. Most of us achieved a satisfactory result.
After six weeks of basic training, we could apply for whichever branch of the army interested us. None was not an option. Most chose the infantry, and a few chose engineers. I chose signals because I was under the misapprehension the army would teach me how to repair and build radios.
The Rhodesian Corps of Signals was about learning Morse code and operating radios, not repairing and building them. A technical department took care of maintenance. But there was a significant compensating benefit—location. Brady Barracks was on the edge of Bulawayo, not miles out of town on the Salisbury Road, like Llewellyn Barracks.
The only disadvantage was signal’s drab green, navy and sky-blue stable belt replaced the attractive black, red and green of the Rhodesia Regiment, and a navy-blue beret replaced the green beret which looked better with our khaki uniforms. We weren’t there for appearance, rather to do a job. But, early in the Bush War, trivialities somehow seemed a little more important.
When signals issued me with my navy-blue beret, I knew what to do. Step one, briefly immerse it in water. Immediately, I realised something was wrong. The water went instantly blue. I took the beret out and wrung the water from it before following the remaining steps.
My distinctive, mid-blue beret didn’t fit in with the Rhodesian Corps or Signals, but I wore that beret for a few years. It drew occasional comment, and as the Bush War progressed, I faced encouragement to change it for a new one. No one followed up, and I liked that beret for its colour and comfort, so it stayed.
I worked for a sizeable manufacturing company in Bulawayo that used the services of professionals such as accountants, lawyers and various other consultants, all of whom served in the territorial army or police reserve.
One chilly, winter Sunday evening, I walked into Brady Barracks and crossed the parade ground to report for my six o’clock shift as a radio operator. My warm, three-quarter length army winter coat hid the single stripe on each of my sleeves. It provided a useful anonymity, protection against any higher rank who didn’t know me.
A specialist army unit was located close to the signals centre, and I recognised one of my company’s professional advisors coming off duty. When the managing director introduced him to me at work, he mentioned he was a major in the army—quite an achievement for a territorial. He outranked me and was also a few years older.
I remained a lowly lance-corporal, and as he approached, I was trying to decide whether I should salute him or greet him by his first name. But when the major got close and saw my unique beret, he straightened up and gave me a smart salute. ‘Good evening, Sir,’ he said.
Returning his salute, I said, ‘Good evening, Major. Carry on.’
He didn’t recognise me, but I saw the uncertainty on his face. How did I discern his rank when he also wore an army winter coat? To outrank him, I would have needed to be at least a lieutenant colonel—a huge promotion for me.
That brief incident kept me chuckling, and it took the entire shift to wipe the smile off my face. I don’t believe he ever worked out our connection in civilian life. But soon afterwards, the officer in charge of the signals centre instructed me to go at once to army stores to change my beret. ‘People are confused about who you are.’
I regretted parting with my mid-blue beret. The new, navy-blue one was too small, but towards the end of the Bush War, changing it seemed pointless. If only I’d held out for another few weeks, I’d still have my unique beret. C’est la vie.
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