Carry on Padre: Memoir of an Army Chaplain in Apartheid South Africa

By Pierre van Blommestein

This poignant, sad, and sometimes funny story of a liberal-minded young man tells how he was raised in a race-unconscious home, only to find himself serving in a conservative right-wing military. Pierre van Blommestein shares his incredible true story in Carry on Padre.
The book gives insight into Pierre’s liberal religious upbringing, his personal view of the challenges of Apartheid, his experiences as a chaplain during National Service, and the following seventeen years as a Reserve Forces Chaplain.
The story is set over a period of twenty-five years, from Pierre leaving school in 1975, through the darkest years of the Apartheid era in the 1980s and 1990s. It includes the free elections in 1994 and reconstruction of the “New South Africa”, finally ending with his emigration from South Africa in 2000.
Taught to accept and respect all people irrespective of race or creed, Pierre’s dilemma comes when he begins his ten years of National Service, like all white males over the age of eighteen years. He is simply an ordinary young man deeply aware of the pain of his homeland, as he tries to get through a difficult period in South African history.
Pierre van Blommestein’s memoir began as a simple recounting of his Apartheid experiences for his family. “I have a growing conviction that the stories of the ordinary people from this generation and this country, not the official histories or the propaganda, must not be lost in the turning wheels of recent history.”

Book Review -
Military memoirs by men of the cloth are generally rare, and with the exception of a few short first-hand accounts of chaplaincy in the South African Defence Force, extracted from theses and interviews, this is only the second autobiography by a SADF Chaplain, or 'Dominee', that this reviewer has read.
One could be forgiven for assuming that a chaplain’s war would be somewhat mundane and less glamorous or dangerous to experience than that of the more familiar combat soldier, but let me start by saying that, without exception, this is one of the very best personal accounts of military service in the SADF that I have been privileged to read. It is the story of a remarkable soldier, whose service and outlook on that service are as unusual and unique as any I have read previously, and filled with surprises throughout.
Pierre van Blommestein’s personal memoirs of his service in the South African Defence Force, particularly during the Apartheid years and the long wars, both internal and external, fought during those years, will ring a very strong chord with any ex-SADF soldier, be they conscript or regular. Wonderfully descriptive yet not too heavy on mundane detail, I found it very hard to put down once started, and only did so when my need to sleep overwhelmed my fascinated interest. A gifted writer, the author has added a valuable and much needed perspective of life as a Chaplain in that great military machine from the 1980s and 1990s, and is to be congratulated on not only leaving a lasting legacy for his loved ones, but for the rest of us too, whether we shared his experience or not.
This autobiography can be described in two words – simply outstanding.
Very highly recommended.
Peter Chapman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pierre van Blommestein
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311165916

Pierre van Blommestein

Pierre is not new to writing, perhaps just to writing in novel form. He has been involved in creative writing in documents, pamphlets and training materials all his adult life. He achieved Bachelor and Honours degrees in the Arts from Rhodes University in South Africa, as well as being an accredited Project Manager.During his life, Pierre has done some interesting jobs - a minister of religion, IT project Manager, university lecturer, university chaplain and, most recently, a uniformed ambulance officer. All of these have contributed to the philosophy of life and experience that he brings to his writing.His first published work, "Carry On Padre", is a memoir of his experiences as a chaplain in the South African army during the Apartheid era.Pierre is currently working on his second writing project - "The Dream Chasers" - a historical novel set in 19th Century South Africa, a crucial time in a country with a fascinating history where the dreams of people shaped the future of the region.Go to his website to see updates of progress on this book and other information about the writing process.

Book preview

Preface

Irony is by definition a sharp incongruity or discordance in circumstances. Put simply, irony is what happens when you think you know how things are going to turn out and then the Universe rudely sticks out its tongue at you and says You ain’t seen nothing yet, mate! and arranges the most unlikely set of events.

In many ways, this is an ironic story. South Africa is a country fractured at many levels by racial and political conflict, home to dozens of cultural groups, each with its own perspective and agenda. In the story of ordinary South Africans during the Apartheid era, I can’t think of a more unlikely outcome than for an English-speaking white South African, who was raised in a liberal and (largely) race-unconscious home, to find acceptance and purpose and even some pride in a job well done in the politically conservative military of Apartheid South Africa.

This is a memoir not a history of the Bush War. It is an account of the personal journey of someone raised in the church, the son of a minister and then a minister himself, whose experiences as an army chaplain challenged him to see his calling in a completely new way. The story contains accounts that I expect will make you laugh and others that may even bring a tear to your eye. Any inaccuracies or inconsistencies are the result of passing years, and the rosy-tinted filter of hindsight. Lastly, for the reader who is unfamiliar with the social and political history of South Africa, the ‘Historical Background’ appendix will provide a nutshell overview of the history of South Africa, the ‘Further Reading’ section suggests background reading, and the Glossary will help with the more obscure names or military terms used.

I hope that you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it. Please visit my website and tell me how you feel about my story. I’d love to hear from you. On the site you will also find more information about the people, events and places featured in Carry On Padre.

Pierre van Blommestein

Brisbane. August 2014

OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

The Dream Chasers

This is a historical novel set in 19th Century South Africa, a crucial time in a country with a fascinating history. While the titanic clash of peoples set the stage for three hundred years of conflict, greed and glory, it was the dreams of people – ordinary men and women, slaves, politicians, tyrants, imperialists – that would shape the future of the region.

Visit my website to find out more about this compelling story. I can also be reached by email [e-mail] and would welcome your views and questions.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family for encouraging me to tell this story and for never flagging in their support, in spite of the countless ‘What do you think of this?’ moments over the four years it took to complete the book.

Thank you to my wife, Cherie, for being part of what was undoubtedly the biggest adventure of our lives, for her invaluable advice on the readability of the manuscript and for producing, after all these years, the letters I wrote to her from my various military engagements.

A special thank you to my daughter, Michelle, for the many hours of editing and correcting she did on the successive drafts, for her willingness to be a sounding board and for laughing in all the right places. Without her persistent Have you done more work on your book today?, I may have succumbed to the endless succession of rewrites and settled for less than the best I could do. She also produced the splendid map and base layout at the front of the book.

John and Mark, thank you for your help in getting the base layout right and for jogging some wonderful memories of Oshakati. Finally, thank you to all with whom I shared the unforgettable experience of military service in South Africa. I have generally avoided using names, except for the first names of major characters, to protect anonymity. Where I have used full names, these are already on public record.

All quotations used in this book remain the intellectual property of their respective originators. I do not assert any claim of copyright for individual quotations and I have used quotations under the fair use copyright principle.

Prologue

Johannesburg, December 1999.

The parade commander about-faced and his kilt swirled heavily around his legs like a dancer’s skirt. The claymore in his right hand never moved from the vertical, sunlight flashing on its long gleaming blade. He paused in his about-turn for a heartbeat, his left hand firmly grasping the sword scabbard attached to his Sam Browne belt, so that it didn’t tangle in his legs, and then slammed his left boot into the packed gravel of the parade ground. He took a breath.

National Salute…Present, ARMS!

His voice carried across the parade ground and echoed off the weathered brick façade of ‘The View’, the home of the Transvaal Scottish regiment. The house nestled like an oasis of history in the midst of the soaring skyscrapers and financial affairs of modern Johannesburg. Passing through its gates was like stepping through a time warp, back into the Boer war era, and becoming part of bygone battles and ancient military rituals.

It was almost midday and the shadows were short along the ranks of kilted soldiers formed up on the gravel area in front of the building, facing the white-railed veranda. The dark-blue balmoral bonnets were set just right on heads and sunlight glinted off silver badges and fittings on the rows of sand-coloured tunics. The brown leather sporrans of the soldiers, the officers’ sporrans with the creamy horsehair ‘swinging six’ tassels, offset the dark blues and greens of the Murray of Atholl tartan. Below the kilts, tartan hose disappeared under the white spats that covered glossy black boots. Behind the ranks of soldiers were the pipes and drums, and to the left the Regimental Sergeant Major stood rigid with his pace stick exactly parallel to the ground. It was a sight that thrilled my soul as I stood on the front white-railed veranda with the Commanding Officer and the Adjutant.

We were the ‘Jocks’, the Transvaal Scottish. It is a regiment steeped in illustrious history since its foundation in 1902 and its Battle Honours, including two World Wars, reflect the finest of military traditions in which Jocks have stood proudly shoulder-to-shoulder with their allies – British, Anzac, Canadian, French and American. It is with pride that one calls oneself a Jock.

The parade presented arms, the ranks before me seeming to ripple as R4 rifles moved in unison from the order-arms position to the present-arms position, accompanied by the crunch of boots stamping into place. The parade commander, a Lieutenant, stood in front of the paraded ranks facing me. The sunlit blade of his claymore moved inward and upward until the basket hilt, with its crimson tassels and satin insert, was before his nose. Then the tip swept downwards and outwards to the ground in a glittering arc, in the motions of the sword salute.

The recording of the national anthem began to play: Nkosi sikelel’ iAfrika …. The new national anthem reflects the complexities of the ‘Rainbow Nation’, including the five most-spoken languages as well as changing key halfway through.

In the shade of a tent roof erected on the grassed area behind the kilted ranks, I could see my father, along with other regimental family members and dignitaries who had come for this last parade of the year, standing stiffly at attention. Perhaps he was seeing the parade grounds on which he had stood during his years in the army. He had been an armoured car Troop Commander with the rank of Captain, in Regiment President Steyn. Four generations of my family had been at war – the Boer War, two World Wars and now the political unrest in South Africa, which had escalated into armed conflict since the 1960 riots in the black township of Sharpeville.

On my chest hung the Pro Patria medal, awarded for combat service in (then) South West Africa, and the General Service Medal, awarded for more than ten years’ service in the armed forces. Today, I had received the John Chard Medal, awarded to me for more than twelve years’ service as a Citizen Force member (roughly equivalent to a British Territorial Army Unit or the US Army National Guard).

Those hard-won medals were symbols of a long eventful journey. It was a journey, begun innocently enough in 1975, in sleepy Port Elizabeth, the events of which swept through my life in the most unexpected ways.

A Bit of Paradise

Port Elizabeth, October 1975.

There can’t be anything better than this, I thought. It was a hot summer’s day in Port Elizabeth, a Saturday morning, and I was on Humewood beach, the less tourist-crowded option preferred by the locals. I was eighteen years old and my friend Kevin and I were with two girl friends. We were lying head to head with them, our towels spread on the soft sand, enjoying the sheer sensual pleasure of being on the beach. The light breeze caressed my body and the sun warmed my skin. My chin was cupped in my palm as I lay on my stomach, gazing over the sand to the relentless wash and swishhh of the waves.

My gaze dropped and took in the female form of my friend, lying on her back on a towel right in front of me. Mmmm, rumbled quietly in my throat as my gaze lingered on the oiled body that filled the bikini very nicely. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair spread out on the towel. What were the chances of a date with her at the Drive-In theatre tonight and a cuddle on the back seat of my mother’s car, I wondered? I felt my blood rush a little faster in anticipation.

Did you say something? she asked lazily, her eyes half opening.

No, just admiring the scenery, I replied, with a smile.

My eyebrows went up with the sudden realization that the youth group was going camping at Kenton-on-Sea again in a few weeks. That was always good – it was the perfect place, the perfect beach, perfect weather and perfect fun – and we went every year, to usher in the summer season. I smiled again as I remembered the last camp. About twelve of us had crowded together in the beach house and lazed away the days in the sun. We had laughed so hard when one of the girls had lost her bikini top in the surf and had been forced to come out of the water, covering her boobs with her hands, to retrieve the top that had washed up on the beach. I sighed with contentment. Life was good!

I loved growing up in Port Elizabeth – I consider it my hometown, even though I wasn’t born there. It offered the amenities of a big city but had kept its small-town heart. Not a weekend went by that we weren’t out somewhere together: movies at one of the shopping centres, night-time campfires on the beach, crammed into cars at the drive-in theatre, or road trips down the coast. We enjoyed some of the best swimming, sailing and diving coastline in the world. Almost every Saturday morning during summer months, our group of friends would hitchhike down to the beach to swim in the surf, suntan our pale winter bodies and snorkel in the deep water off the beach.

Not to spoil the idyllic image of Port Elizabeth, it was on just such a Saturday that I had met my first shark. Kevin and I were snorkelling beyond the surf line, our heads down and snorkels puffing away as we breathed. We were following a school of fish in about five meters of water when I saw the shark swimming below us. As I saw it, it saw us and made a lazy turn up towards us. It wasn’t a big one, as sharks go in southern waters, but it looked big enough to me. I was wearing a diving mask, so I didn’t have my glasses on – that was before prescription dive masks – and all I saw was this fuzzy shark shape coming towards me. I wasn’t about to wait for it to get close enough to be in focus!

I screamed a warning to Kevin, forgetting I still had my mouthpiece in. He didn’t make much of my incoherent sshhrrkk, but he saw what I was pointing at. What happened after that is still a bit of a blur, but next thing I knew both Kevin and I were perched on top of a slender rock protruding from the surf, with a cloud of outraged seagulls exploding noisily skywards. Slipping on bird poop and coughing from the ammonia, our shins skinned and bleeding from our rapid climb up the rock, we watched as the fin lazily circled our precarious haven for a bit and then made off in search of better prospects.

Anyway, back to our lazy day with the girls on the beach. As much as we were enjoying lying in the sun, the wind was picking up, making the beach unpleasant. I took my watch out of my duffel bag and looked at the time – it was just after 11 a.m. and it was time to go. For those who grew up in Port Elizabeth in the Seventies, the Red Windmill Roadhouse was the place where the young people gathered with their motorbikes and cars – like a scene out of the ‘Happy Days’ television show – to enjoy the most delicious choc-dip soft serve ice-cream and hamburgers. And, of course, just to hang out.

As we packed up our towels, I remembered that there was also a party coming up the next weekend, this time at Caryn’s house. Who would be there? Probably the same crowd of friends, I guessed. That was something to look forward to. I smiled as I remembered the last party, which had been at my house – the music blaring out of the stereo, the lounge lights turned off (after parents had left the room) as cover for the more adventurous couples. We swayed and shuffled to the music, pulling our partners close, our hands busy. What was it about the song ‘A Bridge over Troubled Water’ that seemed to get the girls in the mood for some dance-floor cuddling?

My family lived in Mill Park, the ‘Garden Suburb’ of Port Elizabeth, which had shady tree-lined streets with renovated post-war houses and a feeling of quiet respectability. In 1975, the majority of Mill