Tale Gunner: The Lighter Side of South African Military Life

By AJ Brooks

Nothing quite beats that rawness of military humour. It’s the same the world over. This hilarious collection of South African military anecdotes will—for the less sensitive reader—have you doubled up with mirth.

It is an ingrained tradition for South Africans to stand around a fire in the bright sunlight or on warm evenings of summer and barbeque or braai as we all say. Naturally the drink of choice is beer and mostly copious quantities of the old amber liquid. Inevitably during the intentionally drawn out grilling phase (to enable more beer swilling) and after most of the usual topics of conversation have all but exhausted themselves, a comment or the mood, the fire or some such catalyst will spark a story with military content of such hilarity that has everyone in earshot, with or without military background, rolling on the floor. For most of us never had a choice, national service was compulsory. Some saw action; others didn’t, but all had an encounter, either dangerous or benign that was the cause for much mirth.

These are some of those stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 30 Degrees South Publishers
• Release date: Oct 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781928211112

AJ Brooks

AJ Brooks matriculated in 1978 and was called up to 14th Field Regiment in Potchefstroom in 1979 for his two years of compulsory national service. In mid-1979 he was transferred to the School of Artillery and it was here that his interest in guns and later vintage artillery pieces was nurtured. In December 1980 AJ completed his national service and in 1981 was called up to the 7th Medium Regiment for his first Citizen Force duty. From then on he was called up for various tours of duty to the operational area, the townships, parades and artillery courses. In 1993 AJ was transferred to the Transvaal Horse Artillery where he was promoted to the rank of Warrant Officer Second Class and BSM of 9th Battery. Further tours of duty to the Army Battle School and Potchefstroom ensued and in 1998 AJ become involved in the new SANDF before his resignation in 2003. AJ is a qualified civil engineer and runs his own construction company. He is married to Brenda who is his life and business partner and has two children Victoria (20) and Guy (13).

Book preview

Brooks, jou poes!

Warrant Officer First Class Dirk ‘Knersus Samil’ Venter is a legend. His nickname, Samil, stems from the fact that he designed the towing system mounted on the back of the Samil 100 gun tractor that pulls the ageing but famous G5 gun. There are one or two other reasons why he earned the name, but that’s another story.

On the other hand, he was dubbed Knersus because he had the crass habit of levering his dentures to the threshold of his mouth whereupon he would gnash them at his victim to convey his annoyance. Of course, when the devil booze took over, his fangs would clatter to the floor and stare benignly up at their master, wishing never to set gum in his maw again.

Sergeant-Major Venter is a tall man, slightly stooped, and his neck seems to protrude from the top of his chest rather than the middle of his shoulders, not unlike an angry tortoise. This head-forward attitude is probably left over from his habit of strutting around, looking for trouble: Ichabod Crane on steroids. He is old now and, sadly, nearly blind. His skin is as wrinkled and tough as an Owambo cowhide and belies the strength of the man.

Anyone who ever went there will tell you that 14th Field Regiment Potchefstroom was a hellhole. Basic training in the Defence Force was ostensibly the same wherever you went but because ours was a tented camp a little way out of town, our instructors had been seduced by a sense of isolation. As a result, they believed they could run the place as they saw fit. This didn’t bode well for us.

Our tent was insignificant among a sea of olive-green canvas. In summer, the rainwater from the koppie behind us cascaded through our tent as vigorously as it did through our neighbour’s. In winter, there were nights when the temperature dropped to minus eight. The water in the fire buckets froze solid, just as it did in the pipes running to the showers. Of course, we had to keep clean, so a water bowser was drawn up close to the ablution facilities. We lined up naked and were hosed down. We soaped ourselves while the next squad was hosed, and then it was back in the line to be rinsed off.

And then there was the Circus, a nefarious obstacle course nestled in a swamp between two craggy koppies. Before introducing us to this malodorous den of pain and untenable endurance, the bombardiers took great pleasure in asking us who would like to attend the circus. What excitement! Our hands shot up as one. Later, a few of the guys wept with exhaustion.

I tell you this not to purge myself of that unjust and evil place, but to explain why, when the belated opportunity arose for us to attend the School of Artillery up the road and closer to town—and freedom—not one of the six of us hesitated, in spite of the school’s own notoriety. It could never be as bad as 14th Field, we reasoned.

But that’s where you go to be an instructor, like JLs [Junior Leaders], muttered Carlos in dismay. "They send you there because they’ve got The Kremlin and Rooiwalle—like the Circus, only worse!"

Fuck off, Porra. Nothing’s worse than the Circus, Danie admonished. He wasn’t about to have his chances ruined by a whingeing Portuguese. So, cautiously, we entered the hallowed ground of the School of Artillery. What a revelation! Tablecloths, serviettes and white plates, for goodness sake! And we had to dress in short-sleeved step-outs for supper and supper was edible, bordering on delicious, in fact, compared to our 14th Field fare. This was the place where men were moulded into gentlemen and received an education in gunnery second to none; the place that produced the gunnery instructors, NCOs and officers alike, who would train and lead the unwashed herd of 4th Field and 14th Field Regiments.

That, at least, was the theory, as mixed among the ‘gentlemen’ were some pretty evil plenipotentiaries who, now wearing rank either on arm or shoulder, could inflict the same misery they’d been subjected to in their early days. This type of bully could almost be forgiven as it was the system that had shaped them; a system comprising the likes of the hard-arsed legend Samil Venter and other proper bastards.

A routine developed in our lives at the School of Artillery. My routine took me down the main road to the Gunnery Wing after parade, while Sergeant-Major Venter’s routine took him up the main road to the Locating Wing. We passed each other somewhere in the middle. Every morning I’d brace up, smile and greet the sergeant-major, partly because the military had hammered into us the importance of showing respect for a senior rank, but mostly to appease his propensity for violence, should one be so remiss as to ignore him.

"Good morning, sergeant-major!" I’d bellow cheerfully, smiling.

Humph, came his equally cheery reply on the days I was lucky enough to receive any acknowledgement. Usually, he’d simply ignore me.

Then came the day I strutted past Sergeant-Major Venter without any hint that I was aware of his existence; an incident I can’t explain save to say I must suffered one of those bi-polar cranial electrode spasm deficiencies. I had passed him by just one nano-millimetre when I felt the hairs on my back and neck prickle like porcupine quills and beads of cold sweat broke out on my upper lip. At that moment, I think I would gladly have been on the border confronting a dozen SWAPO insurgents, rather than facing down the sergeant-major. However, the deed was done and, feeling rather proud for having resisted collapsing in humble supplication for this offence, I strutted on unabated.

Then I heard him stop; the only reason for this delay in the inevitable was probably his attempt to control his disbelief at such effrontery.

"Brooks, jou poes!" he roared.

I spun about and stood rigidly to attention. Yes, sergeant-major? I enquired with shining innocence. He bore down on me; his teeth began their journey and stopped millimetres from my face.

"Don’t you greet me any more, you fucken poes, mpf? Mpf?" I felt the spittle on my cheek.

"Sorry, sergeant-major. Good morning, sergeant-major."

He glared at me for a few seconds, probably long enough for my discomfort to become tangible. Then, in a menacing sotto voce, he said, "Get out of my sight, jou poes." He turned, jammed his pipe in his mouth, lit up and strode off to the Locating Wing.

For a moment I watched his lengthy gait, wondering what had possessed me to do what I had just done. I turned and continued down to the Gunnery Wing. A movement out the corner of my eye caught my attention. A soldier stumbled across the stormwater drain and ambled toward me, his knees weak and tears streaming down his face. It was Bryn, my best friend in the army. "Brooks, jou po … he began but, swamped with another attack of mirth, was unable to finish the sentence. Brooks, jou … he tried again and had to latch onto my shoulder for support. At one stage I was genuinely concerned that he might collapse from lack of oxygen. Brooks, jou poes!" he managed finally before having to sit down on the side of the concrete drain, gales of laughter washing over him.

Others had also witnessed the encounter and at that moment, wherever I cast my eyes, people were laughing. I actually didn’t think it was all that funny. After all, the sergeant-major’s whole attitude was demeaning; he had sworn at me and insulted me. Fortunately, that’s something you get used to pretty damned quickly in the army and I managed to see the humour.

However, when I walked into the mess at lunchtime, the entire room erupted with laughter. The story had spread with the speed of a 127mm rocket. That was it: I was known forever after as "Brooks, jou poes", although few called me that to my face. (I am 6 foot 5.)

For some reason—probably some government budgetary bungle—there wasn’t enough money that year for the School’s annual migration to the vast red sands of the Northern Cape and Lohatla. I was mighty relieved, to say the least. The Army Battle School at Lohatla is another Godforsaken place, intended as a testing ground where students practise the theory drummed into them. But this time, we simply packed all our gear and headed down the road to the Generaal de la Rey gun range behind 14th Field Regiment.

We were busy setting up a rear echelon when a Samil 20 roared into the echelon position. A cloud of dust billowed over us. As it settled, the familiar figure of Sergeant-Major Venter burst onto the scene. He craned his neck left, then right, and his eyes suddenly bored into mine. "Brooks, jou poes! he bellowed. Get your fucken kit and come wiff me. His eyes darted like a radar, coming to rest on Alwyn. And you too, van der Merwe!"

We gathered our kit, shrugged at our colleagues and piled into the Samil which tore off with such rapidity that I had to grasp the tailgate for dear life. As we bounced along the track, I jammed my bush hat down around my ears and looked about the load bay of the vehicle. I saw rations, plenty of rations, plus water and beer! The rest of the load bay was covered with stacked crates bearing the legend ‘81mm HE’ stencilled on their sides. Mortar bombs! The mortar and bipod itself lay under a bucksail.

I looked at Van and his eyes lit up. I could feel the adrenaline surging through my body. Were we off on some clandestine mission, just Van, the sergeant-major and me? We had become so familiar with the range that, when we ground to a halt, I could tell that we were somewhere close to Beacon 159. Our excitement was short-lived. We were not off to fight some three-man war and return to a hero’s welcome. Rather, we were to shoot the mortar at some far-off target; one of the ubiquitous sweet-thorn bushes, in fact, which housed a SWAPO detachment, the sergeant-major informed us with a cynical grimace. Our noses were somewhat out of joint. Firing an 81mm mortar was an infantry task, dammit! As gunners, we used a proper mortar, the massive 120mm. Oblivious to our disappointment, the sergeant-major hung a water sack on a low branch, placed his folding chair in the shade of the acacia, flopped into it and lit his pipe.

Okay, he said, smoke billowing about his head. Let’s let them know we’re here. Take that bush out, but mind out for the wildebeest to the right. All military ranges were declared nature reserves and often teemed with game. The vista from our vantage point across the shallow valley was quite beautiful. Further away and to the left of our target roamed a herd of blesbok. As I gauged the distance to the target, I wondered how it was that none of them were killed, considering all the artillery shells raining down. We fired the first shot and waited anxiously, hoping the cloud of dust wouldn’t land too far from the target lest we incur the wrath of the sergeant-major. Dust splashed up quite close to the bush and the explosion echoed back to our position. Wump! I squatted and tweaked the screw on the bipod, and Van released the next bomb. The seconds dribbled by and the dust erupted in the middle of the bush. Wump! Although the shooting had been a bit of a fluke, I could feel my chest swell a little. I ventured a glance at the sergeant-major.

Humph, he muttered, then spoke into the radio. Was that approval? Nah! Well … maybe? We fired again and again until the bush had become a hole.

Enemy position destroyed, sergeant-major, I announced almost nonchalantly.

"Can’t you see them escaping out the back, you poes?" he fired back. Of course! How remiss of me. The imaginary enemy were running away. Idiot Brooks! I stooped, adjusted the bipod and nodded. Van released and we waited. Dust mushroomed up directly behind the target. Wump! I tweaked. Van released. Dust a bit further. Wump! Again. Dust on target. Wump! And again. Wump!

"Okay, okay, enemy destroyed, you poes. New enemy position in that patch of reeds next to the vlei. Fire!" Water, peat and reeds trampolined into the air. Wump! Fuck, I was having fun. Wump! We destroyed with impunity every target that old Samil Venter gave us, and at each new target he spoke to someone over the radio.

We moved position a few times during the day, slaughtering imaginary enemy all over the place until the sun dropped below Brolly Tree Hill. The sunset was magnificent. I lit our little fire; the timber crackled and popped and a jet of blue flame hissed from a gas pocket. Making fires in the bush was mostly illegal practice but the law was on our side; he was sitting right next to us. No one messed with Sergeant-Major Venter. The sergeant-major lifted his lanky frame from his chair, dug around in the back of the Samil 20 and produced a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a hefty tot and filled his plastic cup with water from the sack. We sat on the ground next to the fire and prepared to heat a tin of bully beef. God! I wish we could have a dop of sorts too! I prayed.

Although we had plenty of water, only the stuff in the sergeant-major’s water sack was cool. We had to make do with the lukewarm water in our bottles—and warm water never quite quenches one’s thirst. But the Lord works in strange ways.

As I tended the food, the sergeant-major called out, Van der Merwe. Here, and handed Van two cold Castles. I had to push my fist up under my jaw to stop it from crashing into the flames. The consumption of alcohol was strictly forbidden on the range. The penalty for breaching this rule could be as harsh as a stint in detention barracks! But then again, we had the law on our side.

We both had a second, then a third beer to the sergeant-major’s half bottle before the atmosphere mellowed and we talked. We spoke of all sorts of things—of the Bible and war. Of apartheid and politics. Of women and sex. It was amazing how we warmed to this hard man, so much so that he became a sort of father figure that night. Somewhere nearby a jackal howled at the firmament and at last I plucked up the courage to ask, What is the point of our exercise, sergeant-major? I mean, why are we doing this? I cringed at his silence, hoping I hadn’t gone too far and damaged this delicate yet burgeoning relationship.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, he began. However, you are gunners and will learn soon enough anyway. He paused and gathered his thoughts. We are implementing a new locating system. Radar is supposed to search and lock onto our bombs as they fly through the air. The flight path is fed into a computer, which backtracks the bomb to its source. Obviously the co-ords are given to the guns, which then retaliate. We are the enemy and the Loc boys are trying to calculate our position each time we shoot.

The sergeant-major snarled suddenly. The fuckas can’t bleddy well pick us up on the radar. Useless bastards. He paused to let his annoyance abate and continued, You two must go back to the School tomorrow early and pick up a 120. We’ll shoot a great big fucken bomb so if the radar can’t see it, at least the Loc boys will see the bleddy thing with their eyes.

So it was that we returned to the School, handed in the 81mm and drew a 120mm mortar. At last, a proper mortar! The School was all but deserted, so we enjoyed a wonderful hot shower and later picked up delicacies from the canteen, before returning the next day.

The sergeant-major was impatient and urged us to make haste. He wanted bombs in the sky. This new system had to work! We set up the 120mm mortar while the sergeant-major searched for a suitable target. Strange thing about that mortar—the firing pin indicator doesn’t have a pointer. It covers the letter ‘S’ for safe—or does it point to it? It covers the letter ‘F’ for fire—or does it point to it? Fifty-fifty? I couldn’t remember.

I looked at Van. What should I do?

Looks like a pointer to me, he answered, with a distinct lack of certainty.

I agree, I said vaguely, flipping the indicator to cover the ‘F’ for fire.

"Your target is the termite mound to the left of that large soetdoring tree," said the sergeant-major.

It was so far away I had to scrutinize it through binoculars and gauge the distance with the calibrations cut into the prisms. Another SWAPO detachment? I queried.

"Shaddup, you fucken poes, and fire!"

Yes, sergeant-major, I said, and checked the sights one final time. I then squatted on the massive base plate and held the huge tube. This was nerve-wracking; it was important to hold it in place as the first shot had to ‘bed the mortar’.

Okay, Van, I said, and closed my eyes. Van let go and I heard the colossal bomb slide down. I clenched my teeth and … gonk. Nothing. The bomb slid to the bottom of the mortar tube and stubbornly refused to go off. Gingerly, I stepped off the base plate, squatted and flipped the indicator over the ‘S’.

What are you fukkas doing, hey? The sergeant-major was more than just annoyed.

It was a dud, answered Van.

Shaddup and get the bomb extractor out of the kit.

Bomb extractor? Ah, yes, well what would that look like?

The sergeant-major looked at my blank face. "You forgot to bring it, didn’t you, fucken poes!"

Yes, sergeant-major.

Come here! Both of you! he commanded. The sergeant-major was livid. He unclipped the bipod and threw it aside. He then straddled the barrel of the mortar like a witch on a broom and looked back at us.

Well, come on. Lift the bleddy base plate. We dived forward and lifted the heavy plate. I heard the bomb begin to slide back down the upturned mortar tube. The sergeant-major placed his left hand over the mouth of the barrel to catch the bomb as it slid out. This was quite a feat, as a tube with a bomb inside is extremely heavy. I noticed the effort it took the sergeant-major to hold this awkward position and to speed up the process, I lifted my side of the base plate higher than Van’s, causing the ball at the base of the mortar tube to slip out of the socket in the base plate. With the sergeant-major’s arms acting as the pivot, the bottom of the barrel fell to the ground, the bomb changed direction and slid back down the barrel, only … this time it fired. Blam!

If that’s what it feels like to be blown to smithereens, it’s not too bad. The noise of the explosion was horrendous and I lay on my back and gazed at my shredded shirt. When will the pain start? I thought. "Or will I die before that? I think I’d prefer to die than have the agony." I wiped my stomach, expecting to see copious amounts of blood. But there was none, so I sat up. Van was already sitting. He, too, studied his body for mortal wounds and found none. We looked at each other and grinned. It was so silly. But where was Samil Venter? We were already standing and dusting ourselves off when a groan caught my attention. Then we saw him. Sergeant-Major Venter was stalking around holding his hand. His thumb had been blown clean off, but so too had his pants and underpants. His shirt was shredded and bits of material that used to be his combat pants hung from his webbing belt. Then there were his bare, long sinewy legs and finally his boots. The tops of his socks were also gone. He looked up at me, his face full of anguish: his teeth were also AWOL and his mouth was once again a maw. "Brookth, jou poeth! Kom hier!"

I went to him immediately. Yes, sergeant-major, I stammered.

"Ith my jewels nog daar? Ith my fokken jewels nog daar?"

I lifted my hand and felt, probably the way a doctor does when he asks you to cough. His genitalia were burnt black, as were his inner thighs and his leg hairs, but his precious jewels were still intact. I was relieved and with my fingers still on his balls I smiled up at him. "Hulle is a bietjie gebrand sa’majoor, maar hulle is nog daar," I was please to tell him.

"Okay then, get out of my sight, you fucken poes," he said quietly. I was hurt. We had had this … this moment, and he tells me to get lost! I ask you with tears in my eyes.

Van called on the radio for help and soon the sergeant-major was on his way to hospital. We heard later that he charged the driver for exceeding the speed limit on the range while taking him to the casualty at 3 Military Hospital.

Years have past since that awful accident and in that time I, too, through so many call-ups, became a sergeant-major. The South African Defence Force has changed to the South African National Defence Force—among many other changes—but some things remain the same.

Every year we are treated to an artillery fire power demonstration held on the Generaal de la Rey range in Potchefstroom. I attend this demo most years and I recently took a large party of former gunners and friends. It’s our tradition to gather around the fire the night before the demonstration and share stories of those early years. It is the most incredible camaraderie one can experience. I love it. There is little talk of the war, but abundant talk of the funny times, the good times.

I tell Sergeant-Major Venter’s story every year. Last year I was beaten to the punch by the sergeant-major himself, and his captive audience was none other than my group of friends.

"And that fucken poes … he bellowed, suddenly catching sight of me. Come here," he commanded. My legs obeyed automatically; my mind tried to resist, but still I went to him. I’m in for shit—I know it! I thought.

He put his arm around me, his teeth did their thing and he said, "No, you are not a poes any more. Here, tonight I promote you to …" And then he hugged me.

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English Day

We had already been in the army at 14th Field Regiment for more than two miserable weeks when we were informed that every alternate day was an English day. This was quite a revelation! Not only