Hidden Destruction

By Allen van der Linde

Although a novel, Hidden Destruction is Allen van der Linde's seamless account of a history that dragged a country into a long, bloodied conflict.
Laurence lived on a farm in an area then known as the Northern Transvaal in South Africa. Discipline, good ethics and hard work were drummed into his young mind and from an early age, his elders nurtured his hunting and tracking skills. His great love and passion for Africa's pristine wilderness dug its roots deep into his psyche.
At 19 years old, he was conscripted into the South African Defence Force (SADF) and, after completing his first bone-grinding years training as a Sapper, Laurence volunteered for parachute selection and earned his much-coveted pair of wings.
However, the following year his perspective of life and innocence change the moment he sets foot into the melting heat somewhere in Angola. Being ambitious, his journey takes him on a quest to do something extraordinary. Yet, first he must endure a baptism of fire by operating with an elite group of guerrilla soldiers before fulfilling his calling by leading and training a small band of young men.
His ability to track the enemy through Africa's toughest environments and uncover their military hardware becomes his artform. Using their skills, the elite soldiers destroy transport and strategic infrastructures and cripple the weaponry influx being supplied by the Soviet Union, Cuba and East Germany.
Laurence's adherence to sound doctrine sees his team through various trials and his inbred, strong character means he is highly respected and admired by the men under his command.
Hidden Destruction is an essential read portraying human strengths and weaknesses. It reflects the experiences of joy, love and peace alongside heartache, trauma and pain.
Yet, essentially, it is a journey everyone travels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen van der Linde
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223556282

Book preview

Foreword

Allen van der Linde was one of those fresh-out-of-school conscripted sappers who opted to attend the very tough basic parachute course in Bloemfontein. Presented at 1 Parachute Battalion, it was well known that not every volunteer would make the grade and be awarded with their coveted parachute wings. Allen did.

In his book Hidden Destruction, Allen tells his story; one to which many young National Servicemen of that turbulent period in our history can relate. It is a South African story of courage, death and love. It is told by a South African and as only a South African can. It is the story of a long-gone South Africa that weaves historical fact and fiction into an exciting whole.

Written as a novel, Allen could draw on personal soldiering experiences, along with the frustrations many sappers experienced during the long South African Border War. Not content with being just another combat engineer, many sappers chose to volunteer for missions with specialist infantry units.

Allen’s Laurence is one of those men who embarks on a journey of self-discovery. He doesn’t only wonder what type of soldier he could become if the cards are stacked in his favour, he makes plans and takes action and soon finds himself going to war with the famed 32 Battalion.

Having partaken in several firefights with the enemy, Laurence is wounded and sent to hospital to recuperate and thereafter home for some leave. By then, he had already decided to extend his National Service time in the South African Defence Force (SADF) as he thrives on the thrill of action and adrenaline and feels he can contribute to South Africa’s war efforts in other better ways.

Back in operations in Angola, Laurence, at times, encounters more than he had anticipated. He realises hunting men is very different from hunting wild game on his parents’ farm as the war shows him its brutality and ugly face. A tenacious enemy, indirect fire missions, helicopter gunships peppering the enemy and the fog of war gives Laurence a very different perspective of life and soldiering.

Despite the death and destruction that at times surrounds Laurence, he feels some small guilt at realising he enjoys being a soldier. Despite knowing the local population had given their sons to fight the SADF, Laurence nevertheless has a certain empathy for them as he understands their plight at being caught up in the ongoing political and ideological crossfire.

Back home, Laurence realises the winds of political change are blowing across the country as his parents become victims of criminal politics. He also realises South Africa will require increased security measures for farmers and citizens alike in the future.

As a newly commissioned lieutenant, Laurence gets his chance to select and train some sappers for a new mission. Their gruelling selection completed, he teaches the men advanced fighting skills before they commence with several exciting operations – and many close shaves along with the inevitable guilt and sadness at losing men in combat.

Over time, Laurence comes to understand the impact of geopolitics on his war and how South Africa is being burdened by not only armed enemies, but also political attacks from numerous so-called allied quarters. He learns of the petty jealousy that sometimes arises when specialist units achieved spectacular results.

Throughout his time during operations, Laurence’s mind keeps taking him to the girl he met during his leave periods. Their lives become caught up in the ever-changing political situation in South Africa and the violence and criminality that follow. This deteriorating situation brings about many changes in the country and on the family farm, along with both happiness, hope and tragedies.

This is a story of a young South African and his quest to find his future instead of letting it find him. It is a story of camaraderie only those who have faced together can understand. It is a story of character shaping, of growing old too soon, of innocence lost, of leading by example and of love.

Hidden Destruction is a novel to which many South Africans conscripted during the so-called Border War will be able to relate.

I thoroughly enjoyed Allen’s book and look forward to his next one.

Eeben Barlow

2023

Northern Transvaal 1974

Laurence thought of his early years, daydreaming of the times he’d spent out hunting with his father and grandfather. He must have been six years old when he first shot a buck. When school holidays arrived, he couldn’t wait to return to the farm and collect his gear and rifle—left by his father in a corner of the house, complete with a full packet of bullets. It was a true adventure and filled him with passion and excitement. He was given strict instructions not to shoot anything around a certain radius of the farmhouse.

As Laurence grew older, his father gave him his grandfather’s Second World War 303 rifle, still in mint condition. His father and grandfather taught him how to shoot with open sights.

Only sissies use telescopic sights, his grandfather would say. Try and finish the animal with one clean shot—and never rush in, as the horned animal could still be alive.

On this particular day, the weather was overcast and had a bite in the air. The tops of the hills were covered in mist, and a slight drizzle had begun to fall. Instead of moving far from the house, Laurence decided to wait in a small, dry riverbed close to the residence, and see what might appear. He noticed some tracks that looked to be from quite a good-sized kudu. He moved up along the riverbed, popping up every so often to check if the animal was nearby. He found a good downwind position and settled in to wait for a while.

It was the rainy season, and the bush was thick with tall grass and leafy trees. As he leant on his elbows, he heard the faint sound of something moving in the brush. Suddenly the kudu appeared. It was a magnificent, mature male, with almost three turns in the horn. Laurence took aim, squeezed the trigger, and felt the recoil. It was a good side-on shot that should have penetrated the lungs—but the big kudu stumbled and dashed into the thickets. It wasn’t long before the dogs joined him, sniffing with excitement. They picked up the scent and dashed into the bush.

Shit! said Laurie. He had been too close to the house.

He ran after the dogs. Coming through the clearing, he saw and heard the first thud and yelp as the kudu bull slashed at one dog, then turned on the other – tearing their insides with his horns.

Laurence quickly reloaded and killed the kudu with another shot.

The last dog hung around, pulling on the buck’s nose, but the other two were reeling in pain. He couldn’t bring himself to kill the dogs. Betsy was his mom’s favourite. Snap had been around for eleven years and would follow his father everywhere.

Hearing the shots and cries, Laurence’s father quickly found his son in the bloody mess. Dad grabbed the rifle and put the two dogs out of their misery.

"What were you thinking? Didn’t I tell you to stay far away from the farmhouse?

You stupid boy! You’re just like a bloody donkey—in the one ear and out the other. Hierdie’s jou skuld. Ek hoop jy het jou bliksemse les geleer.¹ It’s over now, we can’t bring the dogs back. The dogs’ blood is on your hands."

Dad then turned on his heels and headed home. Laurence remembered how hard he cried. The guilt and remorse that followed was unbearable. He had hurt and disappointed his father—how was he ever going to appease the man he looked up to, loved, and respected so much?

His dad’s silence, and the fact that his rifle was taken away for the whole holiday, sat deeply on his conscience.

---

¹ This is your fault. I hope you’ve learnt your bloody lesson.

Angola, 1982

After spending the previous six months in the African bush searching for landmines and going through the motions as a young South African soldier, Laurence Steenkamp lay outside his bunker one evening. Resting back against some hardened sandbags, he looked up at the night sky, brilliant with its millions of glittering stars, and listened to the crackling fire and the quiet chatter passing between the guys.

Man, this is beautiful, Laurence thought. But there’s got to be something more than just this. Do I want to go home someday and say to myself that my military service was a total waste of time—blood, sweat and tears for nothing—or do I want to achieve something memorable?

Back at home as a young boy, adventure was part of growing up. Spending time with his grandfathers and listening to their heroic tales of war had carved a deep fascination in him. He relished the fact that his grandparents on both sides were either commandos in the Boer War or served in one of the two great wars. He did not want to be ordinary and had worked very hard to gain the set of wings on his chest. He thought long and hard that night, imagining what it would be like to venture out and be part of the high intensity bush conflict.

But what’s my event of significance going to be? he wondered.

Mulling over his thoughts, he decided that the next day, he would walk to the HQ and approach one of the senior officers and tell him the beginnings of this plan he was devising. What if Laurance asked to take out a few guys every day to inspect the surrounding terrain for possible movement, and report back on anything out of the ordinary?

Growing up on a farm, Laurie (as his friends and family called him) had learnt the art of tracking, hunting, and living off the land. It was something that came naturally to him, and he felt quite comfortable and confident in the bush.

He knew there was a slight chance that he’d be allowed, if he asked—one commandant in particular, who Laurie thought was quite decent, may accommodate his idea. He would approach him and share what he had on his mind.

***

Laurence woke up early the next morning as usual, got dressed, and put on his webbing for the day. It was good to get out of the bunker that he shared with three other guys, and breathe in the fresh, early morning air.

Like most days, they headed out to sweep the roads and hopefully find some deadly hidden mines. Brunch was usually around 11:00hrs every day, taken and prepared from their ration packs, when they shared a fire bucket² full of hot coffee, condensed milk, and maybe a dog biscuit³ before they moved off. The guys climbed into their APCs⁴ with their rifles and mine detectors and headed off to a position where they would start their sweep.

The road was a twee paaidtjie⁵ with very soft white sand. Two sappers⁶ walked behind, acting as protection as the guys up front swept the road. They all walked at a fast pace, followed by two buffels.⁷ Just as Laurence rounded a bend, a small duiker⁸ that had spent the night next to the road sprang to its feet and scuttled across their path. Laurence froze—it seemed as if on seeing him, the duiker had tried to turn in mid-air. Who knows who got more of a fright?

Almost 20 kilometres into the sweep, he picked up a warning signal—the whining in his earpiece screeched and then faded as he moved past the point of the initial, high-pitched groan. He backtracked, finding the spot with the strongest signal. Most often it was just a false alarm—the detector signalling a piece of metal, or an old tin can. Kneeling, he placed the mine detector on the ground next to him and began gently removing the sand with both hands in a circular motion. Three inches down, he touched the familiar, smooth, cold metal of a Russian TM-57 anti-tank mine. This was his third. He was pretty chuffed, and carefully felt around the mine for any anti-lifting devices. There was a trip wire attached. One of the guys walked forward and handed Laurence the grappling hook and rope. Laying the entire rope and hook down in a straight line, he gently placed the metal hook in a strategic spot on the back side of the mine. He then stepped back, took hold of the rope, and pulled gently.

Boom!

The ground shook, and a huge plume of dirt mixed with metal fragments shot into the sky.

***

Back at base camp, it was time for his walk to the HQ. Laurence slipped on his bush hat, folded the butt of the rifle, and slung the weapon over his shoulder.

Be confident, and think positively, he thought.

He had found a mine that morning, so he was still on a high.

He almost bumped into Commandant Burgess as he walked into the dimly lit HQ. He quickly saluted, and asked if he could share his thoughts with him. The officer wasn’t a bolshy type and stood there listening to his suggestions. With a sort of smile, the commandant politely told Laurence that he needed to first talk to his officer in command, and maybe then the commandant could consider what was on Laurence’s mind.

Laurence’s lieutenant would have none of it.

You’re a sapper, the lieutenant told Laurence. "What the hell do you want to be patrolling the bush like a fucking cowboy for? If I find out you are doing something behind my back, I will bring you on orders.⁹ Do you hear me, Steenkamp?"

---

² A drinking utensil.

³ A large, sweet, wholegrain biscuit.

⁴ Armoured Personnel Carriers.

⁵ A two-track road.

⁶ Combat engineers.

⁷ Armoured troop carriers.

⁸ Species of miniature antelope.

⁹ Disciplinary action.

First Pass

The music was so loud that it felt as if his whole body were in a cement mixer. Laurence hated it. It was his first leave after spending months in the quiet of the bush, and he had two weeks’ leave to potter around his little hometown. Out at a bar with a few civilian friends, some drunk guy had vomited all over Laurence’s shoes—which pissed Laurence off and nearly erupted in a fist fight. He decided to leave before things got violent and told his friends that he’d find his own way home. Walking down the street, he entered a fast-food outlet, bought a hamburger, and sat down to eat before calling it a night.

He woke up the next morning with a headache, the smell of cigarette smoke still trapped in his hair and clothes. The stench sickened him. After taking a shower and cleaning up, he headed out again, eventually landing up in a library. He went to the military section and found a book on world special forces. Not knowing much about SF¹⁰ those days, he was quite intrigued by it all. He knew the term ‘commando’, which the world had taken on as a name for special force operators. It was now a typical South African name, which his great grandfather mentioned with pride when speaking of his days with the Boers, fighting the Brits.

Laurence took the book home and was fascinated to read about these small teams that operated behind enemy lines. He read through the book quickly, then took out his little notepad and pen to start jotting down all the finer aspects of SF operations.

That’s it, he realised. I’m going to prepare a proposal and come up with an idea about what we as para-sappers¹¹ can do using all of our skills to better the war effort. Maybe it will lift our rating amongst the divisions.

---

¹⁰ Special Forces.

¹¹ Airborne combat engineers.

Back to the Operational Area

They all arrived back from pass and settled in, knowing that the next time they went home it would be mostly for good—save for returning once a year for their two or three-month stints as reservists.

It was another one of those days. Driving in the open buffel was cold during the early hours of the morning; then the temperature would soar to over 40oC as the sun rose to its peak. The sapper team had finished sweeping the road that led up to a small village, where they watched the local women fish in the muddy waters with a contraption made out of sticks. They ate their brunch and climbed back into their vehicles.

Most of the guys had been lulled to sleep by the swaying motion of the heavy, mine-protected vehicle as it dipped from side to side. The buffel couldn’t travel very fast in the soft sand, and sometimes would get stuck, especially on sharp bends. They must have been travelling at about 50 kilometres per hour down a long stretch of road when suddenly Laurence was flung into the air. Then he heard the blast. It all happened in an instant. He found himself lying face down on the ground. He couldn’t make sense of it all. Mumbling noises came and went around him. He felt the heat from the burning vehicle, and the sharp pains that ran down his side. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back in a bed as someone looked into his eyes with a torch.

Then darkness came again.

***

Laurence came round again later that night, wondering where he was. He tried to sit up, but felt dizzy. It took a few days to regain his senses and surface properly. His friend Eric lay in the bed next to him, his leg strung up in a brace.

Hey buddy, Eric called to him. "How you feeling? It seems like we trapped¹² a mine and now we’re banged up in hospital. I think everyone is okay except for the two of us. We must have hit a double cheese,¹³ bro. Apparently the front wheel hit first, and hot metal fragments punctured the diesel tank. We’re all lucky to be alive."

Laurence knew they could have either missed the mine going in, or it could have been planted just before they were coming back. Possibly it was a cheese mine—a type that was very hard to detect, as it had no metal parts.

***

While Laurence lay semiconscious in his hospital bed, he dreamed of fields with beautiful tulips arrayed in splendid colours, popping up everywhere over the dry desert sands. The roads they swept were full of them. He drifted above the landscape, his hands brushing thousands upon thousands of magnificent flowers as he passed over them. There were tulips as far as the eye could see. Running through them were streams of water mixed with oil and blood.

When he woke, he thought deeply about his dreams, and tried to make some sense out of them—but could only bring it down to a very bad concussion. He thought about these realistic visions during the next few weeks. Usually a dream would have been forgotten the next day, but these strange dreams stayed vivid, as if they had just occurred.

What could the tulips mean? he thought.

He knew about the tulips in Amsterdam, where there was a lot of water and the ground was rich and fertile. What lay under the ground in Ovamboland and southern Angola? Only mines and more mines. Caches and more hidden caches. The land was ‘fertile’ from 16 years of spilt blood, destruction, and buried military hardware.

Laurence thought about his dreams with excitement, convinced that they must have been some type of message.

We are trained sappers, and our jobs are to locate hidden caches, mines, and anything else that the enemy’s hiding, he thought.

He would put that proposal together and explain in detail what he thought they could do. He was going to present his plan to the highest command he could find. The idea was to operate in small teams and search out these buried caches by tracking the enemy, who were bringing the mines and military hardware in from the north. The teams were going to work as they’d been taught, but in a slightly better way.

Pretty basic stuff, he thought.

He was discharged from the hospital but would have to wait for transport before he could return to his base in Angola. That could take up to a week.

***

Laurence stayed at Sector One-Zero 25 Engineer Regiment in Oshakati, which ran all the operations for the sappers on the border. Just opposite was the main headquarters for all operations in South-West Africa. He jumped the fence, looking as neat as possible, and headed off across a field with the proposal.

What am I thinking? The military’s not playing games.

Laurence had no rank, and he still had pimples on his chin—all the same, he was going to find some high-ranking officer, and present this proposal. As he reached the front door, his heart started to race. He was either going to get thrown out or put on orders for not going through the right channels.

Well, I’m here. I’ll just have to face the consequences.

Laurence walked up to the front desk and asked a corporal to see the officer in charge. Hardly looking up, the corporal pointed in the direction of the man’s office.

Laurence couldn’t believe it. He tapped on the door, and a voice told him to enter. A grey-haired man in his mid-forties sat at his desk, staring at him. Laurence was sure he’d seen him before. Maybe in a nightmare, he thought. He stood to attention, and addressed the officer as ‘brigadier’, recognising the insignia on the man’s shoulders.

Yes, what do you want? the brigadier said.

Laurence stood, unable to say a word. It was as if an apple were stuck in his mouth. He finally plucked up the courage and proceeded to tell the brigadier what he had been thinking of for the past few months. Would you mind reading my proposal, sir? he finished. Then he shut his mouth, waiting to be screamed at.

Nothing happened.

The officer stood up and walked over to him.