Chaos erupted as the train arrived at Kimberley station with screeching brakes. The new cannon fodder had hangovers from hell as they arrived in hell. Aggressive, tough and athletic NCOS sadistically intimidated the new government property, who looked haggard and scared.
Hilton and I looked at each other and shrugged. We knew hell was coming, and staying sober had been sensible. Facing this hellhole with a pounding hangover would have been dumb. Yet, as compliant as we were, we were singled out once again.
A tall, muscular Staff Sergeant immediately spotted us. “You two hippy girls, get over here now!”
“On the double, fuckers!” We scrambled towards the tall prick with our luggage, arriving out of breath.
“Why are you strolling about like it’s a picnic?” He glared down at me. “Goldilocks, are you too stupid to understand me?”
He spoke in Afrikaans, a far more expressive language than English when used in the most abusive manner imaginable.
Class distinctions within the Afrikaans community can be detected, at least to a degree. This guy came from the wrong side of the tracks, just like me. I had the advantage of growing up in a bilingual household where excellent English was spoken, thanks to my two much older sisters’ education at a Catholic convent. I could spot the distinction.
I wanted to piss him off, so I replied in my closest imitation of Hilton’s accent.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but you confused me with your instructions.” He shouted, “Are you blind, dumb, deaf and a Rooinek with a surname like Van Niekerk?”
I persisted in English, unconvincingly claiming that I had grown up in an English household and understood only a little Afrikaans. He grabbed me behind the head, pulled my face towards his odious arm and pointed at his rank insignia.
“This, Rooinek, means Staff Sergeant, not sir, dumbass. Now fuck off to the Bedford with your hippie girlfriend!”
The trucks rattled and belched diesel fumes, creating an awful racket. Ironically, they were in desperate need of a service at 1 Maintenance Unit. The vibrating roar of a Bedford rattles every bone in your body.
With no seating space left, we were forced to stand. This roller-coaster trip could end painfully. With no control over the truck’s movements, we could do little more than brace ourselves and minimise the damage. That was almost impossible when unexpected gravitational forces threw us in every direction.
There were no safety belts or proper handholds. The canvas roof was mounted on a steel frame that offered little grip. Hilton looked aghast, and I shouted at him to protect his head. One bad lurch could send us flying into the metal framework.
Having worked part-time in a hospital, I had no illusions about the injuries that could result. A list of the least desirable possibilities flashed through my mind: head, facial and dental injuries, open fractures, broken bones and spinal injuries. Anything that impaired my senses or ability to communicate was off the menu.
My usual lemon-meringue humour highlighted the absurdity of selecting preferred injuries when I had no control over the outcome. This roller-coaster ride was designed to frighten or injure us and remind us who was in charge.
I lacked logic sometimes! Had the Staff Sergeant deliberately delayed us to ensure we would have to stand on the Bedford?
I began piecing together what had happened. Several things seemed to add up, while the odds appeared statistically impossible. From then on, I would try to evaluate each disaster as objectively as possible. Remaining cool-headed was becoming increasingly difficult.
Simply adding the scores seemed easier.
Most sixteen-year-olds shave. I started at twenty-two, and my baby face made people underestimate my mental development. My students had made the same mistake when I was a proctor and tutor. Stuart and his snobbish circle had done it too, as had Mervyn and his camp friends.
Don’t judge a book by its cover.
My Achilles heel was anger, which often defied logic. Instead of remaining chilled, I had exploded at the Department of Defence. Unbelievably dumb! I had succeeded in making myself a target.
I flashed back to what had sparked our excessive antagonism. I had aggressively and undiplomatically told the malicious heavy breather in charge of the bureaucrats to tell the two fat RSMs to kiss my ass. Perhaps she had obliged.
She might even have gleefully poked their sensitive egos by phoning the bullies and informing them that some snotkop — a snotty-nosed youth — demanded that she tell them to kiss his bony ass.
No NCO would willingly back down from such a challenge, especially when he held the power of life or death over you.
Their purple faces on hearing that some little communist traitor had called them fatties would have been hilarious to see! Poking them seemed irresistible.
Well, I thought wryly, let’s see whether I’m right or wrong. Perhaps I was being theatrical. But knowing what I knew about the army, outrageous insults rarely went unpunished.
Your average RSM is hardly a Nobel laureate but excels at harbouring grudges.
My musings were rudely interrupted as Newton demonstrated the unpleasant effects of gravity and opposing forces. I flew headfirst into a metal part of the canvas-covered truck.
Charming! Ouch!
I held my head to protect it, but it still hurt like hell. Hilton followed gravity for a moment, only to encounter an equally undesirable obstacle.
Part of this sadistic rite of passage involved racing the sluggish Bedford towards the camp, swerving deliberately and sending us flying around the truck. Just when we thought we had mastered the movements, the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing everyone into one another or, worse, against the metal framework.
The crunching industrial whine of the gearbox made conversation impossible. The heavy canvas canopies snapped, popped and slapped violently against the metal, creating unbearable noise. Standing made it ten times worse.
Falling into the laps of cursing seated men was bad enough. Accidentally injuring their crown jewels made things considerably worse.
Fate was a bitch. I landed on the lap of one of the gorillas from our compartment. He grabbed my neck in a throttling chokehold, making it difficult to breathe and immediately weakening my resolve. His buddy tried to punch me in the face.
Then the Bedford screeched to a violent halt, its chassis protesting. The gorilla lunged at me, but the sudden stop threw him painfully against the metal partition between the cabin and the loading bay.
For once, the Devil smiled upon me.
The ape’s bare fist clipped the top of my forehead with a clumsy thud. Instead of knocking me out, he fell forward, his face contorted in agony, clutching his injured knuckles. I hoped they were broken.
He had underestimated the hardness of a human skull. Gorilla number one released my neck as we were swamped by cursing men wearing the pale-blue berets of 1 Maintenance Unit.
We had arrived at the notorious Diskobolos. One of the worst camps in the country, where all the misfits supposedly ended up.
I was relieved to be saved by the bell in hell!
Another five seconds and I could have lost teeth or ended up with a broken nose. My attackers had me by the balls — figuratively!
We were “helped” off the truck by nasty men shouting obscenities. They wore ugly brown uniforms and not-so-ugly light-blue Maintenance Unit berets. Enduring its gruelling training in sauna-like temperatures, Diskobolos was simply Hell.
The army had its own class system. The elite forces on the front lines depended on supply lines yet often refused to acknowledge their importance. They looked down on the Maintenance Corps, the people who kept them alive.
The sad reality of war is that those most likely to be killed are not necessarily the elite soldiers. Those working in the supply lines can be equally vulnerable. Bedford trucks were soft targets, poorly protected against landmines and direct attacks.
Cannon fodder.
We were assembled into a miserable-looking group of hungover civilians by the Tiffies — the Technical Service Corps. Technically, we were all Tiffies now, whether we could hold a spanner or merely count boxes of supplies.
Ironically, quite a few of our little group were graduates. Perhaps the decision about where you ended up was entirely random.
The Intelligence Unit was also based in Kimberley. Its members wore black berets bearing jackal heads. The Chosen Ones believed in their superior intelligence and inborn skills. They regarded us as dumb grease monkeys, store clerks or truck drivers.
We were the crucial supply lines, where high mortality rates were simply a fact of life. We hated one another passionately. These powerful tribal instincts were fuelled by the high command, while even the officers failed to grasp the manipulation at work.
The intention was simple: encourage troops, many of them still boys, to embrace death as a badge of honour.
Our names were called out, and I found myself hoping that some of my bungalow buddies might be cute. Trust me to worry about silly things when the army had just destroyed my idyllic life.
We were divided into platoons of between thirty and thirty-three men in different companies. Hilton and I were predictably separated. Two bald communist hippies.
Even with a shaved head, Hilton looked amazing. At least we would still see each other during slop times. Everybody had been transformed, and almost nobody was recognisable anymore. The gorillas had vanished into anonymity.
I went to Bravo Company. Bravo sounded like an encore! It reminded me of my stage days and bravos from appreciative audiences giving standing ovations.
The bungalows were ugly, and we wore our civvies until we received our revolting brown overalls. Brown has always been a particularly ugly colour to me, ever since I owned Medusa, my chocolate-brown Datsun 120Y.
Our bungalow was conveniently positioned near the main gate and the Mess. We were split up alphabetically and allocated depressing single metal beds, each with a staal kas and a trommel. The steel cabinet had very little space, and our uniforms had to hang neatly for inspection.
For two or three days, while the army got its ducks in a row, we had some freedom to explore the camp — provided we were willing to risk being confronted by the ou manne, usually men close to completing their two years of conscription.
They enjoyed frightening silly rookies who dared to explore their territory in civvies. Some of the more aggressive men particularly hated rowe wandering around with untidy, longish hair.
I decided to watch my first sunset in Kimberley. It was spectacular for a place called Hell. My acoustic Walkman provided the perfect soundtrack. The setting sun seemed to mark the end of my Golden Era.
The darkness of Pink Floyd’s The Wall suited my dramatic surroundings. I related to the idea of refusing to become another brick in the brainwashing wall.
My FORBIDDEN EDUCATION had taught me to combine wit with common sense. It had helped me survive remarkably well in almost every scenario I had faced in life.
I was lost in thought in this deserted part of the camp, hands in my pockets, when somebody slapped me painfully hard on my right arm.
I spun around. A short, plump, redheaded RSM stood before me. His mouth was moving, but I could hear only muffled sounds. Ivan The Red ripped the earplugs from my ears and screamed into my right ear.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” “I came to watch the sunset, sir,” I replied meekly. “What crap were you listening to?” “Pink Floyd, The Wall, sir.”
“Why? Such rubbish, snotkop!” I don’t want to be another brick in the wall, sir “ “Don’t try to be clever. We are watching you, and you are one small step from DB.”
Perhaps my supposedly insane theory wasn’t just a mad bit of paranoia. Why would an RSM walk all the way to the edge of the camp to frighten a rookie? I doubted this RSM was going to kiss my butt. Fluttering my eyelashes wasn’t going to help either.
“Try to escape, and you’ll get shot on my orders. Any area next to the fence is out of bounds for poofters like you.”
“I take no crap from girlie boys with an attitude.”
“Goldilocks, your head will be shaved now. Then I will call you Baldilocks!” he announced, clearly impressed with his own sentence-construction skills.
“Report for duty at my office first thing tomorrow for gardening duty. Then race back to your bungalow to get your varkpan. Get out of my sight, Goldilocks!”
“Yes, sir!”
I never saw his name properly, but I’m sure it can’t be difficult to find him.
Back at the bungalow, Corporal Ludick was seething.
“Run to the Mess and get your varkpan. Then straight to the barber.”
There was still a queue at the barber, who beamed when he saw my hair.
“Ah, another one. How would you like your hair cut?”
“Not too short on top, and leave my fringe, please, sir.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said with a mock bow and a sadistic grin. He took pleasure in making the experience as unpleasant and painful as possible.
A few minutes later, I was bald. Goldilocks was gone.
Without my longish, slightly curly blond hair framing my face, I looked older and distinctly more masculine. Being lean made my high cheekbones and pronounced bone structure prominent, but now there was nothing to soften those features. The youthful appearance my hair had given me disappeared, leaving a harder, more angular face.
The transformation shocked me. My head seemed bigger than I had imagined, and I hated having no hair. I never realised how much my appearance depended on it.
The army had stripped away one of the features that made me look youthful and slightly androgynous.
The guys took sadistic delight in watching Goldilocks disappear. Ludick grinned and told me how unbelievably ugly I was.
I lost me.
Finding a beret that fitted my head proved difficult.
Walking back, I saw a gorgeous corporal who looked like the Nazi boy poster of the Aryan race. He had a short brush cut and piercing blue eyes.
I walked up to him, and he gave me the once-over.
“Are you Rubin van Niekerk?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What happened to you at the judo classes where you just vanished?”
Suddenly, I recognised Liam, the beautiful surfer boy with shiny reddish-blond hair. I was very into him and particularly loved doing groundwork with him. He always smelled pleasantly of soap and used an unfamiliar shampoo and conditioner.
Like me, he did not use underarm deodorant, which some people don’t seem to need. That clean, slightly sweaty smell was intoxicatingly sensual to me.
I smiled and walked up to Liam to give him a hug.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get away from me, faggot. You’re pissing me off!”
Liam shouted for the benefit of his buddies, who were watching the spectacle. I was tempted to tell him I had met a boy as cute as he was, but one who was much more eager to pamper me!
“Roof! In case you are blind or have forgotten my name, I’m Corporal Gray.”
Liam flashed lightning bolts at me.
Very hot!
“You have just volunteered for judo classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights from 19h00 to 21h00!”
Rolling around with him on the judo mat did not seem much like punishment.
The next day, we had a naked medical inspection that made most of the guys uncomfortable. Nudity exposed their insecurity, vulnerability and lack of exercise. Nudity was natural to me. Some eye candy raised my spirits!
Afterwards, we received ill-fitting kit. Mine was miles too big. I would either have to go commando or wear my own underwear, because the army-issue underwear was enormous — practically a circus tent. But chafing soon took the sexiness out of going commando!
My trommel contained a few civvies and cleaning materials. Keeping the floors shiny was almost impossible. We used our repulsive underwear and small towels as taxis to get around and help polish the floors.
We gathered to divide the cleaning duties and keep everything spotless. I picked the showers, and a gorgeous guy sitting in our circle volunteered too.
His name was Francois, and he was exquisite even without hair!
We cleaned the showers in our birthday suits because it was practical, not because we were trying to be sexy.
Really?
Failing an inspection meant an awful opfok in that heat. We sweated in our thick brown uniforms as though we had just stepped out of a sauna.
Opfoks were designed to break any bonds forming between new buddies. Sloppiness would be blamed on someone, often at random. Everybody would be punished, and the supposed slackers held responsible for the platoon’s suffering.
Inevitably, two or three men would face the platoon’s wrath.
Some punishments involved total isolation. Nobody would speak to the offenders, or they would be forced to clean the bungalow alone and polish their comrades’ boots.
Violence surfaced soon enough. Blankets were thrown over the victims, who were then beaten with wet towels, fists and whatever else was available.
The idea was to avoid leaving obvious injuries. This retaliation was against the rules, but everybody did it anyway.
I refused to physically assault the victims. That decision created a degree of social isolation and distrust.
I was beginning to understand something.
At Diskobolos, being noticed was dangerous.
This is a brief excerpt from Rubin van Niekerk’s upcoming Memoir/Autobiography, titled Mentors, Family and Friends Matter, chronicling the people, places and experiences that shaped his life from early childhood to later adulthood. We all relate to this universal experience.
New chapters will be published regularly in the Magazine section of the landing page of Gay Pages website, alongside our favourite archived articles, as the journey unfolds.
