26 -- A Rhodesian “Rebel” I Loved (Salisbury, Rhodesia: Dec 1976)

It is amazing the risks we will take when we are young.  Pegi and I had arrived in Rhodesia with US$1000 and a Diner’s Club card!  Where we expected to be able to use Diner’s Club in Africa is beyond me.  I hardly ever found a place to use it in the US.  Nevertheless, we were blissfully ignorant of how dire our financial prospects were.

Within a month I would be making a whopping Rh$300 per month (‘Rh’ for Rhodesian currency).  At the bank there was a one-to-one exchange rate for US and Rhodesian dollars.  Fortunately, it was much cheaper to live in Rhodesia than Houston.  We rented a car using our Diner’s Club—amazed that the rental agency would take it.  Of course, Diner’s would pay them back in US dollars and since no one was trading with Rhodesia due to UN sanctions, we were helping the war effort by increasing Rhodesia’s access to foreign exchange.  We were totally oblivious to this at the time. 

We also found a local “department” store that accepted Diner’s.  We were able to buy clothes for both of us that were more appropriate to the climate.  You should have seen me in my “safari suit” with its Bermuda-style pants and short-sleeved jacket.  Of course, my lily white arms and legs exposed me for the foreigner that I was.  Any Rhodesian would have been tanned by the African sun.  I never did get my tan straightened out.  I ended up with a tanned right arm from hanging it out the window when I drove in our right-hand drive car.  Later, the tops of my thighs were tanned from riding my army-issued motorcycle in my khaki uniform short pants. 

We wanted to take Major Lamprecht’s advice to spend some time “honeymooning” around Rhodesia before I started training, but first we needed to find a place to live since military married housing was scarce and would not even be an option until I finished RLI training.

There were some apartment complexes in Salisbury, but they had long waiting lists.  Fortunately, there were plenty of nice rental homes.  Homes in Rhodesia were very nice.  Neither air conditioning nor central heating was required in either of the two seasons:  summer (rain) or winter (no rain).  In higher elevations (Salisbury was on a high plain about 4000 ft above sea level), summers were cool and winters rarely saw a frost.  It was kind of like Northern California.  The lowvelt, (lowland with the ‘v’ pronounced ‘f’ as in Afrikaans), was closer to sea level, experiencing hotter summers.  The entire country had low humidity, so this made the summers more tolerable.

Without the central heat or air and only requiring fireplaces for winter evenings, the cost of construction was low.  Everything was built with local materials, often with bricks made onsite.  Some housing had tailored Dutch-style thatched roofs.  Thatch lasted about 25 years.  It was cool in the summer and warm in the winter.  Second choice was tin roofing—really noisy in the rain.

Homes had large manicured lawns, most with some sort of hedges fencing the property.  Inside the fencing were gardens filled with flowering and fruit-bearing trees and bushes.  Large windows and glass doors or sometimes cast-iron gates looked out on large covered verandas suitable for eating and lounging outdoors.

We found a two bedroom/one bath cottage on about one acre right across from the University of Rhodesia in Alexandra Park.  Alex Park had a variety of small cottages like ours as well as larger homes—some with as many as five or six bedrooms.  It was beautiful to say the least.  Our rent was Rh$120/month.  We were able to purchase appliances, bedding, sofa, table and chairs as well as basic tools for living such as kitchenware, bedding linens, mosquito netting, and even a push lawnmower from a department store called “Radio Limited.”  This store would not accept our Diner’s card, but we had no way to pay continue paying off the Diner’s card anyway since we hadn’t maintained a US bank account.  What were we thinking anyway? However, since I was going to be making Rh$300/month as a soldier, they were happy to put everything on credit.  Our payment was Rh$55/month.

That would leave us approximately Rh$125/month for all other expenses: food, gas at $5 gal, electric, phone.  Oh, yeah—we can't keep renting a car.  Hmm . . . we hadn’t thought about that!  Well, we still had US$800 in cash, so we moved on. 

Every home had at least two servants who typically stayed in the tiny servant’s quarters at the back of the property.  Servants got one room with cement or adobe style walls.  The floor was dirt or, don’t freak out . . . hardened cow manure.  Actually, many of the nicer farm homes owned by white Rhodesians had “dung” floors.  It was packed down until it was as hard as cement and then polished with wax to a high gloss.  Sounds gross, but it wasn’t.  But, let’s not pretend that the servant’s quarters were anything more than cement-walled closets.

We had a cook/housekeeper, Julia, whom we paid $12 month and a gardener, Langton whom we paid $10.  All servants got weekly “rations”:  meat, maize meal, and cooking oil.  If I remember properly, the cost of rations was about Rh$2.10/week per person.   These were the going rates and although this may sound like abject servitude, this kind of pay and housing was the dream of thousands of rural Africans who lived as subsistence farmers in the rural Tribal Trust Lands (TTLs). 

Julia spoke only a few words of English as she had lived most of her life in the TTLs speaking “Shona.”  Langton (16) had only recently come to Salisbury after his rural school had been burned down and his teacher killed by Mugabe’s terrorist forces.  Langton did not have a full-time gardening job.  He was assisting as a temporary gardener in the Alexandria Park area.

The renters who had been there before us had lost their gardener and did not want to hire someone just before they moved.  The grass was about a foot tall near the back of the property and something needed to be done immediately. Langton noticed our arrival in the neighborhood, and approached us through Julia.  I immediately hired him as a full-time gardener. 

In the farming areas, the white farmers often worked side-by-side with their African laborers.  They played together as children and most farmers were fluent in Shona, Ndebele or other dialects.  This was not always the case for city dwellers.  Communication was in hybrid English/African dialect developed in the mines of South Africa.  It was only good for giving work directions:  dig here, take that, fix this, etc.  Since we knew neither that nor Shona, it was difficult to communicate very much with Julia.  But Langton’s English was excellent because of his schooling.

Langton and I got to know each other pretty well.  He educated me with regard to life in the rural areas.  I told him about America.  He would work for us even when we moved to a new house on the outskirts of Salisbury.  Eventually, his 14 year old brother would come to live and work with us after his school was also destroyed by the so-called “freedom fighters.”  And, eventually their mother would travel for hours by bus from the rural TTL, just to come meet Pegi and me and thank us for taking care of her sons.

Pegi tried to communicate with Julia, trying out some of the Shona phrases that she was learning.  On our second day in our new home, Pegi was trying to tell Julia about America.  Julia said: “Madam, America . . . is that a very big city?”  She was serious, not joking.  Her world was the TTL that she had grown up in and the big city, Salisbury.  She had no concept of other countries or continents.  Julia was typical of many of the Africans.  Maybe this will help you understand how much of a “step up” it was for her to have this important job in the city.

At the same time, there were many Africans who did have high school and trade school degrees. However, there were very few who had university educations.  And, we would discover that white Rhodesians had not done as much as we might have liked to make it possible for these Africans to be promoted to compete for white jobs.  But, you must remember that Rhodesia was completely tribal until the pioneer columns made their way up from South Africa in 1890.  This was only 1976.  Rhodesia had only existed as a small colony for 86 years.  It took Americans a lot longer than that to get to Civil Rights.  Let’s see . . . 1492 to 1965 . . . hmm, maybe Andrew Young shouldn’t have been so quick to judge and throw in his lot with Mugabe and Nkomo?

Before we left on our tour of Rhodesia, there was one more thing we needed.  Pegi and I had discovered our love for dogs on one of our first dates.  As we had walked into 2-K’s restaurant off Westheimer Road in Houston for some post bible study ice cream, we passed a car with windows partially lowered.  Inside was a beautiful Springer Spaniel “making eyes” at us.  You know how spaniels do it . . . one eyebrow up, the other down!

We had our hearts set on getting a puppy, and since we were in Rhodesia, we wanted a Rhodesian Ridgeback.  After a quick scan of the ads in the Salisbury Herald, we drove to a farm on the outskirts of Salisbury.  We were bowled over by four of the cutest little puppies, one of whom sidled up to me.  Rh$15 later, he was slobbering all over our rental car.

Since we were from the southern US—Pegi from Texas, me from Kentucky, we decided to name him in honor of the hero soldiers of another misunderstood nation, the Confederate States of America.  We named him “Rebel.” 

Rebel Full Grown

Langton took to Rebel immediately.  Rebel would follow Langton around the yard as he worked.  One day I asked Langton how to translate “rebel” into Shona.  He told me, gandanga.  Of course, that was the same word used for the terrorists.  Oops!

But this was one Rhodesian “Rebel” I loved.  When we had to leave Rhodesia some 18 months later, it was Rebel that I would cry for at night.

Well, our house was set up.  It was time to do some sightseeing. 

Next:  Tea with the judge.

25 -- Fit or Fat? (Salisbury, Rhodesia: Nov 1976)

I was feeling a bit sluggish and very guilty about my early morning gluttony as I slid into a taxi to take me to my 8:00 am appointment with the chief recruiting officer of the Rhodesian Army, Major Nick Lamprecht.  I was also feeling a bit bloated and felt like I needed to suck my stomach in a bit to be more soldier-like.

The taxi ride was my first time on the left hand side of the road in a right-hand drive car.  This felt a bit better to me than my experience with RSM Springer in his American left-hand drive car.  As we wove our way through the Monday morning traffic, the left-side driving began to make some sense to me.  But as we approached the intersection of two four-lane roads, turning right across traffic—all my reactions were upside down.  Good thing that I wasn’t driving!

As I was paying the driver, (with Rhodesian currency this morning!), he gave me a tip for driving on the left:  "Always keep yourself as the driver the near the center of the road."  This tip works!  It even works when you come back to the States and need to readjust to driving on the right again.

[No extra charge for this driving tip.  Consider it an added benefit of reading my book!]

The recruiting office was on  the fifth floor of a downtown office building.  I guess the only difference between the recruiting office and any other business would be the Army posters on the walls and the personnel behind the desks wearing uniforms. 

Major Lamprecht rose to greet me as I entered.  I introduced myself and handed him the packet of information that Roy Hurst had given me in Houston.  I had filled out all the personal information and included all the documentation he needed (birth certificate, marriage license, etc).

I don’t remember the details of our conversation, but we began with a discussion of my motivation for coming to Rhodesia saying:

I really believe that the struggle of the Rhodesian people is my struggle.  I missed the war in Vietnam, but that struggle against a Communist insurgency was similar to the insurgency that I believe is going on here.  Terrorists are attacking soft targets:  rural villages, stores and medical clinics.  They rob buses filled with unarmed African civilians, often shooting the driver, raping the women even bayoneting babies.  They torture and kill village leaders who have any contact with the government.  And when the Rhodesian security forces show up, the terrorists scatter in all directions, casting aside weapons and uniforms, seeking to hide themselves among the very population they terrorize.

I also understand that Rhodesia has 96% of the world’s strategic-grade chromium.  So, for me, defending Rhodesia is defending America’s ability to develop high-grade weapon systems.

I also understand that this is not a race war as it has been portrayed by the world press and even my our own UN Ambassador, Andrew Young, who seems to have President Carter’s ear.  I know that Rhodesians, both black and white are fighting together to defeat the threat of Communist terrorists led by Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo.

I have been here less than 24 hours, but have already seen how black and white interact peacefully.  One thing that my wife noticed is that the blacks here do not seem angry or tense.  She has remarked at the amicable interaction between black and white here.  Everyone seems to get along without any undercurrent of racism.

I just couldn’t sit around in the prosperity of America while Rhodesians, both black and white fought, often to the death, to stop the spread of world Communism.  As a born-again Christian, I know that the Gospel can spread most effectively in a free society.  I also know from history that no freedom is ever won without sacrifice on the battlefield, indeed all freedom comes only through military victory.  The politicians may squander that freedom, but it is the military that always wins it back.

I want to be a part of Rhodesia’s military victory that will lead to even greater freedom for black and white.

[This reflects my thinking at the time as a 27 year old.  Obviously, the situation was not as cut and dry as I thought.  And, just as obviously my feelings about Rhodesia, the war, the politics and the people there would evolve as I grew in knowledge and experience.  Please hang in there with me as I tell the rest of the story over the coming months.]

Major Lamprecht seemed satisfied with my motivation.  We moved on to the subject of my training.  I was to start with 18 weeks of basic commando training at Cranborne Barracks, the home of the Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI).  Assuming all went well, I would continue on to Officer Training School and finally to the SAS Selection Course.  If I passed SAS Selection, I would be posted as a Second Lieutenant (pronounced “leftenant”) to Squadron “C”, Rhodesia Special Air Service.  The whole course of training would take about a year, but I would see action as soon as I completed my training at RLI.

The links below are short documentaries on SAS, RLI and other branches of the security forces:  the black volunteers of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR), Selous Scouts composed of black and white Rhodesians, Grey's Scouts-horse cavalry, the Rhodesian Air Force, and the Rhodesia Regiment among others.  Since they document a virtually unknown piece of world history, I highly recommend their viewing. These were gallant soldiers, black and white, defending their homes and their way of life.

Rhodesian Light Infantry - "The Saints"

The Rhodesian Bush War - The Air War (1966-1980)

Finishing up our interview, Major Lamprecht took the receipt from our airline tickets for reimbursement.  He asked me to drop off our passports to get our residence permits.  Finally, he welcomed me to the Rhodesian Army, saying that it would be about three-four weeks before my training would begin.  He suggested that we find a place to stay quickly and spend the next few weeks touring Rhodesia—finally having that long-delayed honeymoon.

I commented that I had some work to get in shape since Salisbury was several thousand feet above sea level.  He smiled and made a remark that I misunderstood with the British clip of his accent. 

I thought I heard, “Well, you look fat!”   

I responded that I needed to lose a few pounds from traveling.  Then I realized that he had said that I looked “fit” meaning “in good shape.”

I really was feeling guilty about that breakfast!

We both chuckled when we realized the confusion.  I thanked him and wandered out, a little humiliated by my own idiotic guilt.  I was with people who were fighting for the survival of their way of life.  I was still thinking about breakfast like a typical tourist!

Next:  A Rhodesian “Rebel” I loved.

24 -- Two eggs Boss? You sure? (Salisbury, Rhodesia: Nov 1976)

As we walked down the steps from the Air Rhodesia 707 we caught the scent of flowers in the aftermath of the afternoon rain.  The sky was blue as the sun broke through the scattering clouds.  This was the freshest air I had ever breathed.  In spite of the excitement of actually being so far from home and in a country that was in the midst of a war, I had never felt more at peace.

Of course, the shooting was many miles away in the rural villages of the Tribal Trust Lands (TTLs) or remote farms.  We really had no idea what to expect, but we were not at all prepared for the beauty of the rolling hills fronted by green fields.  There were a few other cars and small farm trucks on the road that Sunday afternoon as well as locals on bicycles or walking by the side of the road. 

For those of you who have never traveled to a country influenced by the British, it is a bit nerve-racking the first time you are a passenger on the other side of the road, especially with oncoming traffic!  What made it a bit crazier was that RSM Springer’s car was actually an American import with the steering wheel on the left instead of the right as in most local vehicles.  Since I was sitting in the right-side passenger seat, it became my responsibility to advise Harry when it was safe to pass on the two lane asphalt.  I wasn’t quite ready to have that much responsibility!  Nevertheless, we survived the trip into town. 

Salisbury in 1977 was very urban.  With numerous office buildings, some as high as 10 or 15 stories, it resembled a medium sized American city, but one that had stopped new construction in the early 60s.  The downtown avenues were four or more lanes with parking meters lining them like any typical American city.  What was not typical was how spotless and clean everything was.  I would later learn that there was no littering problem in Rhodesia.  Everything was reclaimed and reused whether it was newspaper used to wrap a loaf of bread or old tires used to make sandals.  Everywhere you looked there you saw trees and flowers carefully landscaped to break up the hard edges of the streets and buildings.  Salisbury was a beautiful city.

To see a 10-minute video of Rhodesia from the mid-seventies, click on this link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYDg3ofh7dM

Most of the vehicles had been on the road at least since the early 60s, but were sparkling clean without a visible dent.   They were mostly smaller vehicles such as the Japanese imports Datsun, Toyota, and Mitsubishi.  Of course there were also the British imports Austin, Cooper, and Rover, but almost all of them were at least twelve years old.  There were some older Mercedes, Jaguar sedans, small BMWs and the very rare American vehicle like RS< Springer’s.  Most of the trucks were Japanese imports brought in from South Africa.  The world had stopped trading with Rhodesia with UN-imposed sanctions in 1964 following its Unilateral Declaration of Independence from Britain.

We were staying at the Jameson Hotel, one of the three major hotels in Salisbury.  The Monomatapa was a 19-story modern building that catered to tourists.  It had a beautiful Olympic pool and was a favorite hangout for nightlife.  The Meikles was a five-star refurbished older colonial style hotel, very typical of what you would expect from watching movies about the British empire.  The very wealthy stayed there.  But we were staying at the Jameson as it had been recommended as the place where “average” Rhodesians stayed when they came to Salisbury.  Since we might be in the hotel for a few weeks, we wanted to meet Rhodesians, not tourists or a bunch of stuffy Brit types!

The Jameson turned out to be our favorite place to stay or visit for a meal for all the time we were in Rhodesia and later Zimbabwe.  [The hotel grill was called the Sandawana Restaurant.] After Harry dropped us at the entrance, the porter brought our bags up to our room.  I didn’t have any Rhodesian currency yet, so I had nothing to tip the porter.  I promised I would catch him later and gave him an American $5 bill.  Although I was embarrassed that I could only tip him at the going American rate of $5 for one bag, he didn’t seem to mind even though we had several large suitcases and a number of other smaller bags.  It was Sunday afternoon, so the banks were closed. 

Once I exchanged some American dollars for Rhodesian dollars at an exchange rate of one for one in those days, I discovered that the going rate for a tip in Rhodesia was 5¢ per bag, not $5.  No wonder the porter was so happy with the $5 bill I gave him.  It was equivalent to carrying 100 bags!   Needless to say, this particular porter was at our beck and call for the entire time we stayed at the Jameson.  Of course, I continued to tip him appropriately in the local currency, but he was my friend forever! 

After we unpacked, we went for a short walk in the park a couple of blocks from the hotel.  The park was about two square city blocks and composed of meticulously manicured grass, carefully planted gardens which were filled with flowers and bushes, and overshadowed with dozens of trees.  We especially liked the Jacaranda trees with their purple-blossomed branches.  People were out walking in the cool post-shower air.  This was the start of rainy season which typically meant that there were gentle showers in the morning and again in the afternoon.  I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that we were totally enchanted.

Returning to our hotel room, we opted for a short afternoon nap as jet lag and all the excitement had exhausted us.  It was about 4:30 when we laid down, thinking that we would head downstairs to one of the hotel restaurants at about 6:00. 

We awakened at 10:00 pm.  Obviously, we had missed dinner.  It was Sunday, and the whole city was ready for bed by now.  So, I called room service.  Unfortunately, they had locked everything away for the night.  All that we could get was some hot tea with milk and a couple of scoops of vanilla ice cream.  We took what we could get.  My porter buddy was happy to deliver it to me no matter how late it was!  I placed a wake-up call for 5:00 am.  I intended to be the first person at the restaurant for breakfast.

The next morning I went for a quick jog.  I hadn’t been able to exercise in the last few days and didn’t want to show up at the recruiting office all out of shape.  My running shoes got pretty muddy from the field that I found to run in.  In a hurry to shower and get to breakfast, I left the shoes behind the bathroom door to clean later. 

Pegi was waiting for the porter to bring her a hairdryer.  We had left our personal appliances behind since we knew they would burn up in the 220 voltage.  Because of the trade sanctions and the scarcity of foreign exchange to purchase imports, the Jameson had only one hairdryer per floor.

I called room service for Pegi so that she could eat while I went down to the restaurant.  We were both hungry and desperate for coffee, so I ordered her a full breakfast with two scrambled eggs, 2 strips of bacon, a bowl of fruit and a pot of coffee. 

Seating myself in the hotel grill, I was able to help myself to a bowl of fruit:  guava, mango, grapes, watermelon, cantaloupe, and grenadilla (passion fruit).  A waiter brought me a pitcher of coffee with real cream which I also liberally splashed over my bowl of fruit.  My waiter returned to get my breakfast order.  He was a pleasant looking African man with an engaging smile and a twinkle in his eye.  Maybe he had heard about the crazy American who was tipping at 100 times the going rate?  His English was very good, with an accent that I would soon come to appreciate that was part British, part Afrikaans, and uniquely African.  He called me “boss” which was the equivalent of “sir.”

“What can I get you to eat, boss?”

“Do you have a menu?”

“No, boss.  You just tell me what you want and I will get it for you.”

“Oh, okay!  Well, I would like two scrambled eggs, bacon, two slices of toast and keep the coffee coming.”

With a quizzical look on his face, he looked at the other side of my table and asked:

“Two eggs boss?”

“Yes, I am pretty hungry and would normally have more eggs, but two eggs should be enough, especially with all this fruit.  I don’t want to stuff myself.”

“Two boss?  Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure.  Two will be enough.”

Looking around at the handful of people who were at the grill so early, he said,

“Okay boss.  Two eggs!”

About 10 minutes later, as I was finishing my second bowl of fruit, he returned with an entire plate of eggs—must have been four or five, with a side dish of about four strips of bacon and another plate with six slices of toast.

He placed them in front of me and then set an identical order of eggs, bacon and toast across from me.  Looking around the room with a look of concern, he smiled and withdrew.

You see in Africa, “two” means two servings.  When you order eggs, you don’t order American style by the number eggs, but by the number of plates.  I suddenly realized that when he had been looking across the table and around the room, he believed I was expecting someone else to join me.  He understood me to be ordering eggs for two people and was probably expecting to see my wife.

I did manage to make a dent in all the portions he set before me.  I was embarrassed enough at my mistake.  I couldn’t leave the second order untouched.  It was a good thing I had gone for a run that morning to ramp up my metabolism to burn calories!

As I came back to our room where Pegi had just finished with the communal hair dryer, room service arrived with her breakfast.  Yes, you guessed it.  There were two servings of eggs, bacon, fruit and coffee.  I had a little of the coffee, but I didn’t have room for anything else.  And I had an 8:00 appointment with Major Lamprecht at the recruiting office.  I would have to get my running shoes cleaned off later for an afternoon run or I might be too big for the Rhodesian Army!  (Later that afternoon, I discovered that our porter had cleaned the shoes for me, washed and ironed my shoelaces!)

Next:  Fit or Fat?

23 -- Honeymooning in a War Zone (Houston to Rhodesia: 1976)

I was entirely focused on getting into the Army.  I was especially interested in elite units.  I had friends who were in the new Ranger Battalions as well as in Special Forces (Green Berets).  I was working out at a gym four times a week and running 3 to 6 miles every afternoon in the oppressive Houston heat. 

When my attempt to reenlist was refused by the Secretary of Army, I became very disheartened.  Life at Berachah had an over-arching focus on defeating worldwide Communism.  Thieme framed Communism as the greatest threat to the spread of the Gospel.  With the monthly “military communions,” Medal of Honor citations before each bible study, and the constant parade of military personnel through Berachah, it was hard to think about anything else.  Really, there were only two careers that held esteem with our crowd:  teaching the Bible and military service.  Since Thieme was way ahead of anyone (in our eyes) as a bible teacher, there seemed to be no purpose in pursuing the ministry.

I was really uninterested in the series of sales jobs that came my way.   I finally ended up as a life insurance salesman for Northwestern Mutual, but even my very fast start as a rookie agent could not hold my attention.  I still wanted a military career.  I began to consider going to Israel under the “right of return” to join the Israeli Defense Forces.  I had some childhood acquaintances who had obtained dual citizenship and had served in the IDF.  It was kind of a rite of passage for some.  My problem was my newfound Christianity.  I didn’t think that would be welcome in Israel.

Occasionally, Thieme spoke about Rhodesia.  He painted the struggle in the southern African nation as the “new Texas”—fighting against worldwide sanctions to stop a terrorist attempt to impose a Marxist state.  He believed Rhodesia was our best non-Soviet source of chromium and lithium.  He insisted that the strategic minerals, especially chromium were essential to the American defense industry.  I wondered if maybe there was a role that I could play in that struggle that would help the beleaguered Rhodesians and defended American strategic interests?

In the middle of this personal turmoil, as I struggled to find the special plan that God had for my life, I realized that Pegi was the “right woman” for me.  Believing that God had brought us together for His purpose, we decided to spend the rest of our lives together—wherever that might lead.  Little did we know that it would be such an exciting trip!

On the 20^th of May, 1976, together with our two best friends from Berachah, Ken and Jill Duckman, we were married by the Justice of Peace in Bellaire, Texas.  Ken had grown up in a Jewish family in New York and had met and married Jill in Madison after they met at a concert she catered for his rock band.  When I had left the Navy for Madison, Ken was one of the first people I met.  He became a believer in Jesus and soon moved to Houston.

The story of our wedding is worth telling as we all four still smile at the memory.  It will be no surprise that Col Thieme wasn’t real big on ceremonies, especially religious ceremonies.  He was totally focused on teaching bible doctrine.  He insisted that marriage was not really a religious function, but really a matter of state government.  He did occasionally perform weddings, but we really didn’t want all the bother of dealing with our families.  Since the Colonel used to recommend just going to a Justice of the Peace, we did just that.

I made an appointment before Judge Heath Till in Bellaire, a small city enclave surrounded by the larger city of Houston.  The four of us had to wait in the tiny reception area outside his one-judge office.  I think there was room for at least Pegi and Jill to sit.  We were delayed when I found out that they wouldn’t take my personal check for $15.  This was in the days long before ATMs and Ken and I didn’t have $15 cash between us!  I went across to the street to a grocery store and cashed a check.

We were finally ushered into Judge Till’s office where he was seated behind a small desk, cowboy boots under his black robes.  Pegi was wearing my favorite dress that happened to be black with a floral print.  Jill was wearing a pastel dress, so the judge thought Jill and I were to be married.  We corrected that misconception and stood before his desk with just barely enough room for Ken and Jill behind us as witnesses.

The whole situation was comical.  As we stood before the judge reciting our vows, Ken and Jill started to giggle.  You know how this works!  One person starts giggling and it becomes contagiously irresistible.  Our own chuckles betrayed our attempt at solemnity.  Judge Till looked up from his documents over his reading glasses that were low on his nose and said, 

“I hope you are still laughing ten years from now!”

[Note:  As I edit this in Feb 2026, May will mark our 50th anniversary.  And, yes—we are still laughing!]

That was it.  We were married.  On the occasion of our tenth year of marriage, we happened to be in Houston.  We had every intention of dropping in to visit Judge Till, but other happy responsibilities kept us busy—our one and only child, Abigail, who was born ten years and one month after our chuckle-vows in Bellaire.  More about that later.

So, I had my “California by way of Texas girl.”  But what were we to do about this burning desire to have a military career?

About six months after our wedding, a member of the Berachah Tapes and Publications staff spoke to the congregation on Sunday morning.  Roy Hurst had been a sergeant in the Marines in his youth.  A few years later he was part of a production team filming wild life in Rhodesia.  Now in his forties, he had recently married and taken his bride to Rhodesia for their honeymoon.

That Sunday morning he detailed the noble struggle of white and black Rhodesians against Soviet, Chinese and North Korean trained terrorist armies attacking from surrounding countries.  I won’t recount the details for you here.  What was most significant to me was that Roy had befriended a number of senior government officials and Rhodesia Army officers.

I had worked for Roy for about a year in the tape department at Berachah.  He was well aware of my struggles to enlist in the Army.  After his speech, Pegi and I found Roy in the hallway. 

I asked, “Roy, do you think there might be a place for me in the Rhodesian Army?” 

Without hesitation he handed me a manila envelope saying, “Jeff, I spoke to the chief of Rhodesian recruiting about you.  In this envelope you will find a blank application to fill out, recruiting and contact information.”

At midnight Houston time, I placed an international call to Major Nick Lamprecht in Salisbury, Rhodesia where it was just after 8:00 in the morning. 

Yes, Roy spoke to me about you.  He says that you are just the type of person that we are looking for to be in our Rhodesian Light Infantry commando force.  Just fill out the application that he gave you and bring it with you to my office in Salisbury.  We will reimburse you and your wife for your plane tickets.

One month later, Pegi and I boarded a South African Airways flight from Houston to Johannesburg, South Africa.  We had been married only six months.  As we settled excitedly into our seats, one of the flight attendants asked us if we were newlyweds.  We said that we were and our trip to Rhodesia via South Africa would be our honeymoon.  After we were airborne, she brought us a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

After an 18-hour flight to Johannesburg and an overnight stay in the Carlton Hotel, we de-planed an Air Rhodesia Boeing 707 on the tarmac in Salisbury.  When we exited customs, we were greeted by Regimental Sergeant Major Harry Springer, the senior NCO in the Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI).  He dropped us off at the Jameson Hotel in Salisbury.  Our honeymoon had begun—in the middle of a war zone, but the war was very far away from the beautiful afternoon breeze in Salisbury.

Next:  Two eggs Boss?  You sure?