As I settled into my steel frame bed and pulled my army green mosquito netting around me for the evening, I reflected on what had just happened. Here I was thousands of miles from home, separated from the woman I loved, and a recruit in basic training again—this time in a foreign army! How could I have been so stupid? I still hadn’t come to grips with the thought of actually getting killed or wounded in combat—those things always happened to someone else. But, I was a recruit again—the lowest of the low, the scum of the scum. I was the tool of any Rhodesian who outranked me (and they all did), to abuse me as it suited them.
But the moment of panic and regret passed quickly as I drifted off the sleep, exhausted from the day’s activity . . . and then my alarm went off. I had set it for 4:30 so that I could get an early start on the day. Amazingly refreshed from only four hours of sleep, I quickly made up my rack, military style, tucking the mosquito netting in at the end of the bed. After a very cold shower—it took a while before the hot water reached our showers and I was the only one awake, I dressed for morning PT (physical training). While I was waiting for the rest of my company to wake up, I spent some time organizing my locker and familiarizing myself with my FN rifle.
At 6:00 we formed up outside the barracks for a run. I was still adjusting to the altitude and had not been running for the last few weeks as we toured the country. At first I thought I might pass out as I struggled to catch my breath, but eventually caught my second wind and adjusted to the rhythm of the group. I was 27, a good 10 years older than most of the recruits. Although they could speed by me, I managed to keep up with them as long as we kept formation.
After the run we did some pushups which were not a problem for me. I could do 50 pushups on demand. I had developed that ability while delivering office supplies and as a milkman in Houston. I would do pushups by the side of the road whenever I felt sleepy driving around in the Houston heat and humidity.
Squat thrusts were another matter! After running and doing pushups, I just couldn’t get enough oxygen flowing through my muscles and I started stumbling around badly. Mercifully, PT ended quickly and we were sent back to change into our camo fatigues for breakfast. With some food and liquid in me, I was rejuvenated for the day ahead.
A typical day’s training included close order drill, marksmanship and caring for my FN, plus classroom lectures on small unit tactics. The grueling conditioning was not fun, but the rest was. As the days went on, I became accustomed to the routine and began to “feel” like a soldier. The rifle range, parade ground and classrooms were my place of business as I was being turned from a civilian into a professional soldier.
Here is an excerpt from a letter that I sent back to Col Thieme at Berachah Church:
While in training I have seen why the Rhodesian soldier is so good. The training emphasizes: (1) fitness, (2) marksmanship, (3) drill. No shaved heads, just clean haircuts – not really much harassment. Inspections are rigid, drill very important (three hours every day, British style, stomping your feet), but a lot is left to individual initiative. All the NCOs have combat experience and enunciate very clearly when speaking so that Americans, Limeys, Canadians and Belgians can understand them. The NCOs in Training Troop are really well trained for the job.
As you can see, I had a very positive attitude! My sense of purpose kept me positive. I was buoyed by the letters from Pegi that she sent every day. As I read them each evening, my spirit was reinforced. Aside from the personal elements of her letters, she would include notes that she had taken while listening to bible lessons on tape that we had begun to receive from Houston. Up until my first day at Training Troop, I had either attended a bible class or listened to a taped class everyday for six years. Not only was my identity totally bound up in the teaching that I was getting from Col Thieme, but my spiritual life was wholly dependent on continual attention to his teachings.
He had not taught us to gain our spiritual sustenance through reading the Bible for ourselves. We were totally dependent on his detailed knowledge of the original languages, historical context and systematic theology. Although I had garnered a storehouse of biblical knowledge, I was incapable of thinking for myself when it came to the application of that knowledge. The problem was that I did not know that I was incapable. I had a multitude of opinions that I believed were founded solidly on biblical fact. I thought I knew “everything” when it came to the subject of relationship with God. I had no idea of how uninformed I was. Well, do any of us really know how uninformed we are? That is what life experience and growth is all about—learning what idiots we have been!
Well, Recruit Wasserman had no clue that his world view was skewed. And all the other recruits were equally ignorant—just without all the Bible Doctrine to bolster the arrogance of their misconceptions.
In spite of my “know it all” attitude, I had begun to make friends in my training unit. The Rhodesians no longer seemed like bad kids who were a step ahead of the police. Some of them were surprisingly intelligent with strong sense of humor. They just hadn’t had it as easy as some others. Maybe they weren’t quite as well off as some of their contemporaries. Others might have had a learning disability. The more we suffered and struggled together, the closer we became.
I was really surprised to find myself friends with a South African who had been given the choice of jail in South Africa for theft or three years in the Rhodesian Army. He was a “tough guy,” but actually took a liking to me. I had taken some martial arts classes in Houston and was hoping that what I had learned would help me in any close combat situation. He had practical street fighting experience. We spent our time off working to combine my academic knowledge from doing karate and kung fu exercises with his speed and savvy from real fights. We both excelled when it came time for bayonet drill. The two of us destroyed all the practice dummies and smashed our opponents with pugil sticks, much to the delight of our NCO instructors.
One afternoon, as we hurried to change clothes for a training exercise, I mistakenly locked my key to my locker inside it! Within two minutes, my South African buddy had picked the lock with a set of picks that he just “happened” to have with him!
Our exercise that afternoon was to plant neutered mines in a large field. The idea was to test the detection skills of a senior training class one week from graduation. We must have done pretty well, since they only found four of the nine mines we planted. It was this realistic type of training that allows a unit to fail and to “die” while practicing that led to learning and fewer casualties in combat. I was envious of these near-graduates. I still had so much to learn! They were a week away from being real soldiers and I was still a recruit.
One of the Rhodesian recruits that I did not like was another Jeff, spelled Geoffrey. Geoffrey “L” had just turned 17 and was a weaselly little troublemaker-crybaby. He was willfully stupid and always complaining about our NCOs, the Army, the food, etc. He would deliberately screw up every day, thus insuring that we would have punishment runs with rifles held above our heads several times a day.
A number of my fellow recruits had threatened him with violence, but that only made him worse. In the 3rd week of training, he pulled a stunt that got him in trouble with Capt Cooper, the head of Training Troop. As a result, he was “held back” to finish his training with the next recruit class. He would plague us no more, but this, his last childish stunt also led to the end of my dream of a military career.
We were outside the gate at Cranborne in a training area that had a large field of high grass and rivulets of water hidden below. It was rainy season and the rivulets were everywhere. We were practicing combat movements in the tall grass when Geoffrey L decided to mouth off to Cpl Cotzee (pronounced ‘coat-see-uh’), our senior instructor.
Cpl Cotzee had been a secondary school teacher and was one of the more educated Rhodesians I had met. When he wasn’t drilling us, he would come by and chat with me. I think he appreciated that I was well-read and had a university education. He was one of my strongest advocates. He had been supporting my intention to attend the Officer Training School in Gwelo after RLI.
Why Geoffrey L decided to mouth off this time or what he said is a mystery. All I know is that the RPs (Regimental Police) marched him off while the rest of us went running through the field with our rifles over our heads.
I mentioned previously that I had developed a method for supporting my rifle while running by locking my elbows and throwing my shoulders back. This worked great on hard surfaces, but had the result of making me face upwards. Consequently, I did not see the 2 foot square puddle in front of me as I ran through the tall grass. My right boot was swallowed up in the puddle and I was thrown face forward in the water. But, I didn’t drop my rifle! Unfortunately, when I got up and tried to run, my ankle gave out and I fell again . . . and again . . . again. Finally, I was able to hobble over to where we were being reformed at parade rest.
As we double-timed back to our barracks, I was limping really badly and had to fall out to the rear of the formation. Cpl Cotzee walked with me so that I would not be assailed by passing RPs or other NCOs.
The next morning, my ankle was so swollen that I had trouble lacing my boot. I had broken my leg and ankle two years before in Houston when attempting a jumping kick in a martial arts class. I had landed badly, slipping on a wet spot on the cement floor. I still have a pin in my right tibia from the surgical repairs. Cpl Cotzee sent me to the base hospital where I was examined and given “permission” to walk for the next few days.
A week later, my situation had not improved. The swelling had gone down and an x-ray showed that I had not broken any new bones. However, the doctor told me that it was unlikely that the condition would improve in time for me to be able to complete training with my unit. I would most likely be pulled out of my unit and wait for the next intake class in six weeks. Until then, I would continue to bunk with my unit, but would be assigned duty working for the Quartermaster, a Color Sergeant. We addressed him as “Color.” Color Sgt is equivalent to a Staff Sgt in the US Army. However, in the British system, all NCOs were treated with officer-like respect. Even a three-stripe sergeant was equivalent to God!
I was devastated. My dreams of a military career were fading as each day passed as a result of my field “trip”!
Next: The Interview
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