We loved our little cottage in Alexandra Park. I am not sure what led us to start looking for someplace else to live. Maybe it was just wander lust—as if wandering all the way from Houston to Rhodesia wasn’t enough!
Whatever the reason, soon after I became a chaplain, we found a listing in classified ads in the Rhodesia Herald for a rental property on 20 acres just outside of Salisbury on the road to Bulawayo.At Rh$130/mo it was only $10 more than our current rent in Alex Park.
After calling to verify that it was still available for rent, we squeezed into our little Austin Mini and soon found ourselves driving up a quarter mile eucalyptus-lined driveway.
On the side of the hill, nestled in pines and surrounded by three acres of prize winning gardens, sat a large thatch-roofed home. 
Of the 20 acres, 2.5 acres were lawn or gardens. Another .5 acres was a vegetable garden.
The garden boasted the greatest variety of cactus and aloe plants in Rhodesia. It took 3 full-time gardeners to maintain the grounds.
Tredgold, the great grandson of missionary, John Moffat, had been chief justice of Rhodesia from 1950-55 and of the Federation which included Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) and Nyasaland (Malawi) from 1955-60. He had recently passed away, but had been one of the last “liberal” voices in Rhodesia, opposing the recent laws passed that enforced racial discrimination and what he considered to be an emerging police state.
I cannot understand why every Rhodesian does not revolt against a practice that is manifestly contrary to the elementary principles of fair play (p.183) . . . . The culminative effects of the security laws was to turn Rhodesia into a police state (p. 230).
[The Rhodesia That Was My Life. London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd, 1968]
Pegi and I picked up on what seemed his granddaughter’s different perspective than that of the other Rhodesians we had met to-date. However, by this time in 1977, contrary liberal thoughts were no longer freely voiced. Such expressions led to alienation at best and a visit from the Central Intelligence Organization (CIO) at worst. Maybe there were circles of liberal thinking related to the university, but this was not the type of thing that you discussed with a stranger, especially not a couple of crazy Americans who had come to join the Army!
A few weeks later, we were settled into our new home. Maybe the walls still contained some of the thinking they had housed under Sir Robert. Or, maybe it was just that I really began to “wonder” in this period. Whatever the cause, this became a time of intense thought I tried to sort out the paradox that was Rhodesia and the conflict it evoked in my Jewish heart.
As a sergeant-chaplain, the casualty notifications that normally came my way were relegated to broken bones, stomach viruses and other non-critical injuries. Just after we had settled into our new home, I was asked to go out to the Lever Brothers plant and inform a wife that her 55-year old husband had been injured. At age 55, he had one month of national service each year. His recent service was on the Mozambique border. During a routine partrol, the truck he was riding in off of a muddy embankment and overturned, injuring a dozen soldiers. Because of all the casualty notifications that had to be done quickly, his notification duties fell to me. Apparently, he only had some broken bones and was convalescing in the Umtali hospital on the Eastern border with Mozambique.
Lever Brothers had a large factory and office in the industrial section of Salisbury. They produced soap, toothpaste, detergent and other household items. I was directed to the office of Human Resources where I was to meet with the soldier’s wife who worked as a clerk somewhere in the massive building.
Before she arrived, I placed a call to the Umtali hospital and spoke with the charge nurse. She informed me that the soldier’s injuries had been “quite severe” and that he was unconscious. He had fractured his skull, but was expected to make a full recovery. I was troubled at the severity of his injury, but relieved to hear that a full recovery was expected. The charge nurse also advised me that his condition was stable enough for transport to Andrew Fleming hospital in Salisbury and he should be arriving there about 6:00 pm.
As she entered the small office, you could see the panic on her face. I was wearing that infamous purple and black stable belt that identified the Chaplain’s Corps. And you certainly didn’t expect good news when asked to meet with someone from the Army in the middle of the work day. She quickly recovered her composure as I explained that although his injuries were severe, he was expected to recover and would be in Salisbury that evening.
After reassuring her with all the details and compassion I had available, I told her I would meet her at the hospital later. We hugged and parted for a few hours.
That evening, I parked my camo-painted Army motorcycle in the Andrew Fleming lot and walked inside where I expected to join her awaiting the ambulance’s arrival from the several hour trip from Umtali. When I got to the admissions desk, I was informed that the ambulance had arrived earlier than expected, that he had died and his body had been taken straight to the morgue upon arrival. The wife had been there when the ambulance arrived, only to discover that he had actually been brain-dead since early that morning. Apparently, when the Umtali charge nurse had told me that he would make a full recovery, she had been mistaken.
Brain-dead since morning! And I had spent the morning comforting his wife with the assurance of his recovery!
I climbed on my motorcycle for what seemed like the longest ride of my life to their home. How would I comfort her now? Surely, she would take her grief out of this stupid American chaplain who had told her that her already dead husband was going to recover!
My motorcycle was an old Yamaha 200 cc model, but in need of a valve job. It was really noisy and only ran on one of its two cylinders most of the time. In the evening air, its growl preceded me. As I drove up to her home, she was standing outside ready to greet me, arms folded on her chest. I knew I was about to slapped and prepared myself for the outpouring of her grief on my stupid head.
To my surprise and relief, she walked up to me and hugged me. She wasn’t thinking about my failure to get the correct information about his condition. She wasn’t thinking about me at all. It wasn’t about me—it was about her loss.
I joined the rest of her family inside and we spent the evening reminiscing about her husband, hearing stories about their wonderful life together. After confirming the details of the funeral that the Army would organize, I parted having been comforted and hugged by this widow when I should have been slapped.
Next: From Death to Birth
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