Bulawayo seemed a bit lonely right off. It wasn’t just that Salisbury had become “home” to us--there was more to it. Bulawayo had been the original capital and major city in Rhodesia. It was already feeling the effects of Sanctions and “white flight.” The large boulevards seemed empty of cars. It was the opposite of the crowds and bustle of Salisbury. The shelves in the stores seemed sparser. Here, it was obvious that the old Rhodesia was gone forever.
The Africans of Matabeleland were taller, humorless and just not as friendly as the majority Mashona of Salisbury. With a proud heritage that went back to Shaka Zulu, there was a palpable difference in their bearing and “spirit.” The whites seemed colder as well. There was a feeling of being a second-class city. In Salisbury, Col Wood had joked, “Be sure to set your watches back 15 years when you go to Bulawayo!” I don’t think the residents of Bulawayo appreciated the humor.
We moved into our new home in Matsheumshope, but this time we didn’t hear from our neighbors. We were just ignored. For the entire time we were there, we only met two of our neighbors. One invited us over to hear Ian Smith on television, but in Bulawayo we were never invited for dinner as had happened with regularity in Salisbury. We heard from our across the street neighbor only by complaint. It seems that our dogs enjoyed raiding their trash cans at about 2:00 am. Just the complaint, no offers of welcome or hospitality.
I don’t recall actually making any friends in Bulawayo. The only social contact we had was when Stan Hannan, whom I had met in the Chaplain Corps, became pastor of a Bulawayo Baptist Church. I will cover more on Stan and his role in our exit from the country in a later chapter.
There was even a lonely Holiday Inn a few miles from our house. It had been built in better times before Sanctions and claimed to serve American-style food. Pegi and I went there for a Sunday afternoon meal. The hamburger they served was close to an American hamburger, but it seemed strange eating in a mostly deserted dining room in a mostly deserted hotel.
Llewellin Barracks, the Depot for the Rhodesia Regiment was not deserted. It was the basic training center for all the Rhodesian “territorial” soldiers. Except for the couple of thousand Rhodesians who were part of the Regular Army, most Rhodesian males started at Llewellin Barracks just after finishing high school. [Maj Gen MacIntyre had actually argued for the adoption of the Israeli system where males and females alike would serve.] At the end of 1977, the war was beginning to escalate seriously and the national service “intakes” were getting larger.
As the new chaplain at Llewellin, I was replacing a Catholic priest who had a reputation for being very close to the troops, but also as a drunkard. As a sergeant replacing a captain, I knew I had to approach all of this carefully. Col Wood told me that the base commander, Col Muck Mickelsfield was a close friend and would be very helpful to me. Well, that sounded promising!
Eugene Wiseman, the pastor of Gatooma Baptist Church, fellow Thieme student, and who had ordained me into the chaplaincy, was to join me soon in Bulawayo. So, I was in a caretaker role until he came. Once he got there, then I would be freer to focus on my assignments for Maj Gen MacIntyre.
In the meantime, I settled into the tiny one room building that served as the Chaplain’s Office. I had no idea what to expect, but assumed that there were some regular duties that I would have a base chaplain. However, the chaplain before me had no regular duties! It seems that he had even given over most of the Sunday services and even the weekly “Padre’s Hour” for the trainees, to guest speakers. Most of this was typically handled by a “territorial” chaplain of Indian ancestry. Padre Val Rajan was a nice fellow and brought all of his sons (I think there were five of them) with him when he ministered. His sons and he played guitar and horn instruments. It wasn’t very good, but at least it was interesting!
However, the Sunday services were poorly attended. No high school-aged kid is going to want to go to a voluntary church service on Sunday. Most likely, they would be sleeping off a hangover if they had leave or would be just getting some rest from the grueling week of training.
And, let’s be honest, there were elements of racialism that would get in the way of an Indian Pentecostal Christian successfully ministering to a bunch of white Rhodesians. Indians were considered “Asian coloureds” and Pentecostalism had not made significant inroads in the Anglican “churchianity” which was the background of most of these white kids.
So, it was up to me to find a path in between the pentecostalism of Val and the drunkenness of the previous chaplain. As I was thinking about all of this during my third day at the base, the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM-highest ranking NCO) appeared at my office door. He ordered me to report immediately to Col Mickelsfield. I thought, “This is great! I will get to meet Col Mickelsfield, the chaplain general’s good friend, ‘Muck’.”
By now, I was not intimidated by rank. I was a chaplain and as such was treated with deference by officer and enlisted men alike. I had just recently met with Generals MacIntyre and MacClean. I had been dispatched to Llewellin by the Chaplain General himself to help out his “buddy” Muck.
Entering Col Mickelsfield’s office, I saluted, smiled and shook his hand. I immediately sensed his coolness towards me. After chatting for just a minute about settling in at home and on base, he screwed up his forehead and said, “You are delinquent for not reporting to me immediately as soon as you arrived on base!”
Uh oh! Apparently, I had offended his strong sense of protocol. Because I was stationed on his base, it seemed that he expected me to report to him as my commanding officer. Col Wood hadn’t prepared me for this. As chaplains, we didn’t report to anyone other than the Chaplain General and God. I had received no indication that I was to be taking day-to-day instructions from Col Mickelsfield. I don’t think that was his intention, but he was a pretty stiff formal officer and I was a sergeant. He was accustomed to dealing with chaplains who were officers. Clearly, he was not going to be “Muck” for me--he would be Lt Col Mickelsfield.
I apologized for having been unaware of protocol and he seemed to accept this. After all, he really didn’t see me as a soldier--I was just a useless American chaplain’s assistant. He had one final instruction for me, that he expected me to attend the RSM’s prayer meetings.
You would think that I would have no problem with a prayer meeting as a chaplain, but there was no “praying” at these meetings. NCO and Officer’s messes held mandatory drinking parties each Friday evening called “prayer meeting.” This was the time when they blew off steam and drank themselves stupid to start the weekend.
I didn’t have a problem with drinking as a Christian. As a follower of Thieme’s teaching, I was not tied to the American legalism that forbade alcoholic beverage. However, Col Wood had told me that chaplains were exempt from the the mandatory prayer meeting drink fests. It obviously sent the wrong message to the soldiers. And because I was taking over for a chaplain who was well-known as a drunk, it would be a huge compromise of my status as a chaplain to participate.
I straightened my shoulders and responded directly: “Sir, I am sorry, but I cannot participate in the RSM’s prayer meetings. I will make an attempt to attend from time to time to meet the other NCOs on base, but I cannot not accept this instruction to attend on a mandatory basis.”
Col Mickelsfield didn’t insist, but I could see that I had not made a friend of either him or the RSM. Bulawayo was going to be a sticky situation. I was already mired in the “Muck”.
Next: War Fever
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