My conversation with Robin Moore hadn’t helped. I had been in Rhodesia for six months and the closest I had gotten to combat had been that short patrol of the border fence in Umtali. I had to get closer to the war.
When I had warned that SAS corporal about hurting his wife, I had made some friends in his unit. They invited me to a party at an apartment in the Avondale section of Salisbury. Avondale was one of my favorite areas as it was home to the Italian Bakery. People would queue up anxiously each morning at 10:00 for the chance to purchase a loaf of their white bread!
This party was on a Friday evening and attended by about 10 SAS enlisted men and their spouses/girlfriends. We drank pretty heavily that night, but that made it easier for these elite and secretive soldiers to open up to me about their activities. At the time, most of their operations were nighttime airborne drops into Zambia and Mozambique to take out bridges, key supply depots and the occasional assassination of a terrorist leader. With my ankle problems, there was no hope of me accompanying them on these raids, but they seemed to like the idea of having their own pistol-packing, foul-mouthed chaplain as a mascot. I fit that bill. But, that was not to be, as the secretive nature of their operations prohibited outsider involvement.
I was feeling really guilty about not having been able to finish my training at RLI, not even getting to spend time on the firing range or learning the basics of operating in the bush. I didn’t feel like a real soldier. Even Pegi got to the firing range during her short time as a clerk-typist in the Rhodesian Women’s Services.
My guilt was beginning to make me a bit paranoid. After all, the Sgt Major in Umtali had expected me to be able to lead a patrol. Thank goodness we didn’t end up in firefight! So, if I was going to get closer to the war, I had to find a way to get more training. But, if I couldn’t take on the normal infantry role with my ankle problems, how could I get into combat?
Robin had made reference to an American, Major Mike Williams, second-in-command of a unit known as Grey’s Scouts. They were a mounted calvary unit. They rode into combat on horses. Hmm . . . I needed to pay them a visit.
The Chaplain Corps was filming a short movie to document their role in army life. Since I really didn’t have much to do every day, I asked if I could join the film team from time to time. As it happened, the following week took us to film at the Grey’s Scouts base just outside of Salisbury. Major Williams greeted us and arranged for me to have an in depth tour of the base as well as chat with some of the soldiers and NCOs. This unit was having remarkable success against the terrorists as not only could horses outrun them, but from the saddle, it was much easier to track them through the tall grass:
As I was leaving, I asked Major Williams if I would be able to train with his men and then go out into the bush with them. He was open to that and I began to get excited about the prospect of actually being a real soldier, when my nascent paranoia was alerted to a new problem.
On the way back to town, as I chatted with the rest of the crew, I heard that Col Wood was thinking of leaving the army as Chaplain General and taking a pastorate in South Africa. I liked Norman Wood. He brought me into the Chaplain Corps, was a fan of Col Thieme’s bible teaching, and had a rousing sense of humor. If he left, who would be the new Chaplain General? He and I were the only “regular” Army chaplains. Since I was still a sergeant (waiting for a promotion to Sgt Major that never happened), it would have to be one of the “Territorial” officers. That meant that it was likely to be some sourpuss denominational hack. No matter who was chosen, my American aggressiveness wouldn’t be in favor.
So, in two short weeks I had learned from Robin Moore that the Rhodesian Special Branch was looking at foreign soldiers with some question as to our loyalty and that my mentor in the army, Col Wood would be leaving.
The next week took us to the Fire Force forward operating base at Mtoko. The Rhodesians had developed a unique concept in warfare that allowed them to maximize their meager forces and material. Units such as RLI were organized into four man teams called “sticks.” Several sticks would wait on-call at nine forward operating bases. When scouts or reconnaissance teams reported sighting a terrorist unit, the sticks would load into French made Alouette III helicopters. The choppers would ferry the soldiers into direct contact with the terrorists. While the sticks ambushed and chased the terrorists, the Alouettes would run resupply missions, eventually retrieving the soldiers and to evacuate casualties. This meant that the Fire Force soldiers could return to hot meals and a dip in the base pool after combat.
[For a detailed exposition on Fire Force operations, see “Fire Force -- Helicopter Warfare in Rhodesia: 1962-1980,” by Prof JRT Wood. http://selousscouts.tripod.com/fire_force__part_one.htm ]
The Mtoko area was hot with terrorist activity, so we traveled in armored four ton trucks in a resupply convoy. The Mtoko base was composed of an airstrip with buildings for operations, mess, and the all-important swimming pool. Three of the precious Alouettes and two Dakota twin engine cargo planes were parked on the strip. The Rhodesian Dakota (C-47) was the workhorse of the airborne troops. Several of the Dakotas were so old that they had participated in Operation Market Garden during WWII. Aside from keeping their old Rolls Royce engines running for decades after their expected lives, they had been painted so many times that they were sometimes too heavy to fly. This required sanding them down to their skin before repainting.
My only acting role in the film we were making had me walking around an idle Dakota as the sun set in the distance. I really wanted to get on one of those Alouettes during a resupply flight, but they needed the space for a load of cold Coca Cola and ammo.
Once again, I was on the fringes--not really involved in meaningful activity. After all, how was a self-serving movie about the Chaplain Corps going to help defeat the ZIPRA terrorists of Mugabe and Nkomo?
Just what was I contributing to the war effort? I was excess baggage. If the RLI soldiers in the Fire Force even noticed me, they would have dismissed me as another “waster” (slang for someone who is of no value).
And at dinner that evening, seated with the “chaplain” film crew, I heard the frightening news: Capt Dodgen was going to be the new Chaplain General! Yes, the same Capt Dodgen, the Pentecostal preacher whom I had belittled for his speaking in tongues. The same Capt Dodgen who, rightfully, did not like me. The same Capt Dodgen who saw me only as a foul-mouthed and arrogant American.
This troubling development added to the seeds of paranoia concerning Special Branch and my guilt concerning my incomplete training. Worry plagued my thoughts for the next couple of days. I would have to speak to Col Wood as soon as I got back to Salisbury. I needed to find out what my prospects were as a subordinate to Capt Dodgen.
Stephen Stills’ lyrics to the Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s Worth,” were coming true in my life:
Paranoia strikes deep . . . Into your life it will creep.
Eventually, this intensified into tangible fear that would drive Pegi and me out of Rhodesia and back to Texas.
It starts when you’re always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away.
Next: A Genuine “Crippled Eagle”
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46 addendum — Thoughts On PTSD
Over the July 4th weekend (2014) I received an email from a gentleman who had stumbled across my blog while researching PTSD. He had been reading Alexandra Fuller’s, Scribbling the Cat: Travels with an African Soldier. Her book recounts stories of veterans of the Rhodesian war. He asked me for my thoughts on PTSD based on my experience in Rhodesia:
I found your blog trying to get background on events, news, and historical accounts of the conflict in northern Mozambique. I am reading Alexandra Fuller's book dealing with your compatriots who served in the RLI. The book is good, and likely some if fictionalized. As someone who experienced those conflicts, I am curious if you have read this book and found it to be accurate of what appears to be the PTSD issues many of these veterans are facing years later. Looking back, I don't have the experience of being born there to draw upon or growing up there. I find it remarkable someone like yourself made the journey, and now is in academia of all places. Best regards. I'll try to read more of your blog later.
While responding to his email, I thought to include these thoughts as an addendum to chapters 42 — “From Death to Birth” and 46 — “Paranoia Strikes Deep”
Thanks for your comments. I haven't read the Fuller book. If you want to get an up-close and personal view written by actual combatants, I recommend: Chris Cocks. Fireforce: One Man's War in the Rhodesian Light Infantry, 4th Edit. Johannesburg: 30º South Publishers, 2008. He has a followup volume that you might find particularly interesting on the subject of PTSD: Out of Action. Both of these are available through Amazon. Chris has been part of the leadership of the RLIRA (RLI Regimental Association) http://www.therli.com. There are a few other books that are written by combatants. Chris's is the only one I have found that focuses exclusively on the RLI and doesn't seem to be grinding any axes!
PTSD wasn't known as such back in the 70s. It had not yet been recognized as a reality for Vietnam vets. People spoke only of shell-shock and battle fatigue. But, I think Fireforce will give you a good view of how PTSD originates when soldiers are submitted to "years" of seemingly endless battle. The previous world wars and conflicts such as Korea were short-lived. Most WWII combat vets saw one year or less of actual combat. I have friends who served 2-3 years in Vietnam, but the average tour of duty was one year or less. Those I know who served multiple tours in Vietnam did so voluntarily. It seems to be the nature of the war itself rather than the length of service that increases cases of PTSD. It seems to be more widespread when the end of war is seemingly out of control with no purpose or end in sight. Certainly, the absolute insanity of Vietnam with no political or military vision generated PTSD quickly. The first Gulf war of the early 90s was over quickly. I am sure there were cases of PTSD caused by the apocalyptic nature of the burning oil wells, but because there was at least a flawed vision of rescuing Kuwait, I suspect that PTSD was not yet epidemic. There is some thought that problems classified broadly as PTSD may be directly related to toxins in the modern war-environment. Certainly, the burning oil and other toxins released in the conflict have not helped. [See http://www.globalresearch.ca/gulf-war-syndrome-ptsd-and-military-suicides-u-s-government-s-message-to-america-s-vets-drop-dead/20186]
But, there is something about the drawn-out nature of conflicts that have no real possibility of victory like Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan and Rhodesia that produces PTSD in epidemic proportions. I am reminded of the often quoted and mistranslated Proverbs 29:18, "Where there is no vision the people perish." The Hebrew text would be better translated, "Where there is no vision the people are let loose." The context extolls the virtue and happiness of the one who instead has vision from the boundaries of Torah (the Law). Applied to the subject of PTSD, when an individual has no vision, boundaries, end-point, goal or ideal, the end result is dissolution, confusion, unhappiness and unconsolable misery. All of these conflicts that have produced so much PTSD-misery for combatants started off with some hopeful vision of the future. In each case, as the conflict progressed, the vision was eroded away. All that survived was unconsolable and unending disaster.
During my short time in Rhodesia (1977-78), extreme alcoholism was the major symptom. I explore this briefly in chapter 50 — “ ‘Muck’ and Mire.” Certainly, soldiers drink to alleviate the boredom in peacetime and the terror or wartime. This is not unusual. However, the alcoholism in Rhodesia was epidemic. For the European (white) Rhodesians, the two local brands of beer (Castle and Lion) were some of the best I have ever tasted. However, it takes a lot of beer to get really "sloshed"! Because of sanctions, imported liquor was rare and very expensive--outside the budget of any soldier or the average Rhodesian. Instead, local brews from cane sugar such as "Mainstay" gin along with beer provided the kick needed for blast off.
In Fireforce, you see how this plays out in Chris's life. RLI troops in the bush also used dagga (cannabis) and morphine "liberated" from medical supplies. I attended a party with troopers from the elite SAS squadron in 1977. I had been invited after I had intervened (as a chaplain) to stop an overly-violent squadron member from abusing his 9-month pregnant wife. Having to get permission from his commander, a captain, before confronting him, I had been invited to a party with members of his unit who had just returned from an extra-territorial operation. Because there were wives and girlfriends present, the party was pretty tame. Even so, male and female alike drank themselves into oblivion. There was talk of making me the squadron chaplain, but it was drunken-talk and nothing ever came of it. However, mother and baby had a successful birthing experience and a subsequent needed divorce. [The only marriage counseling I did resulted in divorce! And, that was the result I had recommended in my counsel.]
Most Rhodesian Army and Police units were composed of “territorial” soldiers who served multi-week “call-ups” after completing their initial training. These territorial soldiers returned to “normal” civilian life during the interims. Since the RLI was a “regular” army unit, most of its members served a three-year enlistment. [Upon completion of three years, they would become part of territorial units.] During this period, each commando (essentially a company) would be stationed at a firebase for weeks at a time. While on “Fireforce” duty at a firebase, RLI troopers would see daily contact. As the war intensified in 1978-79, they often had multiple firefights each day as they chased terrorist cadres through the bush. The Fireforce concept employed three or four small Rhodesian Air Force Alouette III helicopters to transport to transport sticks (four men) of soldiers directly into an ambush and stop position to encircle terrorists who had been spotted by the Selous Scouts or other trackers. After dropping their sticks, the Alouettes would use their weapons to herd the terrorist into the RLI troops. [Near the end of the war in 1979, all RLI troops had parachute training. In some cases, troopers would make multiple jumps from the ancient Dakota troop transports in one day.] When I visited the Mtoko firebase in 1977, there were only four choppers available to ferry troops and supplies to the point of engagement. There were some periods during the late 70s when there were less than five helicopters available for use in the entire air force. If the contact and its aftermath lasted more than a few hours, multiple resupply missions might be flown before returning the troopers to base.
Upon return to Cranborne Barracks in Salisbury, troops would be given a few days for R & R. Normal barracks life consisted of inspections, close-order drill and training. Nighttimes were spent at local bars. The RLI developed a reputation as “toughs” who were constantly drinking, fighting and being arrested. The recruiting posters idealized the RLI. The rest of Rhodesia thought of the average RLI trooper as a drunken thug. They were unstoppable in combat, but unendurable in civil society, even when every male member of the civil society was also a serving soldier.
To a certain degree, that very thuggish behavior served as an outlet for the unspeakable pressures of the constant and never-ending combat. For the territorial citizen-soldiers who only saw periodic combat, there was no escape valve for the unending pressure. Sure, a number of RLI soldiers ended up victims of PTSD-like symptoms, but based on my observations of those who have survived and participate in the RLIRA, the regimental association, something of the esprit de corps and élan that existed in the war for those known as “The Saints” continues to this day. Through the RLIRA, which has also made room for former elite Selous Scouts and SAS troopers, something of an ideal, a vision, a reason to be, a reason to have been, keeps the PTSD in check.
These are my thoughts on the subject 35 years later.
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