Tea with Land Mines

As we drove back down the dirt road that would connect us with the main road to Umtali, I had know idea that I would return to that same farm six years later.  In six years neither the people nor the scenery would have changed.  Only the names would have changed from Marandellas to Marondera, Umtali to Mutare, Salisbury to Harare, and Rhodesia to Zimbabwe.  How that farm and the family that owned it would become central to our years in Zimbabwe is a another story.  For now, Capt Dodgen and I were on our way to the Mozambique border city of Umtali.

Capt Dodgen and I agreed to disagree about “speaking in tongues” and spent the rest of the trip discussing life as an army chaplain.  Our destination was Addams Barracks, a former girl’s boarding school that sat on the fence line with Mozambique.  Umtali (now Mutare) had been the gateway to Mozambique before the 1975 communist Frelimo takeover there.  The port at Maputo and the beach at Beira were no longer available for the nurture and recreation of Rhodesians.  

[Umtali picture courtesy of  http://rhodesian.server101.com/beautiful_rhodesia.htm ]

Capt Dodgen was the speaker at a worship service attended by about ten soldiers.  I remember that he spoke from the Psalm 121:1 quoting David, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help . . . ”, commenting that the mountains surrounding Umtali could be an inspiration to the troops.  I thought that was a silly devotional typical of the meaningless palaver that seemed typical of “professional” ministers.  I couldn’t imagine that David’s reference to his political strength that came from the hills of Judea could be of much comfort.  I think Dodgen thought that the hills were an analogy for God’s power.  As a Jew, the very thought of associating God with a physical object was idolatry.  Fortunately, I had the sense to keep my mouth shut about this.  And anyway, there were only ten people there.  

The real action, as I saw it, was in the conversations that we could have with soldiers, giving them real encouragement in their lonely perch on the side of the mountain overlooking 200 yards of no-man’s land--cleared of trees and seeded with land mines.  It was a bleak terrain just outside their windows.  It was the first thing they saw each morning and was more likely to set their mood than the mountains in the distance.

[The story of the soldiers who manned Addams Barracks is documented at this link:  http://www.rhodesianforces.org/6IndepCoy.htm .]

I spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with soldiers and retired to NCO quarters in the dormitory wing of the old girl’s school.  I shared a room with another sergeant who told me of his life growing up and recent incidents along the border.

At 6:00 the next morning there was a knock on our door.  The sergeant shouted, “Come!” and African in the white uniform of a cook entered with two cups of hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar.  Apparently, this wake-up tea was served each morning to NCOs and officers.

As we sat sipping the tea and rubbing the sleep from our eyes, there was a loud explosion outside our window.  We both crouched beneath the window waiting as there had been recent mortar attacks on Umtali from across the border and the barracks often found themselves a target for sniper fire.  When no other explosions followed, the sergeant remarked, “Must have been a mine.  Birds land on the anti-personnel mines in the no-man’s land and set them off all the time!”

Finishing our tea, we dressed and went to the mess for breakfast.  The unit’s Sergeant Major, whom I had met the day before, told us that it had been a mine.   A patrol was being mounted to scout out any terrorist incursions.  He invited me to lead join the patrol!  Excited at the prospect of my first real combat experience, I remarked that my weapons were locked in the dormitory.

The Sergeant Major smiled:  No problem Padre [the common title for chaplains], take my FN [Fabrique Nationale 7.62 mm] and lead this patrol for me!

He tossed me his FN and handed me his webbing loaded with ammo.  He pointed me in the direction of an armored 2.5 (Mercedes Unimog-2.5 tons) that was embarking with a “stick” (a unit of four soldiers).  I climbed into the back as we set off down the dirt road cut into the side of the mountain.  [See my blog:  http://confessionsofawanderingjew.blogspot.com/2009/04/reverse-gear-and-fast.html ]

Since we had no idea what to expect as we paralleled the winding border fence, we locked and loaded our weapons with each soldier surveilling the surrounding terrain.  We bounced down the step dirt mountain road for about five minutes until we arrived at a gate in the fence.  There were a few small buildings at this guard post and a handful of soldiers on duty.  

I jumped off the truck and spoke with the police officer in charge.  It turned out that they had already captured the African infiltrator who had triggered a land mine.  I was invited to join the interrogation.

I entered the small guardhouse infirmary where an African man lay on a bed receiving IV fluids while a medic bandaged his wounds.  Another policeman who spoke the local dialect asked him what he was doing in no-man’s land.  The wounded African said through the interpreter that he was just trying to visit his family on this side of the border and hadn’t known about the minefield.  It was evident that he was not a terrorist.  It was also evident that he wasn’t very bright as no-man’s land had a tall fence on either side of a 200 yard swath of clear-cut land.  If the 20 foot electrified fences topped with razor wire weren’t enough to warn you that it was dangerous to enter, the signs hanging every few meters made it clear in all the local dialects and with illustrations of explosions, that this was not the way to meet your relatives.  Of course, if you wanted to meet your dead ancestors, this was the perfect way to travel!

Since it was obvious that our additional firepower was not needed, we jumped back on the truck and returned to Addams Barracks.  My heart was still pumping as the excitement coursed through my veins.  But, for these soldiers, it was another boring patrol without even the excitement of firing their weapons.  Their only concern was that they had missed breakfast!

This was the closest I had gotten to combat since arriving in Rhodesia.  Just this taste of “almost combat” reawakened my desire for the military career that had brought me to Africa in the first place.  I had to get closer to the action!  I had been invited to a party with some of the troopers in SAS after I had confronted that spouse-beating corporal.  Maybe I could get closer to the action by getting closer to these elite soldiers.  There was also Grey’s Scouts, a cavalry unit headed by an American Major that I had met at Robin Moore’s “American Embassy” in Salisbury.  I would have to visit them too.  Maybe I could ride into combat with them!

Next:  A Half Bottle of Jack Daniels