War Fever

Our life in Bulawayo required several adjustments.  The feeling in Bulawayo was one of having been left behind, forgotten, irrelevant.  I don’t think this was just how we felt.  I got this general sense from its people.  The Matabele felt discrimination from the majority Mashona, the whites harbored some resentment with regard to the “ruling” political class centered in Salisbury, and the business community had lost its claim to leadership to Salisbury.

There was an element of pride in Bulawayo’s history, but with a palpable air of resentment.  I think Wood’s joke about “setting back our watches 15 years” reflected a feeling held by those in Salisbury and Bulawayo.

In Salisbury, we had no difficulty finding able and willing domestic help.  Langton, you will remember had literally knocked on our door!  It wasn’t so easy for us in Bulawayo.  The Matabele didn’t have the cheerful demeanor of the Mashona.  Our experience with the first few applicants for cook/housekeeper either had no English skills or didn’t want to communicate with us!  When we finally found George, it took focus to explain our strange American habits.  

George was a fantastic cook, even better than Wilson at Kalanyoni.  However, we had some bumpy experiences.  I usually liked to have a sandwich for lunch, but since it was about a 20 mile ride to Llewellin Barracks and the Sergeant’s Mess was distant from my base office, I started asking for lunch plus a snack.  Each morning, Pegi would give George instructions for packing both of our lunches.  Early in his employment, she asked George to make me both a peanut butter and bologna sandwich.  When I opened my lunch sack, I found two sandwiches--both with peanut butter and bologna on the same sandwich!

My experience as base chaplain resembled that peanut butter/bologna sandwich.  There were sides of my duties that were pleasant, but somehow, when mixed together became unpalatable.

Each Wednesday, I would have an hour with one of the trainee units called “Padre’s Hour.”  For the trainees, this was a time to sit in the base cinema and fall asleep in comfortable chairs.  For me, this was my chance to communicate bible doctrine!  Finally, I had a captive audience that I could teach!

My first Padre’s Hour got their attention.  I presented a rehash of RB Thieme’s teachings from his booklet, War:  Moral or Immoral.  The basic premise was that Christians were to do “all things . . . as unto the Lord.”  This meant performing your tasks to the best of your ability.  As a soldier, your task was to “kill the enemy.”  So, each Christian should strive to be “the best killer in his unit.”  Thieme’s message had been developed for the war-averse American culture during the Vietnam War.  My message was tailored for young men who were in a life and death struggle for their country.  I was suddenly very popular on base and my reputation as the “pistol-packin’ chaplain” was revived.  

Aside from the war fever employed in my lectures, I was also experiencing my own fever.  I had trouble sleeping nights.  Even though the evenings were cool, my sleep was constantly interrupted by sweats.  This wasn’t anything like malaria--I would experience that years later--totally different!  

After a week of not sleeping, I went to the base doctor.  He politely listened to my symptoms and asked me, “How long have you had hay fever?”  

What?  Hay fever?  Wait a minute, I was the one who came from the advanced medical facilities of America.  I had suffered from constant colds and runny noses my whole life, but no one had ever mentioned hay fever!  I had to come all the way to Africa to get a prescription for Sudafed?  Yep, and it solved the fever problems as well as eliminating my constant sinus headaches!

Even so, I still felt ill several days a week and began calling in sick many mornings.  What was this new ailment that required me to sleep-in so many mornings?  Depression-plain and simple.  

I was depressed.  However, at the time, I couldn’t admit this to myself.  After all, I was a “new creation in Christ.”  I was a veritable repository of bible doctrine.  I had an answer for every question and an reason for every historical event.  Born-again, spirit-filled, Bible-quoting, systematic theology-spitting Berachah Church members didn’t get depressed!  We didn’t need help--we were help.  I was here to help others.

Admitting weakness is always a problem for faith adherents.  No matter what the religion, admission of weakness seems to be evidence of lack of faith.  It takes some maturity to honestly say:  “I do believe. Help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24).

My father had struggled with manic-depression his entire life.  He had been through shock treatment in the fifties and again in the sixties.  For him, it was only when he was prescribed lithium that he found a semblance of normality.  

I had been tested when I was 13 to see if I had the same tendencies.  Apparently, I did not.  However, just because I wasn’t bipolar, it didn’t mean that I didn’t struggle with depression.  Clearly, my early experience with hallucinogenic drugs was an element of a depressed personality.  At the same time, when I got interested in something, I went at it full blast, just not with the same intensity as my father’s manic illness.

I was lonely and depressed.  Aside from the weekly Padre’s Hour and the occasional poorly attended Sunday service, I really had very little to do.  I spent entire days alone in the Chaplain’s Office hoping that someone would show up and need counseling!  I no longer received casualty notifications that would expose me to the community outside the base.  The only thing that my office had going for it was a large library of science fiction paperbacks.  But, by the end of my first month, I had read every book in the library that interested me.

God, I was bored--I was so bored, I ached in the center of my chest!

Next:  American Visitors