Finding Out for Myself

The South African Airways flight from Johannesburg to New York was 18 hours.  The only break in the flight was a 90 minute stop for refueling and crew change at the small Portuguese island in the Atlantic off the horn of Africa named Ihla do Sal (Salt Island).  The island’s claim to fame is its salt mines and its international airport.

This was our second, but not our last visit here.  On approach from the air, the small island was a brown and lifeless splotch in the blue Atlantic.  Deplaning at the airport was  like something out of a Cold War thriller.  As we walked from across the tarmac to the terminal building, we were “guarded” by soldiers with automatic weapons and guard dogs.  I mean, there was nothing there--did they think we were going to steal some of their precious salt or that we would dash across the runway seeking to hide in the luxury of the desolate landscape?  

From the windows of the the terminal building, we could see the planes from Lufthansa and Aeroflot.  Now, this was 1978, long before the collapse of the Soviet Union.  To see an actual Russian Aeroflot jet was the closest I had ever been to our Cold War enemy!   As we were locked into the stuffy terminal--if they had air-conditioning, they weren’t using it--I began to reflect on the last 14 months in Rhodesia.  

I had come to Africa with the express purpose of fighting the encroachment of Russian and Chinese Communist aggression.  I had hopes of stopping the march of Communism that we had not stopped in Vietnam.  I saw this as my opportunity to finally “get in the game” that I had sat out in Southeast Asia because of my student activism and Hippie lifestyle.

As I stared out the terminal window at the Aeroflot plane just a few hundred yards away, I “wondered” if my wanderings had any meaning at all.  I had not fulfilled my dream of either a military career as a Christian warrior, nor had I accomplished anything of value as a chaplain.  

And now I sat in this desolate no man’s land staring at my enemy’s plane.  I wondered where that Aeroflot flight was headed.  Was it headed to one of the new Marxist states in Africa such as Mozambique or to one its many Socialist nations that looked to it for leadership like Zambia or Tanzania?  Were there Russian military advisors on board?  Were there Russian soldiers locked in another section of the same terminal building?  

I shook those thoughts out of my head.  That part of my life was over.  We were headed back to America.  There was nothing I could do about the Rhodesian bush war.  Indeed, as we left Rhodesia a dozen hours before, the new “Transitional Government” came into place.  This new government was composed of Bishop Abel Muzorewa, ex-terrorist leader Ndabaningi Sithole and Chief Jeremiah Chirau.  They were to work together with Ian Smith toward the election of one of their number as Prime Minister in the new “Zimbabwe-Rhodesia.”  

The problem was that the Communist forces under Mugabe and Nkomo would try to disrupt the elections and there were already murmurings that the UN, US and UK would not recognize the new Zimbabwe-Rhodesia government.  And if sanctions were not eased with these elections, then the bush war would intensify . . . .  Whoa!  I had to stop thinking about all of this!  I had to let it all go for now.

We were heading home, but to what kind of reception?  Certainly, we would not be able to stay at Berachah Church in Houston for very long.  Thieme and his coterie of sycophants would consider me a failure for not fulfilling my three year contract in the Army.  He wouldn’t care about my conversations with the Army chief-of-staff in which I was advised to leave the country.  

And, I had lost much of my confidence in and respect for Thieme.  His Bible Doctrine just didn’t work.  I had found this out for myself.  Pegi and I had put his whole system of doctrine to the test--taking it to Rhodesia, putting our own lives on the line for Bible Doctrine--only to find that it was flawed.  Nothing was working the way Thieme had said.  Bible Doctrine failed us politically and personally.

As I write this three decades later, I can see that we left Rhodesia at just the right time.  Over the last 30 years, I have battled with my own personal feelings of failure.  I have carried my feelings of guilt for not pushing through the pain from my leg injury to complete my commando training.  Removed from the events, it is easy to forget just how bad that pain was.  And removed from the events, it is easy to dismiss the turmoil and terror that inhabited our hearts as we experienced the frightening deterioration of the Rhodesian experiment.  

But, we left at the right time.  If we had stayed another 12 months, we would have seen the disheartening refusal of the world to accept the new majority-elected government of Bishop Muzorewa.  Although the Rhodesian Army successfully defended the Rhodesian people from terror allowing for his election, the UN, US and UK overthrew the new government of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, demanding new elections.  

Before the new elections could take place, the UN, US and UK combined their power and influence calling for the amalgamation of Mugabe and Nkomo’s terrorist forces into the Army.  Rather than keeping his terrorist soldiers in their garrisons, Mugabe dressed civilians in uniforms and kept them in the garrisons.  This allowed his trained soldiers to disperse into the countryside where they could coerce the population into voting for Mugabe.  To the surprise of all, neither Muzorewa (the favorite of the African population) nor Nkomo (thought to be the most popular of the terrorist leaders) won.  

Instead, Mugabe was able to intimidate his way into power.  All the sacrifices of the Rhodesian people, black and white, were for naught in the face of the political maneuvering that brought Mugabe to power.  All these years later, Mugabe is still Prime Minister, and recently has refused to effectively share power when he was soundly defeated in a new election.

The armed guards escorted us back to the SAA flight and we prepared ourselves for the final leg of our flight to New York.  No, we had no choice but to leave now.  There was nothing more that we could do for Rhodesia.  As far as we were concerned, we would never see that part of the world again.  

As we turned towards home, we dismissed the lingering questions about our reception at US Customs and Immigration.  Yes, we had heard through Robin Moore that many Americans were having problems reentering the US.  That could not apply to us.  We were returning Americans who valued our American citizenship more than ever before.  America was the only place we were safe.  We were going home. 

Next:  Are We There Yet?