42 — From Death to Birth

The war had suddenly become more real.  This wasn’t an adventure or a philosophical debate—it was life and death.  Pegi and I spent our evenings trying to reconcile the growing war between our beliefs and the warnings coming from our hearts.  Of course, we tried to keep on a steady doctrinal path by listening to our bible lessons from Thieme each night.  However, as soon as we would make application of his teaching to the very real war raging in the bush and our thought lives, . . . well, weren’t sleeping very well. 

About this same time, Pegi resigned from her position at Army HQ and took a civilian job as a legal secretary.  The RWS (Rhodesian Women’s Services) was ready to institute rank.  Now that I was no longer on a path that would lead to a commission, it wouldn’t be practical for her to be an officer with me as an NCO.

We were troubled by the political realities, Pegi wasn’t serving as a surgical nurse, and the chaplaincy didn’t match my military career aspirations.  On the other hand, life in Rhodesia was idyllic.  We awoke each morning with our cook/housekeeper, Wilson, bringing us hot tea in our bedroom.  After showering, Wilson would serve us a hot breakfast.  Pegi would drive the Mini to her office and I would hop on my motorcycle and head to my office at HQ.  We would both arrive back home at Kalanyoni about 4:30 to more tea followed by supper.  As we were now in the cooler winter months (June-August), Wilson would have the fireplace lit as we sat down for tea. 

Speaking of fires, we faced a very real threat of fire from the tall grass that grew on about 10 acres.  Even though the thatch was treated with a fire retardant, it was still grass!  In normal seasons, a farmer from down the road would harvest our fields for the feed and bedding of his livestock.  This year his tractor was broken and he was unable to get spare parts to fix it.  I had detailed Langton (who came with us from Alex Park), Adam (the permanent gardener at the property) and Langton’s 14 year old brother (who was now working for us since his school had been destroyed by terrorists), to cut as much of the tall grass as possible.  They had to use hand instruments and were not making very good progress.

After a couple of small fires were stopped by Adam and Langton, I decided to do a controlled burn to eliminate the threat.  This was not something that you wanted to do every year, but it didn’t hurt every few years.  Most of the wild grass in Africa burns every few years and the blackened earth is quickly replaced by green new growth.

We picked a Sunday afternoon for the controlled burn and had cut a large swath of grass around the house just in case things got out of control.  We filled our storage tank with water from our pump and I had Langton’s brother and Adam stationed with hoses to douse any sparks that jumped to the yard near the house.

The burn started just fine and as the last of section of the field was smoldering, suddenly a spark jumped to one of the pine trees on the border with our neighbor.  In minutes we had lost three pines.  We spent the rest of the afternoon frantically watering the area around the house while we prayed that the fire in the pines would not flare up again.

The local volunteer fire brigade members were on a call-up, so there was no help for us.  Our neighbors on one side were out of town and our other neighbors didn’t offer assistance when we called them.  As the last sparks died out, Langton, Adam and I shared a case of beer and Langton’s brother downed several bottles of Coca-Cola.  A few days later, the neighbor who hadn’t move a finger to help us said, “You should not give your servants real beer—they should drink their own beer in the beer halls.  And you know, you are spoiling them by paying them too much.”

We were paying each of them Rh$1.00 over the typical pay of $13.00/month for a cook, $11.00 for a gardener, and we were paying Langton’s younger brother $2.00 as a helper!  But my neighbors were of no help when we fought the fire.  It was the four of us out there fighting with all our strength and wits.  The bond we had forged in that fire was not going to be impugned by some selfish white farmer.  After all, we had come to fight for the freedom of all Rhodesians, black and white.  If, after all of this conflict, white farmers were only concerned that they might have to pay their workers more or that blacks could eat and drink the same as they . . . .  This added to our general sense of consternation.  Thieme, of course, would tell me that the white Rhodesian farmers knew what was best for their African workers.  Did they really?  Thieme’s system of bible doctrine was failing us again.

By the end of the next week the new green grass sprouted to life in the blackened field.  I smiled to myself as I rode my motorcycle down the eucalyptus-bordered driveway to my office.  Another strange thing was happening.  African workers from our neighbors were smiling and waving at me.  Obviously, the word was out that I did not treat Africans with disdain.  We fought fires and drank beer together.  I was suddenly very popular and for the right reasons.  Life was springing forth from death.

Col Wood was out of the office for the week.  I found a young woman waiting to speak with me in Col Wood’s place.  She was in her early twenties, very pregnant—the wife of a soldier in SAS (Special Air Services). 

As it turns out, she was ready to give birth at any time, but felt that she needed help from a chaplain.  Her husband, a corporal in SAS, had just returned from a three month training stint with the South African SAS in Durban, South Africa.  Typical of soldiers, especially in Rhodesia, he liked to drink.  Unfortunately, the first night back home, he had drunk himself into a violent rage and had assaulted his pregnant spouse.  She was sporting the black eye to prove it.  She was scared for the safety of her unborn child.

This was going to be a real challenge for me.  I now had to confront a soldier in the very unit in which I had originally hoped to serve.  But here I was a chaplain, having only completed a few weeks of RLI training!  And I would be confronting one of the best trained soldiers in Rhodesia.  After offering my help should anything happen again, I assured her that I would speak with her husband.

The Rhodesian SAS was comprised of about 110 elite soldiers.  As such, they were a tight-knit unit.  I wasn’t going to get anywhere with this soldier if I didn’t clear it with his unit.  I called his commanding officer, a captain.

It turned out that this officer was already displeased with his soldier’s behavior and told me that I could find him at a local bar.  He also told me:

This soldier is a total “waster” (slang for someone useless).  Tell him that if he so much as raises his voice much less his hand to his wife again, that I am authorizing you to throw him in” The Box” (jail).

Well, that was a relief knowing that I had his commander’s support, but there was still the matter of confronting him about his behavior.  I signed out one of our camo-painted Land Rovers and drove downtown to the bar where he should be.  I walked inside and saw a tough looking fellow in civilian dress at the bar.  It was just after the Rhodesian lunch hour (1:00-2:00) and he was all alone, nursing a beer.  Seeing my sergeant’s stripes, he sprung to attention when I addressed him.

The two of us went for a ride in the Land Rover where I asked him about his wife’s black eye.  He admitted to having gotten drunk and assaulted her. 

I told him, “Look, she could have your baby any day now and I am worried that you could lose your temper again and hurt her and the baby.  I am going to have her move into the maternity section of the hospital for the next couple of weeks.  You can come see the baby after it is born, but that is all.  You don’t go near her again until she comes home.  And if you threaten her in any way, I will throw you in The Box and you won’t be coming out for a long time.”

My heart was in my throat as I tried to sound tough with this elite soldier.  To my great relief and surprise, he responded with a meek “Yes Sergeant” and got out of the truck.

I met with his wife again later that afternoon and we had a frank discussion in which I found myself counseling her to get a divorce.  I never thought that my first advice would be divorce!  The Bible was totally opposed to divorce, or at least that was what Col Thieme had taught.  Nevertheless, this was a time when divorce was the only way to insure the safety of mother and child.  This soldier was not about to change his ways for long.  The nature of his job and the specialized training he had received had developed violent skills in him that he could not control in his personal life.

A few weeks later, the young woman showed up at Kalanyoni.  At tea with Pegi and me, she told us of the healthy birth of her daughter and how she had already initiated divorce proceedings which he was not contesting.  It turns out that while he was in South Africa for training, he had also slept with another woman.  That was the final straw for their relationship. 

Yes, the Bible says that God hates divorce (Malachi 2:16), but God also cares for mothers and children (Psalm 10:17-18).  We no longer live in a patriarchal society in which the male owns his spouse and children as property.  Here was another case where the dogmatic application of Thieme’s bible doctrine just didn’t play out in real life.

In just a couple of weeks, I had experienced death and new life.  This was what real life was about.  And it didn’t fit into the neat system of doctrine that Thieme had designed.  He may consider me to be unstable and unreliable.  I now wondered about just how reliable he and his teaching were.

Next:  Farm Life in a War Zone

Hugged Instead of Slapped

We loved our little cottage in Alexandra Park.  I am not sure what led us to start looking for someplace else to live.  Maybe it was just wander lust—as if wandering all the way from Houston to Rhodesia wasn’t enough!  

Whatever the reason, soon after I became a chaplain, we found a listing in classified ads in the Rhodesia Herald for a rental property on 20 acres just outside of Salisbury on the road to Bulawayo.At Rh$130/mo it was only $10 more than our current rent in Alex Park.  

After calling to verify that it was still available for rent, we squeezed into our little Austin Mini and soon found ourselves driving up a quarter mile eucalyptus-lined driveway.  

On the side of the hill, nestled in pines and surrounded by three acres of prize winning gardens, sat a large thatch-roofed home.  

The home was composed of three buildings including a large living/dining room, three bedrooms attached to the living room by a gated breezeway, and a rondavel (round building) that was the kitchen, also attached by a covered breezeway. 

The bedroom room had a tower at the far end that overlooked the property.  Access to the tower was by ladder.  

The property belonged to a relative of Sir Robert Tredgold.  I think she was his granddaughter. Having served in Morroco during WWII, he had built the tower to reminiscent of the minarets that were common there.  

Tredgold  named this property “Kalanyoni”—call of the bird.

                                                                                   Jeff with Rebel  

                                                       

Of the 20 acres, 2.5 acres were lawn or gardens.  Another .5 acres was a vegetable garden.

The garden boasted the greatest variety of cactus and aloe plants in Rhodesia.  It took 3 full-time gardeners to maintain the grounds.

Tredgold, the great grandson of missionary, John Moffat, had been chief justice of Rhodesia from 1950-55 and of the Federation which included Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) and Nyasaland (Malawi)  from 1955-60.  He had recently passed away, but had been one of the last “liberal” voices in Rhodesia, opposing the recent laws passed that enforced racial discrimination and what he considered to be an emerging police state.

I cannot understand why every Rhodesian does not revolt against a practice that is manifestly contrary to the elementary principles of fair play  (p.183) . . . . The culminative effects of the security laws was to turn Rhodesia into a police state  (p. 230).

[The Rhodesia That Was My Life. London:  George Allen & Unwin Ltd, 1968]

Pegi and I picked up on what seemed his granddaughter’s different perspective than that of the other Rhodesians we had met to-date.  However, by this time in 1977, contrary liberal thoughts were no longer freely voiced.  Such expressions led to alienation at best and a visit from the Central Intelligence Organization (CIO) at worst.  Maybe there were circles of liberal thinking related to the university, but this was not the type of thing that you discussed with a stranger, especially not a couple of crazy Americans who had come to join the Army!

A few weeks later, we were settled into our new home.  Maybe the walls still contained some of the thinking they had housed under Sir Robert.  Or, maybe it was just that I really began to “wonder” in this period.  Whatever the cause, this became a time of intense thought I tried to sort out the paradox that was Rhodesia and the conflict it evoked in my Jewish heart.

As a sergeant-chaplain, the casualty notifications that normally came my way were relegated to broken bones, stomach viruses and other non-critical injuries.  Just after we had settled into our new home, I was asked to go out to the Lever Brothers plant and inform a wife that her 55-year old husband had been injured.  At age 55, he had one month of national service each year.  His recent service was on the Mozambique border.  During a routine partrol, the truck he was riding in off of a muddy embankment and overturned, injuring a dozen soldiers.  Because of all the casualty notifications that had to be done quickly, his notification duties fell to me.  Apparently, he only had some broken bones and was convalescing in the Umtali hospital on the Eastern border with Mozambique.

Lever Brothers had a large factory and office in the industrial section of Salisbury.  They produced soap, toothpaste, detergent and other household items.  I was directed to the office of Human Resources where I was to meet with the soldier’s wife who worked as a clerk somewhere in the massive building. 

Before she arrived, I placed a call to the Umtali hospital and spoke with the charge nurse.  She informed me that the soldier’s injuries had been “quite severe” and that he was unconscious.  He had fractured his skull, but was expected to make a full recovery.  I was troubled at the severity of his injury, but relieved to hear that a full recovery was expected.  The charge nurse also advised me that his condition was stable enough for transport to Andrew Fleming hospital in Salisbury and he should be arriving there about 6:00 pm.

As she entered the small office, you could see the panic on her face.  I was wearing that infamous purple and black stable belt that identified the Chaplain’s Corps.  And you certainly didn’t expect good news when asked to meet with someone from the Army in the middle of the work day.  She quickly recovered her composure as I explained that although his injuries were severe, he was expected to recover and would be in Salisbury that evening.

After reassuring her with all the details and compassion I had available, I told her I would meet her at the hospital later.  We hugged and parted for a few hours.

That evening, I parked my camo-painted Army motorcycle in the Andrew Fleming lot and walked inside where I expected to join her awaiting the ambulance’s arrival from the several hour trip from Umtali.  When I got to the admissions desk, I was informed that the ambulance had arrived earlier than expected, that he had died and his body had been taken straight to the morgue upon arrival.  The wife had been there when the ambulance arrived, only to discover that he had actually been brain-dead since early that morning.  Apparently, when the Umtali charge nurse had told me that he would make a full recovery, she had been mistaken. 

Brain-dead since morning!  And I had spent the morning comforting his wife with the assurance of his recovery!

I climbed on my motorcycle for what seemed like the longest ride of my life to their home.  How would I comfort her now?  Surely, she would take her grief out of this stupid American chaplain who had told her that her already dead husband was going to recover!

My motorcycle was an old Yamaha 200 cc model, but in need of a valve job.  It was really noisy and only ran on one of its two cylinders most of the time.  In the evening air, its growl preceded me.  As I drove up to her home, she was standing outside ready to greet me, arms folded on her chest.  I knew I was about to slapped and prepared myself for the outpouring of her grief on my stupid head.

To my surprise and relief, she walked up to me and hugged me.  She wasn’t thinking about my failure to get the correct information about his condition.  She wasn’t thinking about me at all.  It wasn’t about me—it was about her loss.

I joined the rest of her family inside and we spent the evening reminiscing about her husband, hearing stories about their wonderful life together.  After confirming the details of the funeral that the Army would organize, I parted having been comforted and hugged by this widow when I should have been slapped.

Next:  From Death to Birth

Unstable and Unreliable

I was troubled.  It was time to assess.  There was no question that I had been royally screwed up as a hippie/student in Madison.  The hallucinogenic drugs that I had taken in the late 60s in an attempt to discover the purpose of life made things worse.  [See “Who Is Timothy Leary” , “Seven Days in May – Part I” and “Part II – Jewish LSD Freak”.]

Yet, my “born-again” experience had given me a fresh start in life and Col Thieme’s teaching had put my life back into order.  I was grateful to Thieme and his extensive teaching ministry.  It was as if he brought me up from childhood again, reeducating me in the essential elements of living a responsible and meaningful life. 

His teaching was peppered with history ancient and modern.  It reawakened my interest in history and I began to read voraciously, starting with ancient centers of civilization such as Egypt, Mesopotamia, the Indus valley and China.  I followed history from these recorded beginnings through the European world hegemony, the settling of the New World, the American War Between the States (as our Civil War is called in the South), through the World and Cold wars.

I had also deeply imbibed in his “systematic” theology which had its foundation in the scholarship of the Plymouth Brethren, the Scofield Bible, and Dallas Theological Seminary.  The Colonel’s unique contribution was to overlay a broad understanding of history with a system of theology that “made sense” of human history past, present and future.

Placing myself squarely in the center of his teaching, I made it a habit to live out bible doctrine.  If this is truth—it should work applied to daily life.  So far, I believed that I had been successful in living out bible doctrine on a daily basis.

But now, I was having some doubts about Thiemes’s theological/historical interpretation with regard to Rhodesia.  The Rhodesian government was not doggedly resisting world pressure to move toward majority rule.  My discussions with Kinny and Dave Phelps had revealed that Smith’s Rhodesian Front government was actively involved in discussions with the British and even Mugabe and Nkomo, the two primary terrorist leaders.  Kinny’s brother, who was in the minority conservative opposition, the Rhodesian Action Party (RAP), was totally opposed to Smith’s willingness to compromise. 

I had begun to see how difficult it was for Africans to bridge the gap from rural subsistence farming to become commercial farmers.  Blacks could own small shops, but only in the African townships.  Blacks could work in the mailroom, but there was no way for them to move into positions held by whites.  Even the Rhodesian African Rifles had only just recently commissioned their first black officers.  However, this all black unit was still mostly led by white officers.

And then there was the whole issue of social interaction.  Abe and I couldn’t eat together.  Sure, white farmers would often work side by side with their African laborers, but the white man returned to his comfortable farmhouse while the blacks lived in huts on the white man’s property.

Even the food and drink was segregated.  White Rhodesians ate a healthy diet of beef, chicken, lamb, vegetables and fruit.  Black Rhodesians ate a fatty cut of “ration meat” and whatever else they could grow or scrounge for themselves.  Whites drank bottled beer—my favorite was “Castle” while others preferred “Lion.”  Africans were only allowed to drink in special beer halls.  They drank a stinky beer byproduct in plastic buckets.  Some of this was cultural.  Much was a matter of economic favoritism.

I wrote some letters to Col Thieme advising him of what I was seeing, believing he would appreciate the first hand reporting.  I didn’t air these concerns in my “public” letters which were published in the Berachah Church weekly bulletin.  Privately, the Colonel and his close circle of friends were not happy about my reporting.  It seems that they didn’t want to hear anything that did not fit with the Colonel’s teaching.

This came to light as a couple of  Thieme followers showed up on our doorstep.  One was a 19 year old from Houston named Matt.  His father was a regular attendee at Berachah, though we had never met.  His son had only limited exposure to Thieme’s teaching, but was looking for adventure, having recently graduated from high school.  Matt’s father paid his way to Rhodesia to join the Army.  Matt was a nice kid, but completely ignorant of the historical and political issues facing the Rhodesians.  He was just there for the wild ride.

[Matt finished his training with RLI, but after his first trip to the bush, he “took the gap” (deserted).  He called me just before he left for the airport.  I jumped on my camo-painted motorcycle and raced out to the airport to try to talk him out of leaving.  By the time I arrived, he was getting ready to board.  In uniform and with my Uzi over my shoulder, I was allowed into the departure lounge only to discover that the plane had just closed its doors for takeoff.  It was too late to stop him.  Some years later, I heard that Matt had gone off to Central America with Dirk from Belgium who had been in my training company.  They were looking for mercenary work.]

“Kalanyoni” - Our new home on the Bulawayo road

Left to right:  American who was a manager at The Watergate, Matt from Houston, Jeff, Pegi kneeling with Rebel

The other Thiemite who showed up was a “taper” from Perth, Australia.  He was visiting as a tourist and spent a couple of months in Rhodesia, making our home his base of operations.  He told us that Col Thieme’s executive secretary, Katie Tapping, had given him our address with the admonition that we were “unstable and unreliable.” 

Pegi and I were shocked at this revelation.  How could we be considered unstable and unreliable?  Katie’s explanation to our Australian friend was that we had begun to have the “wrong political opinions.”  Apparently, only the Colonel was allowed to interpret current history!  And, his interpretations from the distance of Houston were more reliable than our view from Africa.

I think this was intended to get us to toe the line with regard to our opinions, but it had the opposite effect.  It caused us to doubt the Colonel for the first time.  That led to us beginning to doubt his whole system.  Now, we didn’t just rip all of his teaching apart immediately.  That would take a few more years, but it was a turning point for us.

We were no longer Thieme devotees.  Now, he was just an important teacher in our lives.  We found ourselves beginning to reexamine everything, beginning with the whole idea of a military career as a Christian.  And maybe this was all to show me that I actually belonged in the ministry?

Next:  Hugged Instead of Slapped

The Return of the Wondering Wanderer

I had come to Rhodesia convinced that their struggle was not racial.  From the myopia of life in Texas, I was fueled by the radically rightwing views of my pastor-teacher.  Urged by my personal need to expiate the guilt of my flashback-induced discharge from the Navy and my obsession with finding a “purpose” for my life, I wasn’t open to dissenting thoughts.

My recent biblical studies had focused on the life of David as a shepherd-warrior, prototypical Hebrew king, and psalmist from whom I drew daily encouragement.  It was only natural that I would then assume my conservative political opinions to be in concert with biblical history.  However, deep beneath my guise as a tough-talking American “Christian soldier” on a divine mission was a Jewish heart. 

There is something about being a Jew that is more than religion, more than culture, more than tradition, more than politics, and more than . . . well, it is just “more than.”  I have been puzzling over this for decades.  I am not the only one who struggles with this.  Take for example the ongoing debate in modern Jewish society around “Who is a Jew?”  This is important, especially with regard to the “right of return” for Jews immigrating to Israel.  But, the debate around Jewish identity is at the heart of every social, marital and political discussion for the Jewish community.  This debate has gone on for millennia. 

Fueling this debate is something intangible, but real, that beats in the heart of every Jew.  Often, it is a subconscious influence that impacts the life choices of those who have wandered far from Jewish circles.  The strange reality was that I was about as far from Jewish circles as one could get.  Yet, I found myself reacting and responding to events and circumstances in ways that were contrary to the Christian-fueled nuclear reactor that was my mind.

During my first weeks as a chaplain, I spent much of my time in the chaplaincy office at Army HQ, just a mile from our home in Salisbury.  Since I was “regular” army, and the only full-time chaplain-sergeant, I was quickly meeting the other chaplains who were serving out their periodic national service.  The officer-chaplains had their own local churches, but the sergeants were typically lay persons who had an interest in ministry, but were neither ordained nor had pastoral responsibilities.

One morning, I was introduced to a Methodist minister who, although ordained and actively serving as pastor to several congregations, was only a sergeant.  Why?  Because, as a black African, the Army would not commission him.  This shocked me.  The Reverend Abraham Nyazema was known by his nickname, pronounced “Abe-E.”  He had this infectious smile that accompanied his ever-present good humor.  The moment we met, we were friends. 

Abe had traveled extensively, which was unusual for a Rhodesian African.  Aside from the obvious financial limitations of the average African, the Rhodesian passport was not readily accepted in other countries.  Nevertheless, he had visited the US on several occasions and had close friends from his visit to my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky.  How strange that the two of us could reminisce about Louisville!

One of his sons was teaching and practicing medicine in London.  Abe was no average bush African.  He was in every way, an educated and traveled citizen of the world, yet he could not be a chaplain officer! 

We two sergeants decided to take our conversation away from the confines of the office.  Where could we go?  Well, Abe wasn’t allowed in the Sergeant’s Mess because he was black.  Hmm, well we could go into town and get some coffee or tea, but there weren’t any restaurants or shops that would allow us to sit together! 

This was ridiculous!  Where was the evidence of Ian Smith’s meritocracy where the best of all races could rise to the top.  And what purpose was served by keeping whites and blacks from having tea or a meal in a public place?  This was beginning to sound like plain old American Southern-style segregation.

We finally purchased sodas from a street vendor and settled on a park bench.  This was the same park that Pegi and I had explored that first Sunday afternoon after arriving in Rhodesia a few months before.

I don’t remember the details of our conversation.  I do remember that I felt a kinship with Abe that I never felt with another Rhodesian.  I also remember that we were able to discuss the issues of racial discrimination and that we were in agreement that whites and blacks alike needed to find peaceful political solutions.  We also agreed that the terrorist forces of Mugabe, Nkomo and Sithole must be stopped.  This is why Abe had joined the Chaplain Corps—to minister to the all-volunteer African soldiers of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR) and Selous Scouts.

During the 13 months I spent in Rhodesia, I never did meet a black African who supported the terrorists.  Of course, you wouldn’t expect them to open up to a white man and risk arrest!  But, I did meet Africans like Abe who expressed a desire for more effective African leaders.  I began to “wonder” if I had it right.  There was more to this conflict than a noble struggle of Rhodesians to fight back the forces of international communism. 

I began to be reminded of the vestiges of discrimination that I had witnessed during my childhood in Louisville.  Like many Jewish children growing up in the 50s and 60s, I had been virtually raised by a black maid.  Anna May Brown had bathed me, fed me, loved me, and spent more time with me in my childhood than had all three of my parents (mother, father, and step-father). 

“May” who cared for me from birth until her death when I was 13, was always there for me.  She bathed and fed me as a child.  She washed my clothes, cleaned the mess known as my room, cooked my meals, and was waiting for me at the kitchen table each day when I came home from school.  I know she prayed for me every day and it was the memory of her Christian love that served as an example for me. 

Her death affected me more deeply than the deaths of any of my parents.  In many ways, May was my real mother.  I remember visiting her home in the West End of Louisville, a black ghetto.  But her poor ramshackle house was surrounded by a carefully nurtured garden and the inside was neatly decorated with secondhand furniture.

I had attended an integrated high school, and my closest friends were on the basketball team, many of whom were black.  One of my closest friends, Ben Wells, lived in the all black section of Harrod’s Creek just a few miles from my home in the East End of Louisville.  I was shocked when I went to a party at his home to find that his beautiful five bedroom home was on a dirt road!

Here I sat in Rhodesia where whites lived in simple luxury, faithfully attended by blacks who lived in one-room servant’s quarters without electricity or running water.  And now I was hearing how that it is virtually impossible for those blacks to live out their aspirations for anything better. 

Think of about it—Abe and I couldn’t even be seated in the same coffee shop!  My Jewish heart was in turmoil.  Thousands of years of persecution ran through my Jewish veins.  Something was wrong here and there was something wrong with the Christian thinking that I had adopted.

Next:  Unstable and Unreliable

Pistol-Packin’ Chaplain

One of the problems with having free reign over my chaplain’s duties was that I was new to everything:  the country, the Army, the ministry, the chaplaincy—I had no practical ideas about what I could or should do.  The Chaplain General, LtCol Norman Wood, was rarely in his office.  He and the other chaplain officers, were constantly on the go. 

The only person who seemed to take an interest in my development was another chaplain-sergeant who would occasionally stop by the office during one of his call-ups.  Stan Hannan, now a Baptist pastor in Florida, took on the difficult task of my chaplaincy education and development.  

As assistant chaplains with only the rank of sergeant, we were rarely called upon for the serious casualty notifications.  That was the sad duty of the officers who were ordained and, in theory, prepared for counseling in time of tragedy.  As assistant chaplains, we delivered the casualty notifications of illnesses and minor injuries that were unlikely to be life threatening.

Before venturing out on my own, I accompanied Stan for a casualty notification.  I remember riding out to the Hatfield suburb of Salisbury and standing at Stan’s side as he knocked on the door at the home of a soldier who had come down with some sort of food poisoning.  We knew that we were not bringing tragic news, but when the soldier’s wife saw us at the door with our purple and black stable belts (4” wide colored belts that signified different units), the blood drained from her terrified face.  We quickly assured her that her reservist husband’s condition was not life threatening, but it took a cup of tea and a thirty minute conversation to help her regain her equilibrium.

As we drove back to our office, Stan told me of how he had accompanied Col Wood for a casualty notification.  The woman had the front gate to her home locked and when she saw the purple and black belts on Norman and Stan, she passed out.  They could not reach her because of the locked gate.  The moral of the story:  You never know what to expect when you show up at someone’s door as a chaplain.

One thing that I was encouraged to do was to make hospital visits.  I made a few of these visits, but I was very timid about this.  I don’t know if I was intimidated by the protocol of the hospital itself, not knowing what to say to these wounded soldiers, or my own feeling of failure for not having completed my training and serving in combat.  I suspect it was the latter that held me back, but I rarely found time to visit.  To this day, I feel shame and regret about that one simple thing that I could of and did not do often enough.

Strangely, I didn’t mind the casualty notifications.  Maybe it was because I could masquerade as a “real” soldier when visiting family, but knew that my disguise would not work with wounded soldiers.

I covered up my own weakness and failure to push through the pain of my ankle injury by affecting a tough persona.  I talked the talk of soldiers, something I had picked up at Berachah Church, cursing so freely that Col Wood had to ask me to tone it down! 

Jeff, I know that in America you have some cigar-smoking, gruff-talking Christians.  But, the other chaplains here are not accustomed to that type of behavior.  If you could watch the language when you are in the office, that would be best.  It is alright for you to speak like that when with the RLI troopers, but tone it down here please.

I agreed to moderate my language, but there was more than language to my act!  Of course, all of the chaplains carried weapons.  This was a war that exempted no one.  I was issued a 9mm semi-auto pistol which I sometimes tucked into my stable belt.  I was quite a sight on my camo-painted Army-issued Yamaha motorcycle, especially with my Uzi submachine gun strapped across my back.  My new RP corporal buddy at RLI named me “The Pistol-packin’ Chaplain.”

With only casualty notifications to keep me occupied during the day, I was getting bored.  I couldn’t just sit around the office all day reading my Bible or getting in theological debates with the other chaplain assistants doing their national service.  So, I began to reach out to those I had met who seemed to show an interest in bible doctrine.

I am not sure how we first contacted Dave and Kinny Phelps, but they had discovered Thieme’s books and tapes.  They invited Pegi and me to their home for dinners and teas where we would talk about bible doctrine and Rhodesian politics. 

Kinny’s brother was a Member of Parliament (MP) and a founding member of the Rhodesian Action Party (RAP).  RAP positioned itself as the opposition to Prime Minister Ian Smith’s Rhodesian Front.  However, they were the conservative opposition to a conservative leader.  We quickly learned that there was no organized liberal opposition in Rhodesia.  The RAP saw Smith’s drift toward conciliation with the blacks as a departure from the standards by which he was elected and led the country to UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Independence) in 1964. 

Initially, Pegi and I found ourselves in sympathy with the more conservative stance of the RAP.  This was the first time we began to question the direction of the Smith government.  Although we were questioning his government from the “right,” questions led to more questions as we began to examine the assumptions that we had made in coming to Rhodesia in the first place.  We began to be disillusioned with the waning purpose and what we saw as compromising positions of the government and many of the Rhodesian people.

But, because questions lead to questions, this would eventually cause us to wonder about the entire Rhodesian endeavor, especially as we began to see evidence of real discrimination against the black African population.

Next:  The Return of the Wondering Wanderer

Stand at attention when you talk to ME!

Col Wood told me that I could direct my role as a chaplain as I thought best.  Well, I really had no idea of what chaplains really did.  I mean, I knew what I had seen in war movies—holding religious services in the field, giving last rites, and . . . ?  Hmm . . . I was stumped.  Since I wasn’t a Catholic priest, I wouldn’t be giving anyone last rites.  I supposed that there would be the occasional service to conduct, but that would probably fall to the officers, and I had never really been interested in conducting religious rituals anyway. 

For me, it was all about personal relationship with God.  I was interested in theology, what Col Thieme called “bible doctrine.”  Therefore, I saw myself giving counsel, leading biblical studies, and helping people to pray for themselves.  I understood every believer to be a believer-priest.  That meant that you didn’t need me to pray for you, rather I would teach you how to pray (talk to God) for yourself.  Admittedly, this was a severely limited view of the chaplain’s function, but my understanding of relationship with God was restricted to a saving relationship with God through Christ.  As far as I saw it, the way to God was the way I got there.  There were no other “ways.”  As a “born-again” Christian, I refused to recognize the validity of any approach to God that did not begin with that born-again experience.

And, since I had totally bought into Thieme’s view of the importance of bible doctrine and his dismissal of other pastor-teachers who did not share his perspective, I was dismissive of just about every other Christian teacher.  I thought that my mastery of Thieme’s systematic theology made me a biblical scholar and a religious expert.  I was arrogant, but didn’t know it.  I was uneducated with regard to my own ignorance.  I was headstrong and absolutely convinced of whatever I was convinced of!

I was the prototypical Thiemite—totally persuaded by his teaching and totally committed to living that teaching out in my life.  Pegi was with me on this, and lest you think we were just total assholes, (Oh yeah—profanity was common among Thieme’s followers!), most Rhodesians actually found our confidence refreshing, especially since we reinforced their political positions.  Because we were so well received and I could win any argument, we were blissfully ignorant of our own limitations. 

You may be thinking that it was just us, but I would submit that we are all dogmatic fools in our own ways.  We just don’t know what we don’t know!  And, if we have religious or other authorities affirming our ignorant assumptions, our only hope is to have life prove us wrong.  At least for Pegi and me, our Rhodesian experience was the first of many experiences that would prove our assumptions wrong.  Often our assumptions, principles, teachings, beliefs, norms or standards don’t stand the test of experience. 

The question then becomes whether we can be honest enough with ourselves to recognize our own bankrupt thinking and if we then have the courage to change.  Rhodesia would challenge many of our core beliefs.  Rhodesia changed us.

But as I jumped into a camouflage-painted Land Rover to visit RLI for the first time as a chaplain, I was happily unaware of my ignorance.  This was my first official action as a chaplain.  A trooper from 3 Commando had gotten into a fight at a Salisbury bar.  Now, that wasn’t particularly noteworthy.  After all, these were some pretty tough guys and drunken brawls are not uncommon in armies worldwide.  In his case, he had gone a bit overboard and broken the jaw of a police officer.  He was spending some time in “The Box,” the RLI jail at Cranborne Barracks, until his case was handled by the local authorities.  He had requested a visit from a chaplain.  Col Wood thought that I would be able to relate effectively to RLI troopers, so he sent me.

The last time I had been at Cranborne, I had been without rank—a recruit.  Today I was wearing three stripes on my sleeve.  Following the RLI tradition, I had a tailor make my stripes out of camouflage material.  The idea was that camo stripes could be worn in the bush or on base alike.  The stripes were visible, but did not jump out at you as did the white stripes worn on office or dress uniforms.  You could see them, but you kind of had to look for them.

I drove up to the RLI gate, prepared to show my orders to the RP on duty.  I stopped the Land Rover and waited for the guard to approach.  It was my old RP buddy—the one who had accosted me for walking and again when he approached me in civilian clothes as I waited outside the motor pool office.  He saw my familiar face and began to growl:

What the hell are you doing here  . . . [seeing my stripes and jumping to attention] . . . Sergeant?

It was the most satisfying moment of my military career to that point!  I could have barked at him, “Stand at attention when you talk to me!”  But here he was, already at attention, with a grimace replaced by a faint smile and the growl replaced by respect.

Hey, Sarge!  Congrats on the promotion!  How can I help? 

Showing him my orders, I explained that I needed to visit the trooper in the Box.  He showed me where to park and personally escorted me in for my visit.  Every time from then on when I would visit RLI, I seemed to run into him and he seemed to take pleasure in treating me with respect.  It was like one of his children had grown up!

This was the first of many experiences that I would have in Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe) where a former enemy became an ally.   

My miscreant trooper was a tall, red-headed kid, maybe 19.  As I sat down with him in the cell, he seemed surprised to get a chaplain who was an American and who also used profanity like a soldier.  He asked me to pray for him.  Of course, that punched one of my doctrinal buttons, so I explained that all believers in Christ were believer-priests and could pray for themselves.  I also doubted that members of mainline Christian denominations were “really born-again” (the result of my Jesus Freak background combined with the exclusivity fomented at Berachah), so I asked him if he believed Jesus had died for his sins.  When he said that he did believe that, I led him in a prayer to “receive Christ as his personal savior” and told him that he could pray for himself! 

To my surprise then and my absolute amazement as I reflect on it now, he actually responded positively to all of this.  From my perspective today, I am ashamed at my own impetuous arrogance.  But, it seemed to be just what he needed.  [That is another thing that I have learned—your knowledge and motives don’t have to be perfect in order to do good.  A righteous desire overcomes ignorance and impure motivation.] 

Smiling, he perked up and we spent a few minutes discussing the foolishness of his actions.  I gave him some basic books on bible doctrine written by Thieme:  The Faith-rest Life (basic instruction on how to claim the promises of God contained in the Bible) and War:  Moral or Immoral (a strongly pro-soldier biblical study that encouraged aggressive military action).

From a Christian perspective, these were the only two courses of action that I knew:  leading someone to be born-again and the absorption of massive amounts of bible teaching.  That was the sum of Christian activity from my perspective after thousands of hours of Thieme’s teaching. 

Thieme’s assertion was that the constant and continual intake of bible doctrine would result in the building of a spiritual structure in your soul.  He called it building an Edification Construct of the Soul (ECS) through the Grace Apparatus of Perception (GAP), by means of Isagogic (historical), Categorical and Exegetical (ICE) teaching which would lead the Super Grace (SG) life.  [This use of specialized vocabulary to communicate is one of the things that makes Thieme’s teaching so hard to understand for the uninitiated.  It is also what caused many to accuse him of creating a cult-like atmosphere.]

But, I was unaware of all this at the time.  As far as I knew, I had led someone to Christ and bible doctrine.  I had done my job as a chaplain, or so I thought.

Next:  Pistol-packin’ Chaplain

Another Colonel In the Church

As my ankle began to heal and Pegi began her two week orientation training for her job as a clerk typist at HQ, we just knew there just had to be something more to God’s plan for our lives!  Had we traveled thousands of miles to drive trucks and type reports?  To add to our disorientation, the RWS was about to introduce ranks for their female members.  Pegi was being considered as possible officer material because she had a Bachelor of Science in Nursing.  Now that I was off the path that would have sent me to Officer Training School in Gweru, not only would she soon outrank me, but we would not be allowed to “fraternize”! 

You might remember from my previous chapter on Berachah Church, that military service was considered equivalent with missionary service.  [See:  Jewish Hippie to Texas Conservative ] 

From our first day in Rhodesia, we had considered ourselves “missionaries for Bible Doctrine” as expressed in this excerpt from our letter published in the Berachah Church weekly bulletin for July 17, 1977:  [Click on the text to open it in a larger window.]

[As I read this today, I find it hard to believe that I could have been so totally committed such extreme beliefs.  I really thought that Bob Thieme's teaching of "bible doctrine" was the best way to understand history.  I wonder what in the world I was thinking when I said that I could show this to people from the "Word"!  It makes me shake my head.  But, Pegi and I thought we believed this stuff.  It would take some real life to break through and show us just how wrong we were about so many things.]

One evening in the barracks before I had been injured, I was chatting with a 17-year old Rhodesian recruit who was really struggling with his decision to join RLI rather than serving in one of the territorial units.  He was a slightly tubby redhead who turned beet red in the sun.  Suffering from sunburn and exhaustion from the grueling pace, he was on the verge of going AWOL to South Africa.  My South African “thief” friend and I sat down with him privately to encourage him to stick it out.  We were successful in convincing him to stay, at least for that crisis.  As we spoke, he said something that I dismissed at the time.  He said, “I am going to get out of RLI and become a ‘padre’.”

His hope was to join the Chaplain Corps.  Of course, as a Catholic layperson, that was a totally vain hope.

But now, as I considered my own future, his comment came back to me.  Maybe since I couldn’t complete my infantry training . . . maybe I could get assigned to be a chaplain and continue to spread bible doctrine in the Army?

It just so happened that the Chaplain General of the Rhodesian Army was supposedly a “taper” who was listening to Col Thieme’s Bible lessons.  I had tried to meet him during the three weeks before my training, but he had been out of the country.  However, our “taper” Baptist pastor friend, Eugene Wiseman, had advised Col Wood that I was now at RLI. 

Col Wood visited me at Cranborne Barracks and informed me that there would, in fact, be a place for me in his command.   He advised me that I could not be made a Chaplain with officer rank, since I had not been ordained by a major Rhodesian denomination.  [I had no real pastoral training, neither had I been ordained at that time.]  However, I could serve as a Chaplain’s Assistant with the rank of sergeant. 

All of a sudden, God’s plan seemed to be getting clearer.  And, two weeks later, after a service to ordain me to the “chaplaincy” at Eugene Wiseman’s church in Gatooma, I received orders to report to Col Wood at King George VI Barracks, just one mile from our home in Alexandra Park. 

Arriving at Col Wood’s office, I was sent over to the HQ Quartermaster where I was issued a black beret, a purple and black stable belt to denote the chaplaincy, and sergeant’s stripes.

[This link will show a brief into a video made about the Rhodesian Chaplain's Corps called Chaplain to the Forces.]  

               Sergeant Wasserman

 In one morning, I had gone from no rank to sergeant.  And as the first Regular Army Chaplain Sergeant, I was treated with deference by enlisted and officer alike. 

It was a pretty “heady” experience.

My duties as a chaplain were largely undefined.  Of course, there were the inevitable casualty notifications.  But, since I was only a sergeant, the death notifications were normally left to the officers.  Col Wood and I were the only Regular Army chaplains.  The rest of the chaplains were Captains or Sergeants from the Territorial regiments.  They served periodically, depending on their age and unit requirements. 

As it happened, my first official duty was later that week.  An RLI soldier who was in the “Box” (RLI’s jail), had requested a chaplain’s visit.  I don’t know what he was expecting in a chaplain, but I am sure I didn’t fit the image he had.

Next:  Stand at attention when you talk to me!