“The French Would Sell Their Mothers!”

I had a few final duties as base chaplain.  There was a sermon on the blessings of sexual relations in marriage--pretty graphic and probably more straight talk about sex than the recruits had heard in school and certainly much more than they expected from a preacher!  All of my Padre’s Hour sermons had gotten rave reviews.  They were practical and graphic.   

My sermon on sex was attended by the rabbi from the Bulawayo Jewish Synagogue.  When I had discovered that there were five Jewish soliders in the latest training intake, I had invited him to come out and minister to them.  I did this because I remembered how I had felt as a young Jew when forced to listen to prayers and sermons that freely ascribed everything to Jesus’ name--I always felt uncomfortable being forced to participate in someone else’s religious events.

After my sermon, the rabbi invited Pegi and me to a Friday evening Shabbat Service at his synagogue to be followed with a meal in his home.  (Sadly, the Bulawayo Synagogue was destroyed in a 2003 fire.  See pictures from better times at:  http://www.zjc.org.il/showpage.php?pageid=8 .)  Pegi was excited about this as it would be her first experience in any type of Jewish service.  I had grown up shuttling between my mother’s Reform Temple and my father’s Orthodox Shul and had regular Friday evening shabbat meals at my Uncle Herman’s home.

After explaining to Pegi that we would be seated separately for the synagogue service, we parted company.  She sat in the balcony with the rest of the women, while I took a place a few pews back from the bimah from which the rabbi delivered a short sermon on the passive voice of the shabbat command that “no work should be done.”  

Typical of orthodox Jewish services, people arrived at different times and started to read the through evening prayers at their own pace.  The normal cacophony of a dozens of voices reading Hebrew prayers was occasionally interrupted by private conversations in English by those who had finished their liturgy or who were taking a break.  

For my part, since my Hebrew reading skills were not very sharp, I read through the English translation silently.  This meant that I overheard an interesting conversation from the row behind me.  Two men were discussing the scarcity of spare parts for the vehicles and machinery needed for their businesses.  The discussion turned to the Rhodesian fleet of Alouette III helicopters used by the Security Forces in their Fire Force role.  At that time, there were only a handful of Alouettes in service and one spare for parts.  The French had recently become unreasonably stingy with spares and other munitions needed for the war.  This was the result of increasing pressure from UN imposed sanctions.  Ultimately, the conversation ended with the assurance that the French would come through if enough money was offered them.  A voice behind me asserted, “The French would sell their mothers for the right price!”

Even at this late date, Rhodesians still believed that they could continue on indefinitely in the face of worldwide condemnation and sanctions.  And yet, I had just come from Army HQ where it was already obvious that end was upon us.  Sighing, I continued reading from the Prayer Book and added a personal petition that somehow the Lord could make the transition to majority rule a peaceful and bloodless one.

Borrowing an umbrella from the rabbi, we walked back to his home from the synagogue in the pouring rain.  Orthodox Jews do not drive on Shabbat and we honored that tradition by leaving our car parked until after the meal.

After the meal, we sat in the living room and talked about God.  The rabbi’s brother-in-law was also a rabbi and visiting from Israel.  I was the first Jew they had ever encountered who had converted to Christianity, and since I was a chaplain, they assumed that I had a deep theological and biblical background.  Although I had no formal theological training, my self-study under the tutelage of Thieme made me think that I knew much more than I actually did!  Nevertheless, I acquitted myself well in our discussions of Adam in the first few chapters of Genesis.  

I remember that we got stuck on God’s interaction with Adam after he had eaten the forbidden fruit.  You may remember that God called out to Adam saying, “Where are you?”  The rabbi from Israel asked me why I thought that God would ask such a thing.  I remember parroting back what I had heard Thieme say, that this was God giving Adam a chance to come forward freely of his own accord to confess his sinful condition.

To this the Bulawayo rabbi replied, “Yes, that of course is a good point, but the real reason God did this was so that he would not startle Adam.”  This answer startled me!  How could the manner of approach to Adam be significant?  Wasn’t the real issue his sinfulness?  

What I only realized upon reflection was that there is a wide divide between the Jewish and Christian views of sin.  Christianity is totally focused on humankind’s sinful condition.  That is how Jesus becomes the Christian savior, by paying the penalty for sin on the cross.  In Christianity, sin keeps humankind and God separate with no hope of reconciliation.  For Judaism, sin is not really as much the issue as is the very nature of God.  May I say that in Judaism, sin is not such a big deal--God is the big deal, not sin.

One of the things that eventually disenchanted me with Christianity and drew me back to Judaism was focus.  Christianity is more humanity focused.  Judaism is more God focused.  Consequently, Christians are always shocked or surprised by sin.  We Jews are neither shocked or surprised by sin--it is human and we are human.  We Jews are awed by the greatness of God’s love and compassion in the face of persistent human sinfulness.

Just that morning, I had received an alert that the was a possibility of an attack on the Bulawayo power plant.  This had me a bit uneasy as the terrorists had never made such a bold move before.  About 11:00 pm, as our theological discussions continued, suddenly the lights went out.  My instinct to take cover was alleviated by the rabbi’s quiet voice.  “Don’t worry, that’s just the timer!”  Since no work could be done on the Sabbath, the house lights which had already been turned on before sunset, would automatically turn off at bedtime.  That way, no additional work was being done!  My Uncle Herman had been orthodox, kept kosher and tried to keep shabbat commandments, but was not that thorough in his observances.  I felt silly, but my rabbi friend only chuckled assuring me that my reaction wasn’t unusual at all.

As he walked to us our car, he offered to send me to Israel for a few months to learn Hebrew.  I was humbled by his generosity as foreign exchange for travel was very difficult to get approved.  I declined his offer, knowing that we would soon be leaving Rhodesia anyway.  

I realized as we drove home that he was probably wanting to bring me back to Judaism.  He knew that spending a few months in the modern Jewish community in Israel would do more to help me see my way out of Christianity than countless doctrinal discussions.  He realized something that I was only beginning to understand--that true religion was not a matter of belief or doctrine.  True religion has to be lived.  I was confused by my exposure to Christian doctrine.  A couple of months seeing how modern Jews lived out their faith would quickly clear away my confusion.  I wonder what our lives would be if Pegi and I had gone to Israel then instead of returning to Houston.  Could we have prevented two and half decades of wandering?  

Well, I have never done things the easy way, and as Pegi and I returned that evening to finalize our packing for our departure from Rhodesia, I began to wonder if there were more problems with Thieme’s doctrine than just the practical application to daily life.  Even his theology seemed to be “less than” what I had just encountered with the two rabbis. 

A few days later, we boarded an Air Rhodesia flight for Johannesburg, and from there, home to Houston.  As we crossed out of Rhodesian airspace we breathed a sigh of relief--the danger was gone.  Mugabe’s list of chaplains to be executed would no longer apply to me.  

But what did we face at “home” in Houston?  Thieme had already declared me unstable and unreliable for daring to differ with him on political and cultural issues.  Now, I would be labeled a “deserter” at Berachah.  If Thieme wouldn’t believe what I told him about facts on the ground in Rhodesia, would he even care that the Rhodesian Army chiefs-of-staff had instructed me to leave?  Would we even be welcome at Berachah Church any longer?  And what was I to do for a career now?  

And if there was no place for me at Berachah, where was my place in Christianity, especially now that I was doubting key elements of Christian doctrine?  I had never believed in the doctrine of the “Trinity.”  None of the Christian explanations could overcome my core understanding as a Jew that God is one!  I couldn’t buy Thieme’s explanation that God was one “in essence, but three in personality.”  That was logical nonsense.  Either there was one God or there were three Gods--and I couldn’t buy into Christian tritheism.

And after my encounter with the rabbis, I was “wondering” about the nature of sin and just how important it was not.  Well, all of that was hours away across the Atlantic.  Right now, it was time to get some rest.  The first thing facing us would be customs and immigration.  I sure hoped that Robin Moore’s articles about us weren’t going to make reentry difficult once we got to New York.

Next:  Finding Out for Myself

The Rebel I Loved and Lost

So, the Army Chief of Staff had just directed me to release foreign soldiers from their commitments so they could leave the country before radical elements took control of the country and Security Forces.  And, in a final admonition, he recommended Pegi and I leave as well.  What a strange turn of events!  The very thought of abandoning the people that I had traveled 4000 miles to defend was disturbing.

But the circumstances were even more disturbing.  My whole world was topsy turvy.  I left Houston with the hope of finding a career as a godly warrior.  In my mind, the struggle of the Rhodesians was a righteous cause in its opposition to guerilla forces backed by the Soviets and Chinese.  

To me, this wasn’t a matter of black versus white.  It was a matter of self-determination and the development of democratic government where just a century before there had only been tribal warfare.  Yes, as in our own American history, white pioneers had brought civilization.  But, contrary to American history, the Rhodesian pioneers had not driven indigenous settlers off of their lands.  Instead, they had found a way to live cooperatively in their midst.

Yet, no matter how different the history of the white settlement of Rhodesia was from American and even South African history, a troubling divide persisted which retarded black opportunity.  When it came down to it, Rhodesians were not fighting for some noble vision of equality.  No, Rhodesians were fighting for their own personal way of life.  And now that international sanctions were putting the final nails in the coffin of Rhodesian white minority rule, Rhodesians were finally discussing a meaningful role for blacks in government and every day life.

It had come down to this--the war and sanctions had bankrupted the nation and the comfortable life of privilege that whites had been living fueled by the cheap labor of Rhodesian blacks.  (The similiarity to American Southern slavery was impossible to ignore.)  Just as lack of foreign exchange made the munitions of war scarce, so it inhibited the ability of Rhodesians to travel outside southern Africa or to import the vehicles and electronic conveniences which were part of Western European living.

At this time in April of 1978, the Rhodesian military was fully capable of destroying its armed enemies.  But, international opinion was so strongly marshaled against them, Rhodesian attempts to disguise every cross-border raid met with universal condemnation, even from their strategic ally, the Republic of South Africa.  

I am not sure how much I was conscious of all of this as I rode my motorcycle back out to Llewellyn Barracks, but I certainly felt this as my mind and motorcycle both whirred down the highway.  No sooner than I had settled myself in my office that the Regimental Sergeant Major appeared at my door with the news that Col Mickelsfield wanted to see me.

It had been a few months since my last encounter with Col Mickelsfield and I had attended a few of the “prayer meetings” at the Sergeant’s Mess with Pegi just to try and show that I was a “team player.”  Was it possible that Maj Gen MacIntyre had informed Col Mickelsfield of my new assignment?  No, that wasn’t likely as the General had been very plain that the Army could not recognize any changes in the political situation.  So, what was this about?  Maybe the Colonel needed me to do something special as base chaplain or maybe he wanted an update of when Eugene Wiseman would be joining me.

No matter what it was, I was feeling pretty comfortable in my position having just returned from a meeting with the Chief of Staff.  I entered Col Mickelsfield’s office with assurance and a cordial smile.  As soon as I sat down across from his desk, it was clear that he was pissed about something.  

“Padre, what is this I hear about you meeting with the Chiefs at HQ?  Are you going over my head or behind my back?”

Oh boy!  This wasn’t good! 

“No sir!  Generals MacIntyre and MacClean asked that I report to them periodically concerning the morale of foreign soldiers.  This was just one in an ongoing series of meetings that I have had with them over the last six months.  This assignment was given to me by Col Wood before I was stationed here in Bulawayo.”

This seemed to settle him down a bit when he realized that this had nothing to do with his previous attempts to act as my commanding officer instead of just the base commander where I was domiciled.  Of course, Norman Wood was gone to South Africa, Eugene Wiseman still hadn’t reported for duty and I didn’t have a friend in the new Chaplain General, Bill Dodgen.

“Well, from now on, you are not to travel without my express authority.  Dismissed!” 

I should have been concerned, but I realized that it no longer made a difference.  In a few weeks I would be going on thirty days leave from which I would not return.  Col Mickelsfield and his egoistic pettiness no longer mattered.  I had already left mentally.

The following night, Pegi and I had dinner with Stan Hannan and his wife.  I unburdened myself that evening, telling Stan of my meeting with Gen MacIntyre.  Stan agreed that majority rule was now inevitable,  He supported the General’s suggestion that we should return to the USA.  

The following days were a blur of details as Pegi gave notice to her employer and we sold off our few possessions, all under the guise of going on a long leave.  No one seemed to notice or maybe they just didn’t care that it was odd to be ridding yourself of all possessions for a month-long trip overseas!  

The most difficult part of leaving was parting with our dogs.  We found homes for all of them and over a very long weekend, each one of the five left our home with their new families.  Dixie the Lab, Sheba the Ridgeback and Groucho the Cocker Spaniel had all left when a couple came to pick up the Woola the Springer Spaniel.  Woola was the smartest of the dogs and had figured out what was happening.  When Pegi called for her, she took off around the house and hid in the the boulders bordering our neighbor’s yard!

Finally,  (and my eyes are tearing up as I write this 31 years later), it was time to drop off Rebel with a family Pegi had met through her work.  Ridgebacks were generally one-person dogs.  Rebel wouldn’t even approach someone unless I “introduced” them.  We knew that we had to do something special to effect the transfer to a new owner.

We had his new owners over for dinner.  Then we took Rebel with us to their house for dinner.  At the suggestion of our vet, we fed him and left him in their garage overnight.    The theory was that he would awake the next morning and would have made transfer of loyalty to his new owner. 

I told him to “stay” and drove off with Pegi.  About 2:00 in the morning we got a phone call.  Rebel had broken through a window in the garage to escape.  He was somewhere in the neighborhood, howling as he wandered looking for me.

We dressed quickly and drove over to where Rebel could be heard wailing.  After a few minutes, I found him.  He was limping, having cut his front paw on the broken glass of the garage window.  He was confused and wouldn’t come to me when I called, but he wasn’t running away from me either.  I mustered up my voice of authority and said, “Rebel, sit!”  He sat down and I was able to walk over and cradle his big silly head in my arms.

We took him home with us for the rest of the night, visiting the vet after sunrise.  After stitching up his paw, the vet gave us a strong sedative for him.  He told us to dose his food and let him sleep in the new owner’s house overnight, hopefully in a room without outside access.  By the time the sedative wore off, he would think that his new owner was me.

This attempt worked just fine.  I would never see my Rebel again.

Over the years as Pegi and I have lamented leaving Rhodesia, our eyes begin to water as we remember Rebel.  On a few occasions when our emotions have overcome us, especially if we have had a few drinks, we have weeped for Rebel blaming Ian Smith and his political incompetence for the holes in our hearts.  To us, Rebel epitomized Rhodesia--the beautiful, the unusual, special, the lonely, the loved and lost.  

Next:  “The French Would Sell Their Mothers!”

Tell Them to Go!

I climbed out of truck and brushed off the accumulation of dust from the five hour ride from from Bulawayo to Salisbury.  As I walked from the motorpool to the building that housed Gen MacIntyre’s office, I reflected on my eleven months in the Rhodesian Army.

I had wandered a long way from the ZBT house in Madison!  I had wondered even more.  What was a nice Jewish boy like me doing in a place like this?  I was about to meet with the Rhodesian Army chief-of-staff to report on foreign soldier morale.  Yet, the morale most prominent in my thinking was my own.  I was no longer that naive and optimistic American recruit whose major concern was how he had overeaten the morning he met with the recruiting officer.  

My naivety had been replaced with paranoia.  As I walked into the General’s office, I tried to shake all of this off as I had brushed off the road dust a few minutes before.  Time to get my head on straight and talk to the General.

Maj Gen MacIntyre was again joined by his co-chief, Maj Gen MacClean.  Friendly as always, he invited me to be seated and offered me a cup of tea.  As I related the sad state of affairs among the foreign soldiers with whom I had recently met, I could see that there was something pressing on Gen MacIntyre’s mind.  I paused to allow him to speak before going on with my report.

Padre, we understand that the changing political climate is causing concern among the foreign soldiers who have joined us in our struggle here.  The number of soldiers “taking the gap” and returning home has increased dramatically as the negotiations toward a black majority-rule government have become public.

I explained how that we had come to Rhodesia to fight against the very direction the country was now taking.  Amongst the American soldiers especially, there was the sense that we had been misled by the Smith government’s cry of “over my dead body.”  We had joined the struggle risking our own lives, not because we were opposed to majority rule, but to insure that Rhodesians had the opportunity to determine their own course.  

Indeed, we had all come from countries where majority rule was the basis for governing.  We were opposed to the imposition of a government that was determined by foreign powers.  We fought for the right of Rhodesians, black and white, to elect their own leaders.  We were willing to fight and die so that Rhodesians could experience the freedoms that we had in our home nations.  

We also knew that democracy could not be created ex nihilo and that democractic change required a populace educated in the responsibilities of citizenship.  For the African population, this required some time--a time of peace.  We just didn’t believe that open and free elections could happen when thugs with guns were threatening the lives of the African populace, insisting that they vote for ZANU or ZAPU terrorist leaders.

I lamented, “The problem is that we can’t just “take the gap” and leave.  Most of us see that as desertion--something we wouldn’t do!  At the same time, we are aware that the rest of the world sees us as mercenaries.  We remember what happened in Angola.”

Every foreign soldier in Rhodesia was required to enlist under the same conditions as Rhodesian citizens.  The enlistment period was three years, during which we received the same pay as Rhodesians.  I had started at under $300/month.  Mercenaries made at least five times that.  There were no mercenaries in Rhodesia.  But just a couple of years before, mercenaries in Angola had been captured--and executed.  Mugabe, Nkomo, the World Press and even the American government considered us mercenaries.  We were in fear of our lives for good reason.

Both nodded their understanding with Gen MacIntyre adding: 

That’s why we have a new assignment for you.  We want you to begin counseling foreign soldiers that they are free to leave before their three year commitment is over.  We would leave ourselves if we could.  I have lived here for 28 years and can’t go many places on my Rhodesian passport.

Of course, the Army must remain neutral as we make the transition to majority rule government.  So, we can’t just discharge everyone--that would be recognizing a change that we just can’t afford.  If we want to keep the Army intact to preserve order for all Rhodesians, we must remain politically neutral.

However, we recognize that this is not what you foreign soldiers expected when you enlisted.  So, as you contact other foreign soldiers, tell them that their records will be destroyed and they will not be considered deserters.  As far as we are concerned, you have lived up to your obligations.

Tell them to go!  If necessary, offer them a ride to the airport.  And it is time for you to leave too, Jeff.

I was both surprised and relieved to hear this.  It wasn’t just my paranoia--this was real danger.

I explained that I had 30 days leave coming the next month.  Gen MacIntyre suggested I close up shop and return to the US during that leave.  I shouldn’t advise my chain of command--I should just go.  The same applied for any other foreign soldiers with whom I had contact.  

I stood and shook both of their hands for what was likely to be the last time, saluted and walked out of Army HQ.  

It was time to go.

Next:  The Rebel I Loved and Lost

This Phone May Be Tapped!

Stan was as much a puzzle to me as I probably was to him.  When I first met him, I was new the Chaplain Corps and he was completing a six month period of service as a sergeant-chaplain.  He had been a member of PATU (Police Anti-Terrorist Unit) when he received his “call to ministry” as a Baptist pastor.  As a preparation for full-time ministry he had been begun coursework and for practical experience, transferred to the Chaplain Corps.  

He functioned as aide-de-camp to the Chaplain General.  If I remember correctly, as he finished his tour as a chaplain, he was heading to a seminary in South Africa to finish his coursework.  About the time we moved to Bulawayo, he returned to Rhodesia as pastor of a Baptist church in Bulawayo.  

What was a bit strange was that he began wearing a clerical collar, something unknown in Baptist circles.  He told me that he thought that it commanded respect, especially from the British Rhodesians with their Anglican backgrounds.  Rhodesians with an Afrikaner background would be also be accustomed to the collar with their Dutch Reformed ministers.  It was odd, but who was I to judge oddness?  After all, I knew just how odd I was with my anti-clerical, anti-organized church, Jesus Freak/Thiemite, pistol packin’, foul-mouthed persona.

But because Stan had always been forthcoming with me and had gone out of his way to help me adjust to life in the chaplaincy, I felt that I could trust him with my own misgivings about God’s plan for my life.  One evening after a day at the barracks, I gave him a phone call.

I began to share my concerns about how the Smith government was beginning to openly discuss a transition to multiracial government and my own misgivings about my role as a chaplain.  Stan told me that one of the reasons that Col Wood had left the chaplaincy was that Mugabe, in his broadcasts from Mozambique had added Norman and the Chaplain Corps to his list of enemies who would be killed after “liberation.”  That meant I was on the list!

This alarmed me, to say the least!  But before the conversation could go any further, Stan said something that made my heart skip:

“Jeff, we should get together and talk in person.  It is likely that your phone is tapped.”

Whoa!  All of a sudden, I remembered the conversation with Robin Moore months earlier.  He had lamented that the government’s Internal Affairs division was watching all of us foreign soldiers with a jaundiced eye.  Americans were the subject of the closest scrutiny because of the deteriorating relations with the US.

To make matters worse, Robin had published a story with a photo of Pegi and me in the New York Times syndicate of over 17 papers in the US.  That same article also appeared as “The Crippled Eagles--VII,” pages 231-38 in his 1977 book, Rhodesia.  I had also been filmed while in uniform, standing with Robin and several other American soldiers in front of his home in Salisbury.  Just over my shoulder was Robin’s plaque that announced that his home was the unofficial “American Embassy” for Crippled Eagles (American soldiers) in Rhodesia.  This played on the ABC Evening News.  I was a bit exposed!

Hearing the concern in my voice, Stan invited Pegi and me over for dinner the following week.  We would speak about all of this in private.

I would have immediately rushed over there that night if it weren’t for plans that I already had to travel to Salisbury the following morning.  I was headed to Army HQ for one of my regular meetings with Maj Gen MacIntyre to report on the morale of the contingent of foreigners serving in the Rhodesian Security Forces.

Early the next morning, I rode my motorcycle over to 3 Brigade HQ on the other side of Bulawayo.  From there, I was able to catch a ride in the back of a truck with some other troops heading to Army HQ in Salisbury.  I was supposed to be reporting on the morale of other soldiers, but my own flagging morale was sure to color the conversation with the General.

Next:  Tell Them to Go!

American Visitors

With no one to speak to at Llewellin Barracks and only Pegi to speak with each evening, I was dying for some more intelligent conversation.  I would even settle for an argument!  

The only books worth reading in my office library were science fiction.  At least that engaged my mind.  I had always loved science fiction.  And now, even though I was thoroughly convinced that I understood God’s plan for the universe including eternity past and the prophetic future, there was something about sci-fi that attracted me.  I think it was that it forced me to think in new ways, to consider a universe of possibilities for which I had not already nailed down theological answers.

I was reading a sci-fi novel by Issac Asimov one Saturday afternoon when, lo and behold, there was a knock at our front door!  This time it wasn’t our neighbor complaining about our dogs’ midnight garbage-tipping forays.  Standing at my door were three American Mormon missionaries.  They had come by to tell me about the revelations of their founder, Joseph Smith.  They were Americans!  I happily invited them in.

Pegi offered them coffee, which of course they declined.  Then she offered them tea which they also politely refused.  After offering them a Pepsi and finally realizing that they didn’t partake of any caffeine products, she brought them ice water.  

Our conversation didn’t immediately turn to Mormon theology.  For a long while we spoke about NFL football and college basketball.  This was the first time since arriving in Rhodesia a year before that I had anyone to talk with about my two favorite sports.  When the conversation did finally turn to their religious beliefs, I listened politely.  I already “knew it all” since I had studied thousands of hours of biblical instruction with Thieme.  

I apologize here to any Latter Day Saints who may read this, but as they shared their “prophetic revelation” with me, it sounded very similar to the science fiction that I was reading.  Today, I understand how all religion sounds like science fiction to non-adherents.  Hut, back in early 1978, as they sat on our sofa in Bulawayo, the only interest I had in their story was what seemed to be a sci-fi element.

They left me a copies of the Book of Mormon and their version of the Bible.  I promised to read them and let them know what I thought on their return visit.

Well, now I had some interesting “fiction” to read and an upcoming visit from these young fellows where an interesting discussion or a good argument was certain to ensue.  This was going to be fun!

My new friends returned the a couple of weeks later.  This time, they were eager to get down to business.  No sports talk this week!

They asked me if I had read the books.  Responding that I had, I told them that I had to be honest with them.  I found that their translation of the Bible had serious errors.  They assured me that this translation was a fresh one directly from the original Hebrew and Greek texts by Joseph Smith.  That made me chuckle as I explained that some sections seemed to plagiarize the King James translation of 1611, including some of the translation and textual errors of textus receptus, the collection of manuscripts from which the KJV was translated.  

I could see that they weren’t prepared for a textual argument, so I shifted gears to discuss the differences in the teachings of the Book of Mormon, specifically with Ephesians and Paul’s epistles.  The concept of salvation by grace through faith was obscured in the Mormon texts.  Instead, a system of salvation by “works” was clearly taught.  Surely, they would be ready to discuss or argue this seminal point?

Nope!  They refused to discuss grace and works.  So, I moved on to my final hope of engaging them in an argument since an intelligent discussion was not happening.  I pulled out my big guns:  

“I can tell you that this is pretty good science fiction!  But there is no way that it stands the its teaching is consistent with the Bible.”

At this point, the lead “elder” (all of 20 years of age), stood and announced:

“Well, we just came to let you know that there is a prophet living in the world today and to present you with the words of God’s prophets that came before.”

The three of them immediately left and exited our front door.  Watching them leave, they shook the dust off their feet, got on their bicycles and headed down the street.

They hadn’t won me to their faith and I hadn’t convinced them of anything.  But, it had been nice to have a conversation with someone about something!

A few weeks later, I saw them on their bicycles at a nearby shop.  I waved and smiled.  They kept on peddling.

I wished it would be so simple for me--to just keep on peddling.  My problem, however, was that my bicycle of bible doctrine was beginning wobble.  Theology and doctrine were fine, but the ultimate test was how it was lived-out.  And that was my problem.  Much of the bible doctrine that I had learned from Col Thieme just wasn’t working.  God’s plan for my life was not moving along the lines that I expected.

Thieme’s political theory, called the “Laws of Divine Establishment” were crashing around me.  According to Thieme, Rhodesia was doing everything right, but it was clear to me that the Rhodesians were just like everyone else, pursuing what was best for themselves.  There was no good excuse for the laggard pace at which they were bringing black Africans forward into positions of prominence.  African schooling was primitive, yet schooling for whites was comparable with what could be found in any British Commonwealth nation.

Smith had proclaimed Rhodesia a “Meritocracy” where the “best” of any race could rise to the top.  That just wasn’t true. Africans could not rise to positions of equality with whites, much less to the top.  When I shared these concerns with Col Thieme, I was labeled as “unstable and unreliable.”  The bible doctrine in my soul was apparently malfunctioning according to Thieme.  And I agreed with him--it wasn’t work for Pegi or me.

But, I had no where else to turn.  We were alone in Bulawayo, cut off from other Christians due to the nature of the cult-like culture infused in us by Thieme that proclaimed only him as our “right pastor-teacher.”  Even if I wanted to listen to other teachers, I didn’t know of any.  And if they weren’t the scholars that I believed Thieme to be, how could I respect them?  Those of us at Berachah really believed that there was no one out there who was teaching bible doctrine like Bob Thieme.  But, what did we know of others?  We were totally isolated from any teachers other than Thieme.  I had been listening to Thieme’s taped lessons for more than an hour a day for eight years.  When would I have had time to receive teaching from others?

Maybe it was time for me to reach out to the only other Christian that I knew in that part of Rhodesia--Stan Hannan.  After all, he had been the one who had brought me up to speed on my job as a chaplain and he had recently moved to Bulawayo to become pastor of a Baptist church.  There was no way that I was interested in going to his church--I thought Baptists to just be another dead denomination.  But, Stan was someone I could talk to.  I would have to give him a phone call.

Next:  This Phone May Be Tapped!

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

50 — "Muck" and Mire

Bulawayo seemed a bit lonely right off.  It wasn’t just that Salisbury had become “home” to us--there was more to it.  Bulawayo had been the original capital and major city in Rhodesia.  It was already feeling the effects of Sanctions and “white flight.”  The large boulevards seemed empty of cars.  It was the opposite of the crowds and bustle of Salisbury.  The shelves in the stores seemed sparser.  Here, it was obvious that the old Rhodesia was gone forever.

The Africans of Matabeleland were taller, humorless and just not as friendly as the majority Mashona of Salisbury.  With a proud heritage that went back to Shaka Zulu, there was a palpable difference in their bearing and “spirit.”  The whites seemed colder as well.  There was a feeling of being a second-class city.  In Salisbury, Col Wood had joked, “Be sure to set your watches back 15 years when you go to Bulawayo!”  I don’t think the residents of Bulawayo appreciated the humor.

We moved into our new home in Matsheumshope, but this time we didn’t hear from our neighbors.  We were just ignored.  For the entire time we were there, we only met two of our neighbors.  One invited us over to hear Ian Smith on television, but in Bulawayo we were never invited for dinner as had happened with regularity in Salisbury.  We heard from  our across the street neighbor only by complaint.  It seems that our dogs enjoyed raiding their trash cans at about 2:00 am.  Just the complaint, no offers of welcome or hospitality.  

I don’t recall actually making any friends in Bulawayo.  The only social contact we had was when Stan Hannan, whom I had met in the Chaplain Corps, became pastor of a Bulawayo Baptist Church.  I will cover more on Stan and his role in our exit from the country in a later chapter.

There was even a lonely Holiday Inn a few miles from our house.  It had been built in better times before Sanctions and claimed to serve American-style food.  Pegi and I went there for a Sunday afternoon meal.  The hamburger they served was close to an American hamburger, but it seemed strange eating in a mostly deserted dining room in a mostly deserted hotel.  

Llewellin Barracks, the Depot for the Rhodesia Regiment was not deserted.  It was the basic training center for all the Rhodesian “territorial” soldiers.  Except for the couple of thousand Rhodesians who were part of the Regular Army, most Rhodesian males started at Llewellin Barracks just after finishing high school.  [Maj Gen MacIntyre had actually argued for the adoption of the Israeli system where males and females alike would serve.]  At the end of 1977, the war was beginning to escalate seriously and the national service “intakes” were getting larger.

As the new chaplain at Llewellin, I was replacing a Catholic priest who had a reputation for being very close to the troops, but also as a drunkard.  As a sergeant replacing a captain, I knew I had to approach all of this carefully.  Col Wood told me that the base commander, Col Muck Mickelsfield was a close friend and would be very helpful to me.  Well, that sounded promising!

Eugene Wiseman, the pastor of Gatooma Baptist Church, fellow Thieme student, and who had ordained me into the chaplaincy, was to join me soon in Bulawayo.  So, I was in a caretaker role until he came.  Once he got there, then I would be freer to focus on my assignments for Maj Gen MacIntyre.

In the meantime, I settled into the tiny one room building that served as the Chaplain’s Office.  I had no idea what to expect, but assumed that there were some regular duties that I would have a base chaplain.  However, the chaplain before me had no regular duties!  It seems that he had even given over most of the Sunday services and even the weekly “Padre’s Hour” for the trainees, to guest speakers.  Most of this was typically handled by a “territorial” chaplain of Indian ancestry.  Padre Val Rajan was a nice fellow and brought all of his sons (I think there were five of them) with him when he ministered.  His sons and he played guitar and horn instruments.  It wasn’t very good, but at least it was interesting!

However, the Sunday services were poorly attended.  No high school-aged kid is going to want to go to a voluntary church service on Sunday.  Most likely, they would be sleeping off a hangover if they had leave or would be just getting some rest from the grueling week of training.

And, let’s be honest, there were elements of racialism that would get in the way of an Indian Pentecostal Christian successfully ministering to a bunch of white Rhodesians.  Indians were considered “Asian coloureds” and Pentecostalism had not made significant inroads in the Anglican “churchianity” which was the background of most of these white kids.

So, it was up to me to find a path in between the pentecostalism of Val and the drunkenness of the previous chaplain.  As I was thinking about all of this during my third day at the base, the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM-highest ranking NCO) appeared at my office door.  He ordered me to report immediately to Col Mickelsfield.  I thought, “This is great!  I will get to meet Col Mickelsfield, the chaplain general’s good friend, ‘Muck’.”

By now, I was not intimidated by rank.  I was a chaplain and as such was treated with deference by officer and enlisted men alike.  I had just recently met with Generals MacIntyre and MacClean.  I had been dispatched to Llewellin by the Chaplain General himself to help out his “buddy” Muck.  

Entering Col Mickelsfield’s office, I saluted, smiled and shook his hand.  I immediately sensed his coolness towards me.  After chatting for just a minute about settling in at home and on base, he screwed up his forehead and said, “You are delinquent for not reporting to me immediately as soon as you arrived on base!”

Uh oh!  Apparently, I had offended his strong sense of protocol.  Because I was stationed on his base, it seemed that he expected me to report to him as my commanding officer.  Col Wood hadn’t prepared me for this.  As chaplains, we didn’t report to anyone other than the Chaplain General and God.  I had received no indication that I was to be taking day-to-day instructions from Col Mickelsfield.  I don’t think that was his intention, but he was a pretty stiff formal officer and I was a sergeant.  He was accustomed to dealing with chaplains who were officers.  Clearly, he was not going to be “Muck” for me--he would be Lt Col Mickelsfield.

I apologized for having been unaware of protocol and he seemed to accept this.  After all, he really didn’t see me as a soldier--I was just a useless American chaplain’s assistant.  He had one final instruction for me, that he expected me to attend the RSM’s prayer meetings.

You would think that I would have no problem with a prayer meeting as a chaplain, but there was no “praying” at these meetings.  NCO and Officer’s messes held mandatory drinking parties each Friday evening called “prayer meeting.”  This was the time when they blew off steam and drank themselves stupid to start the weekend.

I didn’t have a problem with drinking as a Christian.  As a follower of Thieme’s teaching, I was not tied to the American legalism that forbade alcoholic beverage.  However, Col Wood had told me that chaplains were exempt from the the mandatory prayer meeting drink fests.  It obviously sent the wrong message to the soldiers.  And because I was taking over for a chaplain who was well-known as a drunk, it would be a huge compromise of my status as a chaplain to participate.

I straightened my shoulders and responded directly:  “Sir, I am sorry, but I cannot participate in the RSM’s prayer meetings.  I will make an attempt to attend from time to time to meet the other NCOs on base, but I cannot not accept this instruction to attend on a mandatory basis.”

Col Mickelsfield didn’t insist, but I could see that I had not made a friend of either him or the RSM.  Bulawayo was going to be a sticky situation.  I was already mired in the “Muck”. 

Next:  War Fever

Balla Balla, Bulawayo and Matsheumshlope

Balla Balla was the home of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR).  As we drove through the gate of this all volunteer black African unit, you could sense a crispness in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the weather.  This was the most highly motivated unit in the Rhodesian Army.  Beyond the spit and polish, the unison of men drilling on the parade ground and the flourish of the swept-up brims of their headgear, you could feel the intensity of purpose that coursed through the base.  

These were Africans who had seen the truth.  They knew firsthand what the so-called “freedom fighters” of the ZANLA/ZIPRA forces of Mugabe and Nkomo did to the people of Rhodesia.  These men had witnessed the killings, mutilations, rapes and kidnappings in their own home villages.  Instead of cowering in the face of these atrocities, these men joined the RAR and became the most respected and feared of all Rhodesian forces.  (Even after the amalgamation of terrorist forces into the Zimbabwean Army, RAR was the unit that Mugabe called upon to put down rebellious former freedom fighters.  These were amazing soldiers.)

We observed troops drilling and had the opportunity to meet one of the newly commissioned black officers.  It was an impressive morning.  I remember thinking that these men were the future of Africa.  I believed that from these ranks would come leaders for the next century.  Unfortunately, that was not to be.  With the Lancaster House agreement that led to Mugabe’s election as Prime Minister, the fate of men such as these was sealed.  When their usefulness as soldiers was over, these men would no longer be safe in independent Zimbabwe.  They would have to flee for their lives.

One of the principles that Thieme had drilled into me was that “all freedom comes through military victory.”  Although I have since rejected just about everything that I learned from him as it relates to the spiritual life, this is one teaching that seems to hold true historically.  Yes, it is possible for people to gain freedom through negotiation and compromise.  However, history does seem to teach us that freedoms gained will always be tested on the battlefield.  It does seem that lasting freedom only comes through the sacrifice of those who are willing to risk all for the liberty of others.  

This is the world we still live in.  The nature of the battlefield may change as today’s struggle against political terror has shown us, but ultimately, our security and liberty are   dependent on soldiers and policemen worldwide who risk their own lives that we may have ours.

I guess this is why I cannot help but respect the soldiers who fought in this forgotten war.  No, maybe they didn’t meet our standards of political correctness formulated in the safety and security of our borders.  Yes, sometimes blood rage led them to commit acts for which even they are ashamed.  Nevertheless, these are those who stood up in time of crisis to oppose forces whose overriding method was the maiming, killing and torturing of defenseless civilians.

These black men of RAR fought side by side with their white countrymen for the freedom to make their own political choices.  This is the purest form of altruism, or as a Galilean rabbi once said, “Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13, NASB).

After visiting Balla Balla, we traveled on to Llewellin Barracks in Bulawayo.  Pegi and I hoped to find housing on the base.  However, we were dismayed at the condition of the housing available to NCOs.  In a country where everyone had a well-kept lawn and garden, we were shocked to see homes surrounded by dirt instead of grass.  The interiors of the houses were even worse!

So, we borrowed Col Woods Peugeot and drove the 20 miles into Bulawayo.  Looking through the classified section of the newspaper, we found a beautiful home in the suburb of Matsheumshlope (mats-zoom-slope with an ‘sh’ - py).  If I remember correctly, this was Ndebele for “white rocks.”  And the home we found certainly fit that description.  Our two bedroom modern brick home was on the side of a hill.  Instead of grass, most of the property was comprised of huge boulders.  

The back yard had some grass for the five dogs we had accumulated by this time.  We had two Rhodesian Ridgebacks (Rebel and Sheba), a yellow Labrador Retriever (Dixie), a Springer Spaniel (Woola), and a tiny Cocker Spaniel (Groucho). 

The house in Matsheumshlope

Groucho overseeing his domain

Rebel with Woola

Pegi with Dixie

Groucho peaking out from the bushes.

Returning to Salisbury, the Army sent a truck and personnel to pack us for our move.  We crammed all five dogs into the back of our tiny Austin Mini station wagon.  The vet gave us sedatives for the dogs for the five hour ride.  We must have mixed up the dosages for the Springer and Cocker Spaniels.  While Rebel, Sheba and Dixie snoozed in the back, Woola was awake and perky for the whole trip.  It was as if she felt responsible to stay awake and watch over the others.  Groucho, the little cocker had to be held most of the trip as he couldn’t even hold up his own head.  Yep, we must have mixed up the dosages!

The hardest part of leaving Salisbury was leaving Langton, our gardener whom we had first met in Alex Park.  We had become friends, had taken in his younger brother and met his mother.  But Langton was Mashona and Bulawayo was the home of the Matabele, a Zulu offshoot tribe.  It would be lonely and dangerous for him to move with us.  (Follow this link for more on my relationship with Langton.)

We found him another job in Salisbury and said our goodbyes.  Years later, back in the US, we were watching a film about Steven Mbeko, a South African political activist who was jailed by the apartheid government.  It had been filmed in Zimbabwe.  There was a scene of men playing soccer in a field outside an African township.  The hills in the background looked like the ones where our home, Kalanyoni, had been.  As the scene played on, I swear I saw Langton!  He was one of the extras in the scene.  I can’t prove it, but I know I saw him.  You always recognize a close friend when you see him!

Next:  “Muck” and Mire