37 — Stand at attention when you talk to ME! (Salisbury: March 1977)

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 services 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 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 Barracks, 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 make you a target in combat 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 (Regimental Police) 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:  38 — Pistol-Packin’ Chaplain (Salisbury:  March 1977)

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33 -- The Interview (Salisbury: Feb 1977)

It hadn’t really hit me yet that all my plans were in disarray.  For a few days, I enjoyed the light duty.  Instead of PT every morning, I would report to the Quartermaster’s office.  I would check equipment in and out, maintain and organize inventory.  I was no longer treated as a “recruit” even though I had not finished my training.  I was just one of the staff at Training Troop as far as everyone was concerned.  Color Sgt Rose, my new boss, had all the new recruits call me “Trooper,” the title of honor for all regular members of RLI who were not NCOs.  It was a heady experience being addressed as a full-fledged member of RLI!  Of course, I was still bunking with my unit and hoping that I could join a new intake of trainees in about five weeks, once my ankle had healed.

The 2^nd day of my new life as Trooper Wasserman, Color Rose told me that I should report to Captain Cooper’s office, just 30 feet down the hallway.  Capt Cooper was the commanding officer of Training Troop.  I remember him as a tall wiry man with a neatly trimmed mustache, typical of what you would expect of a British officer.  My only previous contact with him had been when he addressed us on the first day of training.  We lived in terror of NCOs—but an officer, they were from a totally different realm!

Saluting, I stood at attention in front of his desk.  He drew my attention to an attractive blonde sitting in a guest chair to my left.  She introduced herself as an assistant to Robin Moore (American author of The Green Berets).  She was assisting Moore in his effort to write a book about the conflict in Rhodesia.  She had government permission to interview me about my experience as an American in the Rhodesian Army.  I was happy to comply and spent the next hour with her chatting about my reasons for coming to Rhodesia.

[A few weeks later, when I had leave, Pegi and I both were interviewed by her, a retired Colonel in the American Special Forces, and Robin himself after dinner at his home in Salisbury.  Moore published our interview in several papers of the New York Times syndicate, Newsweek and as Chapter 5 in his book, Rhodesia, New York: Condor Publishing, 1977.]

Later that day, I was the talk of Training Troop and RLI.  In the mess hall, even some Troopers from the Commandos wanted to talk to me.  Who was the hot blonde you were with today?  How did you get that duty?  What is going on?  Are you in the CIA?  We heard she is an agent for the South African intelligence.

I just smiled, enjoying my new status as a celebrity in RLI.  I think her first name was “Lynn,” and I do remember that she was South African, married to an officer in the Rhodesian Air Force.  The Colonel, whose name I have also forgotten, had met Robin in Vietnam when he was writing The Green Berets.  He was one of the characters in that book which was later made into a movie starring John Wayne.  Lynn and this Colonel’s roles in Rhodesia are fully detailed in the historical fiction novel by Moore, The White Tribe.

About a week later, I was again ordered to report to Captain Cooper.  Standing in front of his desk again, he said:

Well, Wasserman (pronouncing it “Vasserman” as is common in Afrikaans), I have just been on to the doctors at base hospital.  They tell me that it is unlikely that your leg is going to heal up enough for you to be able to complete training and go on to the Commandos.

My heart began to pound—what did this mean?  What was going to happen now?  I could feel my world beginning to crash in around me.  Those two sentences meant no RLI, no Officer Training, no SAS, no military career as I had envisioned.

Sensing my distress, he continued:

However, you can still be part of RLI and participate in operations in the bush.  I want you to report to the motor pool.  You will be trained as a combat driver.  You will drive our attack vehicles in raids as we take out the Terr camps.  How does that sound to you?

Relieved, I replied:  Yes, sir!  That would be just fine sir!   

Right then!  You will report to the motor pool each morning beginning next Monday.  In the meantime, you can go home this weekend for leave.  Next Monday, you can start sleeping at home and just report to the motor pool each morning at 0700.  Dismissed!

Whoa!  As I saluted and made my way to the mess hall for breakfast, I was a bit light-headed.  This was good?  No, it was a disaster . . . well, maybe this was good?  I would still be a combat soldier in RLI.  And I was no longer a recruit.  But what was I?  Would I be a full-fledged member of RLI with a green and white service belt, green beret with RLI insignia?  Or would I be just a driver assigned to RLI? 

I still had permission to walk rather than double-time everywhere, but found it best to stick to the back roads where I was less likely to be accosted by NCOs who would scream until I showed them my doctor’s note.  I usually jogged lightly when I saw someone coming, just to stay out of difficulty. 

This morning, after my discussion with Capt Cooper, I was lost in thought when I passed the back gate that led to the field where I had hurt my ankle.  I didn’t notice the RP (Regimental Police) on duty at that gate until he stepped out of his one man guard house and screamed, “You!  Come here now . . . run!” 

As I ran-limped over to him, he howled:   

Stand at attention when you are talking to me!  What is wrong with you, you lazy waster?  Just because you talked to some sexy blonde, you think you are special and you don’t have to double-time it like everyone else?

No, Corp!  I have permission from the doctors because of my leg!

Don’t you talk back to me you worthless piece of dung!  I don’t care if Ian Smith himself tells you to walk—I am telling you that if I ever see you walking around here again, I will have your ass in the box (jail).  Is that clear?

Yes, Corp!

Now get your sorry ass away from my post!

Well, that settled it—my new posting outside of Training Troop to the motor pool was going to be a real improvement.  And besides, I would get to see Pegi every night and sleep in my own bed!

Next:  34 — The Interview, Addendum (Salisbury:  Feb 1977)

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32 — Field "Trip" (Salisbury: Jan 1977)

As I settled into my steel frame rack (bed) and pulled my army green mosquito netting around me for the evening, I reflected on what had just happened.  Here I was thousands of miles from home, separated from the woman I loved, and a recruit in basic training again—this time in a foreign army!  How could I have been so stupid?  I still hadn’t come to grips with the thought of actually getting killed or wounded in combat—those things always happened to someone else.  But, I was a recruit again—the lowest of the low, the scum of the scum.  I was the tool of any Rhodesian who outranked me (and they all did), to abuse me as it suited them.

But the moment of panic and regret passed quickly as I drifted off the sleep, exhausted from the day’s activity . . . and then my alarm went off.  I had set it for 04:30 so that I could get an early start on the day.  Amazingly refreshed from only four hours of sleep, I quickly made up my rack, military style, tucking the mosquito netting in at the end of the bed. After a very cold shower—it took a while before the hot water reached our showers and I was the only one awake—I dressed for morning PT (physical training).  While I was waiting for the rest of my company to wake up, I spent some time organizing my locker and familiarizing myself with my FN rifle.

At 06:00 we formed up outside the barracks for a run.  I was still adjusting to the altitude and had not been running for the last few weeks as we toured the country.  At first I thought I might pass out as I struggled to catch my breath, but eventually caught my second wind and adjusted to the rhythm of the group.  I was 27, a good 10 years older than most of the recruits.  Although they could speed by me, I managed to keep up with them as long as we kept in formation.  

Ready for a Road Run

                

After the run we did some pushups which were not a problem for me.  I could do 50 pushups on demand.  I had developed that ability while delivering office supplies and as a milkman in Houston.  I would do pushups by the side of the road whenever I felt sleepy driving around in the Houston heat and humidity.

Squat thrusts were another matter!  After running and doing pushups, I just couldn’t get enough oxygen flowing through my muscles and I started stumbling around badly.  Mercifully, PT ended quickly and we were sent back to change into our camo fatigues for breakfast.  With some food and liquid in me, I was rejuvenated for the day ahead.

A typical day’s training included close order drill, marksmanship and caring for my FN, plus classroom lectures on small unit tactics.  The grueling conditioning was not fun, but the rest was.  As the days went on, I became accustomed to the routine and began to “feel” like a soldier.  The rifle range, parade ground and classrooms were my place of business as I was being turned from a civilian into a professional soldier.   

The Obstacle Course

Here is an excerpt from a letter that I sent back to Col Thieme at Berachah Church:

While in training I have seen why the Rhodesian soldier is so good. The training emphasizes: 1-fitness, 2-marksmanship, 3-drill. No shaved heads, just clean haircuts–not really much harassment.  Inspections are rigid, drill very important (three hours every day, British style, stomping your feet), but a lot is left to individual initiative. All the NCOs have combat experience and enunciate very clearly when speaking so that Americans, Brits, Canadians and Belgians can understand them.  The NCOs in Training Troop are really well trained for the job.

As you can see, I had a very positive attitude!  My sense of purpose kept me positive.  I was buoyed by the letters from Pegi that she sent every day.  As I read them each evening, my spirit was reinforced.  Aside from the personal elements of her letters, she would include notes that she had taken while listening to bible lessons on tape that we had begun to receive from Houston.  Up until my first day at Training Troop, I had either attended a bible class or listened to a taped class everyday for six years.  Not only was my identity totally bound up in the teaching that I was getting from Col Thieme, but my spiritual life was wholly dependent on continual attention to his teachings.

He had not taught us to gain our spiritual sustenance through reading the Bible for ourselves.  We were totally dependent on his detailed knowledge of the original languages, historical context and systematic theology.  Although I had garnered a storehouse of biblical knowledge, I was incapable of thinking for myself when it came to the application of that knowledge.  The problem was that I did not know that I was incapable.  I had a multitude of opinions that I believed were founded solidly on biblical fact.  I thought I knew “everything” when it came to the subject of relationship with God.  I had no idea of how uninformed I was.  Well, do any of us really know how uninformed we are?  That is what life experience and growth is all about—learning what idiots we have been!

Well, Recruit Wasserman had no clue that his world view was skewed.  And all the other recruits were equally ignorant—just without all the bible doctrine to bolster the arrogance of their misconceptions.

In spite of my “know it all” attitude, I had begun to make friends in my training unit.  The Rhodesians no longer seemed like bad kids who were a step ahead of the police.  Some of them were surprisingly intelligent with a strong sense of humor.  They just hadn’t had it as easy as some others.  Maybe they weren’t quite as well off as some of their contemporaries.  Others might have had a learning disability.  The more we suffered and struggled together, the closer we became. 

I was really surprised to find myself friends with a South African who had been given the choice of jail in South Africa for theft or three years in the Rhodesian Army.  He was a “tough guy,” but actually took a liking to me.  I had taken some martial arts classes in Houston and was hoping that what I had learned would help me in any close combat situation.  He had practical street fighting experience.  We spent our time off working to combine my academic knowledge from doing karate and kung fu exercises with his speed and savvy from real fights.  We both excelled when it came time for bayonet drill.  The two of us destroyed all the practice dummies and smashed our opponents with pugil sticks, much to the delight of our NCO instructors.

One afternoon, as we hurried to change clothes for a training exercise, I mistakenly locked my key to my locker inside it!  Within two minutes, my South African buddy had picked the lock with a set of picks that he just “happened” to have with him!

Our exercise that afternoon was to plant neutered mines in a large field.  The idea was to test the detection skills of a senior training class one week from graduation.  We must have done pretty well, since they only found four of the nine mines we planted.  It was this realistic type of training that allows a unit to fail and to “die” while practicing that led to learning and fewer casualties in combat.  I was envious of these near-graduates.  I still had so much to learn!  They were a week away from being real soldiers and I was still a recruit.

One of the Rhodesian recruits that I did not like was another Jeff, spelled Geoffrey.  Geoffrey “L” had just turned 17 and was a weaselly little troublemaker-crybaby.  He was willfully stupid and always complaining about our NCOs, the Army, the food, etc.  He would deliberately screw up every day, thus insuring that we would have punishment runs with rifles held above our heads several times a day.

A number of my fellow recruits had threatened him with violence, but that only made him worse.  In the 3^rd week of training, he pulled a stunt that got him in trouble with Capt Cooper, the head of Training Troop.  As a result, he was slated to be “held back” to finish his training with the next recruit class.  When we heard about this we celebrated that he would plague us no more! But before the paperwork was completed, he pulled another childish stunt that led to the end of my dream of a military career.

We were outside the gate at Cranborne in a training area that had a large field of high grass and rivulets of water hidden below.  It was rainy season and the rivulets were everywhere.  We were practicing combat movements in the tall grass when Geoffrey L decided to mouth off to Cpl Cotzee (pronounced ‘coat-see-uh’), our senior instructor. 

Cpl Cotzee had been a secondary school teacher and was one of the more educated Rhodesians I had met.  When he wasn’t drilling us, he would come by and chat with me.  I think he appreciated that I was well-read and had a university education.  He was one of my strongest advocates.  He had been supporting my intention to attend the Officer Training School in Gwelo after RLI. 

Why Geoffrey L decided to mouth off this time or what he said is a mystery.  All I know is that the RPs (Regimental Police) marched him off while the rest of us went running through the field with our rifles over our heads.

I mentioned previously that I had developed a method for supporting my rifle while running by locking my elbows and throwing my shoulders back.  This worked great on hard surfaces, but had the result of making me face upwards.  Consequently, I did not see the 2 foot square puddle in front of me as I ran through the tall grass.  My right boot was swallowed up in the puddle and I was thrown face forward in the water.  But, I didn’t drop my rifle!  Unfortunately, when I got up and tried to run, my ankle gave out and I fell again . . . and again . . . again.  Finally, I was able to hobble over to where we were being reformed at parade rest.

As we double-timed back to our barracks, I was limping really badly and had to fall out to the rear of the formation.  Cpl Cotzee walked with me so that I would not be assailed by passing RPs or other NCOs.

The next morning, my ankle was so swollen that I had trouble lacing my boot.  I had broken my leg and ankle two years before in Houston when attempting a jumping kick in a martial arts class.  I had landed badly, slipping on a wet spot on the cement floor.  I still have a pin in my right tibia from the surgical repairs.  Cpl Cotzee sent me to the base hospital where I was examined and given “permission” to walk for the next few days.

A week later, my situation had not improved.  The swelling had gone down and an x-ray showed that I had not broken any new bones.  However, the doctor told me that it was unlikely that the condition would improve in time for me to be able to complete training with my unit.  I would most likely be pulled out of my unit and wait for the next intake class in six weeks.  Until then, I would continue to bunk with my unit, but would be assigned duty working for the Quartermaster, a Color Sergeant.  We addressed him as “Color.”  Color Sgt is equivalent to a Staff Sgt in the US Army.  However, in the British system, all NCOs were treated with officer-like respect.  Even a three-stripe sergeant was equivalent to God!

I was devastated.  My dreams of a military career were fading as each day passed as a result of my field “trip”!

Next:  33 — The Interview (Salisbury: Feb 1977)

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31 -- The Rhodesian Light Infantry (Salisbury: Jan 1977)

So, I had been baked to a crisp with BSAP and had won my first victory against an incursion of avocados.  It was time to get down to the business that had brought me to Rhodesia in the first place.

Our four-week honeymoon was over.  Early on a Monday morning in January of 1977, I kissed Pegi goodbye at our Alexandra Park cottage and climbed into a neighbor’s car for my ride downtown to Major Lamprecht’s office.  There, I joined five other foreigners for our ride to Cranborne Barracks, the home of the Rhodesian Light Infantry.

As we made the 20 minute trip to our new home just five miles from the Salisbury airport where I had landed a month before, I introduced myself to my fellow foreign recruits.  I can’t remember all of their names, but five who stood out in my mind were from Ohio, New Jersey, California, Belgium and France:

• Ohio – I think he was from Dayton.  He had sandy-colored hair and seemed to be about 25.  Having never served in the military, he was a security guard—yes, he was one of those strange guys that you often see as security guards.  You know, the ones who you are likely to see on the evening news as having gone “coo coo.”  He had brought a couple of expensive rifles with him, one a sniper rifle!  All he could talk about was the weapons he straddled between his legs.  You get the picture—it was almost sexual.  This guy was weird.  A couple of weeks into training, he disappeared—leaving his treasured weapons behind in the RLI armory as he fled the country.
• New Jersey – He was a wiry guy in his early 30s, also with no previous military experience.  He had been a Registered Nurse in New Jersey and would eventually end up as a medic in RLI.  [When we left Rhodesia in 1979, we were on the same plane to New York and actually ended up following him through Customs.]
• California – He was a dark-haired “tubby” guy who claimed to have been in the National Guard.  If he had been, it wasn’t in a combat role, but as some sort of office clerk.  [He was extremely paranoid about the CIA.  About six months after training, he came to our home for dinner.  He was convinced that I was a CIA informant!  He “took the gap” (left the country) soon thereafter.]
• France – His name was “Henri” and we bunked next to each other during training.  He was in his mid-twenties, having served four years in the French paratroops.  He and I became good friends.  He had a knack for being able to understand the clipped speech of the Rhodesian NCOs who led our training.  Some people had trouble understanding his French accent.  So, he translated the Rhodesian English for me and I translated his French English for the Rhodesians!
• Belgium -  “Dirk” was 45 years old and 50 pounds overweight.  He had been a Belgian paratrooper in the Congo and a French Foreign Legionnaire in Djibouti.  He lost the weight in three weeks and quickly became an exemplary soldier.  [After Rhodesia, Dirk became a mercenary.  The last I heard, he was in Mexico looking for a job as a “security specialist” along with some others whom he met in the RLI.]

                

Rhodesian Light Infantry - On Parade

Cranborne Barracks 

    When we arrived at Training Troop, we were assigned to two different training companies with a total of 60 recruits.  Most of the recruits were Rhodesians ages 17 or 18.  This was the “regular” army and everyone in RLI was a volunteer.  Rhodesians who were drafted served in “territorial” units and were trained at the large base outside of Bulawayo.  Most of the RLI kids were wild and, well, not very bright.  They were the tough kids, the troubled kids, the ones who had a brush with the police—much like what the American Army was like in the days before WWII.  In other words, they were not the crème de la crème of Rhodesian society.  They were the equivalents of high school dropouts.  Some of them had a pleasant personality, but were just uneducated and unsophisticated.

Foreigners had no choice to serve in other units.  Everyone started at RLI.  From there a few exemplary foreign soldiers would go on to serve in SAS as officers or other elite units, but RLI was the place for foreigners.  We made up less than 5% of the unit and although we were welcomed by the Rhodesian people, the “Rhodies” in RLI were not very happy to see us.  I think they saw us as arrogant jerks, who at best had lost all of our wars.  The Brits, Aussies, and French had lost their empires.  Americans had been spectacularly defeated in Vietnam.  Only the South Africans were welcomed as brothers in the same struggle.

And, really the Rhodies were right.  You really could not say that the foreigners were there with altruistic motives.  Most were running from something else or looking for acceptance because their own military had rejected them.  I wouldn’t have been there if the US Army had made room for me.  Of course, I had theological reasons for being there, but no one could understand that!  To the RLI soldiers, we were just a bunch of losers who had nothing to contribute to their struggle.

Of course, the Rhodies were also wrong.  I would later meet some of the more exemplary foreign soldiers who not only made important contributions to the Rhodesian war effort, but who also sacrificed limbs and lives for the cause.

Our first day at RLI was similar to what I had experienced seven years before at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, only 80 degrees warmer!  We stored our civilian clothes and were issued camo fatigues, boots, and R1 rifles (the South African manufactured version of the Belgian FN).  Training began with drill—all military training starts with drill.  After all, you have to learn how to march and work as a unit.  The first step in that is learning how to take that first step in unison so that you don’t stumble all over each other!

Of course, there were a few differences in drill for the British-influenced Rhodesians.  Coming to attention required the lifting and stomping of your right foot and saluting was done palm forward.  You have seen all the Hollywood movies, so you know what I am talking about.

There were some other differences.  We didn’t wash our own clothes—there were “batmen” to do that (Africans in the employ of the Army to handle menial tasks.)  Your batman would do your washing, tailor your uniforms and even spit shine your shoes for a little extra cash.  But, we were still responsible for cleaning our barracks and latrines.  After all, it wouldn’t be basic training if you didn’t have to scrub a urinal!

Although US Navy food had been pretty good, the Rhodesian mess hall served really tasty meals.  There was also a canteen next door where you could buy Coke, Fanta and other soda drinks as well as chocolate bars any time during the day.  Coke was especially helpful to replenish your fluids in the heat of the day.  Cold cokes were even transported by helicopters to troops in the field on resupply missions during fire fights. 

RLI was organized into five companies: 1,2 and 3 Commando; Support Commando plus Training Troop.  Since it was a “commando” unit, we never walked.  When we weren’t marching, we double-timed (ran) everywhere.  Not only did this maintain an elite esprit, it also contributed to excellent conditioning so that longer, forced runs were not that difficult.  

One thing that totally caught me off guard was the policy regarding haircuts.  I had kept my hair in a military style buzz cut ever since shaving off my beard when first arriving at Berachah Church in Houston.  Here, they wanted you to grow your hair out, since much of Rhodesia was a high plain several thousand feet above sea level.  Just a few minutes of exposure could result in a sunburned scalp.  (I was just recovering from scalp sunburn from my adventure on the BSAP rifle rage a week before.)   Headgear included floppy hats, caps that looked like baseball caps (with a section that folded down to protect the back of your neck), or uniform berets.   Uniforms in the bush were creative.  Some just wore green running shorts with boots or black tennis shoes, a camo t-shirt with a floppy hat or bandana to kept the perspiration out of their eyes--sometimes no head covering at all.   

RLI Troopers in the Bush 

Photo taken for my Rhodesian residence permit during the 3rd week of training.  My hair is beginning to grow out.

Since there was no common leveling experience as shaving everyone’s heads, some other form of group humiliation was required.  At RLI, the common humiliating experience was to make the entire training company run in circles with their rifles held above their heads.  When your arms got tired, you ended up hitting yourself on the head.  I got pretty good at locking my elbows and throwing my shoulders back to endure the group punishments.  That worked fine as long as we were on the parade ground or other hard surface.  It got a little trickier if someone screwed up in a field of high grass.  But we will see how that literally tripped me up in a later installment.

Next:  32 — Field "Trip" (Salisbury: Jan 1977)

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