Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (13 page)

Actually, I couldn’t wait to get back to Johannesburg to see my family and friends. The pass started on Friday afternoon from 4pm until our return to camp by 8pm on Sunday.

I got a lift back to Joburg with one of the Jewish guys from 14 Field Regiment, who drove a 2-litre Alfa Berlina. I couldn’t have wished for a quicker ride home. Franco was a maniac on the road, but he got me to Joan’s flat in record time. Because he was one of the
ou manne
, he only had to be back in camp on the Monday morning, which meant I would have to catch a bus back on Sunday night. Joan’s flat was a one-bedroomed apartment in a block called Plumridge on the corner of Lily Road and Louis Botha Avenue. It had an enclosed balcony, which became my room.

Word was soon out that I was in town.

I arranged to meet Derek at Arcadia on Saturday afternoon to sort out the Melissa issue once and for all. Back in those days, not having your own car was not really a problem and we used to hitchhike everywhere. When I arrived at Arcadia, Derek’s brother Theo was already waiting for me. He and I were good chinas. He wasn’t about to take sides, as he had his own problems with Derek, but when he expressed his disapproval of me having fucked my best friend’s chick and of blackmailing her into having sex with me, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Blackmailing? What was he talking about? Fuck, man, Melissa and I were in love! Then he told me that Melissa had confessed to Derek that she had only slept with me because I threatened to tell Derek she’d been unfaithful to him if she didn’t.

What a cock-and-bull story, if ever I heard one! Melissa might have had her own reasons for lying, but I held my tongue.

Then Derek arrived on his motorbike and we confronted each other. I could see in his eyes that he was really hurting. In fact, he could hardly speak and he broke down, asking me over and over how I could have done this to him when we were almost like brothers.

Eventually he said, ‘Let’s fight for her. Whoever wins gets to keep Melissa.’

By then I was having doubts about whether Melissa was
worth
fighting for, especially in the light of her accusing me of fucking her against her will.

‘You know what, Derek?’ I said. ‘You can keep her.’ And with that, I simply walked away.

I knew that Derek and I could never be friends again, at least not in the same way of deep friendship and mutual trust. Although I wasn’t completely to blame for what had happened, I felt it was best just to move on.

Derek drove off on his motorbike. I was sad but, hey, Melissa had been my chick to start with!

That night a few of my chinas and me met at my sister’s flat after she had gone out. We smoked a couple of joints, drank a few beers, and sat around and talked shit about the army. Then, at midnight, we all went to a club in Braamfontein. The place was pumping. As the night progressed I got drunker and even more stoned. Numbing my brain was one way of forgetting Melissa. Then, in the early hours of the morning, I got a lift back to Joan’s flat (she wasn’t impressed when I stumbled in out of my mind) and on Sunday I slept most of the day. By the time I got to the station I’d missed my bus back to Potch.

The next bus was only early on Monday morning. I imagined I would be in all sorts of shit, be put on extra guard duty or something. I arrived back at camp 20 hours late and was summoned to appear in front of Major Welgemoed, who reminded me of an SS officer. For some reason, this man disliked me intensely and I had a sneaking suspicion it probably had something to do with my being Jewish. I was informed that I was officially being charged with going AWOL and that my hearing would be the very next morning. To cut a long story short, I was sentenced to 21 days in DB (detention barracks).

The Potch DB, which was one of the toughest and most notorious in the country, was situated at the back of the parade ground, opposite the ammunition stores. Hidden by huge bushes and trees, the DB itself was enclosed by a 4.5m barbed-wire fence and it housed about 50 prisoners. It was rather like a POW camp, I thought. Just outside the front entrance was an intricate obstacle course, and on the left was a small gravel parade ground about 20m square. At the entrance to the building was a veranda where the guards would sit and shout orders. The one-stripe corporal with the baby face and big belly was a sadistic bastard I would get to know well. His name was Corporal Swanepoel.

When I arrived I was made to stand at attention on the gravel parade ground while Corporal Swanepoel walked in slow circles around me, whispering in my ear ‘
Ons gaan jou opfok, rooinek
’ (We are going to fuck you up, redneck). I was not permitted to budge. It was already 5pm. Everybody else seemed to be locked up already in the cells. After an hour of this psychological intimidation, they checked me in and I was thrown into a cell on my own. I don’t think I slept much at all, and at 3.30am we were woken up anyway.

I watched in amazement as all the prisoners immediately got down on their hands and knees and began to clean the cells and corridors. I’d noticed how brightly the polished floors shone and now I knew why. Among us were two trustees, and these guys, who were a couple of the biggest motherfuckers I had seen, were in charge of us. They would torture the other prisoners by making them eat soap, and sometimes they would burn their chests with cigarette butts and make them do push-ups or beat them with their fists. Once the place was clean, a team of three prisoners would go to the mess hall to fetch breakfast.

Afterwards we were permitted to answer nature’s call, and to shave and shower. On my first morning, while I was taking my shower, I found myself all on my own. Not thinking anything strange was going on, I went about getting washed up. The next thing I knew, I felt two hands grabbing me from behind, locking my neck in a deadly grip. Then I felt another man trying to wrestle me to the ground. Fortunately for me, I had soap all over my body, which made it difficult for my attackers to hold onto me. I started to shout, lashing out with my fists and elbows, and I managed to fight them off. What the fuck was going on? After delivering a few blows here and there, the two guys backed off and left me alone. I later learnt that this two-man assault team was notorious. Apparently they were allowed by the authorities to rape newcomers.

Everything in DB ran like clockwork. The system was designed to inflict as much discipline as possible, with the goal of breaking you, physically and mentally. After breakfast our
varkpanne
were collected and then a team of two or more guys was required to wash up. One of the corporals would stand next to you and hit you on your elbows and on the back of your head with a long steel dishing-up spoon, all the time shouting
‘Maak gou! Maak gou!’
(Hurry up! Hurry up!).

By 6.30am we had to report to the parade ground for inspection in our green prison overalls and combat training boots. At 7 the DBI would arrive, and then for three straight hours we would do the most intensive exercises you could imagine. That first day, besides jogging around the parade ground carrying somebody piggy-back, I did over 1 000 push-ups, 1 000 sit-ups and as many feet-raisers. During the push-ups, I reached a point where my entire body was numb. I would rest my lower body on the floor, push up onto my arms, and collapse, hitting my chest on the hard gravel. It was a gruelling exercise session. Basic training was a walk in the park by comparison. If somebody fell behind, we were all punished and would have to start all over again. Near the end of the third hour, we had to go down into a squatting position, hold onto the man in front of us, making a train formation, and then bunny-hop ten times around the parade ground. If the chain broke, we would have to start again. It seemed never-ending. It was impossible to bunny-hop without breaking the chain. Guys would get cramps in their calves, while others would just fall over and start puking. Some even collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital.

After our morning exercise session we were given time out and served a cup of tea. Prisoners were not allowed to keep cigarettes or matches on them. The guards had a cardboard box in which they kept everyone’s smokes. Your packet would have your name on it. We were called one by one to collect a cigarette and the guard would give us a light, and all this time we would be standing at attention. Once your cigarette was lit, you did an about-turn and went to stand at one of the poles that made up the perimeter of the detention barracks. There you could stand at ease with one hand behind your back while you smoked. Once you were finished smoking you would come to attention, do a left turn and wait until everybody else was finished. Then you would march to the guard and throw your cigarette butt in a bucket. I later discovered the reason for this practice: if you took the filter, burnt it and pressed it flat, you could make a sharp-edged device that could be used to slit your wrists.

After tea, we were allowed to take another short break, and during this time some of the guys would do their laundry. Lunch was served in a small open area with a roof over it. Once lunch was finished, we were allowed another cigarette break, and then some of us were taken out to work on rubbish removal duty. I remember once we found battery acid in the rubbish. On the way back, a few of us rubbed it in our eyes, hoping to get out of PT. We succeeded in being taken to the hospital, where we were treated, but unfortunately they managed to clean our eyes out and we got out of nothing.

From 3pm we had to report to the parade ground again, where we were given full gear, complete with
staaldakke
. Inside our webbing were sandbags. We would then get into platoon formation and begin marching. Most of the orders were shouted in Afrikaans.

‘
Links regs, links regs, ooooom … keer
’ (Left right, left right, abooout … turn).

‘
Makeer die pas
’ (Mark time).

‘Platoon halt!’

At first we marched at normal pace; we also did a lot of marking time marching on the spot. The corporal in charge would then up the pace, shouting the orders really fast. It was impossible to keep in step with the man in front of you, resulting in the corporal getting really pissed off. One corporal had a squeaky voice that rose to a high pitch: ‘
Julle troepe wil saamwerk nie!
’ (You troops don’t want to work together); ‘
Ons doen push-ups. Sak vir ’n honderd!
’ (Drop for a hundred). What was supposed to be an hour’s marching invariably turned into a vigorous shitting-off session. Twice a week we did the obstacle course, which was tough but mostly fun as we had to compete against each other.

Our two hated trustee friends used to leave the camp before the sun rose, and come back only after the afternoon exercise period. I found out that every morning they went to the bowling green. Bowls, aka old man’s marbles, was a popular sport among the high-ranking elderly officers. The two trustees were required to be there before the sun rose and then, using a large piece of heavy sackcloth, they would wipe the dew off the grass before the sun’s rays could damage the green. This way it was always kept fresh and smooth. They also had to ensure that the clubhouse and the grounds around the green were immaculately clean. Fuck, that was the ultimate privilege!

Once the day was over, we took our second shower of the day, and for this we had to strip naked and line up next to the barbed-wire fence. Two men had ten seconds to shower. While we were doing this, our friendly corporals, once again armed with the long steel dishing-up spoons, would hit us on sensitive bony spots, urging us to ‘
Maak gou! Maak gou!
’ all the time. In the event that you were not pulling your weight in keeping up with the rest of the squad, news would filter through to you, minutes before shower time, to go stand at the end of the queue. Rumour had it that two guards would beat you up. Nobody wanted to be subjected to such brutality, so we would all push ourselves beyond our limits. Showering was a joke. Try to imagine having only ten seconds to shower and having to dodge a few painful blows as you try to rinse off the soap! It must have been a comical sight, actually: all you could hear and see was ‘Ouch! Ouch!’ and men dancing around naked.

That first night, after supper, I was totally and utterly exhausted. I fell asleep even before my head hit the ground. At around 1am I woke up, still in a sort of trance. I couldn’t bend my arms. Both arms had locked solid. They were also really swollen around the triceps and they hurt like hell. At first I thought I’d been bitten by a scorpion. I couldn’t understand what the fuck was going on. Somehow I wriggled my body to the cell door and managed to get to my feet. Then, using the ball of my foot, I repeatedly kicked the door, calling out, ‘Help! Help!’ at the top of my voice.

That motherfucker Swanepoel was on night shift. Eventually, after about five minutes of my banging and shouting, he opened my cell.

‘
Wat is jou fokken probleem?
’ (What’s your fucking problem?), he asked sarcastically.

‘
Ek wiet nie, Corporal, ek dink my arm is gebreek
’ (I don’t know, Corporal; I think my arm is broken), I said. I turned my shoulder to show him.

He grabbed the top of my arm and at the same time pushed his thumb and fingers into my muscles, causing me to yelp in pain. He had a sadistic smirk on his face.

‘Stop crying,’ he told me. He said I could see the doctor in the morning. In the meantime, I should just go back to sleep.

Easy for him to say. So long as I didn’t move, the pain seemed to subside and slowly I slipped into a deep sleep. The next morning, at 3.30, although my arms were still sore and I still couldn’t bend them, somehow I managed to slip into my overalls. The pain was excruciating. Using only my feet and standing on a cloth, I shuffled around the floor of my cell, polishing it as best I could. It had to shine like a mirror or I’d be in shit. I couldn’t shave because I couldn’t raise my arms to my face, so one of the other inmates shaved me. When the breakfast was dished up, my plate was placed on the floor in front of me and, like a dog, I bent over and ate my food.