I keep as low a profile as possible, never standing out, never coming first or last, and always keeping out of our trainers’ way.
Malcolm and I grow closer, gravitating effortlessly towards each other and establishing an imperishable, uncomplicated and understanding friendship.
But we aren’t in the same platoon. If we had been, I might never have befriended Dylan.
***
As we are lugging our heavy balsakke into the bungalow, his first words to me are, ‘I think we’ve fallen out of life. No, we’ve dropped completely out of time.’
He uses the words to test me—a litmus test of the person I might be. Do I comprehend? Do I really grasp? Do I respond? If I don’t, I am like all the others, and he will remain where he is—deep inside himself.
He is dark in more than just complexion; silent and hidden. We share a cupboard, and our beds are next to each other. But we sleep on the floor, for the beds are made up with such precision and squared with starch, with our teeth and with irons, that we dare not spoil them.
He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, I listen. I am drawn to him, not just because I like him or because I understand him, but because I respect him. I am drawn to his tenderness.
Building a fantasy around him, I imagine that I can see a grown-up Frankie in him. There is no anxiety in our acquaintance, as there often is when one wants a friendship to work. But we are thrown together, and where friendship is normally a choice made by two people to spend time together, here someone else chooses for us.
I am the only one in the platoon he talks to. Only with me does he use words like, ‘The problem with these people, Nick, is that they are all deeply sad. They have lived this way for too long; they know nothing else. They don’t know how to let happiness in; they have lost the tools to identify it. If you think of it in that way, you could lose your anger towards them.’
Everything we talk about, the way in which he constructs his sentences, even his humour, is different. And these small nuances constantly remind me that he is not like anybody else.
He gives me his favourite book as a gift and uses the word ‘betterment.’ Then he smiles, for he uses it knowing it is pretentious and knowing that I know it. ‘It is the most remarkable book I’ve ever read and I want to share it with you. One Hundred Years of Solitude . . . it’s fantastic.’
In the front he writes:
To Nicholas, my friend in dismal places.
May you win the fight against solitude, for I won’t.
Love, Dylan
I rarely feel as if I get to his true centre, except perhaps on two occasions, under extraordinary circumstances.
The exposure to such logic, so vividly different from the mindlessness, is like moving beyond a physical level. He never criticises, never resorts to the army bashing we all succumb to, even though he has the most reason to do so.
I describe him in my diary:
Dylan has pitch-black hair; a sallow skin. He is a dark ghost in too sharp focus; remarkably attractive but not affected by it. He does not exude the obvious sex appeal that is flaunted by those wielding the power of such beauty. He would rather you discover the matrix of his hidden self.
Over and above his arresting exterior and unfathomable intellect there is something more: When he listens, he seems to hear more keenly, understanding the history of every sentence as though he can see behind it.
‘If we could understand why people do things, absolutely comprehend, then there would never be malice. I guess that would make it easier to forgive, but not necessarily easier to live with.’
Another thing I notice when we meet is a small scab, round and solid, on his hand—on the little triangular web between the thumb and index finger. I notice it subliminally. There is so much to take in during these first days, but I notice it. And later I remember that it was there.
***
Armed with Dylan’s unique brand of insight and Malcolm’s ease and humour, I discover a way of seeing each day to its end—one day at a time—in Golf Company.
The course is physically exhausting, but I get by and my faith grows. It seems to be all I have, and I walk my days with my Father of the Universe, not with the judgmental God of the dominee of the face-brick church in Welgemoed. The God that walks with me is the God of Philippians 4, verse 6:
Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Yes, this is what I want: The peace that transcends all understanding . . .
There is an inspection every day, with preposterous rules. One entire set of browns is reserved for the exclusive purpose of being in our cupboards, with so many specifications that one needs a manual for it. We stitch wood behind the facings of the garments within tolerances of a millimetre. We don’t sleep on our beds because they have to be made, squared and stitched. Even the fibres on the blankets are brushed into a specific shape. We don’t walk on the floors; we shuffle on ‘taxis’—rectangular pieces of felt—to eradicate any evidence of our presence.
Then, after sleepless nights and weeks of cleaning, training and exercise, a corporal walks in and dribbles golden syrup over our inspection parcels, breaks the carefully constructed internal spines, rubs dirt on everything, destroys our starched beds and tells us we must have it all ready again for the next morning’s inspection. It takes us all night.
This existence erodes the spirit; chips away at one’s endurance, and people start requesting RTU’s, or in most cases simply give up.
The principle is straightforward: The instructors can do what they want with us. If we feel we can’t go on, or will not obey an order, we may request or be forced to take an RTU. Later in the year, only half of the troops are left and the authorities decide to block this way out. They start denying trainees the right to leave. After all, the growing border war needs platoon commanders.
There is no doubt that national servicemen who have had tough times in the eighteen or nineteen years preceding their army training, are somehow able to endure more than the others. More important than just fitness, it is stamina, mind over muscle, that is required. The boys with character persevere.
One afternoon, during a seven-kilometre run—forced to keep the platoon structure, our rifles at 45˚, with webbing chafing our backs and our brains frying in the 40˚C baking down on our heavy World War II-helmets—one of the guys loses it. He used to be a marathon runner—one of those I saw in the first weeks and thought: Shit, he is so lucky to be so fit; he’ll have no problem.
Heatstroke they call it, blaming it on not drinking enough water. Or is it that the demons inside him just broke free? He bursts out of the platoon formation gasping, pushing the troops in front of him, making gargling, crying noises and sprinting ahead, frothing at the mouth.
As he runs, he waves his arms and drops his rifle—the rifle he was told was more important than his life, should be treated better than a wife and should be worshipped and never, ever dropped. He runs at full speed towards the camp and collides with the security fence. By the time the instructor reaches him, he is biting the barbed wire.
He is immediately taken to the sick bay, where he dies the next day.
On the eight o’clock news the first subject is the announcement of the troops who have ‘perished’ in skirmishes on the border. Each time I see the black rectangle with the number, name and rank, I think of the families, somehow linked, and how they would deal with this life-altering information.
But it is not only the parents whose sons die who lose their children—their neatly parcelled boys they so eagerly sent to serve. The degree to which they return as whole human beings depends on their individual experiences and their ability to process this serrated incision into their lives.
We are constantly told that ‘the army will make a man of you,’ but often it just takes you completely. In some instances th
e men that the families get back are impenetrable sepulchres; caskets they are too afraid to open for fear of seeing the contents.
***
In the background a small portable radio is tuned to ‘Forces Favourites.’ The volume is turned too high for the small speaker, and the sound it produces is thin and grating as it twists among us until it is sucked into the wet canvas of the tent. The presenter of the programme is Esmé Euvrard. The song is Substitute by Clout, and it reminds me of high school. The next song is Ferry Cross The Mersey by Gerry & The Pacemakers. I am missing home and the past and the way things were before, when he walks in.
He stands in front of me, tells me about the time he went swimming with dolphins at Noordhoek. There is an urgency in the way he is talking; he wants me to know who he is . . .
***
Dylan sits opposite me, staring at me intently. He looks focused and happy. ‘I love watching you eat. You attack your food, like you’re really enjoying it.’
‘How the fuck can he enjoy this food, Stassen, you arsehole? Do you know what this is?’ Basson, who is sitting next to Dylan, pulls his face in disgust. ‘It’s called plane crash, man!’ But Basson’s reaction has as much effect on my friend’s attention as the thousand other boys submerged in the noise of eating on metal tables in this large steel structure.
‘En . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘If you could travel anywhere, where would you like to go?’
‘I would like to travel in Africa!’
‘Like where?’
‘Well, I would like to see the Okavango Delta in Botswana, and I would like to track the mountain gorilla in the Verunga mountains. It’s . . .’
‘Yes, I know, it’s between Rwanda and the Congo, or what is it called now?’
‘Zaire.’
‘Sounds adventurous!’
‘There is no chance though, you know, with a South African passport.’
Basson, intrigued with our conversation says, ‘Why the fuck do you want to go there, Van, hey? You fucking crazy soutpiel Boer.’ Then to the larger group, attracting their attention, ‘Do you okes hear, Van der Swart wants to travel to kaffir countries?’
‘And you, Dee?’
‘Cuba, great music!’
‘Fuck, okes, did you hear that? Stassen wants to travel to Cuba. I knew it, you two are fucking communists!’
‘And where do you want to travel to, Basson?’
‘I want to stay here. I love my country ’cos it’s the best and I am loyal to it.’
‘How do you know it’s the best if you haven’t seen the rest?’
‘I know what I know. Stassen, do you know that we are fighting Cuban soldiers on the border and you want to go there? Are you fucked in the head?’ He leans over to Dylan and jams his own head melodramatically with his index finger, seemingly to drive his point home.
‘I don’t care for this war, Basson. I don’t want to be part of it. Shit, I shouldn’t even be here!’
‘What do you mean? Hey, you are in this country and you are living off the fat of this fucking land so you must fucking protect it.’
‘Only the whites are conscripted.’
‘So, you thick Englishman, so?’
‘So, Basson . . . so . . . I should not be here!’ Now the boys on either side of the table are listening, intrigued. Basson scratches his head.
‘So you saying you’re a kaffir now?’
‘No, I think you would call me a coloured.’
‘Fuckin’ hotnot is what I would call you. AND YOU ARE PROUD OF IT? Are you fucking mad, man?’ He almost shouts this out. ‘I knew it! I knew it, fuckin’ hotnot. Did you okes hear? I tell you . . . fuck me! You should want to hide such disgusting info about yourself and instead you’re proud of it. Kleurling!’
‘Yes, I am.’ Dylan is dead calm, as though he is relating something mundane and ordinary, something he might have repeated many times over, when he says, ‘Well, I don’t know what you want to call me, but my great-great-grandmother—or even further back, I’m not sure—was black or Malay. She was a slave who got her freedom and then married a white man and then all their children just always married white people.
It is dead quiet, as if the entire mess hall is listening, but they are not. ‘Shit, and now I’m suffering. Just think, I could be studying or travelling . . . to Cuba . . . instead of sitting here in this hellhole! Wish I could get myself reclassified from white to coloured!’
One guy gets up saying he will not eat at the same table as a coloured.
‘Fucking kaffir, I knew it . . . fucking kaffir commie!’
***
‘Nick, tell me a story!’
‘Mom,’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell us a story!’
‘No boys, you must sleep now.’
‘Oh come on, Mom, pleeeese.’
‘OK, I’ll tell you a story . . . of Jack and Manorie, that’s how my story begun. I’ll tell you another of Jack and his brother and now my story is done!’
‘Oh, Mom!’
‘No, boys, come, come, sleep now. Look at the time! Let me tuck you in. Sleep tight now . . . I love you!’
‘When we used to ask my mother that, she would say, “I’ll tell you a story of Jack and Manorie, that’s how my story begun. I’ll tell you another of Jack and his brother and now my story is done!”’
We’re quiet for a while. I turn to him and look into his dark eyes. They are not just dark; it is as though they are set in the shade.
‘Dee, you are as white as the rest of us, why did you tell the guys your great-great-grandmother was black? You know it’s just going to cause shit.’
‘I just wanted to . . . you know, Nick . . . educate them a little. Basson is so ignorant that I just couldn’t help myself. But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. Nice drama, but we Afrikaners—remember, I’m a Boer-soutpiel mixture—most of us have black or coloured blood somewhere in our distant past. Very few of us are lily-white. I wanted to mention that, but what’s the point? He would never believe it. Strange to think that the Afrikaners are such racists, yet we are all really a mixed race. Fuck, it’s bullshit, hey?’
‘Yes, it shows you what a church and a government can do.’
‘I had that problem when I was in my teens. It nearly drove me mad. All the questions about other religions, like: How does one know what the correct religion is? I mean, I was born into a Christian religion—two actually—but maybe God wants me to be Muslim or Buddhist, you know. Just maybe He, She, wants me to serve via a different vehicle? So I asked this teacher who was like a mentor to me and he said, “Ask God.”’
‘Wow, I like that. It’s beautiful.’
***
I am not entirely sure when or how it starts, but the instructors develop an aversion to Dylan. I watch helplessly as it seems to become driven by its own momentum. It is not that he is weak or struggling with the course, which is usually why they start discriminating. With the instructors, it can be caused by the slightest personality clash or provocation. I think it’s Dylan’s unusualness, his spirituality that they cannot fathom. He does nothing to irritate them, but he looks at them differently when they talk or shout at him. Instead of the humble, terrified look they want, he stares at them fearlessly.
If I lean over slightly, I can see Dylan staring at the corporal in front of him. He is tired. They have made him run across the parade ground carrying a tyre so many times that I don’t think he will be able to do it again. His chest is heaving and sweat has stained his shirt a muddy colour in the hollow of his back and in large patches under his arms. His hands, pants and parts of his shirt are black from the tyre.
I want to beg him to be humble and talk to them in the way he knows they want from him, but I know he never will.
‘Are you a derrick?’ All he needs to say is, ‘Yes, Corporal,’ but he won’t. He says ‘NO!’ Then the instructor says, ‘You fucking derrick kak . . .’ being the crudest possible abbreviati
on for a fool. Then the corporal turns and walks away.
He wants to make Dylan run again, but he won’t be able to do it, and the corporal knows it. So Dylan stands there, exhausted. He has not taken his eyes off his tormentor. At that moment the lunch whistle blows and I can see the relief on the instructor’s face. The situation is defused but not forgotten.
We also have days like these, but for Dylan it happens almost every day.
I can only describe this in the way I see it, which is subjectively. But to my mind Dylan is superior, not only in background and upbringing, but as a person of integrity. And they know it. They don’t know what to do with it, so as with most things unfamiliar, they respond aggressively.
They attempt to break or ‘crack’ him and when they don’t succeed, they see it as failure, so they try harder. When Dylan doesn’t crack from the physical strains they place on him, I am at first just as baffled as the instructors are, but those with insight would have understood his reasons for persevering.
***
We wait for our first pass like a child awaits Christmas or a birthday. And in the same way it feels like a lifetime.
I get a lift with a guy called Pierre, whose father fetches us because Pierre will be bringing his own car back to Oudtshoorn after the weekend. The first trip home is not as I created it in well-rehearsed fantasy. Dylan is not with me, yet he is—I carry him unwillingly and uncomfortably within my joy of going home. Dylan is in my head, his haunting face projected onto everything.
We are ready long before we hear, ‘Fall in!’ This is the parade to see if we are turned out correctly in our step-outs, to show the world how regimented and changed we are. If one thing is wrong, not shiny enough, not straight enough, just not enough, you fail the parade and you don’t go home.
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