Teardrops of the waning moon

by Steve Reeder

  Teardrops of the waning moon

  Steve Reeder

  Hedgehog Publishing

  Knysna

  South Africa

  First Published in South Africa in 2014

  Copyright Steve Reeder

  Steve Reeder has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1499390568

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel is dedicated to the men and women who are, or have in the past, served their country honourably in uniform. Dedicated to those who have liberated large parts of the world from the Nazis, the communist empires and the current radical Islamic lunatics trying impose their will upon the world. To all those who died in Western Europe in two World Wars, in Korea, Burma, Malaya, The Yemen, Iraq, Afghanistan, Rhodesia, Namibia and Angola, and of course The Falkland Islands. In my limited way I have been there. I have seen courage, death and humour in the face of danger. I have some small understanding of what so many have endured for their own countries, their family and their friends. I salute you all!

  My thanks to my editor, Dianne Lang, who corrected my atrocious spelling and punctuation, and gave encouragement when needed. Thanks also to Paul Jordaan who designed the cover for this book, understanding immediately what was required.

  In 1981, I was serving my two years National Service with the South African Defence Force, and took part in a major operation into Angola in the middle of that year. The name of the operation no longer matters, although I’m sure there will be many South African men reading this that can guess. The purpose of the operation was to clear the southern part of that country of SWAPO fighters, and the Angola National Army who supported them. I had volunteered, along with five of my regiment buddies, to drive a buffel, an Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC) with drop-down sides for quick deployment, as a means of getting onto the operation. A buffel is an Afrikaans word for buffalo. We had a quick one-hour lesson from a driver in the transport platoon, and off we went. We had a lot of fun, even though there was the constant danger of injury and death, fire-fights with the enemy and having the troop-carrier that I was driving being blown out from under me by a TM57 Russia-made anti-vehicle mine. I have often thought about the things that happened during those seven weeks, and wondered if I would write a book about it.

  And so it happened, thirty-one years later, I write that book that has been floating around in my head. Those seven weeks are printed in indelible ink on the walls of my mind. It was those seven weeks that inspired and led me to some of the events in this book – like the Angolan Army’s pay office that was robbed. Names of my old comrades-in-arms have been changed to protect them from any fall-out this book would cause. This is a work of fiction, but inspired by events during those seven incredible weeks.

  P.S. While reading this story you will find some vehicles being referred to as a ‘bakkie’. If you are familiar with the American term ‘pick-up’ truck, then it is the same thing. Likewise a reference to a ‘fire bucket’ is: Fire Bucket - aluminium mug with fold up handle, fitted over the military canteen / water bottle. C.O. is of course Commanding Officer.

  I have also used the name Namibia several times, rather than South West Africa, to avoid confusion by people who don’t know the history of that country. My apologies if this upsets anyone who served on the South West African/Angolan border back in the day. I should also apologise in advance to past members of the parachute regiments. Back in the day we used to call them ‘Meat-Bombs’ and the characters in this novel use that term too. But hey, we still liked you guys, and it was nice to have ‘drop in’ on occasion!

  Teardrops of the Waning Moon

  One

  April 1982. Southern Angola.

  “Just how much longer are we going to be hanging around here?” John Smit asked for the tenth time that morning.

  “Fuck knows,” Billy replied. “Wait and see.”

  “Who gives a shit,” Bomber added. “When the Colonel has finished his lunch and had a massage probably.”

  Sean Reece kept silent, choosing to stay where he was; laying on a plastic ground-sheet with his bush-hat over his eyes, trying to sleep. He was bored, as they all were. The six of them had been driving buffels for weeks, transporting troops of 31-battalion to battles that faded into damp-squid fire-fights within minutes. The problem was that the enemy withdrew northwards as quickly as 31-battalion advanced towards them. Reece was helping to transport the same troops as they withdrew to the south. After two days of heading back towards the South West African border they had stopped, and the Colonel didn’t seem in a hurry to move on.

  “You can always ask Lieutenant Dreyer,” Bomber said, “he’s heading this way in a hurry.”

  Reece ignore them all until the skinny officer nudged his side with a well-worn right boot.

  “Reece, come with me,” Dreyer commanded, “the Colonel wants to see you.”

  Reece stood up reluctantly, stuffed his bush-hat back on his head and dusted himself off. Dreyer had already set off, and Reece had to hurry to catch him.

  “Any idea what he wants me for, Lieutenant?”

  “You’ll find out when I do, Reece.”

  Reece shrugged. It was all the same to him. Out here there was not much trouble that he could get into, and even if he did find something to pass the time that annoyed the brass-hats, there was not much they could do to him until the battalion arrived back at their base south of the border. Even then he would be posted back to the regiment, away from the Commanding Officer of 31-Battalion.

  Dreyer led the way, walking swiftly through the lines of the infantry that made up the majority of the troops, past a nine-hundred strong mini-army, and finally past the cook-house tent where the smell of cooking food reminded Reece that he had skipped breakfast that morning. The cooks were only cooking for the offices, senior NCOs, and their staff anyway. The rest of the troops had to make do with ration-packs.

  The Colonel’s command tent came into view as the two of them rounded another line of troop carriers parked in neat lines on the far side of the infantry lines. Reece and his mates never mixed with the common drivers; they were from the Guard’s Regiment, and although they would never be caught boasting about that, they did secretly pride themselves on the fact. Dreyer stepped into the tent, ducking under the flap. Reece waited outside to be called. Seconds later Dreyer poked his head out of the tent and motioned him to enter. Inside, the commanding officer was bent over a map table while the RSM spoke quietly, pointing out something on the map. Reece waited patiently until the CO eventually looked up. Colonel Fourie was your arch-typical professional; a middle-aged, fighting soldier; strong and tanned although his hair was speckled with grey and his middle was beginning to thicken.

  “Reece?” he asked.

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  The CO nodded, then switched his gaze to Dreyer. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Dreyer seemed a bit put out as he realised that he had been dismissed, but he turned and left.

  “Now, Reece,” the CO said, straightening from his position over the map, “I believe you have a bit of a reputation for adventure, not to mention havoc-causing.” He came around the front of the table, perching his arse on it and staring at Reece t
houghtfully. “Do you feel like a bit more adventure?”

  “What do you need, Colonel?” Reece asked.

  “The RSM and I, along with Captain Santos, need a driver for a few days.”

  “It could be dangerous,” added the RSM.

  Reece studied the two older men for a second before answering. “It would be my pleasure, Colonel.”

  The CO and his RSM exchanged thoughtful looks before the CO turned to Reece again. “From now on anything you hear or see is not to be spoken about.”

  “To anyone,” the RSM added with a scowl.

  Reece nodded. Anything to break the monotony of the past two days would be welcome. He’d been on the point of asking if he could join one of the infantry patrols that scouted the surrounding area to stop anyone creeping up on the camp, just for something to do.

  “OK then,” the CO said with enthusiasm, “you get your buffel topped up with diesel, fill the water tank, get an extra spare wheel as well and draw ten day’s rations from the QM for eight men. He’s waiting for you. Then get some sleep. I’ll see you back here at 16h00. Make sure you have what you need for eight to ten days in the bush.”

  “Right you are, Colonel,” Reece replied, with an exaggerated upper-class English accent that he liked to use when addressing offices.

  The RSM scowled at Reece’s retreating back as he exited the tent. “I hope that boy’s going to be okay for this.” He looked his commanding officer. “I still say we should have got one of the Afrikaans drivers.”

  “Reece will be fine, RSM, he’s just what we need for this.” He turned back to the map and asked, “Have you checked those night-goggle devices?”

  “Ja, they work fine, and I’ve got four batteries for each of them. The QM wasn’t happy, I can tell you.”

  “That’s his problem. Anyway, where is Corporal Pretorius?”

  The RSM called out and the NCO was with them a moment later.

  “Corporal, get two .50 Browning’s from the QM and have them mounted on Reece’s buffel, one forward, the other on the rear. Make sure there is plenty ammunition for both of them. Make sure you have an LMG with plenty of belts of ammunition for it. Reece will be down getting fuel so he can help you mount the weapons. Then bring Reece and Evans back to the mess at 16h00. You’ll join us too, and bring the other three as well. There will be dinner for everyone before we leave.”

  “And make sure there is enough bog-paper this time,” the RSM shouted at Pretorius’ fading foot-steps. “I’m not using leaves from a thorn bush again.”

  When Bomber Harris strolled back to join the others he was stark naked apart from unlaced boots. His dark and very short hair was still glistening with water. It was obvious that he was using sun and wind to dry himself.

  “Hey, Bomber, I love the new look,” chortled Franz Coetzer.

  John Smit faked a terrified scream. “Oh my God, what is that,” he cried and fell about laughing.

  “Fuck off, Smitty. Have you never seen a real-sized dick before?” Bomber replied, waving his wedding-tackle about.

  Reece arrived back seconds after Bomber and chipped in, “You’d better hope you never have a hard-on, Bomber, ‘cause if you ever do, the rest of your body will die from low blood pressure.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, your sister likes it.”

  “I don’t have a sister.”

  “Well if you ever get a girl-friend, then she’s going to like it too!”

  “If he ever gets a girlfriend?” Bill Brown chirped incredulously, “He’s screwed most of Jo’burg already and the Pretoria girls are lining up every time we go back state-side.”

  Bomber dug a clean pair of under-pants out of his kit bag and starting dressing again.

  John Smit put down the book he’s been reading and commented, “You’d better get that body covered up quickly, Bomber. It’s so white it’s like a beacon for the Cuban air force. They’ll spot you from as far away as Luanda.”

  Thomas Freeman put a stop to the nonsense by asking Reece what the Colonel had wanted. “Are you in trouble again, Sean?”

  “He’s been caught fucking the Colonel’s wife this time!” Bomber assured them.

  “I’d love to tell you guys, but it’s all top secret I’m afraid. If I did tell you, I’d have to shoot you all,” Reece said.

  “I’m pretty sure we’d be safe,” Smit said with a sardonic grin, “I’ve seen you shoot.”

  Freeman ignored the interruption. “So what’s up?”

  “Can’t tell you, Tommy - need-to-know and all that.”

  “Fucking hell, its Sean Bond, double-oh six point five!” Bomber cried, and burst into laughter again.

  “Shut up, Bomber. Seriously, Sean, what are you and the brass up to?”

  “Beats me! All I know is that I have to fill the water tank in this thing,” he pointed to the buffel that he drove, “and top up the diesel too. Also, I have to draw ten day’s ration for eight men.”

  The others fell silent and Smit asked, “Just one buffel? Off into the bush for ten days?”

  “And the CO is going with you?” Freeman asked, shaking his head.

  “The RSM and some captain too,” Reece told them.

  “Probably going to surrender to the Angolans,” Bomber stated, “you’ll be spending the next thirty years in an Angolan prison, Sean. What was the phone number for the red-head you were screwing in Pretoria? I think I should have it just in case, you know?”

  Reece climbed into the cab of the buffel and drove off leaving his mates with a wave of his middle-finger and little else.

  Smit shrugged and turning to Bomber, asked him how he’d managed to get a shower in the middle of the war-zone.

  “Need-to-know basis, old boy,” Bomber replied.

  Reece arrived at the mess tent feeling a bit conspicuous. He was the only non-ranked man there. The mess Staff-Sergeant grudgingly put a plate of high-quality food down in front of him. The Colonel nodded, and everyone attacked the food. As he ate, Reece studied the men with him. Apart from the CO and the RSM, there were four two-liners, a one-liner from Signals and a Captain that Reece had noticed several times over the past few weeks who looked Portuguese. ‘Wonder what it’s all about’, he thought? ‘I guess I’ll soon find out’. He felt a tingle of excitement fluttering in his belly.

  No-one spoke until the plates and coffee mugs were cleared away. Only then did the CO address the mess-tent staff. “Gentlemen,” he said, getting their attention, “I would like the tent for a briefing, if you don’t mind?”

  The Staff-Sergeant hurriedly left and took the others with him. The RSM waited until they were gone before he drew a map out of his case and spread it on the table.

  “Now,” the CO said, “here is what we are going to be doing.” He spoke English for the benefit of the Portuguese Captain but his accent was thick and very Afrikaans. “The RSM and I need to be here,” he pointed to a spot on the map some hundred and fifty kilometres north of their current location, “for a meeting. You don’t need to know anything about the meeting, but I assure you that it is important or I would not be asking any of you to risk your lives getting us there and, hopefully, back again.” There were one or two nervous smiles in response to his attempt at humour. “We will be travelling at night to reduce the risk of being seen by anyone and lying up during the day. I estimate that we will need three nights driving because of the reduced speeds that Reece will be driving at.” He nodded at Reece. “Signals will be handled by Lance-corporal Evans; Corporals Pretorius, Uys, De Kock and Cole will handle the Brownings, and the RSM and I will command the vehicle. Everyone clear on that?” Everyone nodded. “Good, the RSM will go through the drills, call-signs and so on with you. We will be ready to leave at 19h00 sharp. Reece, is the buffel ready?”

  “It’s ready, Colonel. Fuel, water, food and the extra ammunition Corporal Pretorius asked for.”

  “Good. RSM, they are all yours,” he said, and strode purposefully from the tent.

  The RSM cleared his throat and everyone
else sat forward keenly.

  Two

  “Zero-four, zero-four; Delta one-zero, comms check.” Evans released the transmit button and waited. Delta one-zero was their call sign and zero-four was the call sign assigned to the battalion HQ they were leaving behind.

  “Delta one-zero, I’m reading you five-five. Zero-four Out.”

  Evans looked across at the CO. “Comms are good, Colonel.”

  The colonel nodded and then handed Evans a slip of paper. On it was written another radio frequency. “You’ll need that one too,” he told Evans. “I want a listening watch on that frequency too.”

  They were stationary for several minutes just outside the temporary camp while everything was checked again. Evans had checked the radio comms with the camp while one of the junior NCOs test-fired the Browning machine guns. The engine was revved to make sure the extra baffles that the tiffies had fitted would work as well as claimed. Evans wondered where army mechanics had acquired the name Tiffy. The usual roar of the diesel engine had been replaced by a muted rumbling.

  The RSM nodded to the CO who leaned over the driver’s cab, and tapped Reece on the head. Although armoured with steel and bullet-proof glass all around, the top of the cab had no roof. Reece engaged first gear and drew away carefully, practising the low-noise driving that would mark most of the next week. Night-fall was coming fast, and Reece wasn’t looking forward to driving in the dark even with, or perhaps because of, the image-intensifying equipment that lay in his lap.

  There were four sets of image-intensifiers; two big sets attached like gun-sights on the Browning machine-guns, one that Reece wore like a head-set while driving, and one hand-held set that either the CO or the RSM had with him at all times. The image produced was a strange glowing green picture out of near total darkness. Reece increased the speed to thirty kmph and followed the direction pointed out by the CO.