Gunship Over Angola

By this time, we had ascertained that, excluding schoolgirls, there were only four or so unmarried females over 16 in the entire town. I think there may also have been a policy dictated by the Ellisras Town Fathers’ Council that, in order to ensure the future of the town, these four were not to be gathered in any one place at the same time. Needless to say, we set about to defy this policy.

The Mogol River, which flows through the town, on the odd occasion formed a number of clearish pools below the low-water bridge on the northern side of town. These pools were separated by reedbeds and white sandbanks, and the site was popular for the odd braai, particularly if one could convince any local damsels to participate in the festivities.

Hard work, a lot of charm and an extraordinary amount of luck came together one memorable evening when four of us radar operators convinced all four of the available beauties to join us for drinks at the low-water bridge on the Mogol River for a braai and… whatever.

After supper, only the Boytjie proved to be possessed of the wiles to get his date to disappear quietly into the reeds with him and find a secluded pool for a skinny dip. The rest of us were left to stoke the fire, dream of what could have been and listen intently to the sounds of the night while the remaining three young ladies threw up a laager to prevent our further advances.

Unbeknown to us, the Boytjie and his partner had stripped off, got into the water, clutched each other closely enough to merge into one and were just starting to enjoy the onset of carnal pleasure when he, like a wannabe Tarzan, lifted his ‘Jane’ up out of the water and placed her posterior gently onto a snow-white sandbank, ostensibly to gain better traction.

Suddenly a shrill and blood-curdling scream rent the air. Jane had just come into contact with the needle-sharp reed shoots sticking out of the sandbank.

A hundred metres away, we stood up, trying to make sense of what was happening. The three uncooperative, wide-eyed and startled girls huddled together, arms around each other as the shrieking continued: ‘Eina! Eina! My arse, my arse. There’s something sticking in my arse!’

In a flash, one of our trio, always the quickest of thinkers in a tight situation, shouted, ‘You’re doing it wrong. Turn her over, Boytjie, just like the book says!’

Not even the consummate skills of the Boytjie could rekindle the carnal passions after that.

One Sunday, a few weeks after the Mogol River escapade, a three-week camper (the name for conscripts who were called up for further military service, or camps, lasting either three weeks or three months, after completing their national service) and his wife or girlfriend decided to spend the day down at the same bridge. On the way back to town in his little Nissan 1200 bakkie, the camper ran over a large black mamba. When he looked in the rear-view mirror, he couldn’t see any sign of the snake and assumed that it had become entangled in his engine.

Returning to AFB Ellisras, where the rest of us were lounging around, he and his companion rapidly exited the car after parking it under a large flat-topped kameeldoring (camel thorn) acacia tree. With us at the time was a strange character we had nicknamed ‘Grensvegter’, (Border Fighter) after a character from the picture books that were popular at the time. Grensvegter had a collection of knives and weaponry that would have made his fictional namesake green with envy. He also boasted of capturing buffalo with his bare hands, and had once, it was rumoured, knocked a bull elephant lights out with a single punch. So, it was only logical that our three-week camper turn to him for help in ridding the Nissan of the lethal serpent.

Cutting a sturdy piece of bamboo from a nearby thicket, Grensvegter used a piece of stout bloudraad (heavy galvanised wire) to fashion a hook at the business end of the four-metre-long bamboo pole. He then told the camper to open the bonnet of the bakkie. While the camper was busy doing so, Grensvegter climbed up the kameeldoring. The next moment he swung down inverted, suspended from both his knees at a height of about five metres above the ground in a dead-man’s-drop, at a slight angle in front of, and well above, the vehicle.

The assembled spectators, by then about 20 strong, stood mesmerised by the unfolding action and watched as Grensvegter slowly lifted the bonnet. We gasped as it revealed a large mamba entwined in the engine bay.

Getting rid of the snake should prove quite easy for one as adept as the Grensvegter, we all thought. There was thick bush close by, and once the snake was given a good reason to depart the Nissan, it would almost certainly slither to the ground and away into the bush.