When you hear about a group of people lumped into a title, by race or nationality, an immediate conditioning depending on the propaganda fed to you in your surroundings will stereotype that group in your psyche. At school we where warned that if one pupil in uniform behaves badly outside the school the whole school will be judged by the behaviour of an individual. I was conscripted into a group called the South African Defence Force, but within that institution I remained an individual, lumped together with white males from diverse backgrounds. All white stock but not necessarily the same. I was not just a number, 74416165BC. Amazing that you never forget you army number but can forget a shorter 4-digit pin number for the auto teller ATM.

I was born in Northern Rhodesia on the Copperbelt, I have happy childhood memories of growing up in Kitwe. It may have something to do with being a child, unaware of the angst of the adult world. There was a large ex pat community that socialized a lot, my father belonged to the Kitwe MOTH's (Memorial Of Tin Hat's) an ex serviceman's club. At home on rare occasions a squad of black Askari soldiers would march past our home and I watched from the garden fence finding them dashing in their smart uniforms. Guns were a part of the culture, my toy cowboy guns and my Father taking out his 303 one evening to go over to Granddads farm to assist in the ambush of a pride of lionesses and cubs that had come to nightly feast on takeaway pork. Another day I watched Grandad Henriod enter the pigstys, hold squealing pigs against the wall and shoot them between the ears, slaughtered for Normans Butcher shop.

At school assembly in the outside quadrangle one morningI watched the beautiful Northern Rhodesian flag being taken down and the new flag of Independence raised in it's place, then we sang "we've won freedoms fight." As a child I noticed new government was really the old Africa destroying the new European infrastructure and returning it to the bush mentality.

One quiet Sunday afternoon at the petrol storage depot there was a huge fire, a massive fireball, curiously we drove over to have a closer look, near the fire our car got stoned by rioters from the adjacent compound, rumour had spread that whites were responsible for sabotaging the gasoline supply. Life under the Kaunda one party state was no longer secure, December 1966 packed our belongings and Dad drove us over the border into Rhodesia, we got the steam driven train from Salisburydown to Johannesburg. I then started school at Florida Primary School and after one month was put down to a lower year for being " backward." Eventually the poor pupil made it to Queens High school (JHB), here there were a lot of Portuguese borders who had been sent to S.A. to avoid the civil war in Mozambique.

At Queens high school hostel one of the boarders was Paul Erasmus. He was not a bully but enjoyed associating with the thugs and being the centre of attention. He plotted with Keith Martin and Ali Versosy (Mozambique border) to extract protection money from a Mozambiquestudent Carlos whose parents sent him loads of money he spent on toys. One evening we heard screaming and Carlos running out the upstairs dorms to the Hostel Head Mr Hitchins' home. Mr Hitchins questioned Paul Erasmus who claimed Carlos wanted to have homosexual sex with him and he had got his tsotsi mates to lie in waitto beatCarlos up. Carlos spoke no English so was unable to defend himself against these allegations. Paul Erasmus later joined the SAP and then went in front of the truth and reconciliation committee claiming he is a victim of Apartheid, He is still trying to be in the limelight. The SAP did not turn him into a criminal. He already had criminal tendencies at school.

At assembly we were told that all boy's turning sixteen that year must report to the library. I was going off to class when a friend called me back, "you must go to the library, you are turning sixteen this year." In Library I was given my first SADF form to complete, that evening I mentioned to my Mother that I had written on the form that I was British. Mum got angry, "You are going to the Army. It's a mans duty!" Next day at school I asked for a blank form to take home so that Mother could type it out stating that I was a S.A citizen. I found out years later that if you put downanother Nationality the SADF never demanded proof, and you were automatically exempt from call up.

Military service was ingrained into my parents generation, Grandfather, 2nd World War veteran, Abyssinia campaign, (whites killing whites in Africa) a tough Sergeant Major.

Father, 2nd world war veteran, North Africa (whites killing even more whites in Africa) then onto Italy and the 3-month battle for Monte Casino. He never spoke about his war time experiences, that he was wounded atMonte Casino, nearly died and was discharged with shell shock, hejust hit the drug of his generation, alcohol. Then when I became a soldier I told him how I hated it his whiskey soaked body shook in anger yelling, "The army was the best time of my life, what is the matter with you?"

Is this what they call the generation gap?

EvenGrandmotherhad a strange, deep attraction to military training, the idea of permanent, systematized punishment appealed to a certain dark side of the South African white female, (a very spoilt creature)shetoldme, "wait till you go to the army, that will sort you out." Yep the Army was some place that could sort out,any young white male that Grandparents disliked (long hair was enough reason).What could it do for their crying soft-hearted, weak grandson, my goodness did I have a lot to live up to in this family tradition.

The 11th Boy's Brigade at Malvern Methodist Church taught me marching, brassing badges and spit and polishing shoes for inspection.

I changed school early in 1974 and went to Weston Agriculture College in Mooi River Natal.

I was 16 and the smallest boy in the school, and the first year was full on cruel initiation of new boys. It would make a man of you, and if you cannot take it you are not a man but a Queer. The sicko mentality of this boarding school was thatinitiation was good, because next year you could brutalize the next intake. (A sicko mentality) Next year onenew boy ran away (must bequeer) and his father just happened to be a journalist, well when the Sunday Times published his story it was amazing how the principal who had been in a German Prisoner of war camp and believed this cruelty was good in toughening up boys for life, quicklytook measures to stop bulling.

I would catch the train home for school holidays and on route it would stop at Ladysmith, often Troops would board and they would tell me about the army, army non-stop talk, and every detail about their basics. (Remember how we all became non-stop chatterboxes about the army, especially the first pass home) I also would hear about confidential SADF operating procedures, and one chap had been close to Luanda on the first op, already knew that the AK47 was considered to be a better assault rifle than the NATOcopied R1. There are always the repeated legend stories, haunted guard towers and the favourite waswhen a dead enemy in Angolalay in the road with his stomach split openand the breakfast of baked beans was being eaten by a dog.

I passed all my subjects in 1974 except Afrikaans, and the new law was that failing Afrikaans meant you failed the year. I had to repeat Std 8. Soweto student rioters, anger over Afrikaans, comrades I know your suffering.

In Matric year, we were trucked one evening to a Pietermaritzburg school where the hall was filled with matric boys from the area to hear a talk given by the highest ranking civilian General in the SADF, (was his name, Lord Haw Haw?) the English public relations officer to explain why they needed us to dotwo years instead of one.

Being atWeston Agriculture College the prison service would send around a recruiting officer and he would try and encourage Matric boys to join the prison service to work as Officers on Prison farms and this would count as National Service, the pay was better, but 4 yearsservice time was requiredinstead of 2.

There was a consensus of thought amongst the English speaking people that I knew, that a European could get a job fairly easily in the current system. If they were unemployable, lower than trailer trash on a Jerry Springer show, the SADF army embraced theminto permanent force staff.

Got my call up, July 1978 at Air Force Gym Valhalla. After Matric got employed as an Apprentice Diesel Mechanic with Johannesburg Municipality, (Parents advice: `A man must have a trade behind him!') and they would generously pay me while I was away doing 2 years national service. Having left one institution with only 6 months freedom before entering another, having myown money, freedom, it was time to go out to the drive in movies with as many girls as possible.

Early one morning in July,Dad dropped me at the gates of Valhalla Air Force Gymnasium, I walked in and saw20 queuing lines, You could join any one, like a lottery draw, not knowing the outcome I stood in a line and got to the desk gave my name bundled into a group, marched to a bungalow, and met the prick that was going to torment me for the next three months. PTI Corporal Snyman - Black belt Karate kid with hardened knuckles.

Medical, stood in underpantswatched over bysome female nurses ogling the abundant flesh on forced display, piss in a test tube, drop secretly smuggled glucose powder into urine, medic places litmus paper into urine and looks at colours, fine, no sugar diabetes, hit I am passed as fit.

Religion, if I say none maybe I could get out of church parade, None,then it'sFree Church for all sorts, Chaplin's little helper at desk takes details, sign form to say you will donate money out your wages to church, I write 10 cents, he looks disgusted, first pay day, they have taken R1, he had fraudulently altered it afterwards.

Sunday's go to Free Church, we are fearful of the Chaplin, thinking he is going to punish us like the nutty PTI's for sleepingcontinuously through his service. He doesn't, he preaches to a hall of Zombies, word gets around, his services become even more packed with converts from otherchurches. (The power of the Holy Spirit draws them in, even NGK defectors)OneSunday my comatose consciousness picked up his sermon, I stood up, "You've got it all wrong," he looks at me surprised, somebody alive out there, my friend is tugging me, trying to pull me down. The hall starts to stir, there's a nutter out there, and this is interesting. "Yes sir, you don't have to marry a woman because she has had sex with you." He's intrigued, at last somebody was listening.

Eventuallyto avoidchurch parades I hide in Bungalow, climb into my tiny metal cupboard Houdini style, get my friend to drape a blanket over door, and sleep in room until the Christian soldiers return.

Our Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) calls us once a week to a sports field, we can sit down on the grass, relax boys, he is so matey, first he tells us that if there are any drug addicts or homosexuals they can tell him as the SADF has a special (Gulag) camp that can help them overcome their problems. Nobody putsa hand up, who is going to stand up and say, "I am a crack cocaine addict, need a sex change and am into bestiality."

He then proceeds to explain that a PTI has incurred a "moersa" speeding fine and has no money to pay for it. Can we all donateone randand he willreturn the favour by beingsoft on us, but his identity willremain confidential. We donate one Rand.

Amazingly next pay day he tells us a Troopie is in financial trouble as his whole family has died in poverty and he cannot afford to bury them. We donateone Randfor funeral expenses.

Well these suffering sob stories continue (hooker scam trick lies) until donor fatigue kicks in, the usual koptoe morons donate and then get angry at the non donators. " He will make us suffer if we don't donate."

RSM gets arrested and court marshalled for embezzlement, sentence, confined to barracks.

His replacement, an RSM allegedly disallowed from commanding troops because he ran his own nephew to death. (Sad Sack comic story legends again) You are going to suffer now troopies. So the replacementRSM Lubaa, introduces himself by screaming in a high pitched girlie whine," At least ten of you are going to Military hospital tonight, I've ordered the ambulances, to the Sahara (dry as bone parade ground) He chased the troopes around, screaming like a madman, nobody went to hospital and I stood with the Asthma suffers on the side, even though I am not an Asthma suffer and had not a pump to show as proof of this condition.

RSM Lubaa did not kill any of our intake of Troopies, butnearthe end of Basics we "treed aan" (fall in), and he was angry (was he ever calm?) that insane look and high pitched whiny scream, ranting "'n bliksam se Joed" n' donderse joed", then changed to "waar is al die boere."? Mad Lubaa angry, only 2 hands went up. Boere according to Afrikaans folklore are supposed to be excellent marksmen, but the prize ofR150 for the best score on the shooting range went to a Jew not a Boer.No Jews were harmed in the making of this parade, they were away on yet another Jewish holiday.

After porridge for breakfastplus dinner at boarding school, the food at Valhalla was good, only the queuing up for food in the eveningtook too long. Many Troopies would have skipped breakfast due to time constraints in preparing for inspection, but threatened with punishment if caught not having breakfast it was easier to have it. Fainting on the parade ground was considered that you had not eaten breakfast. After meals we would wash our "Vark pan," in bin baths with hot white soapy water, and the cold rinse bath was greasy so I would go to the bathroomtap to rinse my utensils. Blue stone was not put in the tea, it was just sheer exhaustion that made you loose your sex drive. Once laced into mince curry at dinner and weeks later inyellow custard was dewormer laxative medicine (kill stomach worms) giving the camp diarrhoea and all night queues for the toilets. Kak parade!

We were the first intake to get the lower quality bush clothes, our bush jackets were thinner with less pockets, trousers were thin with no pockets. Luckily we were allowed to sow "Jippo" strips into our clothing that gave it a better appearance and madeit easier to iron. Air Force step out kit was blue and had a lot of brass buckles and badges to be buffed with brasso. The hat had a brasseagle badge in the centre and the chest of the eagle had lines showing feathers, feathers it was deemed desirable to erase byemery cloth and smooth the eagles chest as this was considered "Ou Manne". The blue hat remained flat panned during basics and only after basics could it be made to drop over the Eagle badge using a wet towel and a wire coat hanger in theinside rim, again to display,"Ou Manne". Boots were black in colour and you ironed lots of polish into the toe cap at the start for the boning base. Then rubbed with Escort pantyhose, for that extra shine. Even the lasses had to bethreaded in a specific order. I cut sponge out of a foam mattress and placed it inside boot as a crude cushion insole. Takkies (plimsolls) were issued army brown and had to be polished black.

Rifle was the R1, and holding it in your left arm when at attention on the parade ground you realized how heavy it was. I used to tuck the handle into my web belt for the longer periods. Rememberhow little bits of dust floating in airwould naturallystickto the oil in the CLEAN rifle barrel and then the childish remarks at morning inspection about "groen mannetjes" andfalsely accusedthat you had not cleaned your weapon. I solved this by spraying from an aerosol can, "Mr Min" furniture polish into the barrel and this would form a shinny wax coating but not absorb floating dust.

Fortunately we had aseven to five corporal, he would drive home to Randburg for the night and return for morning inspection, and we could see his car coming down the long drive. Thus we were sparedevening abuse. Morning inspection was the usual bull of him never being satisfied, it was always the poor blokes nearest the door that got inspected first and by bed 3 he was screaming that we were useless and had not done an ounce of work for inspection. Having stayed up cleaning till 11 the night before was irrelevant; it was never going to be satisfactory. One morning PTI displayed more angry insanity than his usual high decibels, and we had to dive up and over the beds with full kit for agescompletely trashing the barracks. What had rattled his cage was that every day at bungalow inspection he would run his finger along a surface and then say how dusty it was by wiping his finger onto a spotless white pillowcase, and a line of dirt would be displayed. It was a mystery; You had just dusted that surface before he had stepped through the door. What hewas doingwas a slight of the hand that magicians are famous for; he was wiping the inspected surface with one finger and thenwiping white pillowcase with a completely different dirty finger. His anger was that one Troopie had spotted this and dared to mention it.

There would be a bush telegraph call from Bungalow to bungalow as everybody would stream out to the call of "tree aan". We lined up out side the general store, and it was never fast enough for the PTI on the front porch. "Balke toe" and you made a left turn and ran to a sand wall, up the 2 meter steep bankwall, stop on top and then await the "Tree aan" and then down this bank shouting "Drie escader"(3 squadron) and fall in. The winter dust was horrendous with all the boots running over the sand, dust collected in all your orifices. The PTI on the bank always seemed to say that we never listened to him, and he would ask the same question again and again, we all in unison would shout in a mighty roar " Ja Korparaal", and then he would repeat his question again and again saying that he cannot hear us and we would all scream "Ja Koparal" again, and again, louder and louder. In unison with the squadcalling out I would shout. "Ja Kontaraal", (yes cunteraal) and then he would rant and rave about somebody "vloeking" him and away we would go "Balke toe " bank to.

The Instructors infamous insults spewed out their sewer mouths as they constantly insulted us, "Moenie vir my loer nie. Ek is nie a hoer nie", (Don't leer at me I'm not a whore.)we had to look straight ahead at attention and this was a command to tell us not to look at the person talking to us. Very difficult not to do, your whole life had been told "look at me when I talk to you." from parents to teachers,now it was the opposite. Others were "Jou sleg Eter", or "Eter Kop" (puss head), "Surstof dief", (oxygen thief)."Julle mark my gat hare taiie" calling us homosexuals.

The common constant insult was "Roofie", (scab) the term used to describe a conscript who had not completed basics.

Learning to shoot your weapon, the Air Force was civilized and arranged for us to learn at a small range within the camp, rifles were on tripods and bullets with plastic tips. We were allowed to sit around for our turn, unusual privilege. (Used to being chased constantly) Later we were transported in Bedford trucks to a huge shooting range outside Pretoria. What is it withboys in that they exaggerate how hard a task is and they overcame it macho style, especially if girls are present. I was apprehensive about shooting my first rounds because of the exaggerated stories wankers had told me about how their shoulders were nearly torn off by the recoil of the rifle. I expected my shoulder to be torn off and land behind me, nothing of the sort happened, more a gentle nudge.

The first few rounds were to set the gas cylinder on the rifle, andinstructor said that we were to fire into the bank and not the large number signs above each pit on the high earthen bank. Hadn't thought of that, so of course I aimed at the number boardsabove the bank. Don't remember much about the shooting, don't even know if I hit the target, same as when I got into the (skiet) pit and had to lift up the pointer. I just pointed it anywhere. Yes, maybe that looks like a hole in the target, point. Then after firing our rounds we had to run up to the targets being chased by RSM Lubaa and his swinging cane called "katjie" (kitten), then at the target RSM Lubaa would hit you for every miss with his cane and you had to say "Dankie katkie"(thanks kitten) after each whack. My most memorable memory was returning from the range in the Bedford when it stopped on a country road, then we saw a herd of cattle in the road and a parked car with the door open and the driver chasing a running herd boy who lept through a barbed wire fence to escape a beating from an angry motorist. My mate said, "That's Pretoria for you!"

Theory training was taking your green coloured trunk from the bottom of your bed and putting on the ground outside, sitting on the ground next to it, using it as a desk to try and take rough notesdictated by thePTI.( to be copied out neatly in the evening into your ledger)Now whenever he decided that we had been sitting too long he would ask a question, this involved leaping up and standing to attention . He soon realized that Francesco never ever knew the answers. Francesco, "Ja Korperaal"," What is the colour of your black boots?" "Don't know Korperaal", "You troopies never listen, weg is julle." (Collective punishment) We would open the trunk, throw our books inside, pick up trommel (trunk) by the side handle's and with this awkward box run around the barracks. I would run humming "round and round the mulberry bush", like we were back in kindergarten.

First pass, the usual threats of how this would be denied to us as we were disobedient, never listened and are absolutely useless. In our barracks was Wit Muis and Boertjie, life long childhood friends from banjo playing Griqualand (Kentucky deliverance) inbreds. Were these boys excited by their first pass? All we heard for weeks beforehand was how they were going to visit Hillbrow, "Daars a hoer op elke hoek" They were going to lose their virginity's (to a woman, farm yard creatures did not count) in Hillbrow, where they knew for sure it was teeming with nymphomaniac English women. (Afrikaans girls did not have sex until marriage). The English guys just smirked at this pair, they were like kids waiting forChristmas to arrive. After our first weekend pass theycame backas quiet as virgin church mice, and Hillbrow was never mentioned again.

My first pass home; instant fear at the first glance at my bed, it was not square, it had round corners, instantaneously expecting punishment.

I was fortunate to have received every week at basic camp a longed for letter from my girlfriend Kim Cowper, andI could not waitto visit her to rekindle the romance, and show her my stylish haircut. When I went for a casual walk with anybody I would automatically leap into step with them.

Chapkin wasnext to my bed in the barracks, he had eye problems and always was blinking. After 2 weeks of basics he stopped training with us and went to work in the main guard's office at the gate. I sometimes accompanied him tohis kosher food section specially cooked by a Jewish chef, it saved lining up in the long queues with the heathens. Some of the Jewish guys resented a blondeating with them, " Are you Jewish?" ""Yup, I am circumcised." I noticed that when some of them wanted tea with milk they went into the main mess to get gentile tea. Years later after leaving the Air Force totally, Chatkin admitted that he threw pepper into his eyes, and just went to the Guard room at the main gate and told them that he had to report for duty there, they let him stay and work there until the end of basics. (He had no permission.) They just accepted his word, it's called front.

On Wednesday evenings our black belt PTI held Karate classes, it was voluntary to attend, only about ten in the whole camp went. After running all day, collapsing with exhaustion in the evening, who would want to go for more exercise with the Prick that had annoyed you all day?

Sports parade, Wednesday afternoon's first ever sports parade - the different sporting groups werecalled to different areas of the parade ground, Rugby there, Soccer there, Tug of War, until at the very end it was Perde ruiters turn. I went to the equestrian group, the RSM there separated us out into different groups, Show Jumping, Eventing, Dressage, then there was a large group left over, he asked "What Equestrian discipline do you specialize in" Every one of this tail end group answered "Boere sport" BOERE SPORT ???

RSM dismissed us all, we were not what he wanted. He wanted Gymkhana riders. (Tent peggers and swordsman) We then had to join the cross country runners, now this sport did not take you out of the camp, remember "The fence is not to keep you in it's to keep the enemy out." So around the boundary fence we went. After running all week, who would join a cross-country group, eh? I always came last in school cross-country runs. I wasn't about to excel here.

Next weeks sports parade, undeterred my best friend Airman Martin Harris and I hoped onto the back of a Bedford truck to the Voortrekker sports stadium and walked to the army stable. Low and behold as we entered the yard we met the Air Force RSM who had dismissed us the week previously. He screamed that he had told us that he did not want us, then told us to saddle up horse R nommer, (even the army horses had R numbers branded on their rumps). The horse was barely broken in and it was a nerve racking ride. We walked back to camp as we missed the Bedford, Martin said that he did not want to ride nutty horses.

Influenced by my friend I did not return to the stables, a very big mistake I was to regret later. (This RSM was to be at my next posting).

Sports parade after our first pass consisted of crawling through the storm water drain, under the fenceinto neighbouring Snake Valley Air Force accommodation barracks, getting into Chapkin's car and go for a drive. We could see Chapkin's car parked in next doors car park from our Bungalow, and kept the secret between the three of us.

Golden Rule about breaking Rules, Keep it to yourself. Wonderful, aday out with our Squadron to train in the veld, so out we marched with full kit towards the Voortrekker Monument Hill in our individual squads, what a lovely surprise to find a broken down Bedford at the bottom of adirt track leading up to the monument. Push it up boys! Why was the driver and PTI grinning, ha ha? Normal people with broken down vehicles do not smile. Over the brow of the hill we then ran into the valley on the other side. Here in our individual squads we learned the art of camouflage, paint your faces and weave grass through your clothing. In the afternoon we rejoined the other squads and then were shown how to leopard crawl andwere taken to a burnt grass area in the valley, with stones exposed and told to leopard crawl across. Amazing I crawledover the burnt veld with rifle in front and got there first, not my usual last. Didn't groan in pain like the others, didn't feel any pain, may have something to do with the fact that I wore sport elasticated supports on my knees and elbows hidden beneath my browns. Then the joyful run back to camp up the hill past the front entrance of the Voortrekker monument, singing "Oosh aa,oosh khaa", karate calls, as instructed by our karate kid instructor, unlike the other squads chanting "Vasbyte min dae."

The big Bushcraft training trip was still to come, and our PTI instructor Snyman relished in telling us how he was going to make sure we would never forget the experience of the harsh training in the bush. Then he would single me out, "Hutcheson, you are a slapgat troopie, the worst I have ever seen." I was forced to answer, "Ja Korporaal." Then he would add a threat; "Wait till we get to the bush!"

There were no passes for the weekend before the big bush exercise, we stayed in camp to prepare our kit for Monday morning. On Sunday I bumped into Marc Knowle who I was friends with in school, he was posted in the adjacent Bungalow. "All packed for the bush Marc," "No, I cannot go. I have German Measles." I smiled, "Not the same German measles we had at boarding school?" He answered, "These are real." You cannotbe infected withGerman Measles twice in a life. Marc Knowle was insistent that his symptoms were the genuine illness. Now I knew the rules of breaking rules not to press him for an honest answer.

Amazingly I too developed German Measles that Sunday afternoon and reported to the Guard house who got the duty driver to take me to 1 Military hospital, see the Doctor, who gave me a sick certificate with instructions to stay isolated in bed for a week. Back in Valhalla I told my best friend Martin Harris about my illness, he did not believe that I was ill and begged me to tell him the secret of infection. I was loath to break the rule of secrecy; it would be an absolute trust to reveal such a secret to him. Half hour later Martin reported to the guardroom and went to1 Military hospital, and he nearly burst out laughing when the Doctor took one look at him and pronounced "German Measles".

That evening the barracks door was opened by a swaggering, smirking PTI Snyman, "So you are off to the Bush in the morning." I showed him my certificate, and then you should have seenthe face of disbelief when Martin produced a Doctors note.

Early next morning in the dark the Squadron jumped onto Bedfords and left for the Bush while I still lay in Bed. Every morning thereafter the bungalow door would open and a Corporal would take roll call on the 2 Airman lying in bed. Then we would join Marc Knowle next door in our pyjamas and play darts and cards.

On Wednesday morning I wore full step out uniform and walked tothe in camp medical quarters, hopped into the Duty Combi, took a seat at the back, and waited for it to fill up. The driver eventually jumped in and asked to see "Hospital passes," he checked ever ones except mine, I did not have one and stood out in my blue uniform, surrounded by brown bush uniforms. Off he drove and the chap sitting next to me whispered, "It's so obvious that you are AWOLing. I have a friend meeting me at the hospital, do you want a lift." True to his word his friend was waiting for him in the hospital car park, and they gave me a lift to Pretoria train station. (Thank You to all those who helped me, if you are reading this!) I know I got the train and alighted at Jeppe station. I then arranged a lift out to Benoni, got Marc Knowle's Ford Escort from his parents plot, and drove back to Pretoria. Just before Valhalla I placed aGymnasium window disc onto the windscreen, issued by our comrade Chatkin who stole it from the Guardroom. I drove nervously up to the gate in the dusk, low and behold the Roof on gate duty, upon seeing the windscreen sticker, hurriedly raised the boom and saluted me as I drove through. Parked the car and when I returned to my very distraught, worried friends (this was all before mobile phones were invented)who had imagined me being arrested and sitting in DB, they were so relieved and gave me ahappy welcome.

Friday afternoon, time to go on weekend pass, we piled into the Escort car and laughed with joy as we drove out the gate just in time to see the returning Bedfords unloading 3 Squadron.

I then volunteered to become an Air Traffic Controller, a good job if you can get it. The first step towards this position was the interview, which I blew with my lack of Afrikaans. But that did not stop them sending all 12 volunteers for medical and IQ tests. Every morning we got a Combi to a Medical Research Center, where they tested our hearing, eyesight and the hardest was sitting in a spinningchair that spun around at great speed and then afterwards told to stand on one leg, being very giddy we fell over. I was in no hurry to get these tests over with so we completed one a day and sat on the grass outside for the rest of the day. After a week the duty Combi stopped transporting us as the tests were now complete, but in the mean time the whole base was now practising for the passing out parade. As everybody was involved in the huge passing out exercise we no longer marched in our individual Flights under our personal PTI. With 2000 Airman on daily parade I was not missed by CPL Snyman, and I joined the light duty sick manne group, without a doctor's note, but nobody asked for it anyway. While others marched up and down drilling for the big parade, I painted the stands.

The final passing out parade arrived. I was not going to miss this one, and I fell in proudly in my immaculate smart blue uniform, andmarched perfectly in time to the South African Air Force's marching Band.

After the final stepping out parade, we went back to Bungalow for our flight (squad) to beharassed by Snyman (his last chance) whoscreamed that we could not go on pass as "Hutcheson was not doing enough push ups". PTI Snyman was working up the thick heads into a frenzy to give me a physical beating.

After Basic training I had the joyful news that I was posted to "Waterkloof Air Force Base," just outside Pretoria. Saturday passing out parade Valhalla,Monday a new start at MT workshops "Waterkloof Lugmag Basis"

The Military Transport Workshop was tucked away inside Waterkloof Air Force Base it was well away from the Aircraft Hangers. The workshop was responsible for the maintenance and repair of the Air Force's vehicles, from fire fighting Pathfinders to Mini Mokes. The workshop buildings were built around a courtyard, and strung over the concreted yard was camouflage netting, this was not there to hide us from spy satellites, but to provide shade.

The staff consisted of a Flight Sergeant in charge, two Sergeant's and about ten permanent force mechanics, one Mechanic and Auto electrician from Atlas Aircraft. Plus about 5 labourers, then us conscripts. There was a steady stream of work that came in; Landrovers, Bedford trucks, Kudu buses, VW Combi, Beetles, Renault cars, Minis, Mini Mokes and Bicycles. The work was done at a slow civil service pace; if these were private clientsvehicles, this garage would have gone bust.

The permanent staff werea church going, pretty contented lot, came to work on time, swung a few spanners, then went home on time to his family home in Pretoria, Monday to Friday, and got paid, a secure job for life. I ended up working as a spanner boy, alongside an Atlas Aircraft mechanic, Portuguese (Mozambique born) called Arillio. His English was about as perfect as my Afrikaans; he was a slow methodical worker, but a perfectionist. He repaired and totally overhauled the Head chefs beat up old Suzuki 50cc and made it look new (I did the scrubbing) it took 4 weeks and then upon delivery to the Head Chef, we took a Bakkie and went to the Mess kitchen back door and staff loaded up Air Force food boxes to take back to our workshop for it to be distributed to our staff, in gratitude by Chief Chef. No this was not corruption, it was a barter system; No money changed hands. Arillio worked on mostly private jobs, but out the back, so anybody walking into the workshop entrance would see only Air Force vehicles in the court yard, and anybody dangerous (officers) walking through the yard to the back we could see them easily, and switch from work to standing around.

Arillio made an exercise machine for the Flight Sergeant Rose's wife, and for FS Ross's church's alter a copper dove, also overhauled countless gearboxes and engines for the bases staff, and repaired numerous radiators. Radiators were stripped completely and I would stand over a paraffin bath and rub down with wire wool all of its parts until the brassshone, then Arillio would solder it all together again. It was like a work of art, timeless in its recreation. We did not receive any reward but Flight Sergeant Ross being thehead boss of the workshop got flights in Mirage fighters, and other grateful thank you's from Air Force personnel.

Arillio was sometimes required to work on a military vehicle, this was normally because the other mechanics were unable to understand or solve a particular problem. There was a particularly large old heavy truck, it was seldom used but in winter it would not start having no glow plugs. I watched the best P.F mechanics fail to start it, and always defeated Arillio would be called. He would take off the air filter pipe at the intake manifold, (nobody was allowed to watch) hold a rag sniffing with petrol fumes over the opening, I would crank the engine and hey presto who said that petrol should not be used to start a diesel.(Do not try this at home).It was his magic rag secret.

There was tea break in the morning and afternoon, the urn would be delivered to our workshop tea room straight from the mess, and we all put money into a tea club for cakes and games. At lunch there was enough time to walk outside the base to the mess.

The P.F.safter 2 years service were made up to Lance Corporals, they were not needed in any authoritarian role, it was merely done as a pay increase. The highest rank in the workshop was a Flight Sergeant, so the chance of a conscript getting promotion was nil. Withthe rewardbeing the same for working hard or not, there was no incentive to work hard.

As long as you turned up on time Monday to Friday, behaved yourself, outside working hours you were left alone the rest of the time. We turned up for work, had roll call, changed from Air Force cap and browns into a blue Air Force overall, and then at the end of the working day, back to locker and into browns.

The weekly routine could be disrupted by being called to guard duty, this would be for a solid week. The shift was from 6 evening until midnight, then a dog handler would relieve your post, and you would be off until you reported to the guard house for the next evening shift. You were given an R1 with a sealed magazine with 5 rounds, thank god we never had to use it in defence, breaking a wire seal off the magazine head would take longer than firing 5 rounds. That busy base after everybody went home became desolate and quiet, hangers full of fighter jets and me alone looking afterbillions of rands worth of equipment, with 5 rounds.

The furthest guard post was the bomb storage bays, on the far side of the base, well away from buildings, it was hidden in trees and it was very dark standing guard in there at night. Near midnight you could hear a petrol Bedford truck approaching the dog kennels, the dogs barking loudly from the kennels, then an inspection would take place and then afterwards could hear the sput sput of a straining engine as it drove around the base picking up bored and frozen guards to replace them with Dog handlers with 9mm Star pistols. When the Bedford stopped the dog would leap down with it's handler,then you would jump in the back seeing dogs left and right snarling and doing their best to bite you. You would stand in the middle as dogs were tied up very short with leads to the posts, the Bedford would bounce along bonging you and dogs around helping the dog shit and piss to run all over the floor.

In Winter it was freezing cold, temperatures dropped below freezing, South Africans who never have spent a full night outdoors neverwill knowjust how cold the S.A. winter is.

Another duty was a week on top of a mountain in the Magaliesburg that had a tall red and white Aerial mast and transmitter, at its base wasa surrounding security fenceenclosing small cottage with shower and gas stove for own cooking. The hard part was seeing the lights in the far distance valleys on New Years Eve thinking that the civvies wereenjoyingparty time.

The nearest train station alongside a busy road to the Airbase had a fenced off siding that held railway tankers with aircraft fuel, this pumping station pumped fuel up the hill into the airbases fuel tanks. Guards were assigned to this duty for a week at a time, from 6am till 6 evening, then relieved by a night Dog Guard, and wore civilian clothes so as not to draw attention to this vital artery. I could park my VW beetle car within the perimeter fence of this pump station, sit in it, reading a book or talk on the CB radio "big buddy crap", even had an "eyeball" with a passing motorist who would wonder when he drove past why there was always somebody in there.

Gate duty was another day or night shift, day shift was busy when everybody came into work and you had to check ID's, I knew most by recognizing them and never asked for ID, only asked Officers because I was fearful of being told off for not checking their pass. The only officer I never asked for ID was burnt so badly in a helicopter crash his stocking covered scary flesh made me not want to look. Weekends were quiet on the main gate, but one day a load of civvie cars with pilots wives arrived to collect their Pilot husbands, they drove in parked at the hangers, watched the Mirages land and gave their husbands a joyful reunion as he stepped out of his cockpit after being away on border duty. Everybody was so happy and I never was questioned for letting in civilians with no clearance.

Accommodation at WLBfirst was in tents, until spaces became available in the bungalows, the first bed to be made available was when MP's arrested an individual after a search of his cupboard found magazines with pictures of naked women. (Banned material). The lawns around the base were maintained by Jehovah Witness prisoners working in Air Force blue overalls, as theirreligion forbid them to wear military uniforms.

There were also civilian Atlas aircraft staff, theywore civilian work clothes with company colours. If you joined Atlas aircraft after leaving school as a trainee technician you had a civilian job counting as national service.

Martin Harris my friend from basics was posted to Air Force headquarters in Pretoria, and his accommodation was in Voortrekkerhoogte Air Force accommodation camp. It was more convenient to drive to my friends camp in the evening, sleep the night there, and return to my base in the morning for work. Martin eventually secured a small room in the corner of the barracks and I would sleep on a foam mattress on the floor, inspections consisted of the guys in the barracks room locking the bedroom door with a padlock on the outside, I would lie in my sleeping bag still, then attention called, silence as the inspection took place, inevitably broken by a strangers voice on the other side of door would ask, "Who's in here?" Then ourcomrade at attention would answer "Regimental policeman already at work, sir." Off he happily would go, the door unlocked by one of the great guy's outside. (Saam werk!)

Waterkloof airbase was divided into two halves by the runway, on the far side were the transporters C130 and C160's in their huge hangers, Canberra bombers with a Spitfire and Vampire. On the near side were the Mirage fighters and 4 Buccaneers to start with but one buccaneer was lost on an exercise. I remember watching the pilot and navigator being strapped into the cockpitthat evening, taking off, never to be seen again. There was also the Air traffic control tower and head offices.

Visiting aircraft would be SAA Boeing passenger planes practising take off and landings, a Rhodesian Hunter, and the USA embassy Lear jet equipped with spy cameras.

The only major parade we had no marching just falling in was when we assembled in front of the Base officer and hewarned us ofsuspicious persons with binocularsseen watching the base, and a huge sand bank was bulldozed into place alongside the perimeter fence, stopping communist spies in anoraks fromseeing into the base.

A major parade that I attended along with 50 others was when wecaught the Milk train from Pretoria station to Cape Town, now the Milk train is slow and stops at every siding, even in a desolate landscape the milk train will stop. There are only 2 woman on the train, a German backpacker, hairy armpits on a tight budget, and a 30's something lady who in the Karoo decides tobreak the boredom by walking up and down thecarriages naked, well she did have fishnet gear on.

Cape town train station bussed to an Airbase overlooked by Table mountain, our mission, marching practice to take part in a Colours parade, Shackleton aircraft are old and the replacement Aircraft are to be in a new squadron and the Squadron colours have to be presented for the first time. On the big day I marched impeccably and lifted my right hand in a salute to John Vorster taking the salute on a podium a few feet from me, oh how I wanted to break rank and leap up and smash him down, but I stayed in step, as you do. Back in barracks another lad was telling all how John Vorster looked him in the eye and how he beamed hatred back. "I hope he could see how much I hated him!" he said.

An airman thatworked at this base told me that his work was bringing in the secret shipments of spares needed for the Air Force from Argentina in crates marked "Agriculture implements", sanctions busting, arms embargo breaking naughty man.

Overall it was a wonderful parade, between marching breaks I got to stay with Capetonian friends from Zambia for the weekend pass, go ice-skating and visit the Castle. At Cape Town train station waiting to catch the train back, we smiled and said "Hello" to Cape coloured girls, they chanted back "Vorster se kinders", "Vorster se Kinders", our Air Force uniform had an effect on them, but they weren't going to score with that chat up line. Parade well done and over it was back to Pretoria on the Milk train, the cheapest rail fare ticket possible. Not the blue train, we had that on the way down.

The other parade I remember was being bussed out to Springs (Witwatersrand) East Rand and parading at a Mirage Pilots funeral, he died allegedly when he was showing off with his fellow Pilot and both planes went down and here I was in Springs marching, very badly, the slow march. Everybody was out of step, we struggled to get it right in basics and here after being out of practice for ages, nobody could drill properly. Anyway there were very few people at his funeral, and they didn't complain about the carry on parade, all we could think about was how late we were going to be back at camp, way past our knock off time, on this long bus ride to base.

Plane lossesand their causes are official secrets, but people love to talk and so here arethe stories about crashes, Dakota lost on border, pilot seat occupied by a drunken woman, not the pilot trying to impress her. Canberra pilot shot dead by AK 47 ground fire, Bomb aimer in plane nose tries to pull pilot out his seat to get controls, cannot move him, plane crashes with Air traffic controllers hearing it all on radio.

Border call up was for 3 months and one national serviceman at a time from MT workshop would go up to the border. In the workshop was a Booysens Afrikaner called Olwaga, he went in my place as Flight Sergeant Ross volunteered his name just to be rid of him. Olie was not happy to go in my place, but he went again, and he never did learn to keep from answering his superiors back.