Ruminations on conscription, military service, and patriotism.

Aweh dearly beloved fellow ruminants & groupies

As we observe the evolving Ukranian war from the southern tip of Africa, I have taken a particular interest in the plight of young Russian men who are being conscripted to fight and die in a war they did not start, may not understand, or believe in. I know what that feels like, and it can be frightening.

Being conscripted into an army against your will can be a deeply traumatic experience. One of the benefits of age is that I am now too old for that. White South African men of my generation were conscripted into the army in the 1970s and 80s, and the level of your obligations to the military peaked in the 80s. With many of my peers, I was required to report for 2 years of military service and then had a further obligation to do 60-day army camps every year for a further 10 years. Not a minor obligation if I look back on that.

I reported to the army for basic training in July 1985 when I was 24 years old after having completed my master’s degree. One of the things that made my military service more bearable was that my friend, Brett Cronje, and I reported for duty at the same time, and we were like-minded army buddies. Brett subsequently died, and I wrote a tribute to him. Of course, the apartheid government of the time painted military service as a noble patriotic duty as we faced a “total onslaught” from the communist forces of evil and darkness. We fought a war in Angola and against increasing protests in the apartheid-created black townships. What was that all about? Many drank this Kool-Aid, but I did not. I was a reluctant and unwilling soldier. At the end of our 3-month basic training, we were lined up by our platoon lieutenant, who provided each of us with a kind (or not-so-kind) parting word. Intending to humiliate me, he barked at me, “Young, we will never make a good soldier out of you!”. Yes, exactly, that was my whole point. I won. My broad grin was perhaps not the response he expected, and his attempt to humiliate me fell flat.

Despite my ineptitude as a soldier, I was invited to do an officer’s course, but I had no interest in that and managed to arrange to be transferred to the Council for Scientific and Industrial Research (CSIR), where I was able to start the research that led to my Ph.D. My military service was very mild compared to some of my peers who went into battle in a pointless and ultimately unwinnable war.

My exposure to the true believers and patriots in the South African defense force (SADF) was an eye-opener for me. One Friday afternoon, I was assigned to do guard duty at the back entrance of our camp in Voortrekkerhoogte, just outside Pretoria (now Tshwane). I was given an R4 assault rifle with a magazine with live ammunition to repel the communists. My unarmed guard duty partner was an 18-year-old, Afrikaans-speaking, true believer fresh out of school. We were sitting in the guard hut keeping ourselves warm as the sun was setting and the temperature rapidly dropped as it does in the Highveld winter. We did not talk much as we had little in common to talk about.

Then an entire platoon of Portuguese South African recruits suddenly arrived at the hut. It was the way of the South African army to partition the platoons according to their ethnic group, and there is a vibrant community of people of Portuguese origin in Johannesburg. For those of you who can tolerate political incorrectness, they were referred to as Porras. The leader of the Porra group instructed me in no uncertain terms to open the gate so that they could escape the grim camp for an unauthorised weekend at home.

There was then quite an intense discussion where I patiently explained to the militant group that we had not been entrusted with the keys to the gate of this back entrance. Once this point eventually sunk in, the entire platoon simply scaled the gate and disappeared into the winter dusk to enjoy a weekend at home. My true believer patriot partner was horrified and screamed at me, “skiet hulle, skiet hulle” (shoot them, shoot them). Of course, I did nothing of the sort. Now we had something to talk about, and he was horrified that I did not intervene and threaten to shoot them. He was not to be placated. He called the officer on duty on the radio, explaining that the treasonous “soutpiel” (a derogatory term for English-speaking South Africans which I will leave to you to translate) was not prepared to do his duty to stop an insurrection and use military force.

Shortly after that, a permanent force (permanent soldier) Captain, who had eaten too many doughnuts in his past, came waddling up. After delivering some insults about my lack of devotion to the cause, he asked me to explain myself. “Captain, I hear what my fellow soldier is saying, but I have to say I didn’t see anything. I didn’t see any platoon jumping over the fence. I’m not sure this youngster is not imagining things”. He thought about this for a minute and realised this was not going to go anywhere useful. He turned around, muttering under his breath about recruits who don’t know how to do their duty.

My time in the army taught me some valuable lessons about how to survive in a hierarchical organisation where dissent is harshly punished. I learned the strategy of apparent cooperation. Always say yes. The army has effective, ruthless mechanisms to deal with defiance but is powerless against ineptness and ignorance from a willing and outwardly cooperative soldier.  

I thought that after leaving the army, I would not need to use this strategy again. I was wrong. Towards the end of my long corporate career, there were times when this useful strategy enabled me to survive. Let it not be said that I did not learn anything useful from my military service.

Thank you for all the ideas and comments. I really appreciate them, and please keep them coming.

Regards

Bruce