by Michael Paterson-Jones
As I sped back into camp that evening, little did I know the dangers I would face in just a few hours. A cold shower and beer were calling. It had been another hot, dusty, twelve hours at the wheel of our Hyena MPV (Mine Proof Vehicle). Hours strapped tightly to a metal seat in a steel coffin. I was exhausted. It was stressful scanning the road ahead for any surface disturbance that might indicate the presence of a Russian TM-46 landmine. If I spotted any color change in the sand roadway, we stopped and probed the suspicious area with thin rods like sharpened bicycle spokes. If the rod hit something solid, we called the engineers, those poor devils who had to either lift the mine or blow it up on site. We were a part of the security force fighting against Robert Mugabe’s terrorists (freedom fighters) in Rhodesia, the country now called Zimbabwe. Some days we set ambushes on the Mozambique border or acted as guides for army detachments. We knew the hills and valleys and bush paths in our mountains well.
When we arrived, the CO was waiting for us on the veranda outside his office. I parked the Hyena nearby, and when we climbed out of the vehicle, he called us into his office.
“Late night for you two guys tonight,” he said, as he closed the door.
We looked at him quizzingly.
“I want you to go and draw a Land Rover from the motor pool,” he continued. “Then at nine o’clock tonight, head south on the Melsetter road to the twenty-mile mark and drive slowly to the thirty-mile mark. Then turnaround and drive back to the twenty-mile mark. Keep your eyes open. Repeat the trek back and forth until midnight and then come back to camp.”
“Excuse the language, Sir, but what the hell are we going to be looking for?” George asked.
“Anything out of place, anything suspicious. Right. Now get yourselves a shower and not more than two beers before you go!” the CO said.
A shower removed the clinging red dust from my body and two beers washed it from my throat. We passed the time in the Main Camp Bar with two other buddies until nine. The four of us, all coffee farmers and neighbors had gladly volunteered for the Field Reserve, a paramilitary unit of the Police. We totally believed in our Declaration of Independence, implemented in 1965, to preserve responsible government, much like the US did in 1776.
We travelled down the tar road to the twenty-mile mark and then slowed down as we moved further south. It was a moonless night. George drove and I scanned the narrow strip of bush illuminated by the Land Rover headlights on each side of the road. We were terrified driving through an area populated mainly by supporters of Mugabe, fully aware that the thin aluminium bodywork surrounding us provided little defence against incoming AK-47 bullets and was useless against an RPG rocket.
We saw nothing of consequence. There were no other vehicles on the road, but twice we had to swerve to miss a stray goat and had to stop once to allow a tortoise to pass on his slow way. We chatted to pass the time, discussing anything but the dangerous situation we found ourselves in. We talked mostly of coffee prices, and our farms and families. At last, our odd mission was over. We returned to camp and completely forgot about the incident soon after.
A couple of months down the line, I was again sitting in the bar at Main Camp. The row of “dead men” on the table bore testament to a good relaxing end to an interesting day. We had shot a jackal earlier that afternoon, a very shy animal that had no fear of us. We were certain it had rabies and later tests proved we were right.
As we toasted our success, Rob, a banana farmer from the Burma valley whom I knew quite well, started to make his unsteady way past me when he suddenly stopped.
“You and George are lucky bastards you know!” he said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, my interest aroused.
“I’m talking about that night a few months ago when you two were swanning up and down Melsetter road in a Landy. What they didn’t tell you was that earlier that day, we Fire Force guys had an ongoing skirmish with a group of about fifty of Mugabe’s goons. We slotted some but lost visual with the bulk of the group at nightfall. JOC (Joint Operation Command) predicted they would head for Buhera, the other side of Melsetter road. If they could be persuaded to show themselves, one of our OP’s units would see the gunfire and could direct Fire Force to engage. Funny thing, nothing happened that night, but in the morning, we found tracks. They had crossed the road while you two were happily exposing yourselves. Maybe they didn’t like your deodorant!”
He laughed at his own joke, while I went from pleasantly intoxicated to stone cold sober in a split second. I marched outside and screamed at the empty parking lot, “Bastards, Bastards, using me as bait.” At that moment, I hated everyone, our war machine and the terrorists for the cruel and unnecessary war that still raged through our beautiful mountains.
As I cooled down in the frosty night air, I realized I had a guardian angel, one who would be by my side on other occasions as well. I blessed those terrorists for just going quietly about their business and ignoring us. It was not nice to realize that I had been disposable, but at the same time, I was deeply thankful to have made it through the Bush War when so many others did not.
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Michael Paterson-Jones was born in the UK but went to Africa as a baby. He grew up in Kenya and Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. He went to university in South Africa. His early career was as an agronomist, industrial chemist and teacher. He married his Rhodesian born wife, Thora, in 1970. That year they bought a coffee farm in The Vumba, on the Mozambique border and lived there for seven years through the “Bush War.” They travelled extensively in Mozambique. They then moved to South Africa firstly to Cape Town and then to Durban. After twenty-two years there and in Swaziland, as an academic, he and Thora lived for seven years in Upstate New York before returning to the UK.
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