Most wars are political. This one was personal.
Sometime towards the end of basic training, which rushed by in a blur of parade ground abuse, PT, midnight inspections and the other predictable stuff, we were woken up even earlier than usual for a special roll call that included all the Service School companies, perhaps eight or nine hundred of us, yawning into the Highveld dawn, shivering in the February rain.
A small wooden desk, manned by a captain, a couple of lieutenants and several NCOs, had been set up in a corner of the acre of beaten earth where we did our daily drills. One by one we presented ourselves at the desk. Name, rank and number, then stripped to the waist and examined for something on the torso, the arms and the hands, palm up and palm down. Tattoos, someone whispered behind me.
After that, some people left for Middelberg in two or three trucks. SAI4. Infantry.
Unlucky.
I was put on a course to learn map reading, filing and typing. I was going to be a G-clerk. The abuse and the PT subsided to bearable levels. Only ten more months.
Cool.
One day we were taken to the shooting range.
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