The military transport truck rattled over a road that barely deserved the name, shaking like a donkey with severe arthritis. The 1948 midday sun was beating down so hard it felt like it was actively trying to melt the canvas roof over our heads. I was sitting on one of the splintering wooden benches, my back plastered to the scorching metal frame, thinking out loud for the only audience that actually matters.
Do you know what the absolute worst part of this shitty country is, reader?
It doesn't even give you the dignity of freezing to death.
Why the hell couldn't I have been born somewhere with snow? I'm not asking for Alaska, damn it, but a little bit of winter wouldn't have hurt anyone. What's the matter? Never seen an African dream of getting the hell out of Africa? Relax. It's not racism; it's basic survival. Around here, the sun cooks you alive before you can even formulate a plan to climb the ranks.
I'd been stuck in this rolling coffin for hours, squeezed in with a dozen other idiots whose pasts were probably just as murky as mine. Look, I'm not gay or anything, but shit... these guys were ugly. I mean really ugly. The kind of ugly that makes the desperate bastards back in the slums look like cover models. I'm talking about badly healed knife scars, missing teeth, and the hollow, dead-eyed stares of men who had already sold their souls for a cheap plate of pap en vleis. And the funniest part? They still sat there puffing their chests out, thinking they were tough. Pathetic.
Finally, at the end of the dirt road, cutting a jagged silhouette against the dusty horizon, the low shadows of the military base appeared. I shut up. For the first time in hours, my internal monologue took a pause. I stared at the corrugated tin barracks baking in the heat, the South African flag hanging limply from a pole, its colors completely bleached out by the sun and the dust.
I leaned my head back against the hot metal and whispered, almost soundlessly:
"I hope to God this is the beginning of something worth living for..."
The truck hissed to a violent halt, throwing us all forward. The canvas flap at the back was ripped open, letting in a blinding wave of white light and a blast of air so hot it felt like opening an oven door.
"Out! Get your miserable asses out of my truck!"
We scrambled down into the red dirt. Waiting for us was a man who looked like a melted candle in a uniform. He was a heavily overweight sergeant—or some equivalent sub-officer, his insignia was obscured by a thick layer of grease and apathy. He was wearing dark, wire-rimmed sunglasses that hid his eyes, and he was chewing on something that smelled distinctly like cheap tobacco and garlic.
"Welcome to Camp 4," he grunted, not even bothering to salute. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, which was fighting a losing battle against his gut.
I took a quick look around. The place was exactly as I had pictured it: a miserable, dusty shithole. The heat was suffocating, pressing down on my lungs with physical weight. The barracks were nothing more than glorified tin cans baking in the sun. The air smelled of burning diesel, rancid cooking grease, and the sour tang of nervous sweat.
"Alright, listen up, fresh meat," the fat sergeant barked, scratching his neck. "The battalion is currently having breakfast. You will grab your duffel bags, march over to the main courtyard, form up in two neat lines, and wait. The Commander will address you when he's ready. Move it!"
With a raspy chuckle that sounded like a wet cough, he turned around and waddled off toward a concrete building that smelled of fried sausages, leaving us standing in the dirt.
We dragged our bags to the center of the completely unshaded main courtyard and formed up. And then, we waited.
Ten minutes passed. The sun climbed higher.
Thirty minutes. Sweat started pooling in my boots. My standard-issue khaki uniform, the one I already despised, was clinging to my back like a wet second skin. I could feel the beginnings of a heatstroke tapping gently at my temples.
Where the fuck is this guy? I thought, staring at the empty wooden podium at the front of the courtyard. I started cursing the fat sergeant in my head. Then I started cursing him out loud, under my breath, inventing new and increasingly violent ways to rearrange his internal organs.
One hour.
Nothing. A guy two rows ahead of me swayed, his knees buckling slightly before he caught himself. The silence of the base was absolute, save for the distant clatter of silverware and laughter coming from the mess hall. They were taking their sweet time.
One hour and a half.
My vision was starting to blur at the edges. The urge to break rank, march into that mess hall, and smash a coffee mug over the fat sergeant's face was becoming overwhelming. This wasn't discipline; this was a power trip executed by men who had no real power outside these barbed-wire fences.
Just as my hand twitched toward my belt, the doors of the mess hall finally swung open.
Loud, booming laughter echoed across the courtyard. A group of men strolled out, picking their teeth with matchsticks, looking thoroughly satisfied. Leading the pack was a tall, lean man with the insignia of a Base Commander gleaming on his lapels. He had slicked-back dark hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and the relaxed, arrogant posture of a man who owned the place and everyone in it.
He walked up to the podium, taking his time, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips as he looked at our sun-baked, miserable faces.
"Boys," the Commander said, his voice smooth and dripping with mock sympathy. "Welcome to my base. I truly hope we get along."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, clearly enjoying our misery.
"I apologize for the delay," he continued, placing his hands on his hips. "But we were just finishing up a rather intense game of cards after breakfast, and you simply cannot interrupt a winning streak. I'm sure you understand."
I stared at him. I didn't blink. I locked away the micro-expressions on his face: the slight crinkle of sadistic pleasure around his eyes, the subtle flare of his nostrils. Arrogant. Lazy. Vulnerable. "At ease," the Commander finally commanded. "Go find a bunk. Drink some water before you die on my parade ground—the paperwork is a nightmare. Today at 1400 hours, we will begin your afternoon training, and my sergeant will distribute your weekly itineraries. Dismissed."
The rest of the day was a blur of manufactured exhaustion. The "training" was nothing more than running laps around the perimeter fence while the fat sergeant yelled insults from the shade. When we finally got our itineraries, I almost laughed. It was a joke. Night watches over empty desert expanses, perimeter patrols to guard against non-existent threats, and endless hours of basic drill instruction. It was busywork designed to keep our minds numb and our bodies tired.
By nightfall, I was lying on a lumpy mattress in a massive, drafty barracks room that smelled of eighty unwashed men. There were no partitions, no privacy. Just rows of iron beds and the cacophony of snoring, coughing, and restless tossing.
I stared up at the corrugated tin ceiling, listening to the rhythmic buzzing of a massive fly trapped against a lightbulb.
Look at them, I thought, glancing at the sleeping lumps around me. Content with their mediocre misery. Happy just to have survived the day. I crossed my arms behind my head.
I need to make myself known. If I just put my head down and play the good soldier, I'll end up exactly like these idiots: spending years stuck in the same rank, sweating in the same cheap uniform, without even the luxury of a private room to jerk off in.
I didn't survive the slums of Sophiatown and I didn't dodge a firing squad just to become a sun-dried extra in someone else's war. This Commander thinks he's the king of this little dirt patch.
I smiled in the dark, a cold, humorless stretch of the lips.
Let him enjoy his card games. Soon enough, he'll realize I'm the one shuffling the deck.
[End Chapter 2]