Reading these posts brings back memories. I was a 2nd LT national serviceman at 250 ADAG in 1989/1990. Three months basic training started in February 1989 at Valhalla Beach straight out of matric. I was in Flight 10, 4 SQN, which placed our lines close to the mess but far from the perimeter fence. This meant a long hazardous run on the return leg from unauthorized social expeditions. 6 SQN occupied the tents along the fence and a shout of "AWOL bastards!" was the first thing you heard when you hit the fence at a sprint. We received our mustering at the end of basics and an ADAG posting was much feared by all. I felt extremely unfortunate at the time. From Valhalla we were packed off to Airspace Control School at AFB Waterkloof. Once we got there, about 50 (?) of us were sent off for a series of interviews (with the Colonel inter alia) for a place on officer’s course – I had not expected this. Nine of us were selected for the 3 months officer forming course at SAAF College starting in May. We spent the month of April at Waterkloof doing a primary radar course at Airspace Control School, being tortured with scary stories (mostly from gleeful NCO's) about how we badly we were going to kak off and that we wouldn't make it anyway, so why bother? The evidence, in fact, was on their side, as only one guy from nine ADAG guys had got through the previous course (Lt Nigel someone?)
Officer’s Course kicked off with "Operation Gogga"; essentially three and a half days in the bush without sleep, running, crawling, writing essays, stand up, fall down, rollover. Quitters were invited to drink beer and braai with officers. After GOGGA properly thinned the ranks, we were placed in classes. Unlike army JLs, all SAAF candidates went to SAAFCOL, so we had a mixed bag from units across the SAAF, with ages ranging from 18 to 35ish. Instructors at SAAFCOL were officers drawn from various active units - we got Major Ray Barske, a chopper pilot. Simply, we all shat ourselves - he was the scariest person I had met in life until then. Officer’s course was weird in hindsight; you worked harder than you had ever worked in your life (before or since), got F!@#ed around relentlessly, did a cheese and wine course and ate 3 course meals at the officers mess (Lord Milner's Manorhouse in Voortrekkerhoogte). Five of us made it through officer’s course and it was back to Airspace Control School. Here we linked up with air traffic control guys who had also got through and spent a pleasant couple of months doing interesting courses with minimal discipline and the freedom to more or less come and go as we pleased; I remember subjects like meteorology, navigation, air law and ATC. I came tops in the academic stuff so was pretty confident when I tried my luck at getting my mustering changed to ATC (I mean, the Plaas versus working with pretty girl ATCs?) That trick had been tried before with about as much success. It was still going to be ADAG for me.
Our Cactus training started at Waterkloof. We did everything from vehicle maintenance to weapons training. We learnt all the technical aspects of the AU and FU and were trained on manning and operating all the positions in a Cactus crew. Other subjects included a more advanced radar course, electronic warfare, counter measures, counter counter measures etc., engagement rules and procedures. We studied pictures of enemy aircraft and learnt about their capabilities. At that point we got news that the ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela was to be released – this was followed by an announcement that national service was to be changed from 2 years to 1 year for future intakes. Unfortunately for us, we were only going to get ours cut to 18 months. What it did mean is that we got the troops from the first one year intake that August – basics had been reduced to 6 weeks and the SADF was not prepared for it – essentially it was a shambles. The poor guys in that intake effectively got to do basics all over again when they got to Waterkloof and another full go when they got to ADAG at Hammanskraal. I remember a Flight Sergeant "Platkop" during this stage, who couldn't NAV his way out of a paper bag during exercises. As candidate officers, we spent a lot of time running and kaking off, especially when we had exercises in the veld – everyone wanted a piece of the action whilst there was still an opportunity. Mostly, we held very few grudges, but there were a couple of scores I did end up settling with interest later on. We spent a lot of time drunk and enjoyed are last days in Pretoria before heading up to the Plaas near Hammanskraal.
When the five of us got to the Plaas, the officers had organised an evening function at the officer’s pub to welcome us - it appeared that the stories had been exaggerated. All was collegial until a Commandant (the guy who played hooker for ADAG and who stood on Lt Cox's neck on another social occasion?) threw a brandy and coke into a fellow COs face, which was a signal for the real entertainment to begin. We physically rolled more than 2 km down the dirt road outside the main gates, puking all the way as our new best mates strolled behind us. The next day we were offered a tour of the Plaas, which sounded great. The offer included a helicopter ride (sheez!), radios (TR thingies?) to let the mess know when lunch was ready and rifles to harvest some Guinea Fowls. This seemed a bit strange. Well, the helicopter was a Cactus missile case, the radios concrete blocks and the rifles iron bars, which we then took (carried) on a 2 day tour to the far corners of the Plaas. This included sightseeing at a dam where we built a pyramid of rocks in the middle and press-ups with the down position underwater. Finally, were told to drop all the shit and given a cut-off time to gap it back to the farmhouse where we stayed. When we got there, all the officers had again gathered and offered us a beer. We politely declined; until it was pointed out that we were paying for it anyway, after which we slowly realised that our induction was over. Life improved dramatically - the farmhouse we lived in was off to the left of the dirt road to the south side of the base – it was fantastic. We had big rooms, a TV, VCR and a braai area outside.
We carried on training at 120 SQN, with more focus on our role as future leaders of a missile unit made up of 1 AU and 2 FUs. Life was pretty boring by day. Major Bonsai Baobab (I forget his real name) was in charge at 120 with 2 PF LTs, Pelser and another guy. A lot of shit got spoken on the tax payers’ money. Tea at the officer’s mess each morning was a lottery for a candidate officer – it all depended on the mood of the senior officers. The Colonel (?) was a decent guy. Apart from the Cactus people, there was the blonde major that did bodybuilding and always had a cold (he was paraat, but a nice guy), the Commandant who liked assaulting looties and a few others I can’t remember. Exploring the farm in Gharries was good fun (we each got an ancient vehicle; the prize was the one with a faulty odometer where tracking the fuel consumption was more difficult) – until someone made the mistake of taking pictures of unconventional river crossings. The punishment was a favourite ADAG passtime, running around blind at full speed with a Hilda missile system dome over your head (in 35 deg), whilst being “remote controlled” by the 2 PF loots into head on collisions.
Life was great after 4 pm, the camp was deserted by the senior officers, who were bussed home to Pretoria, and left in charge of junior officers, candidate officers and NCOs. We hardly ever ate dinner in the mess and mostly “bought” braai packs from the mess and made a fire. Often we would take a Gharrie and braai somewhere else on the Plaas. We drank every night. Although there were a number of pubs for a base with only a couple of hundred personnel (I think there was an officers pub, 2 NCO pubs and a troops pub), everyone more or less converged on one of them after the evening was well underway. An ADAG legend was Sergeant Major Lubbe. He was an enormous guy with huge hands and knew a lot about Cactus. He also flattened the better part of 2 bottles of Squadron rum on a daily basis. He was a bit scary but good value to chat to; he always nominated a troop to make sure he got back to his bed. Another legend who was respected by all was Sergeant Major Skippy Scheepers, who had his face badly burnt rescuing people from a burning chopper/plane. He was a great source of encouragement to us as candidate officers and I looked up to him, particularly before we were about get commissioned as 2nd Lts – he knew that it was tough being a 19 year old officer and having to maintain authority and dignity over much older and vastly more experienced NCOs, some of whom were always trying to undermine you. I always remember him saluting me smartly as an officer, when I felt that it should have been me doing the saluting.
We had a lot of fun when we had the camp to ourselves. We would rotate turns as officer on duty in the evenings and horribly abuse state resources. On one occasion, the fire engine was used to fetch girls from the Waterkloof and then take them back much later after a big party at the house. On a different occasion, we deployed the radar, Cactus and Hilda units a couple of km’s from the camp for exercises. A cable was laid to the base for comms; a sergeant who was a good drinking buddy linked this up to the phone jack in the duty room. I remember chatting to my girlfriend at Maritzburg varsity under the stars in the middle of the bush long before cell phones were developed. AWOL discipline was rarely enforced by the officer on duty. Apart from newbie troops, the Ou Manne came and went pretty much as they pleased after dark. Our Commission Parade finally came and was a big do. A lot of time and effort went into drilling and rehearsing. I felt really guilty in the pub in the evenings that this was all for us – I always despised drilling more than any form of afkak and would totally have understood resentment, although no-one showed any – at least openly. I was also terrified I’d F!@# it up because I’d always been so crap at drilling and whole base was going to be there in full blues, visiting senior officers, families etc. Anyway, all went ok on the day and we threw away the hateful CO bands for good and replaced them with a single pip on each shoulder. The base partied hard that evening. I awoke hanging upside down from the back of a vehicle with someone holding my feet and another person saying “pasop, jy gaan die Leutenant se kop slaan”. It sounded weird.
Our national service dragged on and slowly wound down with training courses carrying on right up until the end. For us national servicemen, this was the end of a phase of life with a new one about to begin. For all the bitching and moaning at the time, I have great memories and I think some of the lessons I learned along the way have helped me in other spheres of life. Whenever I drive past the Carousel Plaza these days on the N1, I look at the red and white communications tower that used to stand in the middle of the base (not sure what’s there now) and remember shot-gunning beer near the top of it one night more than 20 years ago.
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