Moffie (13 page)

 

I
can now run the dreaded 2.4 in under nine minutes, with
staaldak, webbing en geweer.

Ethan is my escape. I submerge myself in my feelings for him and block out the brown world. In the long and boring army hours I have intense conversations with him. I complete him so perfectly in my mind that I know (or think I know) his opinions and thoughts on every subject. So real is the Ethan of my mind, that from time to time the army fades away behind my fantasies. But the army is bulletproof, and soon it gathers around me, regroups and walls me in again. Through it all it is Ethan I ache for—an ache larger than the Defence Force.

Knowing that somewhere out there is someone I love, so purely and simply, is almost enough.

 

At night I go to the toilet and conquer the copper sulphate they put in our coffee to curb our teenage hormones.

I wake up to him, watch as he goes to the bathroom, returns heavy with sleep, and I know I will feel his hard and swollen morning fullness next to me. I smell him. The smell of his skin is an undiscovered script in a secret tongue for only me to read. It is lovemaking, not sex. Each time in a different place, carefully chosen and finely tuned. The light, the place, and how we come to it, are savoured details in the steps to my climax.

When I've discharged I feel empty. From the warm, light place I am dropped rudely back into the after-climax reality of the glazed facebrick walls of the toilet. While I clean myself and make sure nothing is left on the rim of the toilet or my skin, I pray that no one has heard me or knows what I've done.

‘
So, het jy lekker draadgetrek, Van?
' Did you have a nice wank? A familiar question, compiled from the meagre stock of overused phrases.

 

***

 

Behind the last row of Golf Company bungalows there are buildings used for storage. One of them houses two rows of Speed Queen coin-operated washing machines—six in total. We all prefer using them instead of the deep concrete basins with the corrugated washboard sides, pockmarked and chipped over the years. But the washing machines no longer work and these rooms are hardly ever visited.

For this reason two boys from Platoon Two choose this place to express their physical affection for each other. It is an affection that has grown over the past few weeks, in this environment of only men, sweat, exercise, PT, communal showers and a system that encourages close relationships between buddies.

A fellow rifleman from their platoon spies on them and calls one of the instructors. The instructor is in the NCO mess drinking, and instead of approaching the two lovers on his own, he is joined by five fellow instructors, each one panting with anticipated retribution.

When the door bursts open, the lovers are kissing. They are still in an embrace when their heads jolt towards the door and their ecstasy is replaced by dread. When they turn to face their superiors, their brown pants are tight with their erections.

The instructors are ready for the attack with towels and pillowcases filled with the working parts of an R1 rifle.

The following day while the boys are recovering in the sickbay, the instructors tell their story to anyone who wants to and doesn't want to hear—a big thing in this small-minded community. Apparently, during the assault, one corporal repeatedly shouted, ‘
Boks hom, boks hom!
' (‘Punch him, punch him!'), and from then on the two are called the Boksom Boys.

The assailants are the heroes and the two young men are further punished by being sent to a psychiatric ward. Their parents cannot help them—they are the property of the State. Going to the press is not an option, as the love between two men is illegal and punishable by law. The parents are told that their sons are mentally unfit and unsuitable for combat or training. This will leak into their communities, where the parents' and the boys' lives will never be the same again.

The army makes it clear that should there be any further such incidents, the boys would not be offered the
humane
option of being
cured, at great expense to the taxpayers,
by Defence Force
professionals
, but there would be a court-martial and they would be found guilty and sent to the detention barracks.

The one boy is from a conservative Afrikaans farming community in the Northern Cape, and the other the son of a minister from a small Free State town. The minister's son stands up for himself, proclaiming his love for the other boy, who in turn says he was seduced and wants to be cured.

In the week before they are sent to the medical facility, while they are on light duty, the troops and instructors seem to have carte blanche to taunt and abuse the two boys. Now there remains no sign of the affection they shared before.

 

On the Saturday before their departure we are called to the parade ground. The company commander speaks to us about the war, the communist onslaught, the collapse of Christian values and the barbarism of black people. Then he says, ‘Will the two pigs come forward.' He says it with a sigh, as though it pains him to even look at them. Someone shouts ‘Boksom Boys!' and almost everyone laughs.

The two boys, who are not sitting together, make their way to the front. The minister's son doesn't jump to attention when he reaches the captain, and I fantasise that it is his way of being disrespectful, although that would constitute almost unimaginable bravery.

‘This before you,' the commander says, ‘this . . . is the lowest form of life you will ever see. Take a good look.' Turning to them he says, ‘You are shit, kaffirs, dogs, animals. No, you are not worthy of being called animals; not even animals carry on like you do.'

The minister's son stands upright, his shoulders broad and his head high. Suddenly I am filled with awe for him.

 

In the evening I see him enter the ablution block and I follow him.

The building is dark and wet. The sharp smell of chemicals and urine hangs in the air. He is in a toilet cubicle and I can hear him urinating. We are alone in the building and I decide to wait for him at the basins, where I turn on the tap and wash my hands.

When he comes out, he surveys the room, hostile towards the world and looking for the route of least possible human contact. But I turn around when he is directly behind me.

‘Hi,' I say as gently as I can.

‘Hi,' he replies, suspiciously.

‘My name is Nicholas.' I hold out my hand.

‘Deon.' He shakes my hand but doesn't smile.

‘Deon . . .' I want to choose my words wisely, but all I'm able to say is, ‘don't let these people get to you, OK?'

‘Thanks. I'll try, but at the moment it's difficult.'

‘I'm sure,' I suddenly feel tremendous compassion and respect for him. He is tall, with particularly broad shoulders.

‘Would you . . . like to chat?' As I say it, I know I'm taking an enormous chance, but at the same time I feel the excitement of taking this risk.

 

We choose a quiet spot on the lawn in front of the tuck shop. I don't take my eyes off him for a second. Deon tells me that his father's ministry has suffered so much because of the rumours and this incident that he has requested a posting as far away as possible from the town that has now been tainted by this event. His mother has suffered a nervous breakdown and his father and brother told him it would have been easier for them if he had died in combat. There would have been honour in such a death, but now he is dead to them—and has ruined their lives forever. If I'd had the guts, I would have reached out and held him.

 

Of all of us Dylan is most visibly upset by what has happened on the parade ground.

 

 

W
What! The! Fuck! Is going on here?' Dorman shouts and looks as if he is slowly being filled up with a red liquid.

Someone, somewhere, stitched together two ends of a piece of elastic to make a garter, but didn't do it well enough. The thread unravels, stitch by stitch, until the garter snaps, slips from the leg of Dylan's pants and releases it.

Such a small thing . . . such a big thing.

Dorman is livid. Our platoon has to run back from the rifle range while the other troops ride back in Bedford trucks—group punishment for the loss of Rifleman Stassen's garter.

It has been a day of heat, training and PT. For Dylan it has been far more severe. During our last lecture of the day he was made to run around a tree with his rifle above his head while we had a smoke and water break.

He stands to the left of me, breathing heavily, with his helmet, webbing, browns, boots, and his rifle at 45˚ over his chest. One leg of his pants hangs over his boot, unlike all the other pants in the platoon, which are turned up and held by elastic garters.

‘We are going to fuck you up, Stassen,' someone whispers with thinly disguised hatred. ‘You'd better not sleep tonight. When you least expect it we are going to fucking kill you.'

The army's way of disciplining is to punish the group for the misdemeanour of one person—let the group get rid of him if we can't. This reverse psychology is beyond the grasp of most of the troops and turns into the mob justice it was intended to create.

‘Platooon leeeeft . . . turn!' We turn left on the balls of our right feet and heels of our left, rifles at 45˚, to the count of ‘one . . .' The movement to bring the trailing leg up to the left one and stamping it down, is interrupted for two counts: ‘. . . two, three!' Then with well-rehearsed precision we bang down our right feet to the final count of ‘one.'

We start the run back in formation, while someone calls the time. The first Bedford passes us, then the second, until the last one has gone. We are left alone on the mountain, with the sound of our boots, the counting, the dust and the exhaustion. And we will probably not be back in time for supper.

Dylan is running ahead of me. I watch his ill-fitting kit bounce on his back in hypnotic rhythm. The only part of
him
that I can see is between the helmet and his shirt collar. The rest of him could be anybody. Even his tanned arms, bent and straining against the weight of the rifle, look unfamiliar.

If the army says we're no longer individuals, then why do they choose to punish him so severely? They single us out and pick on individuals because they know it doesn't matter how hard they try to break us down and mould us, we are not like them and never will be. Under the browns we are fantastically unique, and they cannot destroy this power.

After running for about two kilometres, some of the boys start straggling and unravelling the formation. But it is the boy in front of me who bears the wrath of Sergeant Dorman's loathing.

It's strange how thoughts can pop into one's head from seem­ingly nowhere, even if one is exhausted to the point of collaps­ing. Last night's conversation with Dylan reruns in my mind:

 

‘Tell me a story.'

‘I'll tell you a story of Jack . . .'

‘Nick!'

‘OK . . . uhm.'

‘Anything! Just tell me something!'

‘My grandparents were children on opposite sides of the Boer War.'

‘Wow, and they allowed your parents to get married?'

‘Yes, I actually credit my father for that. It was tougher from his side, but he did it.'

‘Shows you how quickly things can change. It just takes a few brave individuals.'

‘Maybe it can happen between the blacks and the whites?'

‘You think?'

‘You know there are many really good—no, great—Afrikan­ers. They're not all like these fuckers. Look at that guy Oscar, for ex­ample.'

 

Dorman halts the platoon, mainly because
he
is tired, even though he doesn't carry any kit or a rifle. He makes Dylan run around a bush some distance away, while we are resting.

When my friend returns, Dorman instructs him to pick up a huge boulder and tells him to run at the back of the formation to prevent injury to the rest of us. He hands me Dylan's rifle to carry.

It is getting dark. We will not eat tonight, which will put us at a disadvantage tomorrow.

Dylan is crying, silently, as he starts lagging behind. Only I see it because I'm running with him. When we reach the camp gate, he has fallen so many times that his pants are soaked with the blood from his shins.

For the last few kilometres we are allowed to help him. Oscar and I drag him, and two others carry his rifle and kit.

 

We wait for most of the platoon to finish showering. The seven open showers smell of steam, dirty humidity, soap and wet ce­ment.

Our biggest concern is some boys in our platoon who are threatening to harm Dylan. He is under the shower next to me. I have soaped and rinsed, but he is just standing there. My eyes move up his frame to the dark hair leading to his navel on the ashen skin. There is no fat on his body, and every muscle is vis­ible. The water picks its way over the shapes, hitting his shoul­ders and running down his chest, over his stomach, down to the dark hair where the water collects and runs down his shaft, arch­ing over his uncut penis as though he is peeing.

The expression on his face is distant—not some place away from the pain, but rather some place taken to by the pain. He talks to me, at first without looking, knowing my attention is on him.

‘I'm sorry, En. Are you also angry with me?'

‘Are you crazy? You have done nothing. Fuck them, Dee. Fuck them. This is just the way things are here, you know that. After a while they will find someone else to pick on. You know how it goes!' As I speak I realise that I am losing him. Strange that I should know this, for there is no change in his expression or the way he stands. I wonder if he might hear me if I speak more calmly, but I am pressing on, desperate to ease his pain: ‘Dee . . . Dee, Dylan! Stop worrying! Promise me you will stop worrying.' But I know he isn't listening to me.

‘Nick, I don't know how much more I can take; how much more I want to take. It's not just what happened today; it's every­thing. It's the way those boys were humiliated. You know, the guys who were caught kissing.'

‘Yes, I will never forget that.'

‘But it's more than that . . . more than just the army . . .'

It is the only time he ever talks about giving up.

‘Then ask for an RTU. Who cares? Before you know it, we'll be out of the army.'

‘No, you don't understand.'

‘What do you mean, Dee? It's not worth it. It's just two years; no, only one and a half left. Dee, think about it: only one and a half . . .'

Why does he not answer me? Is he crying? Too much water . . . I can't see. He just looks down. The water hits the back of his head, flattening the spiky black hair, then streams down his face. His back is slightly bent. Little jerking movements rattle his body as he gasps for air and spits out the water he has sucked into his mouth. He turns the water off and reaches for his towel. He buries his face in the towel and then pulls it down over his drawn features, like a curtain on a new act: composure.

 

In the dark at the end of the day I uncoil the tension. Knotted by anxiety, I release myself into the warm water of imagined bliss. Before crossing the threshold of mystery, I have a shower with Dylan. It's a different time, later in life, after swimming, his hair long to my imaginings, his body brown, still fragile, his face laughing. And there is that look, the look that I understand, that I know. And want. And need.