Black Crowbars

Osambo Disvangamo squatted in the middle of the kraal, and sketched out a small map of the territory with his finger. The South African that squatted nearby watched attentively, his pale skin flushed in the morning heat, beads of sweat trickling down his face. The villagers stood in their huts, watching as the village chieftain helped the Koevoets.

"There was some activity along this river-bed,' the chieftain said, motioning to the meandering line west of his kraal; 'the drought has dried it up, and now we hear them move along there every other night. Three nights ago, two SWAPO officers came to us, spreading out fliers about their 'Communist Independance Movement' or some such."

"Did anyone go with them?" the lieutenant asked, looking Osambo in the eye.
"No, they tried to drag a couple men with them, but we pulled out our Kalashnikovs, scared them away." Osambo returned the look, trying to pierce the young African lieutenant. He didn't look older than thirty, the lieutenant. He had short blond hair and brown eyes, a small goatee growing along his chin. He was resilient though, and that was visible. The lieutenant nodded, his jaw settling.

"Good, thank you Chief Disvangamo. Do you need any food, water, medicine?" The lieutenant stood, his foot wiping away the map.
"No, but thank you, lieutenant..." Chief Disvangamo trailed off, unable to see the lieutenants name patch.
"Georg der Kobbels, 1st Lieutenant."
"Yes, thank you, Lieutenant Kobbels." The chief heard the ignition of the Casspir armored personnel carriers, armed with 20mm cannons. The beasts of steel were shaped like Vs, built to funnel the blast of a mine outwards and away from the crew. The black constables climbed inside, their faces smiling and happy. They should be, Osambo thought, they get paid per head and rifle. And the Koevoet platoons were excellent bushmen. He knew, since he used to be one.

The trees fell before the Casspir grille, crashing through the long elephant grass and into the sandy ground. The horizontal line of Casspir trucks followed the riverbed, heading back along the SWAPO tracks. The sun was high, burning through the uniforms of the Koevoet soldiers. Lieutenant Kobbels sat in the middle Casspir in the line, watching out for a change in the tracks. So far, they led straight up the riverbed. The SWAPO scouts, he thought, were hoping for rain to wash the tracks away. They weren't so lucky, at least for today. Tomorrow the forecast was scattered showers along the Namibia-Angola border. They might not wash away the tracks, they might. Who knew but God?
"Hey Lieutenant, when we gonna stop for lunch?" the South African Policeman, a white sergeant named Arnold Peterson, asked on the radio.
"I have a call-sign for a reason, Vulcan-21, and I'll tell you when, Vulcan-11 over."
"Vulcan-21-Vulcan-11, but my stomach is gnawing itself apart. Vulcan-21 over."
Lieutenant Kobbels cursed and laughed at the NCO, a joker from Windhoek. He had always tried to lighten up the patrols into the bush.
"Vulcan-11-Vulcan-21, keep off the line, and watch for any changes, Vulcan-11 out."
"Roger that Vulcan 11." Arnold gave a thumbs up from his Casspir off to the right of Kobbels. That's when Kobbels saw the SWAPO soldier with the RPG. Swinging the pintel mounted 20mm, he tried to bring it to bear. He shouted as he turned, bringing the attention of the entire Koevoet platoon.

The SWAPO insurgent, a teenager, had been laying down in the bush, covered in leaves and bushes. Left behind in the night, he had staying in a tree. When he heard the Casspirs coming, he hid. As Vulcan 2 drove close, he kneeled and aimed his RPG-7.

Then Kobbels pulled the trigger, the 20mm rounds crashing through the thrashing trees. They struck home, the rounds stitching a line from chest to skull as they penetrated flesh and bone.

"S--t!" was all Kobbels heard as the RPG shot out from it's tube, the last muscle spasm pulling the trigger. It shot straight, it's aim tilted as the body fell backwards. The rocket soared upwards, striking Sergeant Peterson in the face. Riding on the pintle 20mm, it chewed off his face and jawbone, flesh and gore flying upwards in a spray. The rocket, a dud, flew onwards, and bounced off a tree, falling into the riverbed. The SAP sergeant immediately clasped at his face, blood flowing freely. The other Casspirs, hearing the gunfire, immediately began to swerve and cut, hoping to avoid an ambush. Kobbels own Casspir suddenly went to the left, away from the RPG armed guerrilla.

"Juno-5 Vulcan-11, we need a medivac, coordinates Juliet 4-4-3, Charlie 3-2-1, Vulcan-11 out." Kobbels requested as he pulled the platoon together. They had moved north to a small open field, trying to patch up the sergeants face as they drove onward. They collected an AK-47 and some banana clips from the SWAPO insurgent.
"Vulcan-11, Juno-5, we roger that, mark your position with smoke, Juno-5 out."
"Roger that Juno-5, purple smoke, Vulcan-11 out." Kobbels replied, pulling a smoke grenade from his combat webbing. Checking the color, he pulled the pin and tossed it off. The black privates then assembled the litter for Peterson, his face now a mess of cotton cloth and bandages.
The helicopter appeared moments later, skimming over the umbrella of trees, sighting straight with the pillar of purple. Swirling around the shafts, the helicopter descended to the site. The Koevoet constables quickly raced the sergeant forward, depositing him in the helicopter. Within seconds it was a way, flying low over the trees.

His first deployment and he'd already lost a sergeant. It was war, but the Koevoets were better than that. He hoped it didn't bode bad for the rest of the deployment. Kobbels thought silently as his platoon scrambled into their Casspirs. They had located another spoor, leading away from the river and into the bush. It wasn't even mid-day yet.