A Walk Against The Stream

A Rhodesian National Service Officer's Story of the Bush War

Tony Ballinger

• Publisher: Helion & Company
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781910294437
• eBook ISBN: 9781910777497
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: History

The experiences of a young soldier on the frontlines of the Rhodesian Bush War are vividly recounted in this personal memoir.
In A Walk Against the Stream, Tony Ballinger tells of his eighteen months of compulsory service as a young national service officer in the Rhodesian army. Stationed in Victoria Falls, Rhodesia, he faced down enemy territory just across the Zambezi river in Zambia.
Initially allocated to 4th platoon, 4 Independent company Rhodesia Regiment (RR) as a subaltern and later on as a 1st Lieutenant in support company 2RR, the story starts with the author's training and deployment. The events that unfold contain interesting military encounters, including battles against the Zambian army and revolutionary guerillas.
But Ballinger also explores the human side of his time in the service: his love of a country falling apart, the relationship he forms with a local woman; and how their love, hope and dreams are snatched away by unfolding events. This is a riveting personal tale, interspersed with dozens of the author's personal photographs.

Chapter One

A night can be a long time – a long time when you’ve got nothing to do but think. I must have been half-asleep though, because the jolting coach suddenly pulled me back to consciousness – or was it the dread of tomorrow that woke me? That pit of fear in my guts?

The coach lurched again – some bloody amateur driver no doubt. The steam engine hooted several coaches ahead. Orange platform lights flashed by – momentarily lighting my cabin. I put my hands behind my head and stared up at a ceiling I could barely see. What a dark, horrible hole. Some stupid bastard had wired up all the windows with steel mesh. No air and someone’s feet stank horribly in the bunk below.

I stroked my face where my beard should have been. It felt all naked and squashed-in. I’d cut myself laughing at me in the mirror… was that really me?

The steady rhythm of wheels on steel and the cradle-like motion of the train tried to soothe me into sleep, but it didn’t work. My brain was alive and the night dragged on endlessly. Thoughts popped in and out of my head. Was it only a few weeks ago? The horse ranch in the Cape… wild and free spaces with purple mountains in the distance. Green grass and fresh air. Days of hot sunshine, wine and carefree laughter; riding until my arse was sore.

“You stupid bastard!” I spat at the ceiling.

I tried turning on my side – hoping to shut out my thoughts, but it was no good. Time for a piss and some fresh air. The military policeman was still there in the corridor – red peak cap above bloodshot eyes.

“Where youse goin’?” he shouted.

“For a piss.”

“For a piss, who?”

“Piss, who?”

“For a piss, sergeant!” he stabbed at his sleeve.

“For a …”

“Stand to tenshun!” he bellowed.

How the hell do you stand to attention in a lurching train?

“Youse in the army now, so start actin’ like it! If I says jump, you jump you little prick; you got me?!”

“Sir!” accompanied by a feeble attempt to stand to attention.

“I’m not a fucking sir, you little prick! I work for a living!”

More stabbing at the sergeant stripes.

“Sergeant!”

“Louder, boy!”

“Sergeant!” I screamed.

“Better,” he said smugly. “Now have yer piss and fuck off back to bed.”

“Sergeant!”

“And hurry up, you wanker. I don’t want you whining in the morning that you’re all tired and worn out, you little mommy’s boy!”

“Sergeant!”

I disappeared into the poorly-lit, urine-smelling cubicle. Some bastard had pissed over the floor and it was squidging up between my toes. I balanced myself as best as I could and pissed into the stainless-steel trap. In front of me, staring back from a fly-blasted mirror, was the image of a young man – a man too young to die.

It was a cold grey morning as the troop train pulled into Heaney Siding. I scanned the windswept sky and guessed it would rain soon. Hundreds of heads bent this way and that as men eyed their surroundings. Some still had beards and long hair; others wore beads and denims. They were just kids like me – cannon fodder. There was the same desultory air about all of us and few talked. We were strangers.

The wheels clack-clacked slower, until finally we stopped. A small brown suitcase containing all my worldly possessions was already in my hand. The MP from the night before jumped down from the train – his immaculate boots making a crunching noise on the ballast as he landed. He ran his eyes over the men staring wide-eyed at him through the windows.

“What the hell are you mommy’s boys waiting for?!” he bellowed.

The hissing train emptied its human cargo like maggots being squeezed from a wound and we tumbled out into the cold, damp air – shivering as much from fear as from the cold.

There were tall men, short men, fat and thin men, but we all had something in common… We were all white. Four-hundred of us moved slowly like a herd of cattle over to the protection of the station house – and there we stood for two hours without a word being said to us. It was clearly a case of hurry up and wait.

“Stupid fucking army,” someone said.

The drizzle and the cold wind became more intense – and by the time a convoy of 15 trucks arrived, we were all wet, miserable and shivering. Several MPs hopped from the lead truck and began giving orders. Four-hundred cold, miserable and wet men threw their luggage aboard and hauled themselves into the rickety old vehicles – the wiser ones sitting immediately behind the cab to gain shelter from the icy wind. Squashed in like sardines, the convoy bounced down the dirt road to Llewellin Barracks seven kilometres away.

Nothing ever looks appealing about a military base. This camp was no exception. It was old, run-down and looked very unwelcoming. Senior recruits jeered and insulted us as our convoy trundled into camp.

“Woo! Smell the fresh puss!” they taunted. “You give me a hard-on!” followed by male masturbation gestures.

“Green like my spleen,” another shouted.

The guys in the trucks gave them twos ups and threw empty coke bottles at them.

“Fockin’ fresh puss!”

The trucks pulled up in a huge square just behind some old hangars. It started to drizzle again and I was wet, hungry and miserable. Several raincoat-clad officers stood in a small group – eyeing us with disapproval. A sergeant barked at us to de-bus. Hundreds of feet made contact with the concrete floor and after the shuffling and coughing ended, the sergeant addressed us.

“Listen in!” he shouted – his voice echoing around the hangar behind him.

“The first thing we’re gonna do is break youse up into three companies starting from my left to the right.”

By then, our numbers had grown to about 600 because men from Matabeleland had arrived by car instead of by train.

“You lot there in front of the vehicles will be ‘A’ Company,” a Pommie sergeant pointed with his finger.

He marched forward and made a clear division between men – striking one poor sod a cruel smack for being too slow. Then, moving along the lines, he hived off ‘B’ and ‘C’ Companies. I found myself in ‘B’ Company.

“Now that’s sorted out, all you mommy’s boys will dump your personal kit in that hangar, then form up in front of me again!”

Several men made a move to comply with the instruction.

“Stay where you are!” screamed the sergeant, “I’ve not given you the order to proceed!”

Six-hundred faces turned and eyed him in stony silence. Enjoying his 15 minutes of fame, he paced slowly along the front rank of men – eyeing them from below his beret.

“Get away!”

Twelve-hundred shoes made a loud echoing racket as we doubled into the hangar to dump our personal kit wherever we could find a place. What chaos; what sheer bloody stupidity. The attempt to form up again sent the sergeant into a towering rage – his beerred nose matching the rest of his face.

“Wankers, bloody wankers the lot of you. Shit, you must be the worst load of crap to come our way. Form up! Form up!”

After a long time… Silence again.

“It’s time for your medicals. You see that hangar there?” he said, pointing to his right. Six-hundred faces stared in blank resignation.

“‘A’ Company will go first, mount the spectators’ stand and proceed singly to be processed, understood?”

No answer.

“Understood?” he bellowed.

“Yes, sir!” 600 times.

“Oh shit!” I mumbled to myself, “he’s not a…”

“I’m not a fucking sir!” he spat out with contempt. “I work for living. I work for a living!” he repeated – glancing nervously at a group of officers who were staring grimly at him.

“‘A’ Company, ‘A’ Company ‘shun!”

It was a pathetic attempt by untrained men to stand to attention. The footfalls sounded like wet cowshit flopping on tarmac. Some saw the humour of it and cackled among ourselves.

“Silence, you wankers! Think you’re any better?” he yelled at us.

Facing ‘A’ Company again, he commanded them to right turn.

This conjured up more chuckles and sniggers.

“‘A’ Companeeeeee! By the riyaat, quick march!”

Two-hundred men began marching to the hangar. Some started on the wrong foot, others tripped over feet in front of them; some arms swinging forward, others swinging back – beads and long hair flapping. It was like watching a centipede on drugs. I almost cracked up, it was so funny.

Then came our turn – and it was just as hilarious. What a cock-up. We entered a huge, brightly-lit hangar – ‘A’ Company snaking ahead of us through a maze of tables and cubicles. I went with ‘B’ Company onto the spectator stand. I was shivering with cold. We inched forward, one man at a time, until I reached a bored-looking group of men with piles of folders.

“Name?” asked a spotty youth in uniform.

“Ballinger.”

“Initials?”

“AJ.”

“AJ what?”

“I only have two initials.”

“AJ what?” asked the youth – stabbing at his corporal’s chevrons.

I groaned inwardly. What a stupid little prick.

“AJ, corporal.”

He scribbled a lot of details before I moved on – by then clutching a brown folder.

“Strip,” ordered an orderly.

I looked self-consciously at the rest who had already stripped off – relieved to see they had kept their underpants on. There were brown men, well-muscled men, skinny, hairy – all different shapes of shivering humanity. Above the murmur of 400 men whispering to each other, I could hear the sergeant bawling at ‘C’ Company outside. Next was a man in a white coat who took my pulse before and after a few step-ups, then weighed me.

“Tubby unfit civvy, hey? We’ll soon sort that out.”

Next, the dentist’s cubicle.

“Good teeth,” the kindly man said, “should last you a long time. Next!”

Then a cubicle to get my eyes tested. A man dropped some liquid in them which made my vision blurry. He wrote something in my folder.

“Next!”

I staggered off – my eyes watering and feeling half-blind.

“Next!”

I vaguely made out a table in front of me. A male orderly glanced at my file, then came around to my side of the table.

“Drop your pants.”

“What?”

“I said drop your pants.”

“Cough,” he said softly and cupped my balls in his hand. I felt sick and wanted to vomit.

“‘A’ category,” he said, signing my folder.

“Next!”

It was only afterwards that I learned that a couple of nurses had been giggling in the background as they watched men removing their underpants. I guess it was when they saw Mark Faccio’s cock that they stopped giggling and became silent – very silent.

Later on, the three companies were marched by individual sergeants to a massive, dingy storeroom that smelled like a mixture of soap and denim.

Having just dressed, I was pissed off when told to strip again. This was made more difficult because my left arm was screaming from my ‘three-in-one’ jab.

There we were – 600 half-blind and half-crippled men on our first day in the army. The gooks were going to have a field day with wankers like us.

“Attennn … shun!”

We looked at an immaculately turned-out guy with a pace stick wearing a ‘Mickey Mouse’ watch on his right wrist – a symbol of authority ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• List of Photographs
• Introduction & Acknowledgements
• Prologue
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Epilogue
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