Pastor Hein Bertram arrived in Preeceville at the beginning of the year when he accepted the position as the pastor of the St. John Lutheran Church in Preeceville, but being a pastor was not his first calling. Bertram had been called up for national service in the South African Medical Services beginning early in January 1981.
“I was called up for national service in the South African Medical Services training unit in Potchefstroom,” said Bertram. “About two weeks later, Sgt.-Maj. “Tickey” van der Westhuizen arrived from Pretoria, to audition candidates for the band. I passed the audition, and the rest of boot camp and basic training was done in Pretoria, along with conscripted medical graduates who were the doctors.
“They were older than the instructors, and conscientiously defended us, their protégés, from the ubiquitous threat of the corporals,” he said. “Boot camp, or basic training as we called it, was a three-month period of training during which we first underwent a medical examination.
“The medically unfit were declared unfit for duty and given a train ticket home followed by ‘kit issue.’ We were issued with uniforms, blankets, sheets, pillows and pillow cases, as well as a ‘staaldak’ (steel helmet), webbing, and of course, the 337804, my trusty FN-FAL battle rifle that I had to return at the end of 1982.
“We were instructed in military procedures that included drill, saluting, ranks, the structure of the defence force, and related items. In musketry, we had an excellent sergeant-major, who would march along the firing line, check the target through his scope, make the soldier ‘make safe,’ adjust the sights, chase three rounds through the centre bull’s-eye of the target, and hand the rifle back to the delighted soldier buddy aid.
“We received enough training in first aid to help a wounded buddy in the field, but nothing compared to what we were taught in Phase Two after boot camp.
“Radio communications were a lot of fun, especially with me being a radio enthusiast. I had very basic military law, but enough to know what to do if I got into trouble.
“Then we got fit. The instructors who were 19-year-old corporals, did not have the ‘fun’ that their peers at Potchefstroom had. We had the doctors to protect us, and they taught us how to stand to attention, keep in step, shoulder, present and put down arms, swing arms shoulder height, change step; that kind of stuff.”
Bertram recalls a humorous incident from boot camp.
“We were standing at the pissoir, and a doctor told a particularly obnoxious officer, a ‘one-pip’ lieutenant: ‘Lieutenant, I have diagnosed a condition with you.’
“‘Yes, trooper, and what might that be?’
“‘You suffer from procto-heliosis, otherwise known as Mania Anus Solaris. It means that you have the delusion that the sun shines out of your rectal orifice.’
“The lootie made the mistake of charging the doctor for contemptuous behaviour, and he duly appeared before the brigadier who, of course, was a medical specialist himself.
“After ascertaining that the second lieutenant had completed Grade 12, followed by junior leaders’ and officers’ school, he determined that the private had MB and ChB (equivalent of MD), as well as a postgraduate diploma in psychology. His verdict was that the doctor was eminently qualified to make diagnoses on the march, and the second lieutenant stayed out of the doctors’ (and our) way from then on,” said Bertram.
“Boot Camp was, in one way, grossly unfair: the Seventh-Day Adventists and Jews did not have to do guard duty on Saturdays, but we Christians had to stand sentry on Sundays. But we were rookies in boot camp, so we just had to bear it. Nobody grinned. Phase two comprised a plethora of paramedical courses. I passed them all, and when the regimental sergeant-major issued our certificates, he quipped that I would have failed breastfeeding for sure, as I couldn’t lactate. I was furious, but about a month later I realized how funny that actually was.
“For the rest of my national service, I played in the band by day and worked in Baragwanath, Kalofong and Tembisa hospitals in Black townships, and in one military hospital in Pretoria in the evenings. One sad part is that I was a trumpeter, so I ended up sounding Last Post and Reveille at military funerals. From the commanding officer of one of the units, I got the nickname ‘Begrafniskorporaal’ (Funeral Corporal), as I had by then got a ‘Trooper’s Smile,’ otherwise known as a lance-corporal’s stripe,”
A naval commander, whose children Bertram had babysat when he was still at school, invited him to join the navy. He underwent training as a communications and electronic warfare radio officer, and went to sea.
“At the end of March 1985, I ‘swallowed the anchor,’ joined the South West African Broadcasting Corporation in Windhoek, and my only military experiences were those of a ‘camper,’ called up for three-month stints,” said Bertram.
Half a year later, he was operational, having transferred to the South African Navy.
“For the sailor it is a different kind of war, because the ‘Bush War’ was fought on land – in the bush.
“Being asked to talk about my operational experiences immediately brings up the oath of secrecy that will only lapse in 2034. Early in July 1984, our ship was alongside in Simon’s Town and the executive officer made an unexpected announcement:
“‘Do you hear there, do you hear there? This ship is under sailing orders. Today is the Third of July and not the First of April. Ratings not on the duty watch are to prepare for liberty at Zero Eight Three Zero, and shall be back on board by Eleven Hours. We shall be sailing at Twelve.’
“We sailed to Marion Island in the ‘Roaring Forties’ to bring back Graham Clarke, the South African scientific team’s leader and, ironically enough, medic, who had suffered a stroke. Having trained as a medic before I joined the Navy, I was detailed to work in the sick bay.
I had seen worse seas before, but only on TV,” he said.
The first tour of duty was at Walvis Bay, Namibia, which was then still a South African enclave, where Bertram stood at the gate as a sentry, while ratings (non-commissioned officers) whom he had taught Morse Code were working inside.
A furious signal from the base commander in Pretoria ensured that all other ‘camps’ were performed inside communications centres..
“It’s good to be a civilian. It’s good to be able to say: ‘I served my country.’ Should Canada be under threat, I’ll volunteer,” said Bertram.
"For a soldier shooting and getting shot at in some cases, the “at” is not there, and the soldier becomes a “casevac,” a casualty evacuee.
“The term medic comes from a quick, light-hearted memory from a military hospital. A lance-corporal was admitted to the orthopaedic ward with a broken collarbone and bruised ribs.
The ward sister, a matronly major, accosted him:
“‘Were you wearing a safety belt, son?
“‘No major, but...’
“But, but, if you don’t wear a safety belt and you are involved in an accident, you will be charged, as it is a self-inflicted injury.’
“His tone of voice as she paused for a moment must have had a bit of an effect.
“‘Major,’ he asked icily. “‘May I ask you a question?’
“‘Go ahead,’ she replied.
“‘Where do you put a safety belt on a horse?’
“We, the three medics on duty, fled from the ward, otherwise we would have been charged for laughing at an officer,” he said.
“Many soldiers, sailors, airmen and medics have all kinds of interesting stories to tell. But the vast majority prefer not to tell those stories. Some tell long stories, some tell tall stories.
And a long story can be told in a single sentence, calling up scenarios that can last days, or even months in one’s memory.
“Try the statement of a 19-year-old trooper, barely conscious because he needed to be kept under strong painkillers: ‘All I could find was his rifle, his hand and part of his arm.’ The rest was incoherent as he started crying before the sedative kicked in.
“Don’t be ashamed if that short sentence fills you with pain and sadness.
“Cowboys don’t cry, but a soldier is not a cowboy. Go ahead and cry, buddy, it’s all right. What you’ll mostly hear are the following: ‘My force number, my full names, civilian.’ That’s all you are entitled to hear from anyone who has been operational. Please respect that, will you? Not only are the veterans who were on ops under an oath of secrecy, they really don’t need to bring to the surface that which they have been trying to forget.
“Wanna hear some tales of action? Watch a good war movie.
"Most of it can be classed as bovine excrement, but watch for the bit where you see the older guys get up and walk out, trying not to cry. Then you’ll know: ‘Oh, so that’s almost the way it was.’
"Hundreds of young soldiers, sailors, airmen and medics got fit and learned the trade of warfare, as well as something else that they could use when it all was over, for those who came back, that is. But what about those who didn’t?
"Every man, woman and child who lives in safety in a country like Canada, owes a debt of gratitude to those who put their life on the line for those at home, both those who came back, and those who didn’t. "
