Beyond enemy lines
Above me there’s an onyx sky
and the tarry night is fading fast
and I hear the roar
of enemy armour
and the crunching of tracks
echoes and sound very
near to me.
An electronic signal rushes
thousands of kilometres far
and goes into a night
filled with bright white stars
like a lighting bolt
falling in a dark black sky
and branching out to where
it has to go
to a place where Jacaranda trees
stand in purple bloom.
I match my wits against my fate
and crawl deeper into cover
of a thorn bush
and gird my soul to face
the enemy in war
and we lay and wait
and there are three of us
against a horde of enemy armour.
The light of dawn is still grey
and they get very near
and it’s a thundering sound
when the first tanks
and armoured cars appear
like hungry dragons
coming to the feast.
I look up in an indigo sky
and eagles and vultures
bend down out of the sun
and descend in deadly haste
transforming into Cheetah
and Mirage fighter jets
and the radio
let me talk to them
and the end of life
and dire chaos
is unleashed unexpectedly.
Only the birds of prey
save me from the hate
of great steel monsters,
that is ready to squash and kill
and missile and rocket arrows
leap descending out of the air
and red and yellow flames appear.
After a while the planes of war
thunder away to the South
and the fire fades
and around us there are
upturned and destroyed wrecks
of man’s war machines
and a slaughtering of humans
and the smell of death
cuts right through my breath,
as if it wants to engulf
and I retch and feel inhuman
and my comrades smile bravely
and say very well done
and around me
all other life is gone,
but for the three of us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Cassinga
Just like spring when the blue sky is full of falling leaves,
there are three hundred and seventy parachutes that decent,
on a ominous day
with enemy AA-guns reporting
and the enemy are more
than a thousand and a half in number.
The barrels of the enemy AA-guns are lowered,
to break us
and the enemy tries to sow havoc
and to decimate us.
Enemy snipers are shooting from trees
and from everywhere
there are shots being fired,
that munches pieces from us
From behind ruins
we fire almost endlessly
at trenches where some enemy soldiers hide
and launch mortar bombs
all over the place,
while bullets are coming down like rain.
We return heavy fire
to the enemy at the AA-guns,
while other soldiers replace them
which keeps the battle hanging in balance
Shot after shot are being fired
and the smell of death
is strong in the air
and there’s nowhere
for the enemy to escape to.
The last resistance disappears
and there’s apparent peace
and dead enemies everywhere
and some of the bats,
get into pumas
and the rest of us wait
with nowhere to go.
The border is too far to walk
and there’s nothing to drive away with,
when Cuban tanks and armoured cars
find us there.
.
With RPG-7 iron fists
four tanks are destroyed
and a landmine stops another tank in its tracks,
but only paratroops against oncoming armour
are canon feed
and nothing diminishes the danger
of a Cuban mechanized battalion.
Till two Mirages destroys ten armoured cars
and everywhere there’s smoke and dust
and a Buccaneer comes from the sun,
to let moments turn into eternity.
Time after time
it flashes by and fires its rockets
at the oncoming tanks
and with no ammo left,
dives fearlessly over shooting AA-guns
to make the tanks take cover.
It’s very ruff going
but the last pumas land
in a clouds of dust,
to evacuate us
while enemy tanks keep firing.
I try and hold the rearguard with a LMG
before the shot out ruins fades away from me
and we leave forty living enemies behind
and all of us are safely gone,
but for four brave men
whose lives are spent.
[References: AA-guns=> Anti aircraft guns. Bats=>Parabats=>Airbourne soldiers. RPG-7 iron fists=> Rocket propelled grenade launchers=> Bazookas. Mirages=> Mirage fighter jets. Buccaneer=> Buccaneer ground support bomber. Pumas=> Puma helicopters. LMG=> Light machinegun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
and Olifant tanks
that drives and rolls in on the ground
and salvos from rocket launching trucks
that draws arcs
and in the distance howitzer canon reports
in volleys
and when a light flare suddenly falls
it is as if the bushes are teeming
with enemy tanks and armoured cars
just where I look
and it looks
like the day of judgement.
Projectiles find their targets
and canister-shot comes down exploding thundering
and it’s an apocalyptic night
for some of the enemy
who are burning,
scorched and blown to smithereens in their armour
and when a tank
suddenly appears out of the bushes
there is a hell of a red thunderclap
as a shot from another Ratel hits it deadly
and I realize that even here
a person’s time is measured out
and around me there are fireworks
like stars falling from the sky
while we stop and aim
the following killing shot.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rain, rain falling
Rain, rain falling
from a thunder clad sky
with rockets, projectiles and blood
and the oncoming enemy
almost everywhere
in ironclad armour
coming to the day
of their slaughter
receiving sizzling thunder
to the tune
of howitzers, rocket trucks,
armoured cars and tanks
and rifle machineguns
and the Lomba River runs red
while there’s havoc everywhere
and the venom of vomit
fills my mouth
while I struggle to breathe
in the face
of annihilation
of a deadly enemy.
[Reference: Rain by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The havoc of war
a Smoking and burning
enemy battle tank
stands stopped in its tracks,
like a metal coffin
with its occupants
still hatched in.
a BRDM enemy armoured car
is encased by leaping flames
and the phosphoric burning smell
is churning in my guts.
Some dead Cuban soldiers lay
cut from the stem
mangled in blood and guts
and the machinegun is still chattering
and I wish to be,
in another place and time
than to be a part
of this slaughtering.
a Bleating Gemsbok rushes past
trying to outrun the flames,
that leap through the field
while the machines of war
brings death to the living.
Shot after shot is fired
at killing range
and it’s hot and deafening
inside the Ratel,
but the wind
brushes through my hair
where I stand
in the top hatch
and trees and bushes
sweep past
as if screened in a movie house.
Enemy armour keeps exploding
and my voice sounds strange
and unfamiliar to me,
while I give directions
for the next killing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The air was full of fire and sand
The night that I wished to be home
as the path we were on
lead to death
and not like the axiom to Rome
behind enemy lines
we called in the vultures of death
and the chill froze my breath
in clouds in the bright moonlight,
followed the mist from the river
penetrating ever deeper
into the enemy positions
we hid almost in their midst
and with the rising sun
eerie birds came screeching down
with flaming afterburners
dropping rockets and bombs
on enemy tanks,
shelling armoured cars
with raging canon
and the air was full
of fire and sand.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Somewhere Near The Lomba River
The guns of enemy tanks are flashing
like bolts of thunder while I am glancing,
the night air is full of the smell of cordite
and luckily those shots are passing
while the armoured car draws to a sudden halt
for its gun to take aim and on my lips I taste salt
before the armour piercing shell is fired
and at a direct hit around me the crew exalt
before at speed we move on
and some more enemy Cuban soldiers are gone,
are burnt in the fiery hell
while my heart, my brain feels like stone.
An enemy shell strikes another armoured car
like a exploding flaming star
and I can smell torched human flesh,
while I wish to be away very far,
to be away from killing
and this chilling
kind of machination of machines and men
who at each other are firing
but to survive we battle on right through the night,
are still trying to find some more enemies in the broad daylight,
find two abounded stationary pristine enemy battle tanks
from which the enemy had run in fright.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On the other side of the Lomba river
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
bad weather hanging on the other side of the Lomba river
with tanks standing ablaze
nothing can stop the war clouds
(while the shots of enemy tanks resound)
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death
and Fapla, Cubans and Russians perish
and we also receive deadly shots.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
where we teach them a final lesson in Africa
when the enemy appear
but olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars are stuck in a landmine field
and howitzer canons fire
at the beginning of the slaughter
with tanks standing ablaze
and there are olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars disappearing in the bush
with rockets raining down
when the enemy appear
which rip enemy weaponry into pieces
and division after division comes under restraint.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
and the canons of howitzers, tanks and armoured cars fire continuously
while the smell of death is everywhere
with rockets raining down
with few enemy being still alive,
with some leaving intact tanks, fleeing to survive
with tanks standing ablaze
and I am conscious of the inhumanity
and feelings of powerlessness
while the smell of death is everywhere
and the slaughter goes on and on
and human life isn’t important.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
with tanks standing ablaze
and whatever you do or mean
nothing can stop the war clouds
and feelings of powerlessness
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
Goodbye to the land where the sun always shine,
to the blue sky that always is bright,
goodbye to the light that comes every day
and hello to that midnight which is cold and dark.
A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
fading the sun while white vapour rose
out of a shot out armoured car,
I couldn’t close my eyes or look away.
Goodbye to that enemy tank stopped in its tracks
against a bank of earth
while my armoured car’s gun rang out
sending a phosphorus shell with fire from hell.
A rocket flew past with a flaming tail
like a star falling from the sky
before exploding against a tree with a blast
and goodbye to the enemy soldiers who fired it
while we moved past at speed
with a machinegun howling a great cry.
I heard that enemy commander weeping over the radio
while his frequencies were blocked
being in shock
and sounding like the voices of many men
crying in the anguish of death
as if a deadly net had been cast
and I wish that I could understand Spanish
but the noise was ear-splitting
and it was goodbye to tank after tank
and goodbye with blast after blast and going in quick
stopping, firing and running away fast
and every enemy armoured car we found
only got one shot
till the last shell had being fired
and tired we went to fetch some more,
ate in a hurry before being wished good luck
and going back to war.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The guard
We were observing, doing recognisance
on a enemy camp, had parachuted in
during the night, dropping from very high
and my comrades and I had leopard crawled,
catwalked from dark patch to dark patch,
from shadow to shadow
using the cover of knee high grass
and with the sun rising
was in a dense small bush
reporting back on tanks and armoured cars,
the number of soldiers seen,
how battle ready they seemed
when a little boy herded a few goats
and with a bone thin dog came along
and I let them go, not being able
to kill them as the enemy
and almost immediately we had to leave.
Soon hundreds of enemy soldiers
were dropped in search lines,
were trying to cordon us off
and my comrades wasn’t pleased with me,
as things could have been much easier
if I had killed that child
and we went into a river
cutting reeds to breathe through
and went under the surface
trying to shake off the enemy
that was closing in on us
and when the three of us left the river
some large crocodiles
were on the bank where we entered it
and we had the opportunity
to return to the enemy camp
where the next evening
an enemy Cuban soldier lit a big cigar
only a few paces from me
and the child was a far better guard than he.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The bad lands
Nowhere in the bush
where lions, leopard,
crocodiles, hippos
and snakes dwelt
felt really bad to me.
On patrol at times
a hidden landmine,
a booby-trapped corpse
could shatter you
with a thousand
hell hot pieces of steel
and still skill, tenacity
and knowledge kept me safe.
Even in Angola facing enemy armour
where shells swished past,
Ratel armoured cars were trapped
and shot out
and the enemy
hatched in steel caskets
that were armoured cars
and tanks at a time,
where hyena, jackal
and vultures ripped through bodies
of shot, sliced, ripped Cuban
and Fapla soldiers
we overcame
and although the cruelty of war
and lost of human live
gripped me
and the smell penetrated
up into my soul,
the ground stayed pure
and African
as if we did belong.
Yet when I visit that little hill
(in Natal)
where Dingaan misled Piet Retief
and had him
and his companions slaughtered
and fed their bodies
to the birds, the wind, the sun
their spilled blood is still glowing
as if radioactive
and that place
feels really evil to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Had found its mark
The night I saw you die
under a star struck cross
against the night sky
near the end of the age
your eyes were flaming with rage
as if that fire could leap
and set the night alight
and howitzer guns roared
sending their disciples
with thundering flame
across many miles
to convert with death and blood
and as fast as the enemy came
flooding the bush, the veldt
with armoured chariots
exploding shells, rocket bombs
and projectiles
decimated them
as if the inferno in your eyes
had found its mark
turning every enemy ablaze.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Why?
If I could paint
I would paint a portrait
of a shot out Ratel armoured car
standing in a landmine field.
Out of which the smoke still rises
And I would print in defencelessness
with every brush stroke
of armoured steel failing
against projectiles
and then becoming a coffin
and enemy soldiers standing grinning
with teeth brilliant white
and bones of fallen comrades
that tried to stop a horde of barbarians
and hyenas and jackals standing drooling
and vultures turning in the sky
and in the background till the horizon
enemy tanks, armoured cars
and men would lay shot to pieces
with pools of blood, intestines
and shot of legs and hands
and the title would be: Why?
poem by Gert Strydom
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A woman unconscious
The enemy were almost at the door,
coming with tanks, armoured cars,
rocket launching trucks,
helicopter gunship, fighter jets,
with supporting Cuban troops
under Russian command
and day after day
I prayed for it to end,
for the killing of them, to stop,
where my Ratel armoured car
send tank after tank and many more armoured cars
with phosphorous shells
straight to hell
and by calamity the future changed,
turned into a different world,
changed from the one
scared of them, dropping the annihilating bomb
of millions of people being killed and dead
and at home, the welcoming did not come
at my return
and your were not there,
were killed in a car accident instead,
were for a time unconscious
in a white hospital bed
and the evidence of how cruel
the world can be
still walks with me,
while life goes on.
[Reference: A woman unconscious by Ted Hughes.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Undeclared war breaks out and now a winter of despair
Undeclared war breaks out and now a winter of despair
with enemies in great numbers everywhere
with grey clouds blowing in from Cuba, Russia
and thundering the bear growls,
but we have seen some beasts before
our ancestors have fought against a superpower
to a bitter end
and although much fewer of us take
to the battle field than them
with mainly armoured cars against tanks
the inhuman slaughter is of them
and although blood flows for sprouting seed
death claims its toll for life to proceed
and spring is coming with all its speed,
but no victory is ever sweet
and killing leaves its marks indeed,
but all other means would have been in vain
although war leaves its marks of pain
and I would rather have seen
a better life for all of us,
as friends have drank coffee
and smoked a cigar
somewhere in a Cuban café
but reality has no place
for dreamers like me
and liberty at times charges a price.
[Reference: “The results of the campaign up to April 1988 were 4,785 killed on the Cuban/Faplan side, with 94 tanks and hundreds of combat vehicles destroyed, against 31 South Africans killed in action,3 tanks destroyed (SADF tanks entered the war after the Lomba River campaign) and 11 SADF armoured cars and troop carriers lost. A total of 9 Migs were destroyed and only 1 SAAF Mirage shot down.” Jannie Geldenhuys.1994: At the front. P240. Johanthan Ball Publishers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On A Spoor In The Desert
The blue sky was azure without any cloud
with the hot sun throwing its bright white light
in the afternoon before the coming of night
and the calls of small birds were somewhat loud
as if the vultures were mocking me
while the night suddenly did fall and was black
and the bright evening star I did see
trying to find the Southern Cross to set track
while the desert was stretching everywhere,
my comrades thirsty as never before
with enemy tracks just running here and there,
as if they were going on forever more,
in the moonlight we followed the spoor austere
like ghosts wandering about without any fear.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Wings of destiny
I
Ask any parabat that jumped at Cassinga
and he would tell you
that destiny has wings.
While facing a battalion of
Cuban tanks and armoured cars,
out of the blue and as if by magic
a Buccaneer appeared.
There was nothing more beautiful
than to see that jet
making self-sacrificing dives,
before it flew off to disappear
into the blue sky,
but let me tell that heroic story
as I know it.
II
Coming back from a bombing raid on Cassinga
the next target of Captain Dries Marais was
the Swapo camp at Chetequera
and he insisted
on arming the Buccaneer bomber,
with armour penetrating rockets
in addition to the standard
high explosive rockets.
Andries Marais himself
couldn’t explain the reason
for the irregular request,
but kept on insisting
that every third rocket
should be armour piercing.
Even navigator Ernie Harvey
was perplexed with this request
and they were tense,
while preparing for
the strike mission.
The Buccaneer took of
and in a short while
crossed the Angolan border
and just when Ernie Harvey
were going to check in
with Tactical headquarters
things went mad
on the operational frequency.
The pilot Warneke
who had relieved them at Cassinga,
reported a armoured battalion
consisting out of tanks
and BTR 152 personnel carriers approaching.
The operational frequency
was far too cluttered
to get through to Tactical headquarters
and they heard
two Mirages being scrambled,
but there wasn’t time to arm them
and they had only
only 30 mm cannon.
You need an excellent navigator
to keep tract to a target
over the featureless Angolan countryside
and navigator and weapon systems operator Ernie Harvey
had replaced the maps
with the ones of the new target,
but the navigation computer
still had the settings.
III
When fighting against tanks
and armoured cars
with only a few landmines
and rocket propelled grenades
to stop them,
even light machine guns
are quite useless
and still I kept on shooting
while the LMG’s barrel got red hot
and I tried to keep the enemy back.
There was great joy
to see two Mirages
cutting the armoured cars apart,
but the surprise on the enemy
of that Buccaneer
dropping out of the sky
with its armour piercing
rockets will stay with me
to eternity.
Two tanks were shattered
and stood burning
after the first past
and the twin-barrelled 14.5 mm anti-aircraft guns
that the BTRs were trailing
were being deployed
and the Buccaneer
took one of the anti-aircraft guns out.
Suddenly the air was filled
with Puma helicopters landing
and the Buccaneer
took out a BTR
and two tanks started shelling us
and the Buccaneer kept diving
at close to the speed of sound
until the tanks disappeared
into the bush
and we lifted of safely.
There was nothing more beautiful
than to see that jet
making self-sacrificing dives,
before it flew off to disappear
into the blue sky.
Later I heard that 17 hits
were counted on that Buccaneer
that safely landed at Grootfontein base
and to this day,
I know about no greater heroes
than the two
flying in that Buccaneer.
.
[Reference: Cassinga Swapo military camp / town. Parabat=> South African Airborne / Parachuting soldier.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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At a enemy airfield
Camouflaged, hidden in some underbrush
we lay and watch with special binoculars,
scanning the enemy facilities
while the night is setting in
and twilight has magic pertaining to it
some bright lights are being switched on
and some oil or another mechanical liquid
gleams out on the tarmac
where we see some enemy Mig-23 fighter jets
being readied for war
and then some more taxiing out
standing ready for takeoff on the runway
waiting on the arrival of
a small private jet,
(maybe with military officers landing)
and with a small device
exact positions are obtained,
that we report
over a frequency hopping
two way radio system
Johnny the second in command
says that he will almost do anything
to be able to smoke a cigarette right now.
We are asked to confirm the target positions,
by another party
which is now connected to us
and we recheck and confirm
while the sound of the landing
private jet is almost deafening
and positions of other targets
and installations are asked for,
which we supply
including the control tower
and I see stars falling, falling at high speed
from the sky
making the night gleam
going off like lightning
in brilliant colors of flaming orange,
white and red
with ultra loud exploding sounds
and howitzer canon projectiles
from G5 and G6 guns are coming in,
destroying the Migs and a lucky shot
hits the commercial jet right on target
and craters are left
and the next volleys
set some of the buildings ablaze,
rips hangers open
and those deadly manmade stars keep falling,
while functioning like machines
we keep giving targeting directions.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My buddies (a reply to Boris Slutsky)
All young white men at a time
was forced into the military, into war
or had to serve a three year jail term
and most of my buddies came home,
but some did not:
Parachuting into a enemy camp
there was one close friend that died,
the other three I hardly knew
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
seven hundred and fifty
enemy SWAPO and Cuban casualties
and on one patrol one close buddy
stepped on a landmine
were blown up and no one else was hurt,
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
the enemy that had lost
little lest than a full platoon.
In Angola when we met enemy armour,
turned FAPLA / Cuban divisions
under Soviet leadership into junk
I saw a Ratel armoured car
that was trapped in a landmine field
that had been shot out
with the holes
were enemy tank projectiles went in
and every one inside was burnt, incinerated
if not blown to bits, turned into ash
and it had been only one of eleven
armoured cars
and troop carriers that was lost
some of only thirty-one soldiers dead
but there was pain that flashed through me
when I saw it
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
four thousand seven hundred and eighty five killed
on the Cuban/FAPLAN side,94 tanks
and hundreds of enemy combat vehicles destroyed
and now no one thinks
of the sacrifice that all of these soldiers made,
of the hundreds of thousands
of returning citizen force soldiers
who were nuts, bomb happy
with post traumatic stress syndrome
or whatever you want to call it
as to the government it is
an incidental small thing,
that happened in a distant past
as if the ex-soldiers are non-existing,
even seen as apartheid criminals by some.
[References: Buddies here used as name used in the South African Defence Force for comrades. Ex-soldiers here used instead of war veterans, as in African circles the word war veterans has got a new derogatory meaning connected to it. My Comrades by Boris Slutsky.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Anthem to the 47th Cuban / Faplan Brigade
Whom but your mothers back in Havana
and some in Luanda
mourn your lost or knows
that you were slaughtered in battle
as if human life
holds nothing sacred,
were wiped out by one
of only two battalions
at the junction of the Lomba
and Cuzizi Rivers,
that you heard Ratel armoured cars
driving in at speed,
the roar of Olifant tanks
and the thunder of their guns
or the whining stutter of machineguns
nor did you probably say any prayers
before deadly shells fell from the sky.
What remorse does your supreme leader feel
when your mothers, wives and children
light up candles
(who never really had a chance
for a proper goodbye)
and knows by now
that you will never come home.
[Reference: “The results of the campaign up to April 1988 were 4,785 killed on the Cuban/Faplan side, with 94 tanks and hundreds of combat vehicles destroyed, against 31 South Africans killed in action,3 tanks destroyed (SADF tanks entered the war after the Lomba River campaign) and 11 SADF armoured cars and troop carriers lost. A total of 9 Migs were destroyed and only 1 SAAF Mirage shot down.” Jannie Geldenhuys.1994: At the front. P240. Johanthan Ball Publishers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama
Gnashing enemy tanks are coming on
while the Ratel-90 stands still
and many things
goes through my mind.
The shot sounds thundering
and for a moment I am blinded
by smoke, dust and giant flames
that devours things.
The redneck is still shooting
through branches and bushes
with the front machinegun
and it can cost his life
but he shoots on like a machine
and feeds the ammunition belt
and I let the driver pull him in
and he’s again aboard
locked behind armoured steel
where he curses and takes out his rage
and shoot from within
and he speaks a foreign tongue:
“Ac her forþ beraò;
fugelas singaò,
gylleò grœghama”
We drive away with speed
and stop and shoot and drive again
and let projectiles
find their targets deadly
and so we continue for hours
that drag into days
and around us the enemy is shot out
and what is not burning,
is already junk
or just left behind.
Enemy soldiers of Fapla,
Cuba and a few from Russia
lie shot to pieces,
some half burnt
and whole brigades are wiped out
and in the distance I hear jackals howling
and the air is full of vultures
turning in it
while the stench of death,
phosphorous and gunpowder almost suffocates me
and some more dust or maybe emotions
makes my eyes tear.
[References: Redneck=>Englishman. “Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama” => Gaelic for: “For here starts war; carrion birds sing, and grey wolves howl.” From: “The Fight at Finnsburh.” Jackal => a African fox.]
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