Carol’s Column

You're in the army now

"HOLD your helmets," I announced to my intelligent, attractive, articulate family as they sat around the breakfast table, eyes barely open, cornflakes crackling in unison. "I have an important announcement to make."

"Why are you talking so early in the morning?" asked my husband querulously, "early morning chatter imbalances my bio-rhythms for the entire week."

"I have been called up. I'm joining the army and leaving for the operational area on Monday morning."

That shook them. The crunching stopped immediately.

The questions were fast and furious:

"So who's going to lift the swimming team on Friday?"

"Who will take me to ballet?"

"Who's gonna wash the dogs."

Typical, I thought to myself — I tell them I'm off to a dangerous war zone, from which I might never return — and all they can think about is who's going to wash the dog.

By Sunday morning, they were reconciled to the fact that their mother was going into action.

Said Jamie to a friend: "Listen, Ma can't lift on Friday — she's been called up for five days. She's got to write a story about the army — they've made her a general and right now she's busy packing her machine gun into her handbag."

OK — so kids exaggerate. The machine gun didn't fit, so I took my false teeth, a spare toothbrush and a long dress to wear in the evenings.

The army and the Air Force excelled themselves. They mounted an offensive operation that made the Battle of Waterloo pale into insignificance by inviting a battalion of female journalists into the stronghold of male supremacy.

The journey to the war zone was hazardous. Remembering the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach, they bombarded us with a breakfast hearty enough to vanquish the strongest.

The flight from South Africa to SWA/Namibia and the war zone was hazardous. Yvonne got locked in the lavatory and was reported Absent Without Leave until a dashing rifleman heard her agonised cries and executed her rescue without delay.

The pilots, caught in the crossfire of female jabber, replaced their headphones on their ears which is where they stayed for the next five days.

The army, and admirable institution which can be admired on all fronts, has the odd shortcoming or two.

It was in the Windhoek Head Quarters that we first became aware of them.

The problem became apparent when Bureau Chief Viv Prince was seen doubled-up in agony, clutching her outers to her innards wailing: "A loo, a loo — a kingdom for a loo." Followed close behind by several others in similar distress — we realised that one toilet was not sufficient for the needs of so many women.

The Commanding Officer with true military precision, seconded the male toilets to the female contingent which left the rest of the army in a bit of a spot.

Throughout the operational area — from the hills of Ruacana to the jungles of Caprivi, toilets were seconded by the dozen.

Not to mention showers. And it didn't matter that the water vanished in Oshakati catching 22 showerees unaware. They later attended a rousing party well-lathered with army carbolic. Nobody even noticed.

At Rundu, the army pitched tents on the edge of the Kavango River. That night, while lulled to sleep by the humming of the crickets and the rustling of our armed defenders in the bushes we heard a noise.

Perhaps it's a terrorist, I thought to myself. Women's page editor Sue Garbett had disappeared beneath her sheets.

It turned out to be Viv Prince who'd left her contact lenses in the loo and was blindly making her way through the bush and inadvertantly made contact with a thornbush.

Throughout the night, journalists in flowing nighties and bare feet were to be seen tripping through the bushes trying to find their tents.

The Defence Force kept its cool under the most trying circumstances and amazingly enough, no-one was shot in error.

At Oshakati, we discovered Bayliss — a coffee liqueur indigenous to the operational area. We also discovered that it's difficult to be bright at 6am when you've fallen into bed just two hours before.

All good things come to an end. I returned home full of joys of army life.

It's been difficult adjusting.

At dinner, eight delicious young men don't fight to seat me at the table. There's not a rush to refill my glass. Nobody offers to carry my bags and nobody makes my bed.

The crunch came this morning when I suggested that my husband bring me a cup of coffee in bed — I know he's not a handsome troopie in a uniform, but it's the thought that counts.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "The army's ruined you forever."

He's right. This morning, I telephoned Defence Head Quarters in Pretoria to volunteer for the paratroopers.

I mean, anything's better than an early-morning lift scheme.

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