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Welcome Ouman, excellent reading.

Thanks for contributing and look forward to more.

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How come every time my ship comes in, I'm at the airport?

Enjoyable read Ouman and welcome to the group !=D>

@Ouman

Excellent recollection of your time and events in the Bike Squad! You wrote the piece 'in die taal van die tyd' which brought back memories of how we all spoke, regardless of which service or unit, during that period from 1961 to 1994. In many ways 'diensplig', and for many the career that followed, was the best years of our lives.

Thank you for sharing some of yours here!

It was another time and another place ...

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/tallyho2015/albums

Life in The Bike Squad in the early 70’s.

Thanks for the warm welcome and the positive feedback, guys! I was really worried that I might offend some folks with tales of wanton disregard for authority and a complete lack of patriotic commitment. As Tally-ho so aptly put it, it was another time and another place.

Since I already told you about my name change from Windhoek to Wind gat, I thought I’d tell you about Skrik deWet and Staff Steel this time. Let’s start with Skrik.

One of the less likeable members of the Squad was a weasely-looking oke from Boksburg, whose name I’ll withhold for compassionate reasons. An aggressive little shit for his size (only slightly bigger than me) with pale pink skin, white hair and eyebrows. Wasn’t long before we started calling him Witrot, not only because of his appearance but also his screwed up face - screwed up as in a sneer - but yes, he weren’t no oil painting either. He became part of a marauding gang in Jhb afterwards - saw him once in Hillbrow the following year, looking for trouble with his entourage and I’ll be surprised if he made it past 30.

Witrot liked to pick out soft targets - got his ass kicked a few times when he picked on the wrong guy and always swore bitter revenge. One of his targets was a tall, amiable Afrikaans guy that I only remember as de Wet – never actually knew his first name. Despite his size, de Wet was quite a softie and a nervous guy. Witrot soon realised he was good for some moronic fun when he discovered that it was really easy to give him a fright. You could stand in front of him and go: “Ba!” and he would jump. You could do it right away again - Ba! - and he would jump again. So at every opportunity, Witrot would sneak up behind him and go “Ba!” just to see him jump, one time in the mess, while the poor oke was on his way to a seat with a tray full of chow (I ain’t cleaning that up!). It worked every time. I never figured out why the guy didn’t have a heart attack or something. Naturally, we called him Skrik de Wet.

The ‘house’ Corporal warned Witrot that if he ever did that again in the mess, he was going to be washing dishes for the rest of basics.

Now Skrik, as I mentioned, was the Harley rider for the human pyramid, so you can imagine, while we were practicing and especially during the shows, no one dared even fart for fear of setting him off.

However, I did fall victim to his nervous condition one day. It was early days and we were still practising the pyramid and the sidecar gag on one of the terraced fields, just above the camp on the slopes of the koppie that we had to push our bikes around. The fields were actually right next to the road. We were on the top field and there was a drop of about 20 feet or so to the field below. All the bikes were parked in a row along the road side, while the back edge and the left side were lined with rocks and bush.

Although the whole squad was present, we were only using the Harleys for that session, so most of the guys were lounging about dozing or having a smoke until they were needed. For some reason, the guys who were clowns in the sidecar weren’t there that day. Because it was still early days, we mostly fell off trying to get the pyramid right, so to change things up a bit, it was my turn to familiarise myself with the sidecar and to get a feel for pulling off, steering and stopping. Since Skrik already had a feel for the Harleys, he would be the seat guy for the sidecar.

Have to admit, it was a bit intimidating at first, especially being right next to the motor and so close to the ground in a sideways/prone position. Also, I could only really see dead ahead through the gauze panel – about 10 or 15 degrees max on either side, so when I turned, I only saw what was in front of me as it came into view.

Anyway, I soon got the hang of it, so Staff asked if I was ready to do the whole sequence of dismount and remount. Ya, let’s go. Skrik would do a loop with me inside and then climb off so I could do my solo thing. The rest of the squad were called onto the field to do the ‘chasing’ but it was Skrik that I had to listen for to say “Ok – clutch.”

Did the circle – no problem. Dismount and take off – no problem. During the ‘chase’ I was a bit nervous of that long drop to the next field, so I kept mostly to the back end of the field for the sake of prudence. It was actually quite a lot of fun – some of the guys got into the spirit of it all and were yelling things like “Hey, stop jou donner, Ize gonna give you a ticket for speeding!”

Then I heard Skrik say “Ok – clutch.” So I pulled in the clutch and centred the lever for straight ahead. But just as Skrik was slinging his leg over, the Harley decided to backfire. Never backfired before! He froze in mid-air and landed like a statue, catching his size 12 boot on the only protruding part of the throttle cable. The Harley roared like a poked bear.

So what did I do? To stop the motor right next to me from revving itself in its glory, I let out the clutch! The poked bear took off like a stabbed rat with Skrik holding onto the handles for dear life, still frozen from the backfire and probably even more freaked out by the sudden acceleration. Seeing the edge of the drop off coming closer at a rate of knots, I pulled the clutch in again and tried to turn, but Skrik, as I said, was a big guy and the more I tried to turn, the more he fought to get control.

One thing I knew was that sometimes it is better to get on the gas to get yourself out of trouble than hit the brakes. So I let the clutch out again and pulled on the steering lever with all my strength to change direction despite Skrik’s frozen grip on the handles.

Of course, that was the wrong thing to do, because next thing I knew, the sidecar was in the air and we were on the verge of tipping over. So, praying that I could overcome Skrik’s frozen grip again, I slammed the lever forward, only to find that skrik had let go the handles and was holding onto the side of the car so he didn’t donner off the bike. The Harley pitched hard right and the sidecar slammed back down on the ground so hard that Skrik was now half inside the car and that empty air at the edge of the field was advancing really fast. At full throttle in 1st, that Harley covered a lot of ground.

As soon as the sidecar hit the ground, the Harley went into a mad spin and I had visions of the team having to dig us out of the hole it made and prayed that the sidecar’s wheel didn’t fold under us. But the jolt from the hard landing pulled Skrik’s foot off the cable and we only did about two donuts before the revs came down and the motor finally stalled to a jerky halt.

I wasn’t aware that some of the guys had to dive for their lives to avoid being run over, so when we stopped, there were a few choice words coming from the advancing lynch mob. They all thought I was just being Windgat again. But as Skrik unfolded himself off the top of me and I was able to sit up, their tune changed. I was as white as a sheet and the left side of my face was covered in blood. I obviously hit my head on the inside of the car as it came down, but with the shock, I didn’t feel a thing till later.

Asking if I was ok, the guys helped me out and sat me down next to the sidecar. Automatically, I reached for the top pocket of my browns for my packet of Texans only to find every one of them in the crumpled pack was broken. Somebody offered me a Rothmans, which I refused, rather accepting a light for one of my own broken stompies. My hands were starting to shake.

Staff came over, took a look at me and told one of the guys to give me a ride to sickbay. Skrik was fine, just a bit shaken. When I came out of sickbay about half an hour later, looking like a toffee-apple with all the mercurochrome the medic put on my head, Staff was waiting outside to check on me. It was one of the few times he spoke in English. “You’re walking, so you’re alright. That was quick thinking - it could have been worse,” he said and gave me a fatherly pat on the back. Later on, Skrik came over to apologise, but it wasn’t really his fault.

Even though I was given light duty for a week, I was back at the hangar the next day, ready to ride - stiff and sore as hell, just not able to wear my bush hat or any headdress. (Naturally, I took advantage of the light duty to skip a week of drill and PT.) The sidecar Harley was given a new throttle cable, which was re routed along the frame and under the tank so no part of it protruded anymore. Did the same mod for the pyramid Harley as a precaution.

First thing I did was go back to that field to check out the scene of the accident and only then realised how close we had come to going over the edge. There were three distinct tyre tracks from the fully sideways sidecar and the rear wheel groove was right on the edge of the slope. A few more centimetres and momentum would have dragged us backwards over the edge.

Staff was right. It could have been worse.

Didn’t go to war, but still saw quite a bit of action, hey.

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Okay, the Skrik story turned out a bit longer than expected, so I’ll keep the Staff Steel saga for next time.

Hope you enjoyed.

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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.

Enjoy it we did, fantastic read.

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How come every time my ship comes in, I'm at the airport?

Enjoying the read!

Life in The Bike Squad in the early 70’s.

The Legend of Staff Steel:

Please note, these posts are not in chronological order. As I crank the overloaded memory and hear the grit in the gears (and sometimes feel the missing splines), I write these recollections as they come to me, so there may well be some back and forth in the timeline.

This event took place after basics, when we graduated from the Triumphs (except for the afkak punishment) and had full time access to our bikes of choice. Yes, to a degree, we had a choice. For instance, the guys who became clowns and the ones who rode backwards obviously opted to ride the tricked out Triumphs. Some opted for the 350 fours and the more hardcore of us chose the XLs – both were used in the displays. As far as I can remember, none of the 360 Yammies were used in the shows. The exception was Staff VS, who always led the squad on his trademark 360 - like the dressage horse that leads the procession.

Now at some point during our basics, the bikes were all repainted in the now typical matt brown. But of course, it didn’t take long for the new paint jobs to get scratched and dinged. Some minor wear and tear was acceptable, whereas more significant damage always had to be explained (like the time my bike was crashed in Nigel before a show).

We had done a few demos without screwing anything up and, aside from the 4-way cross jump, a few of us thought it was getting a bit boring. At the time, there were only two Bike Squads: ours (1Sigs) and the other at 2Sigs, which was based at Voortrekkerhoogte. I really didn’t know too much about what the okes at 2 Sigs did on their bikes or if they even did shows at all (didn’t really care in those days), but I figured, being 1Sigs, we should be setting the bar with a few new tricks to the shows.

By this time, I’d had my name changed from Windhoek to Windgat, I’d survived the sidecar excursion with Skrik and also survived the equivalent of a carrier landing on one of the Triumphs when I took down a section of barbed wire fence - and yet kept coming back for more. (See – I told you the timeline would go back and forth, but I’ll get to the other stories another time.)

Now I mention this because Staff was inclined to listen to me when I had something to say about how we did things - I was a bit tougher and more resilient that my slight frame would suggest. It helped, too, that I was always up for trying something new. For instance, when it came for volunteers to do the 4-way cross jump, my hand was first to go up – no hesitation.

So one day, we were casually discussing the virtues of the 350XLs vs the RE360s and I don’t want to cast nasturtiums on Staff’s intelligence (yes, I actually meant to say aspersions), but I think he thought that the 360 was the superior bike because it was inclined to loft its front wheel in lower gears much easier than the XL. Although the 360 did have quite a bit of bottom end torque for a 2-stroke (thanks to the reed valve system), it was still a bit peaky, whereas the grunt of the XL was available over a wider band almost from idle. It’s worth noting however, that despite its 360 label, the Yammie’s actual displacement was only 351cc, same as the DT360, which had just come out (’74 model). Compared with the 350XL’s 348cc displacement, the diffs was negligible – like 1%.

Of course, this led to an impromptu acceleration challenge between Staff and myself just to prove a point. In drag-style starts, the 360 was up in the air almost from the get-go and still managed a slight advantage off the line. Yet, when it came to whacking the throttle at low RPM in 2nd, 3rd and 4th, the XL walked it. Staff swore blind it was just because I was much lighter.

I only mention all of this because it becomes a key factor in the story.

Now I’m sure everyone reading this knows about or has at least heard of Evel Knievel, the legendary king of motorcycle jumps. So one day I figured it was time for us to do something that no one had considered doing before – do a really big jump over something…well … really big - like a Bedford, complete with canopy, or maybe a load of roofies from the June intake. Yes, we’d been promoted to Oumanne at the time, since our Oumanne before us had all buggered off back home. Or joined PF.

I was totally up for doing the jump, since I’d learnt to get quite a bit of air on the jumps at our makeshift track at Brakwater. Also, in the Namib, we always looked for the perfect dune, like a surfer looks for the perfect wave, where it was possible to take a fast run-up on the gradual side of the dune and then get airborne for quite some distance as the dune disappears beneath you on the steep side. But if you got the angle right, the steep side of the dune dropped away at almost the same angle as your rate of descent, so you were never more than a meter or two above the surface.

The term High Alfa comes to mind– although I figure HA is more like the aircraft version of a wheelie. All you had to do was make sure you landed before the slope ended with your back wheel first and on the gas so that your front wheel didn’t dig in and give you three extra octaves of vocal range as you caught your naartjies on the handles. That happened a few time to a few of us, where bike dug in and rider continued on the trajectory. As far as I know, we were all still able to reproduce later on in life.

Armed with this rationale (skipping the bit about reproduction), I put the idea to Staff one day during practice. At first, he just looked at me and said: “A Bedford?!” When I added: “And troepies on the back in full kit,” I think I could see the picture emerging in his mind. What better way to earn public trust than to demonstrate how we put our trust in each other’s skill and precision. The Clover Leaf was one way, so was the pyramid and the 4-way cross jump, but clearing a Bedford full of troepies was another thing altogether.

After a thoughtful moment, he asked who was going to do the jump. When I said I would, he just shook his head and laughed. “Jy wil you vokken nek breek!” Then he added: ‘Daar’s nie light duty vir dit nie!” After a few moments, he said he’d think about it and I figured it would probably end there. A crazy idea for sure - we’re talking 1974 here.

We didn’t do Bike Squad stuff every day – we also had to do COMSEN stuff, get muddied in the river during training, shoot down the range flag pole and other important things, so it was only the following week that we got together again. After reporting to the vehicle park as usual, Staff told us all to mount up and follow him. Had no idea where we were going but when we turned into camp and headed towards the admin buildings, we all thought we were about to get another bollocking from the RSM for something or other.

Instead, we hung a left towards the residential buildings, past the rugby field where all our parades where held … and – oh-oh… the sick bay! O vok – we were probably going to have to go stand in our under rods and get injections in our asses to make us more obedient, or something. I thought they sent okes to Greefswalt for that shit. No wonder Staff wouldn’t tell us where we were going!

Instead, without warning, Staff went off road and led us up the slope on the left side of the field. As we crested the rise, it was impossible to miss the huge orange and yellow ramp that had been positioned diagonally (corner to corner) in the middle of the field. The Tiffies obviously didn’t want anybody to miss it. It was the biggest ramp I’d seen, made out of some heavy duty timber, standing over 2 metres tall, roughly 600mm wide and about 5 metres long at least – I really don’t recall the pain of the strain, the heat of the seat, the size of the rise and the angle of the dangle of every event anymore – but it was like an almost 40-degree cheese wedge with a big orange stripe up the middle.

Staff had obviously decided to go with the jump idea, gone to the Tiffies to requisition ‘a ramp – one for the use of’. He must have given them some idea of what the ramp was for and what it had to do. We, of course, didn’t know anything about it as he led us to the back of the field, opposite the grandstand, where we formed up under the tall bluegums, shut down in unison and then parked, flanked on either side by the usually harmless rugby posts.

There were various comments and speculations as the squad dismounted and approached the launch pad - the Bike Squad had been given a new toy. Now, nobody knew that I’d already volunteered for the mission, so while they were all wandering about stuff, I was already working out the trajectory and truck position, approach and departure and all that sort of stuff. By my rough calculation, run up wouldn’t be a problem – the bike had enough acceleration - but there might not be enough distance to clear the Bedford, make the landing and stop with any dignity. And that launch angle was a bit hectic.

While everyone was walking around, looking up at this thing like it had landed from outer space, Staff walked gingerly up the painted ramp, not wanting to go down a slippery slope, so to speak, and stood at the top for a while. After looking down and then ahead to the departure corner, he made his way down, looked at me and said: “Jy gaan soos a mortier daar moet afvlieg om die Bedford te mis!” Actually - I had to agree with him.

After a few guys tried to walk up but came sliding down on their backsides, I took a run up and got to the top in a few strides. Shit – it was really high! A mortar launcher, indeed. But I did some split second visualisations and came up with a solution. It all depended on pegging the landing, but as luck would have it, there was a narrow path, conveniently located where the raised spectator banks joined in the corner, right in line with the LZ. That would not only extend the runoff, but the gradient also offered extra retardation if needed.

I worked out that if the ramp could be extended by another metre or so and the height dropped about half a meter, then the trajectory could be flattened, reducing the angle of approach and departure for smoother takeoff and landing. In other words, the Bedford would be parked further away from the ramp, but the faster trajectory would clear it by roughly 2 metres. I couldn’t help thinking those troepies better not chicken out and duck at the last moment, or it’ll ruin the whole image.

So by trading altitude for speed and factoring in the retardation slope of the spectator bank in the extended runoff area, the jump would be faster and longer, but it’ll be much softer on frame and suspension, not to mention the rider. To prove a point, I got Staff to let me demonstrate on my bike the effectiveness of the slope by taking off at the far corner of the field and then hitting the brakes at the centre line to measure a stopping distance on the level field. Then I took off from the centre line and headed for the corner where the bank was, only hitting the brakes at the touch line and then measuring the retarded braking distance using the extra slope. I was able to stop about a quarter of the way up - about two thirds of the distance achieved on the level. Point made.

After much drawing of lines and circles in the sand with sticks and the accompanying hand gestures and body movements, Staff and a few others who actually knew a bit about hard landings, eventually agreed that the long range ballistic approach was better and probably safer than the current mortar option. The Staff Sergeant in charge of the workshop was there to represent the Tiffies and proudly present his creation and, subsequently, to take notes on the required modifications. Said he’d have it ready next week. Bakgat!

This called for a smoke break, during which, Staff asked me which bike I would use. The Honda – no question. Besides, I was used to it and liked the balance. Again, I could see something taking shape in Staff’s head, as he looked from the Yammie to the Honda and then, the tell-tale look at the ramp, still standing invitingly in the middle of the field. “Huh…!” was all he said.

Despite being told that their creation was not to our requirements, the Tiffies obviously wanted some cred and had decided to get some exposure, literally, by leaving it there for the rest of the day, so everyone in the camp could gaze upon the state of their art. Have to admit, it was one moerova ramp.

But there it was, in the middle of the field, like a shy girl, obviously alone at a party, just waiting for someone to come over and ask her for a dance. It was on my mind too, I must confess, to make a first move. So I ventured that I would like to have a run at it – it’s right there, so why not have a go? But as I finished, Staff got up. “Die Honda, se jy?” I nodded and he headed over to my bike and started it up. Got big unspoken ups from the guys for Staff choosing my bike over the other XLs. He rode around for a bit, throttle testing, brake testing, pulled a creditable sitting wheelie in 1st while getting a feel for the balance. In the meantime, the squad had taken to the field again for the demo and I’d taken up position in front of but to the left of the ramp, so I could watch the approach and get a close up look at the landing for when it was my turn. No way was I going to miss the opportunity.

Staff eventually positioned himself at the far corner of the field for the run up. Shit! He was going to give it the beans, even though it was a mortar launcher! Some o-vok music started playing in my head, like in the movies when bad shit is about to happen. Hell, even I was thinking of a much shorter run up and a smaller jump – and I was supposed to be the windgat!

We had been allowed to tinker a bit with the set up of our individual bikes and, aside from having a slightly different exhaust note, the suspension on my bike was set a bit softer than the rest, me being the lightest of the lot. But for the jump attempt, I would certainly have set the shocks to their hardest, but Staff was obviously satisfied – he would surely have noticed the softness when he did his throttle and brake testing. Also, the clutch and front brake levers were positioned on the handles so that I could easily do clutch and brake with two fingers while still keeping a firm grip on the handles. Quite different from the setup on Staff’s 360.

My bike sounded quite different under the load of Staff’s considerable weight as it put its ass down and dug a groove in the grass under full taps. Staff’s right elbow was down, making sure he wrung every bit of twist out of the throttle into 2nd. I heard more o-vok music. He changed up to 3rd and was sitting fairly upright as he approached the ramp, hitting it at about 70k’s or so, rising off the seat to a crouch at the last moment.

What happened next actually transpired in about 6 seconds, but it seemed to be like slow motion and take forever. There was a sound like a double kick on a bass drum, as the Honda’s wheels hit the wooden ramp, suspension bottoming out against the mudguards as inertia took charge during the sudden change of direction. With no more suspension left to absorb the forces, the wooden beams on the ramp had to bend under the pressure. I was pretty sure I noticed the front wheel distorting, but it may just have been the tyre up against the mudguard.

Well, it all went tits up from there. Other, unanticipated forces came into play. The boards on the ramp had absorbed a lot of energy in downward compression and, as the back wheel passed over the middle point, that kinetic energy was released, kicking up the fully compressed back wheel. A split second later, as the front wheel came off the ramp, the bottomed-out front shocks fully extended again, creating downward momentum on the front wheel. Basically, the bike had started to pitch forward the moment it left the ramp.

I watched in slo-mo as my machine took off more like a helicopter at full forward pitch, rotating further through its arc, till it was at a right angle to the ground. Then it started coming down. Staff was still seated on the bike - albeit horizontally - and holding grimly onto the handles when the pair of them nose-dived into the ground.

The bike dug into the grass and did one summersault, changing its direction somewhat in the process before digging into the grass again and coming to a sliding halt fairly quickly. Staff, on the other hand, hit the ground hard and seemed to take off across the grass like he was fired from a cannon, as he rolled and slithered into touch, coming to rest in a crumpled heap – out like a light.

For a moment, there was an eerie silence. Everybody stood frozen in place until the medics hit the field with the stretcher. Apparently Staff had arranged for medics to be present as a condition to get permission from the Commandant to do the stunt. I’ll never forget the image of Staff coming past me on the grass in his browns, unconscious but still grunting as momentum rolled him over and over. I’ve come down nose-first on a couple of dunes and it sometimes took the wind out of me for a while. But this was a really big off. Sure as hell was glad it wasn’t me for once.

Giving the medics space to work, they carefully loaded Staff, still unconscious, onto the stretcher and carried him off to the sickbay, which was only about 100m away, fortunately. It was a bit of a shock for the lot of us, to say the least. Who was going to be our 1IC while Staff was in hospital? And how much shit were we going to be in for what just happened? Was the jump still going to go ahead? And was Elvis really coming back?

These were among the questions that came up as four of us lifted and carried the buckled remains of my bike off the field. The forks were bent backwards and slightly to the left, folding the front wheel around the motor. The fuel tank was crumpled but intact. The back tyre was jammed against the swing arm from the summersault and the motor had broken some mountings on account of the frame was bent. My poor bike was as twisted as a pretzel. So what kind of condition would Staff be in? The other guys were picking up pieces of headlight glass and fragments from the separate speedo and rev counter dials and other bits that were strewn across the field.

About 45 minutes later, we were still searching the area in a line to find any remaining bits of debris that could possibly cause a problem for players on the field in future, when Staff, accompanied by a concerned medic, came walking down the slope and back onto the field with his left arm in a sling - and this time it was his turn to look like a toffee-apple with his head covered in mercurochrome. Spontaneously, we all formed a line and applauded as he approached with a bit of a limp but otherwise okay. One of the guys piped up: “He-ey - Staff Steel!!” and we all echoed that. We really weren’t expecting him back for at least a couple of days.

First thing Staff said was: “Waar’s daai vokken Honda!?” After inspecting the wreckage, he listened impatiently as I tried to explain that it wasn’t the XL that did him foul, but the lack of rigidity in the ramp, since there was no support brace in the middle to stop the boards from bending. I don’t think it actually made any difference to him. He was the moer-in because he'd come short in front of his squad on this 'fkn' Honda.

All in all, what had transpired that day was enough to scrap the Evel Knievel idea for safety reasons. No way was the Commandant going to let us have another shot at it. Which was a real pity, because at the time, that kind of stunt being done by the military could surely have made it into a couple of motorcycling magazines. But, while that may be so, it could also be the reason why I’m still around to tell the tale. Who knows?

Sometimes, we just have to appreciate the adventures and thank our lucky stars for being around to remember them.

All hail Staff Steel!

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Footnote: My pretzel XL was scrapped. I was given one of the spare XLs to ride for the rest of the year, but never felt quite as comfortable on it as I did the original. However, that didn’t stop me from working hard to maintain my Windgat title.
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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.

Keep them coming, great stories of times and things disappearing in the mist ...

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/tallyho2015/albums

Another great story!

Maybe a good thing that the jump didn't take place as a Bedford full of injured troepies wouldn't have been a good thing either.

Love it

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How come every time my ship comes in, I'm at the airport?

No worries – I’d absolutely insist they all wore their staaldaks…

Actually, the worst thing that could happen was they’d have to quickly skyf op to make some room for the aerial loading of one rugting-bevok motorcycle. But thanks for the concern.

Also, thanks for the feedback. It is appreciated.

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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.

@AT6C

For the record.

Firstly: you are correct and I agree: a Bedford full of injured troepies wouldn’t have been a good thing. No question.

Second: the spontaneous decision to do something ballsy like take a run at an as yet un-tested but available ramp – which, I got to tell you, was an irresistible temptation – was done so without the kind of preparation we would normally have had if we actually got around to staging the stunt. The troepies would’ve been quite safe.

The only rule in this case is don’t hit the obstacle you’re supposed to be jumping over. For that to happen, one of two things had to have occurred. One being that the vectors and trajectories were inaccurately calculated. To get that wrong, you must have hired dyslexics to do your math. The other being that your approach speed was insufficient. To hit the ramp significantly below target speed and not be aware of it, means you are asleep. Although we didn’t have the luxury of GPS and beeping tones in our ears in those days to indicate so-called rotation velocity and abort alarms, with enough practice and a feel for your machine, you can tell by the tone of the motor if you’re on target or not and you will instinctively jink for the escape path to abort the jump. You'll know when it feels right.

Basically, a strong sense of personal survival takes all but the most bizarre elements of risk out of being a troep in that Bedford. I know that if I was in there, I’d certainly like to think it wasn’t just for target practice. Besides, stunts are just that – stunts. Like the sidecar gag and the cross-jumps, for instance, where spectators think its much more than what it is. The trick is to make it as risk-free as possible while still wowing the crowd.

So there should always be at least one clear abort path on either side of the ramp, so that you can wave off and come around again. These aborts would, naturally, be rehearsed. I daresay, during the performance, we might well have chucked one in on the first run just to raise the tension a bit. I suspect there would be quite a few runs with an empty truck as well, using some kind of height reference marker for the clearance requirement. Honestly, its like ballistics 101 - you plot the trajectory and let it rip. The projectile will pass over your forces on the ground and splash the enemy right on target. Except one hopes that the bike and rider don’t make a splash anywhere.

I promise you, even if I came off the ramp backwards, sideways, upside down or with my naarts caught in the chain, as long as the approach speed was right, the resultant trajectory would still clear the obstacle, in this case, the Bedford full of troepies. I, on the other hand, would be lucky to survive that landing - or else survive it but end up fathering lots of little master links in the future.

We were a bit rough, to be sure – but we liked to be ready. What happened to Staff is testimony to what happens when we're not.

I think, had the Tiffies removed their prototype right away, as if to say: if you don’t like it, you can’t play with it, then we’d have to have waited till the new improved design was on the field the following week and it would all have turned out differently. Bear in mind that the first reveal of what turned out to be the prototype, was a complete surprise to the squad. Knowing that the improved ramp was coming the following week, we would have been hard at work, figuring shit out liaising with the Tiffies so that we could get jumping as soon and as safely as possible. That would include sparing the troepies.

Having said which, the troepies really would have been wearing their staaldaks anyway because, as you might recall, I said the Bedford should be full of troepies in full kit. Staaldak met mosdop and bayonettes.

Sit en strek, rowers! Die mense kyk!

Thanks for the observation, though. It is a valid safety element.

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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.

Hmm, perhaps rubber bayonets?

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How come every time my ship comes in, I'm at the airport?

Sure. And mannequins - or blow-up dolls instead… Hey, even if it was a load of landmines or angry loggers waving chainsaws, I’d have done the jump. But its all conjecture now - obviously wasn’t meant to be.

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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.

Hi again, folks.

Apologies for the long delay between stories. A lot has been happening, not the least of which is I've been head down creating content for my own website that has been more of a challenge than I ever expected. Actually, I've been serialising my previous postings from here on my personal site as episodes with a credit to this forum for the original posts.

So let's get down to it.


Life in The Bike Squad in the early 70’s.

SURPRISE ATTACK BY A SUPERPOWER
Part 1.

There were two words every ouman was looking forward to uttering above all others:

Min Dae!!

For those not familiar with Afrikaans or the South African army way in general, min dae directly translated means few days. Min dae refers to the magical 40 days of service remaining. It is an accepted point at which you can consider your conscription or deployment to be a done thing. ....in 40 days' time.... However, it isn't like a birthday that you celebrate once and then get on with the rest of your year. It is a really big deal. You knew when it was 40 days when you started hearing Elvis's toon being shredded by just about every tuneless and broken voice in the camp. (I still never figured why 40 days and not 30 or 7?)

However, the 40-day rite of passage afforded you all sorts of leeway, like pulling rank (even if you didn't have any) over the newer intake for chores and errands, the right to become slapgat (lazy), to ignore rank (not above stopping a 2-pip Lute or a Captain to bum a light), come back pissed from your weekend off (still smelling of the club and your girlfriend's perfume) and only wake up in the middle of inspection on Monday morning (as the Squad Sergeant was already on his way down the passage), because, as far as the army was concerned, you were no longer 'one for the use of'.

Sometimes you got taken to task but, for the most part, you were recognised as someone who was actually being honourably discharged. If you were a Bike Squad ouman, it was a notable achievement and almost as good as a commendation!

Having survived basics, where you're pushed physically and psychologically to the point where you're quite prepared to kill someone, not necessarily the enemy, and having learnt how far you can go to get your own back without suffering the potentially harsh consequences for disobeying orders and authority in general, the freedom cry of “40 days!” is enough to throw all the resentment out the window and start thinking about how the hell you're going to reintegrate with normal society when your language (for starters) was mostly based around words beginning with v, k and p!

Actually, it was a unique army thesaurus of vulgarity, turned into formal communication. For instance, our ‘house’ corporal, Korporaal Karstens (who was a mean drunk and a Sarge for one day until he got his new stripe taken away 24 hours later) never used standard military terms with us, instead he bellowed things like: “Moer uit!!” and “Kom staan jou donnerse gat hier, troep!” Of course, when officers were in earshot, he reverted to standard terms and reserved the abuse for when we were mostly alone. He was even meaner when he was hung over, his bloodshot eyes glowering at anyone who added to his existing headache.

Anyway, as time ran out on what seemed to be a complete lifetime, the daily life for an ouman became almost comfortable in that there was a camp full of new troops for instructors to drill and abuse into the ground. For all my references to gippoing and evading stuff, I, for one, was super fit and went from a size small to a tight fitting medium, thanks partly to the training but mostly, I suspect, to my diet of mashed potato (with lots of butter) and ‘dog biscuits’ dunked in a canteen full of milk. I opted for that diet after I found a sheep’s eyelid in my stew and vowed never to eat any meal with meat in it as long as I was there.

So with about two weeks to go before klaaring out, I, for one, spent as much time up at the bike hangar as I could to avoid being randomly assigned some menial task in the camp. The bikes only took up about 20% of the space in the hangar. There were other vehicles in there too – Bedford troop carriers (long and short wheelbase) and field water trucks, Landrover technical electronic vehicles (TEVs) and a couple of big Magirus Deutz recovery trucks and whatnot that took up most of the space. To the left of the bike area (if you’re inside and facing out) was a space for Tiffies to work on vehicles and, in the far back corner, there were crates of spares and tools and other Tiffie stuff.

The areas were divided by the solid vertical supports that held up the heavy structural wooden beams, meaning there was one big sliding door for each section. There were either four or five doors (insufficient memory) on each side of our hangar and I imagine the others in the vehicle park were the same. In true hangar style, they were all clad in heavy corrugated steel – not just the roofing, but also the big sliding doors, which opened front and back, typically needing two people to get them moving.

Really can’t recall what time of the day it was, but I reckon it was early afternoon. We were mulling around inside the hangar because it was a bit overcast and there was a good chance of rain, so the non-off road bikes would have a problem on the dirt roads in the wet.

When I was still at school in Windhoek, my mates and I used the dry riverbeds around the town as our own network to get around the place without licences and going on the public roads on our unroadworthy bikes. There was one particular traffic cop, on his white BMW with his long brown lace-up boots, those ridiculous brown baggy ‘gestapo’ pants (actually that’s what we had to wear when doing our shows!) and his Mark Condor sunglasses under his shiny white spiedcop helmet, who sometimes tried to intercept us as we made a dash from one riverbed to another along a section of public road. Yes, we were often chased by the cops but, ag pleez, we’d let this guy ride on the road next to us, revving the poor BM like he was in the chase of his life just to let him think he’s got us pinned. But we knew he would inevitably run out of road ahead.

Sometimes, during the frequent afternoon thunderstorms, the rivers would come down in flood and regularly stop traffic. The many dips (or drifts) in the low lying roads – especially on Kleinwindhoek Rd - which were mostly dry, would suddenly be turned into impassable rivers, causing cars to back up for quite some distance. Now and again, the motorists at the front of the line would be left with their mouths hanging open as we appeared out of the bush and crossed the road in front of them – splashing through the river on our machines. I got to know those riverbeds so well that I could ride them on nights when there was enough moon. Yes, my bike had a headlight. But no, it didn’t work.

So that was all just to let you know that the prospect of a bit of rain around the camp would never be a reason for me to not go out. It was orders. I’m pretty sure Staff didn’t want to have to explain to the RSM or the Commandant – again - why there always a long list of spare parts for the bikes. He knew us too well to trust us out in the rain.

While we were plittering about, someone mentioned that there was a storm approaching and we should think about closing things up. Normally, when it rained, one or more of the doors would be open for a bit of light and to allow people to go in and out without having to roll back the big heavy doors each time. Only if it came down sideways, did we close the front doors, but then we’d open some at the back. This time, it was our (Bike Squad) door that was open, seeing as the bikes didn’t obstruct as much light as the bigger trucks.

One of the other guys from elsewhere in the hangar was standing by the door looking out and he called us to come have a listen. Since the vehicle park was elevated above the rest of the camp, it was possible to see part of the town across the vale. The door was open just wide enough for three of us to stand abreast without looking like stooges. Above the usual drone of the compressors and other mechanical stuff around the park, there was a distinct roar coming from the town.

At first, it wasn’t obvious, but eventually I could see a dark and dirty grey band, like an approaching dust storm, gradually blocking the houses from view. Above that band was a wall of lighter grey, which was obviously rain. There appeared to be a wall of water on its way over. I’d seen and experienced cloudbursts before, many times in South West too, so it was going to be pretty cool to go look around and inspect what’s happened afterwards.

Now, parked on the edge of (our) top terrace was a short wheelbase Bedford with a naked chassis behind – probably a water truck waiting for its tank to be fitted. We were actually looking past this truck to see the approaching storm. I noticed that the front windows of the vehicle were wide open. It had separate front windscreens that you cranked open independently. As the rain started to come down harder, I pointed this out to Staff and he told two of us (can’t remember who else) to go out and close them up before the storm arrived.

So we dashed out – I got there first and climbed into the driver’s side through the passenger door because the rain was already pelting the driver side. We closed the windows and were busy cranking the locks when another wave of rain poured down. There were already puddles on the ground. Staff was watching from the hangar door, which was just open enough for us to get back in and close it up. But it was already bucketing down so hard, that I suggested we sit out the storm inside the Bedford. As if in answer to that suggestion, the first really strong gust of rain and hail hit us so hard that the Bedford heaved over towards the hangar, almost going up on two wheels. Some expletives escaped. There was nothing for it but to make the dash back to the safety of the hangar.

PART 2:
The hail and the rain stopped suddenly, giving us a chance to cover the distance and reach the door without being pelted or soaked. We were being given the hurry-up as we approached and all we could hear over the cadenza was: “Maak toe! Maak toe!! (Close up – close up!) As soon as we were past the door, the two of us started to push it closed.

But just then, the lull before the storm ended and a powerful surge of wind, rain and hail hit the front of the hangar like a giant hand, putting so much pressure on the door that we couldn’t get it to roll. Before anyone could come to help us, the door just lifted out of my hands and all hell broke loose from there.

If it wasn't for the rows of bikes parked in neat formation, the door would have crushed me and everyone else who was standing there. It was made of quarter inch corrugated steel. Instead, the rows of bikes took the hit, giving us space to duck. But having just created a huge opening, the wind came in and, with nowhere else to go, it took away part of the roof. When that happened, the massive door lifted up and took off like it was a piece of paper as the massive structural beams started snapping like firewood and the storm began dismantling the hangar and the rest of vehicle park.

The bikes were all on side stands, leaning over to the left. With no shelter from the elements, the wind just flipped them over in the other direction like they were dominoes. Pieces of tree and sections of roofing from the hangars below and all kinds of other projectiles were pelting us in our exposed positions. In desperation, I crawled under one of the short wheelbase troop carriers and hung onto the front propshaft to avoid being blown away as the giant overhead roof beams crashed in fragments and splinters on the cement floor right next to the truck. I wasn’t alone there - someone else was already hanging onto the rear propshaft.

But just when we thought we’d found safe cover, the wind caught the truck's canvass canopy like a parachute and turned the vehicle over, dragging it across the concrete until it hit one of the remaining support stumps – leaving the two of us still hanging on for dear life but now exposed to the oncoming barrage of water, hail and random projectiles.

The rain and hail was stinging and debris was still flying past like misguided missiles, ranging from bits of tree, signpost to mangled sheets of corrugated steel. I actually watched a stop sign fly by and in the middle of it all, my biker humour thought: ”Now that’s my kind of stop sign!”. I also remember seeing a sizeable branch from a sizeable tree flying overhead. It was surreal.

Luckily, there wasn't anything left of our hangar to land on us, so the only threat was the hail and horizontal projectiles. It gave us a chance to duck behind some heavy crates in the corner of what used to be the fenced-off supply store - mostly full of spare bike parts and other hefty stuff. It was a fenced-in section, so the crates were mostly held in place by the chicken wire, offering some security and shelter.

Mother Nature struck without warning and, literally, blew away the exposed vehicle park. It also did quite a bit of damage to the camp below. The dam had overflowed, flooding the parade ground and washing away the wall, which doubled as the access road from the camp to the vehicle park. The overflow from the dam also made a quagmire out of the usually hard clay-based parade ground.

The wind blew with such force that it uprooted a hundred year old tree that we used to sit under next to the river during some of our theory lectures. Corporal Carstens saw the storm coming and parked his brand new pride and joy Fiat 125 Scorpion under the tree for protection from the hail. All he could retrieve after the tree fell on it was the back speakers. I saw tears in that hard-ass’s eyes.

The only way to get around the camp and across the river was with the few undamaged off-road bikes. Some Captain tried to show how it should be done in a jeep but ended up being rescued by one of the bikes. So the Bike Squad was immediately put to use, ferrying the brass across the river and everywhere else to inspect the damage.

Of course, we knew where the deepest parts of the river and road ruts were - even though the deluge from the broken dam wall had washed away the usual landmarks - and made a point of 'accidentally' finding them, just to make sure the brass got their fair share of being well and truly muddied. One time, a bike was completely submerged in the river. We needed a Willy’s and a winch to get it out.

When the brass realised they were going to get dunked while being ferried on the bikes and have to go through several changes of uniform, we were told to go back to using jeeps to ferry them instead. Well, the jeeps weren’t exactly water and mud proof either, so we made sure there was a lot of wheel spinning and rooster tails at the right moments. “S’kuus, Majoor…”.

In between the ferrying jobs, we wasted no time in making doughnuts and our own version of the Nasca Lines on the soggy clay parade ground. No one would be doing any drill for a long time. That parade ground was hated by just about everyone, but it was also the shortest alternative detour to the other side of the camp. So there was a reason for vehicles to travel across it at the time. I use the word ‘travel’ with a bunch of creative licence. We practiced doing four-wheel drifts and had a competition to see who could get most sideways while still going straight – if you know what I mean.

After all, we were the Bike Squad – we didn’t ‘drive’. We raced!

And what better way to draw suspicion away from the Bike Squad for initially carving up the parade ground than seeing how many consecutive 360’s the jeeps could do on the slippery surface as we ‘struggled’ to keep them in a straight line through the squishy clay.

I honestly don’t remember too much after that, except that the roofies had a lot of cleaning up to do and the Bike Squad had a lot of fun being sent off to various locations to bring back reports and updates to the top brass. Well, I suppose we were meant to be despatch riders in any case. It provided an opportunity to do a tour of the entire camp area, including the part allocated to the 3-week campers, who were doing their required refresher courses. Spent a lot of time hosing down the bikes between excursions.

Oh – I found that stop sign, by the way. It was wedged in the ground just a few meters from the shooting range flagpole. There were also sections of roofing strewn about the range. That was a good kilometre or two from the camp.

What I do remember is that the camp actually got off quite lightly. Only a few roof tiles were lost, quite a few windows were broken and a few of the rooms in some of the buildings were flooded as a result. The vehicle park, due to its elevation, took the brunt of this surprise attack by a superpower, against which there was no defence.

Within a week, the camp was back to being more or less functional, but some of the damage was going to take a while to restore. The Tiffies – sorry – the Engineering Corps – were given the task of rebuilding the dam wall/access road, but this time with some reinforcing so it didn’t wash away if too many okes took a wiz upstream.

They were also tasked with levelling the destroyed parade ground and were having a tough time getting that done because the clay base underneath was still soaked although the top had dried out. So every time they thought they’d flattened a section, there were big indentations where the front-end loader and grader passed over. I think they were actually having a bit of their own fun.

When my 40 days were finally up and my rifle and kit were handed in, it was time to go back to civvy life. I have to confess that when I left the camp dressed in my civvies, it was with mixed feelings. Freedom at last. But deep down inside, I knew there would never be another time like it. That storm was, literally, a roaring send off.

I’m glad I had the experience. Would I do it again? Not a fu… - oh, sorry - I’m not in the army anymore…. In any case, the difference between the military then and the military now is like chalk and cheese. It was a once in a lifetime experience. Which is the only reason I feel in any way compelled to share it with you.

Footnote:
So this isn’t actually the end of my story. Yes, I know, I’ve just klarred out and all that, but like I said earlier, the chronology is according to my recollections and the inspiration to write them out. Call it army logic. Call it faded memory. But this is not the end, okay?

I think I might just tell you the whole shooting range story next time. Still gives me the giggles when I think about it. Remember what I was saying earlier about being willing to kill anyone, not necessarily the enemy….? Ya - hold that thought.

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Tie A Rocket To Your Sprocket.

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A corner is just a straight piece of road that's bent.