Chapter 1
The year was 1984. South Africa wasn't a happy place. I was in the army for my two years of national service. My name is Ben, and I was gay and unusually, out, since my lover and I were activists. Well, I was an activist-wannabe, since I should really have conscientiously objected to National Service, as others had and endured the prison sentence. I guess that I didn't have quite enough of a problem with the white "regime" to risk that extreme form of conscience. There was "unrest" in the "townships" (colloq. referring specifically to designated black urban areas) and anybody in an army uniform was not exactly welcome, especially in the abovementioned urban areas and even in the cities.
The myth of the army keeping the peace in the townships and protecting our borders was beginning to wear thin. The UDM (United Democratic Movement) and others of their ilk were getting the word out there.
I had grown up as an Afrikaner in an Afrikaans school and household. I didn't know who Nelson Mandela was until my boyfriend, Grant, a "rooinek" - (red neck/ Englishman) told me about him when I was 24. I ended up in the SADF (South African Defense Force) and "serving my country", in spite of the fact that gay heroes like Simon Nkoli were sacrificing their freedom for a greater autonomy from Apartheid. So, because I didn't have the courage to stand up for what I said I believed in, I lost my boyfriend the moment I got on the train to Pretoria for my basic training.
In spite of the fact that our different stances on sacrifice were a stumbling block, it was a tearful scene as we finally said our goodbyes because of ideological differences. Grant, my lover, had made it clear that--although he loved me--he couldn't endorse my surrendering to the Apartheid Regime. We would be history as soon as I finally became part of the oppressor's iron fist. It was only later that the penny dropped that he sent me into the jaws of death alone, without any support, because he couldn't stand the thought that I might die, thus losing me to the Regime.
Those first few days in basics were a blur. I not only had to fit into the extremely hard and harsh reality of "basics" (basic training) but also mourn the loss of my lover of 2 years--the result of my "cowardice".
It was really a moot point; I had a choice of imprisonment for objecting, or running the risk of being deployed to the "operational areas" on the border. Making excursions into Mozambique or Angola, where our "enemies" threatened the safety of the Republic with very real weapons--in spite of the fact that they were the real enemies only of the Apartheid regime. Since Grant had initiated me into the true story behind what we were fed as unsuspecting South Africans and as Afrikaners especially, it made serving in the armed forces so much more onerous.
When I was deployed to the border after basics, my worst nightmare came true. To cut a long story short, I was sent to the border, lost both my legs below the knee in a land mine explosion and was sent back to the "states" as we called civilization, a cripple, to recover.
To say that I was despondent would be an understatement. I still missed Grant terribly, especially since the loss of my legs, but I didn't contact him because I was so ashamed of my lack of conviction. I saw my mom briefly at 1 Mil, the military hospital in Pretoria, but she couldn't travel that far often, living about 30km away in a town called Boksburg. She was in her late sixties by that time.
Furthermore, the prospect of spending the rest of my life legless didn't really provide much incentive not to sink into a deep funk. This wasn't helped by the fact that I still had a good 18 months of my 2 years' military service to complete.
My reputation as "moffie" (derogatory Afrikaans term for queer) preceded me and although it didn't seem to matter to the guys on the border--as long as I pulled my weight and didn't try to seduce them--I had to endure many a snide remark and some threats of violence from some of the other patients in the bungalow.
The worst was when I was introduced to my physical therapist and his greeting went like this:
"O, jy's die mofgat!" (Oh, you're the queer-ass).
Then he proceeded to warn me that he would do his job and work with me and get me back on my feet but that he wasn't a "poephol pilot" (ass pilot, a colloquial reference to queers). He warned that I'd better watch myself and not get a boner every time he touched me. There was no smile to soften his cold grimace, inches from my own face. His hate-filled eyes left no room to doubt his seriousness.
I am a shortish guy, coming in at 5ft 7 1/2 inches, and although I'm quite stocky and muscular, Lt. Dolf Vosloo (short for Adolph- go figure!) stood a good 6ft 2 inches in his army boots. The wine red beret that he wore as a medic made it imperative that he disabuse me of any Hanky Panky expectations, since medics had a reputation for being largely gay. He was a slab of solid Boer muscle, with stern hazel eyes above a straight nose, perched above his regulation mustache and luscious lips that his derisive sneer didn't succeed in camouflaging. He had a job to do, and as a conscriptee he had no obligation to like it. Like me, he was there under duress.
In spite of the fact that under normal circumstances he would have made me weak at the knees, the prospect of having to work with an outright homophobe as a physical therapist didn't thrill me. Besides anything else, I was a bit scared that he would "donner" (thunder, literally, meaning clobber) me, as he was obviously a guy with something to prove. Even if he didn't physically abuse me, as an officer he had the power to make my life a living misery.
We were scheduled to start work the next day and I sank even deeper into my dark cloud. His disdain for my sexuality was palpable, and he couldn't be accused of trying to hide it. That night I quietly cried myself to sleep, hating my weakness but not having the moral strength to resist my tears.
I wished that I had given in to Grant's pressure to object, rather than end up legless and in imminent danger of getting gay bashed by my hunky therapist.
I was just going to have to make the best of my lot, one step at a time.
Oh yeah.
That wouldn't work for me anymore