Date: Fri, 18 Jun 2021 05:56:55 +1200
From: Ben Highlander <landingben@gmail.com>
Subject: Wolf in Sheep's Clothing - gay/military

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