Arn Durand - Zulu Zulu Golf: Life and Death with Koevoet

Published by Zebra Press
an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd
Reg. No. 1966/003153/07
80 McKenzie Street, Cape Town, 8001
P.O. Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa

www.zebrapress.co.za

First published 2011

Publication Zebra Press 2011
Text Arn Durand 2011

Cover photographs Jim Hooper

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

PUBLISHER: Marlene Fryer
MANAGING EDITOR: Robert Plummer
EDITORS: Anne-Marie Mischke and Beth Housdon
PROOFREADER: Rod Prodgers
COVER DESIGNER: Michiel Botha

ISBN 978 1 77022 148 2 (print)

ISBN 978 1 77022 203 8 (ePub)

ISBN 978 1 77022 204 5 (PDF)

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To my father, who taught me to think with my head,
work with my hands and love with my heart

I have written the story of my early experiences with Koevoet because it was stuck in my head and I needed to get it out. I owe the truth to many people, but most of all I owe it to myself. I cant change the past, but if I could I would go back and do it all again. I dont know why.

I fought for a reason that even I dont understand. I hope that I fought well and that I shall die one day with my honour, on my own. That is all I ask and for a little stone cottage by the sea.

I would like to thank my mother, for crossing my ts and dotting my is.

Anne-Marie, for believing in me.

Everyone at Random House Struik, especially Marlene of Zebra Press, for that first email; Robert, for being Robert; and special thanks to Beth, who understands me. Thank you too to Kim and Rashieda.

I would like to thank Jim Hooper, author of the book Koevoet. He is a true friend who has stood by me and supported me. For further reading on Koevoet I highly recommend his book. True soldiers never fade away; they just shine more brightly.

I would also like to thank my enemies who are now my friends. If SWAPO hadnt fought us, I wouldnt have this story to tell. I salute them; they were a worthy opponent.

ARN DURAND
CAPE TOWN
APRIL 2011

In humanity, as in nature, lies a deep and dark desire to kill and destroy in order to survive. We may deny its existence, but it is there, deep in our souls: we must destroy humanity so that humanity will survive, just as nature destroys nature so that nature may survive. Death has no mercy. This is how the blood on my hands became the food for my soul.

It all started when the South African army came to Ovamboland and shot the holy bird of the Ovambo people. That is what the Ovambos believed.

Close your eyes, take a deep breath. Relax and feel your heart beating while you think of nothing. Dont be afraid; stay calm. You have no worries, no fear, no sorrow and no pain. You are calm and content.

Now open your eyes. You are standing on the white powdery sand somewhere in southern Angola. Its very hot and very quiet, apart from a few insects buzzing around.

Its okay, Im with you. Trust me, you have nothing to fear.

With us is a captured SWAPO PLAN fighter. We tracked him for three days before we finally caught him. Weve had him for four days now and we are finished with him. We tortured him with an arc welding machine and he showed us where he had buried an arms cache.

I look at you and calmly say, Okay, you can kill him now.

You feel your heart beat as you tense up and pain rises through your stomach and up into your chest as you battle to breathe.

Yes, for the first time you are going to kill someone. You will do it.

Your hand trembles as I hand you the 9-mm Beretta, loaded and cocked.

What? You cant kill someone? Sure you can, its easy.

Just put the barrel against his head, pull the trigger and blow his fucking brains out.

Youve got 60 seconds to do it, any way you want to, or else Im going to blow his brains out and then yours. If you want to live, do it now. Just kill him.

You are going to do it, so you had better start deciding how you are going to do it.

Do you want him to know that he is going to die or do you want to take him by surprise?

Do you want to give him one last chance to pray and to take one last breath of air?

Are you going to look him in the eyes and shoot him in the face? Or are you going to turn him around and shoot him in the back of the head so that you dont see his eyes?

Its up to you, because you are going to kill him. There is no way out for you; you will do it, so decide how you give a man his last moment. Decide now and do it. Just do it.

BANG! Your bullet goes through his brain at 1 200 feet per second, a sonic shock wave strikes his head and with a thud his body hits the sand at your feet.

You hear the glug, glug, glug of his gushing blood; the shot makes your ears ring.

You wonder what really happened in that moment when he died. Did you hear a rush in the split second when his soul left his body?

Dont worry, there is nothing anyone can do about it. This is Angola. Here we have a licence to kill.

We must make it look like a contact. Come boys, shoot his body. Fuck it up with your R5s, fully automatic. Empty your magazines and make it look real. If they find him with a single bullet hole in the back of the head, they will get suspicious and might ask questions. Make it look like it was a real contact.

It is in us; it is a part of us. We may deny its existence, but it is there. Very few of us would die instead of killing someone.

You did well. You killed him in cold blood, just like that. If it bothers you, just dont think about it. You will get used to it. You might even start enjoying it. Come, Ill buy you a dop in the pub at Eenhana tonight.

Lets fuck off. Just leave the gruesome scene of bright-red blood soaking into the white sand, snow-white bones broken and bent, dull yellow brains sprayed across the ground.

Come away with me to a time long past, to a place where I lost something 28 years ago and for which I am now looking. If I find it, it will finally set me free.

I hope it will still be lying there, that it will not be buried deep in that soft white sand in a remote desolate corner of a place we called Ovamboland.

A clever traveller will tell you of the places he visited; a wise traveller will tell you of the road he took to visit those places.

I am neither a clever nor a wise traveller; I am a just a traveller. I want to show you the road I travelled and the places I travelled to, but also the reason I travelled.

My little girl Caira-Lee was seven years old when she looked at me with her beautiful big eyes and asked me, Daddy, why do those men do what they do to make those people black and blue?

She had found an old trunk in our garage in which I kept some souvenirs and photographs. She had seen the photos of countless dead bodies hanging over the spare wheels and bumpers of Casspirs like trophies on display. Piles of dead bodies on the ground, shot and killed and shot again and again and driven over. Broken bones, blood and brains. Gruesome scenes.