“…A Shit Doctor”
Written by COLUMBUS SMITH
Private Dube waded through the empty rat packs and ammo boxes that litter a base camp during a patrol deployment and calmly faced me with the news, “Ishe (Boss), I’ve got VD (venereal disease)!”
It’s 4 a.m. and I am furious. Our 10 day R & R is just over and this is the first patrol of our six-week deployment. “Why didn’t you say something to the medic back at Methuen (Methuen Barracks-Home of 1st. Battalion, Rhodesian African Rifles.)” Private Dube has no answer. We are about to deploy into a “hot” TTL (Tribal Trust Land) and I suspect Private Dube just wants an extension on his R & R.
(Very rare occurrence. The African RAR soldier was very gung-ho and took pride in his soldiering.)
Capt. Lionel Dyck, C. Coy Commander, hears everything and orders the medic rousted from his cot. “Medic, give Lt. Smith (Left-tenant Smith) five ampoules of penicillin and five syringes.” (He turns to me) ”Lt. Smith, I want you to give Pvt Dube a shot every morning until the medicine is gone.” Capt. Dyke is angrier than I am. He can’t let Private Dube get away with this!
We launch the patrol and the next morning at 5 a.m. I am awakened by the sight of Pvt. Dube’s naked right buttock. “I’m ready for my shot Ishe.” It is a nippy winter morning and I fumble for the cold ampoule and attempt to warm it by rolling it between my palms before sucking out the thick white serum with the syringe. I jab Private Dube in the upper thigh but notice the milky white serum trickling clown Dube’s long black leg. Whoops! My first shot ever! Dube ‘s first shot too I suspect. Not a good beginning for either of us.
Next morning the shot routine is a re-run of the first. The cold white penicillin runs all the way down from Dube’s rump to his ankle. I’m not getting the penicillin warm enough. It’s not getting into Dube’s rump! I’m ever hopeful my technique will improve with shot No.3.
Meanwhile the patrol is uneventful. No sign of the CTs (communist terrorists) and while crossing a wide open area (read dangerous) I move everyone into an on-line formation .
To my left I hear a thud and see a small puff of dust. One of my guys has fallen flat on his face in the open and be is “muttering” up a storm. I get everyone down and send my brainy African Platoon Sergeant Major Wilson (AKA Sergeant ”Willie”) over to investigate my fallen soldier who is still muttering something into the sand. A giggling Sgt. Major Wilson returns and reports that Private Dube is the fallen soldier.
“‘Why the hell are you laughing and what is Pvt. Dube muttering about?”‘ I demand.
‘You don’t want to know Sir” says Sgt. Wilson who is still giggling like a school girl but by now be has small tears in his eyes. Something is just too funny for words! I insist I want to know and he again insists I don’t. Finally I pull rank and demand the truth.
“Private Dube says you’re a shit doctor Sir!” Sgt Major Wilson blurts out but has to look away he is laughing so hard.
I organize a small patrol to escort a still muttering Pvt. Dube back to base camp. My patrol was ruined and Private Dube still had VD!
—from NHOWO April 2013
This pix IS significant. In this case a 33 yr old white Platoon Commander is sick with typhoid so sends out his African Plt. Sgt. to take over his 30 man platoon in his stead.
Sgt. Willy did a wonderful job of commanding my platoon for a six day patrol and here I am welcoming him back to camp and CONGRATULATING him for running a good patrol.
Normal stuff in the Rhodesian African Rifles. I got the typhoid by drinking from a slimy green pool of water in Matibi II Tribal Trust Land. None of the Africans with me got sick from drinking from the same 12 foot diameter pool in the middle of the night.
This was my only illness. I was sidelined for only about 10 days.
PS—A girlfriend of mine, Di Cameron of Salisbury, Rhodesia, designed the camouflage Sgt. Willy & I are wearing. She was a print designer with David Whitehead Textiles.