Fatfox9's Blog

For a time I was based with 4 Independent Company (4 Indep) at Wankie, and those familiar with this unit will remember that it was on top of a hill and on the left, as you came into Wankie from Bulawayo. 1 Engineer Squadron (1 RhE Bulawayo) maintained a small Forward HQ within this base with the task of providing Engineer logistic and operational support to our two sub-callsigns at Deka and Victoria Falls. We also supported the British South Africa Police (BSAP) and 4 Indep throughout the Operation Tangent theatre of operations, as and when required. Captain George Jenkinson was the commander (Sunray) of our little team, with me as his second in command (Sunray Minor). We also had a number of Sappers with us to do the heavy-lifting and man the radios (which were active 24/7). All-in-all we were a happy bunch who just got on with doing Sapper things.

The picture below shows the 4 Indep camp layout.

This particular morning (probably mid to late 1979) I was going through the radio messages to see if there was anything for immediate action when the telephone rang. Captain Jenkinson was away at the time on another mission so it was just me and the lads on deck. The caller was a Special Branch (SB) Inspector from Wankie BSAP. I had got to know him quite well and after exchanging the usual pleasantries he asked me to come down to his office as he had a job for me. Knowing SB it was probably going to be something dodgy, dangerous, or both. Little did I know that this would be one of the strangest tasks I would ever be asked to take part in.

Leaving one of the Sappers to hold the fort, I jumped into our Unimog and drove down to the police station, a short 10 minute drive. Entering the charge office I winked at one of the Woman Patrol Officers – they were all great girls and often played darts with us at No1 Club in Wankie. They definitely were not prudes. She waved me though to a side door that led to the back of the police station – this was where the SB offices were. A pair of dark green Series 3, 6-cylinder Land Rovers stood silently in their parking bays – both of them fitted with 2 x AK 47s – mounted transversely in the back, directly behind the cab. These could be fired from inside the cab by means of a solenoid in case of an ambush – spitting death left and right within the killing ground. Some vehicles had a third forward-firing AK mounted at the front in the engine bay. Very useful set-ups indeed. Whilst marveling at these instruments of death I heard a shout and someone cry out, obviously in pain. Not my business and I continued on my way towards a locked steel gate and rang the bell.

The SB Inspector took a long pull on his Madison cigarette, held out his hand for the regulatory handshake and offered me a seat opposite his desk. A large map covered with plastic was attached to the wall behind him – different color chino graph lines and secret symbols dotted its surface. I looked at him – these were hard men doing a hard job – never easy and always laced with danger and sudden death. Our conversation did not last very long and the gist of it was that I was to assist in identifying ammunition that had somehow ended up at the Wankie Hospital – a strange place for it to be I thought, but anything was possible. He never gave me any further details except the name of a contact person at the hospital and a warning that the task may take some time, and I needed to go there directly. I used his phone to let my people know not to expect me back until late, and after a few minutes of arranging to catch-up again soon I went on my way.

The Wankie Hospital was run by Anglo American. It was not big, but it was modern, clean and efficient. I had spent a few days there previously with malaria and found the treatment and staff excellent – the only downside being the constant moans of a Portuguese guy who had caught his arm in some kind of machine at the colliery, mangling it badly. He was in the same ward as me and I felt his pain – which must have been considerable- the nurses done their best for him but a person can only have so much morphine.

Having found my contact person and identifying myself, I was directed to the mortuary where I was told I would be met by one of the pathologists. This was becoming more and more bizarre, but I done as asked.

See below for location of mortuary at Wankie Hospital.

Before I was anywhere near the mortuary, I was struck by the sound of crying and wailing – lots of it and clearly there was something going on here. People do cry at a mortuary though so not too unexpected. What was unexpected was the amount of people milling around outside the mortuary, police officers doing their best to contain those trying to get into the building. Much shouting was taking place, finger-pointing at the police and then at me as I came into view. The police must have been warned that I was on my way as they ensured I got to the mortuary entrance without being mugged. On pressing the bell an African gentleman dressed in a surgical gown and plastic apron opened up and ushered me inside.

The site that greeted me is something that will be forever burned into my slowly fading memory. There were bodies everywhere. On the autopsy table, on the floor, on trolleys and in the fridges. I estimate that there must have been in the region of 20 bodies all-in-all. The smell of decomposition, blood, urine and faeces permeated the air – this was the smell of death. Some were wrapped in clear plastic, some in unzipped body-bags, and some simply lying on the floor.

There was hardly any space to move, but the man who looked to be in charge ushered me into a small office, and after thanking me for coming down explained what he needed from me. He turned out to be the only pathologist available in Wankie at the time and he sure seemed to have his hands full. He proceeded to brief me up. Apparently an African bus had been attacked the previous evening by persons unknown on one of the many bush roads within our operational area. The bus driver had been injured but managed to bring the bus to a safe stop on the road, whereby the attackers boarded and began firing at the passengers indiscriminately with automatic weapons. Dozens were injured and those I had just seen lying dead next door, were killed.

My readers should understand that during this period of the war, there were many actors vying for popularity with the local population, and I had learnt a long time ago that nothing was ever at it seemed – there was lot of smoke and mirrors and in fact sometimes you couldn’t see the mirrors. We had ZIPRA (Joshua Nkomo), ZANLA (Robert Mugabe), Bishop Abel Muzorewa and his crew, The Rhodesian Security Forces, the Monitoring Force, various intelligence services and probably other organisations I more than likely had never heard of. So it became an evil, cruel game, played between the actors with the aim of seeing who could look like the good guys. If that meant killing innocent bus passengers and getting the blame pinned on someone else, then that would do just fine. According to them, the means justified the end.

My mission was to assist in identifying who had carried out this attack – I’m not a pathologist so cannot make medical conclusions, but I can tell the difference between AK and FN ammunition. My job was therefore the following:

1. Attend the post-mortem of each of the deceased
2. Witness the removal of bullets and bullet-fragments from each body
3. Where possible identify non-fragmented bullets as either AK or FN (wishful thinking)
4. Ensure that each bullet or bullet-fragment was placed in its own sealed container for further analysis at a specialist facility (chain of custody was not my responsibility to maintain – this was a police responsibility as the investigating authority).

Each body had a brown tag on the big toe. Amazingly most of the victims had been identified by the teams that recovered them from the bus – the same team now carrying out a forensic investigation of the vehicle. I imagined what the interior looked like. Blood, bits of brain tissue, vomit and skull fragments – and the pitiful belongings of the deceased. Handbags, shopping bags, multi-coloured blankets, groceries and shoes. Shoes always seem to come off during a violent death. And of course, the cartridge cases.

And so we began the unpleasant task of examining each cadaver. Some were straightforward, with the bullet still in one piece within the body, some not so easy, especially where they had fragmented on bones, sending bits of bullet in all directions throughout the fleshy mass. It was then a matter of literally digging around in the flesh until the pieces were found. In other cases the bullets had exited the body cleanly and there was nothing to find. Each piece was put into a stainless steel tray for me to examine. There was very little blood considering the number of bodies and type of injury – all of the bleeding would have taken place on the bus.

There was no dignity for these poor souls – time was of the essence and the pathologist and his assistants stripped the victims until completely naked and hurriedly poked about inside the pink and red cavities of damaged flesh until they were satisfied they they had found everything they could. And then it was onto the next one. As most of the victims had been shot in the torso or chest, all of the bodies were cut open from neck to groin, and the chest cavities pulled open for examination. This was a brutal process beginning with a large scalpel incision from neck to pubis followed by the cutting of the sternum and ribs with what can only be described as bolt-cutters, allowing the the chest to be completely opened up. Others with head wounds and half a skull missing, brains left behind in the bus, staring, lifeless eyes hanging out, were quicker to process. It was grisly work and although I had seen my fair share of death and traumatic injuries over the years I was still shocked at what I was seeing. The small children were the hardest for all of us – probably going home with a new toy or clothes after a day out with mum and dad in the city. Now there was no tomorrow for them. No playing with their friends around the kraal, or helping to tend the goats and chickens – there was nothing for them. It was just so bloody sad.

As each body was completed the chest cavity was forced back into place, and sewn up by one of the assistants while the pathologist wrote up his report. The needle was thick as a finger and unlike anything else I had seen from a medical perspective – the gut used to make the stitches similar to brown string. The stitches were spaced widely apart and pulled tight to force the two sides of the chest together. There was no need for cosmetic considerations here. Once complete the body was taken to another area of the morgue, and I assume handed to the relatives waiting outside, as the volume of wailing and crying increased from time to time.

I guess some of the victims were terrorist sympathisers, either by choice or intimidation, but here and now they were human beings who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, the majority going about their business and hoping for a better future. That was all gone now – all that was left was for the pathologist and his team to cut them up, looking for little bits of metal which I tried my best to identify. It was, no matter how shocking, the right thing to do for them.

We continued well into the night and until all of the victims had been examined. No one was hungry. We had all opted to work until we had handed all of the remains back to the relatives. There were a few that no one claimed immediately, hopefully they would come tomorrow after the word spread.

It was past midnight when I finally left. All of the relatives had departed. A policeman stood guard at the door and I stood in the cool African night, breathing in deeply, the fresh air not helping to dissipate the the smell of death clinging to my clothes and deep in my nostrils. Walking to my Unimog I wondered what would become of the work we had done today. Would the effort prove useful or was it just a deceitful game of which I had now become part of?

Either way, I hoped that in some small way I would have helped these poor people obtain some form of justice, and closure for their loved ones.

Sadly, I would never find out.