This week, Writing It Real presents the first place winner in our Spring Personal Essay Contest. Following the essay, Sheila has posted comments on what she admires in the way the essay works.

Out of the Trenches and Chasing Butterflies
By Perry Hessenauer

Have you ever found yourself having an experience so painful to your mind, body, and soul that you feared that you might lose your sanity? We felt that way — Assault Pioneer Platoon, Oscar Company, 7^th South African Infantry Battalion (1982-1984). We said between ourselves that we would not wish this suffering on our worst enemy. As we suffered, we developed compassion, even for our enemies.

We were all young, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-six, conscripted into the army to fight bush warfare against the Communist ideology and its terrorist forces. Our battlegrounds were the neighboring countries of South West Africa and Angola. Communist countries had trained and equipped the soldiers there.

It took seven months to train us, and our trainers took our dignity away. On the first day, permanent force instructors had barbers shave our heads. They told us we had no rights, were now the property of the government, and made us strip, escorting us around the base naked. We waited in long lines for uniforms and equipment. During bush warfare training, they made us strip again and then stand in line for hours, waiting to use mobile showers. They watched us, laughing, like guards in a concentration camp. The physical training lasted twenty-one hours each day. At meals, they forced us to eat fast. We chewed once or twice before swallowing, our antagonists standing over us screaming, “Swallow now, and eat later.” Later we would regurgitate like cows, chew, and swallow again.

The instructors became enraged with little or no provocation, using their fists or rifle butts to beat us. Corporal Schultz punched me everyday. I lived in terror of him. Some soldier’s spirits did break and they saw no way out but suicide. Six took their lives in the first three months of our call-up. When this happened, our instructors were merciless and laughed as they told us to clean up the mess. Living in the nightmare made us strong in our minds and bodies. I hated the army; we all did, except for the occasional oddball, we counted the days until our two years were up.

At the start of conventional warfare training, we walked twenty-five miles with full kit, weighing sixty kilograms. The march took eight to ten hours; the corporals kicked those who sat to rest until they continued the march. The weight of the equipment caused the straps to squeak as they dug into our tortured flesh. After six or seven hours, each step I took filled me with physical and mental pain. At the end, I removed my boots and to my horror saw that my feet were torn and blistered. I poured a small amount of blood out of each boot. We realized that we had strength that had been unknown to us.

For a few days, we were free of marching, to give time for our rotten and broken feet to heal, but we were in for another surprise. They ordered us to dig trenches. At first, we felt happy with the new assignment until we discovered the ground was eighty percent rock. During the next two weeks, we dug holes in the ground nineteen hours a day. The progress was slow because the tools issued us were to dig into sand, not rock. Now we developed blisters on our hands until they bled.

 Our platoon commanders ordered us to sleep on the uneven and broken rocks in our trenches. To add to our discomfort, hordes of baboon spiders and scorpions snuggled up for warmth. Sometimes the spiders bit. I still have lumps in my flesh to remind me of that time, long ago, in the military training grounds, situated in the Kruger National Park, South Africa. Other wild animals roamed the area, too, and we had to be on constant alert. One evening a starving Hyena pulled a friend out of his trench. We heard his screams and came to his aid. It was fortunate that neither he nor any of us who came to his aid got injured.

At sunrise and sunset, we faced outward from our trenches with loaded weapons. It was a peaceful and nostalgic time of the day, a time for reflection and rest from our labors, and the time when attacks occurred. One evening, Lombardious walked out in front of my trench heading into the bushes. “Where are you going Lombardious?” I anxiously shouted.

“I am chasing a butterfly,” he shouted back.

“There is no butterfly; come back, or you will get shot,” I responded.

“There is a butterfly, a beautiful butterfly,” he said as he ran into the sunset.

Lombardious should not have been in the army but they would not release him from service as they believed that he was creating his condition to be discharged; we took special care of him. He was timid, soft-spoken, gentle, and kind. This made him a target for bullying on many occasions. I was not large in stature but had garnered respect and soon made it known that if anyone bullied Lombard, I would consider it an attack on me. Our platoon then treated him with respect and left him alone.

Lieutenant Pienaar did not feel that we showed our deepest adoration for his person, and he was going to teach us to respect him. On a day when orders stated all troops must sit in the shade as temperatures were above forty degrees centigrade and dehydration and heatstroke could result in death, Pienaar punished us for our unwillingness to worship him.

From dawn until dusk, we ran through the bush. Each time he blew his whistle we dove into the ground, and leopard crawled, pulling with our elbows and pushing with our knees and feet, through bush, thorns and rocks. When he blew his whistle, we charged forward, crashing through the bush and trees, which were dry and dead from their existence in the scorching furnace, a place where only spiders and scorpions thrived.

Regularly through the day, someone lost consciousness and smashed to the ground. Each time, Pienaar puffed up his chest and declared, “That’s another one; I will get you all by the end of the day.”

By dusk, one third of us were still standing, some of the biggest and toughest crying. Lieutenant Pienaar had us sit in a group facing him. He tasted victory as he stated, “Now, who does not respect me?”

I stepped forward. “I will never respect you, even if you make me run all night. I will never respect you.” His Adam’s apple went up and down but nothing came out. He reeled back and forth and stared at me perplexed. A comrade soldier said, “Shut up, Hessenauer, haven’t you had enough?”

I continued, “How do you expect us to respect you? Respect is earned by loving and respecting those you lead; for those leaders a soldier will do anything. Get up guys; do not be afraid of him. We will not let you beat us.” Three others joined me Lieutenant Pienaar, having regained his composure, smiled, an evil glint in his eye. You can all go back to your trenches and enjoy a hot meal, except you four; you will carry on until you tell me you respect me. He blew his whistle and we charged through the bush, but our attitude was different now. Each time we dove into the ground, we laughed. We kept laughing, and as we laughed, the pain left, and we became invincible.

Half an hour later, Lieutenant Pienaar lowered his head defeated, “Go to your trenches now.” Thus was Lieutenant Pienaar humiliated. We never embraced him as our leader and months later when we went up to the conflict area, he didn’t come with us, having found a way to transfer to another unit. I heard rumors that those he had abused had threatened his life, and he feared that once we entered the combat area one of his own would shoot him.

In training, we used live ammunition to simulate an attack on the enemy. Thirty of us formed a line in an area of dense bush and trees. We were an assault pioneer platoon, each of us spaced 15 to 20 feet apart. At the given command, every second soldier ran forward, shouting, their weapons held in both hands, chest height in front of them. The remaining troops shot short bursts of automatic gunfire from their 7.66mm R4 assault rifles, between the advancing soldiers. After running 20 to 30 feet, the advancing soldiers dropped to their knees and started firing automatic bursts ahead, as the other group ran forward and through the lines, themselves advancing 20 to 30 feet. This tactic of warfare was known as, “Firing in motion,” and continued until the enemy was overrun.

Amid the noise, confusion and danger, I saw Lombardious out ahead running across the line of fire. I swung my weapon over my shoulder and ran out to him. I grabbed him and started to drag him back to safety. He got away for a moment, but I sprang forward and pinned him in a bear hug, around his center, with his arms pinned under mine. He kicked and screamed as I dragged him back.

“Let me go, let me go, I’m trying to catch that beautiful butterfly.”

Once we got back behind the line of fire, I held him tight for a few minutes before he stopped fighting me. His eyes cleared and he said, “Didn’t you see the
butterfly?”

“Lombard, you may have been killed; are you crazy?” I said gently.

“But it was beautiful,” he mused.

Some time later, having borrowed money from Lombardious for the hundredth time, I asked him, “Why do you always lend me money whenever I need it?” Borrowing money in the army was like getting a loan from Scrooge. Funds were scarce and those who had any kept it for themselves.

“You saved my life,” he replied.

On the final day of my military service, we had a Battalion parade, for which we spent days preparing. We dressed in our Sunday best and stood at attention for over an hour listening to the Generals give speeches we had no interest in hearing. Our Platoon commander told us, “If you move a muscle, you will not be discharged for an extra day. This was terrible to consider as each minute after two years of service felt like a month. Leaving the army was like being released from prison. To make our situation worse it was a hot day and several soldiers fainted while standing at attention. They lay in the dirt until the end of the parade. The South African Defense Force awarded me a Pro Patria medal on that occasion. It was confusing and I wondered why I had received it. When I inquired, they told me,

“You saved Lombard’s life.” I never realized that anyone except Lombard had thought that I had saved his life, but when I started questioning my comrades they all said, without a doubt, I had. I felt a sense of pride and a warm glow enveloped me as I accepted the medal, and the honor associated with it. Even those who I had considered my antagonists had secretly admired the act and had put my name forward for recommendation.

After a tour of duty in the war zones, I returned to the 7^th South African Infantry Battalion base. Corporal Schultz heard that I had returned. He sought me out and as he approached, he yelled, “Hessenauer,” the way he always had just before he hit me. I walked straight up to him and put my nose one inch from his face. “If you ever touch me again, I will kill you,” I screamed like a lunatic. His face changed and he did not look mean anymore; he looked more like a scared boy. He stared at me for a long time, not saying a word; then he turned and walked away. I had become fearless and would not tolerate abuse by a bully who had never been to the war zone, who had never been in harm’s way, and who had never shown humanity. That was the day I deserved a medal.

Even though the experiences we had made us feel like we might lose our sanity, we had no respect for those who ran away or left the country to escape the call up. We knew that when we looked back one day we would have no shame. We often said between ourselves, that we were glad that we had served, but never ever wanted to be in the army again.

****

Perry Hessenaur’s “Out of the Trenches and Chasing Butterflies” about serving in a South African Infantry Battalion is an essay that seamlessly weaves the rhetorical styles of narration, how to, comparison and contrast and cause and effect to offer an embodiment of our human need to safeguard dignity and humanity.

Every part of the essay, from the title to the last sentence, sets up enormous contrasts between life as I think of it and life as I can barely imagine living it. The contrast between trenches and butterflies creates a question in my mind about what has caused the writer to record such a juxtaposition. When I read the question posed in the opening sentence, I am sobered. No, I think, I have not had such an experience. But others have and this speaker is going to allow me to know what happened to him.

When the second sentence draws me close to the speaker’s particular such experience, I feel the urgency of a man urged to speak, not only for himself but on behalf of others. Thought the third sentence borders on cliché, it is all the more compelling because it speaks a truth from the mouth of a soldier: “We said between ourselves that we would not wish this suffering on our worst enemy. As we suffered, we developed compassion, even for our enemies.”

That those in this “we” were able to realize they did not wish the suffering they experienced on their worst enemy announces that they have not been dehumanized. I know I will learn of suffering greater than I have had to bear, but I know, too, that I am in the hands of a humane speaker, someone I know I will hope I am like, and I am willing, therefore, to read on because I believe I will find something good with which to identify.

When the speaker narrates the story of his military training, he offers examples and details in a sequence that add up to a “how to” on dehumanizing men–shave their heads, make them strip, escort them naked to showers, laugh at them, force them to eat so fast they feel like cows regurgitating later and re-chewing, punch them, laugh at their comrades who kill themselves rather than endure the abuse, make them dig hardpan, sleep on sharp ground, and put them in geography with carnivorous wild animals. The portrayal of the step-by-step process makes the possibility of losing one’s sanity very real.

The speaker offers me a small respite from the distressing conditions when he describes the peaceful time of day perfect for reflecting, though instead guns point outward because this is the time of expected attacks. That he shows me the contrast deepens my hope for something better for him and of the soldiers. It makes me know him as someone whose spirit was not broken. And when he drags Lombardious back away from the guns and talks about the way he protects him from ridicule, my feelings of admiration, empathy and identification with the speaker peak.

There is a wonderful leap for me between the notion that the men respected the speaker in his desire to protect Lombarious and the idea that their cruel trainer, Lieutenant Pienaar, did not feel respected. As I read the specifics of how Pienaar treated the men to gain what he considered respect, I have real respect in mind, the kind the speaker has earned by making his caring known. When the speaker later takes leadership which is officially not his to take, and yet emotionally seems the only reasonable course of action, I am riveted with him as protagonist pitted against Pienaar as antagonist. I can’t imagine that he and the three who have joined him will get away with their actions, and then I am awed by the way their laughter allows them to defeat Pienaar.

This moment cannot, of course, be the essay’s end. We need the denouement in which the speaker receives an award for his bravery and kind service. But he also gets the opportunity to perform the action that will most restore his sense of self. When he yells at Corporal Schultz, I get to see for a second time how the cruelty of this particular military training caused the speaker to finally explode in the name of decency. I get to see again how the Corporal and the Lieutenant could not rob the speaker of important qualities.

Next, when the speaker returns to the “we” of the opening, the essay comes full circle. I am reminded that although he and his peers feared they’d lose their sanity, they maintained it. I am reminded that being sane requires honesty in telling our stories.