First Chill: Baptism by Fire in Mozambique

After that night our extended holiday in Mozambique ended. The war had come to us.

Story from Jaime De Melo. Written by Royce de Melo

Things had been very quiet since my battalion’s arrival by ship in Mozambique in August 1970. We had been posted to various sectors in the north for three months, skipping from one post to the other before my platoon was exclusively stationed in Chioco, a village in Tete province near the Malawi border. We knew that FRELIMO (Front for the Liberation of Mozambique) was very active in these areas yet one month into our stay at Chioco we had seen no action.

My unit was from the Azores, the Cazadores, Battalion Independent & Infantaria 17 (Hunter Infantry and Independent Battalion 17). Even the young men of those Portuguese islands in the mid-Atlantic, myself included, were not denied the privilege of having an all-expense-paid trip to Africa courtesy of Prime Minister Marcelo Caetano. Earlier in 1970 when I was conscripted, one of my older brothers was already a veteran of Angola and my oldest had long ago settled (in the pre-conflict days) in Mozambique where he was a policeman. He raised a family there and I would often visit when I had leave.

Jaime De Melo in Cidade de Beira, Mozambique, 1971. The beard and hair were customary at the time. 

The Portuguese government had been sending troops throughout its African colonies to suppress rebels looking to gain independence since 1961. Angola and the tiny colony of Guinea-Bissau, in West Africa; and Mozambique, in East Africa, all waged wars against Lisbon’s colonial government. Portugal’s policy interpreted its foreign lands as an extension of Portugal itself — not as colonies. This made the Salazar government all the more stubborn in surrendering its foreign lands. With aid and arms from both Russia and China, as well as from newly independent Algeria, the rebel movements in the colonies kept the wars going for years.

Soldiering became a very peaceful lifestyle in Chioco. The locals were friendly and seemed almost indifferent to our presence. Routinely, some of us would while away the time with small hunting trips by night. Game in Africa could not be missed on our free time. Besides, a gazelle often helped to feed us and was a welcome break from some of the crap rations we were getting — canned sardines, beans and cheese.

At 2200 hours, one bleak night in early November, we had just concluded our nightly prayer meeting. Those of us who did not have 4 ö duty or night watch were lounging about the houses and shacks as we often did; some writing letters or listening to the radio, others playing cards or checkers or, like me, reading a prayer book. I was with others, sitting outside on the lit terrace of an administration building when popping and cracking sounds erupted nearby. What the hell? Flashes of light darted at us against backdrop shouts of “My God!” We all went down, our bodies thudded on the deck. We were panicked hell, none of us had been in combat!

To make matters worse, we did not have our weapons (the major fundamental error) our G3s were a few meters away in our quarters. We laid there being blasted by the recurring screams of one scared young man, Private Adrea, on the terrace, “We’re all going to die! We’re all going to die!” (in Portuguese, of course).

Lying on a well-lit terrace in the midst of panic and confusion, unable to return fire hardly helped our frustration level. The terrorists could clearly see us but, thankfully, were horrible shots. Private Uther, who was laying not too far from me, undid his boot, ripped it off and threw it at the light above us. This only compounded the passions of an already nervous Adrea. Seeing something of a shadow fly over head he yelled, “Grenade!” and up he scurried toward the perimeter away from the action.

Jaime De Melo with comrades.

At this point I decided enough was enough and rolled down the steps and crawled to the northern perimeter where the 81mm mortar had been placed. I slid into the pit, got up and quickly dropped a round from the pile down the tube. It fired. I waited to see and listen. Nothing, no explosion and no distant flash. I dropped another and stretched my head to listen over the gunfire and action. Again nothing. I dropped another, then two more. Then, I sprinted to my quarters, grabbed my G3, ran back and opened up in the terorists’ direction.

Adrea had hustled his ass pretty fast from the boot grenade. He jumped a fence in an area where trenches were being dug and fell a couple of meters into a wheelbarrow. Living up to his reputation, founded upon the last few moments of that night, he continued to declare at the top of his lungs, “We’re all going to die!”

This was soon echoed by Private Raposo from the terrace who was screaming – not in the future tense but in the present. “I’m dead! They got me! I’m dead!” This, of course, could not be true as he was screaming and standing up while jumping up and down on one foot. A soldier quickly noticed the damage and yelled for Raposo to get back down. He probably was already annoyed enough by events that he did not need someone else giving a melodramatic scream of mortality. A bullet had nipped the bottom of self-proclaimed-dead Raposo’s heel showing a trickle of blood from his boot. 

Of course, Adrea in the wheelbarrow was not feeling safe at all. He again shot like lightening towards a tree still yelling his, and our, impending doom. Like a native monkey he was up the tree in no time at all as the terrorists continued their free-fire. Combat 101 does say that the tree is a bad place to be. But Adrea’s actions may be proof that humans descended from apes to instinctively run up a tree when scared.

Several of the men saw this and shouted up to him through all the commotion of gunfire and explosions. “0i, man, Get down from there! You’re going to die up there!” The only thing that could be heard from the tree was, “We’re all going to die!”

After about half an hour the terrorists ran off in typical guerrilla fashion. The fact we finally did respond to their attack was enough to have scared them away. The fatalist, Adrea, still up the tree, was fine but a bit shaken and none the worse. Raposo would naturally survive his heel wound.

Why my mortars did not explode became clear in hindsight: I had neglected to activate them in the excitement, panic and total confusion.

READ MORE from Royce de Melo: El Salvador’s Tattoo Dragnet Flipped the Script in War on Gangs

After that night our extended holiday in Mozambique ended. The war had come to us. From then on we naturally were more prepared and knew better of what to do in case of an attack.

If anything was learned it was to be prepared and not to be fatalistic about a bad situation. Remain as calm as possible and deal with what’s before you. Giving in to screaming and immersion in the fear of impending death while being shot at does nothing for anyone’s nerves. And, do not seek sanctuary in nearby trees.

Jaime De Melo is a Portuguese veteran of the Portuguese Colonial War who served in Mozambique. During his military service, he attained the rank of furriel da milícia (“Militia Sergeant”) and commanded ‘Special Group 803’, an all-indigenous platoon. Upon completing his military service, he immigrated to Canada, where he currently resides.

Royce de Melo is Jaime De Melo’s nephew. He is a Canadian analyst and security and defense consultant mainly focusing on the Middle East and Africa.