Below is a scanned copy of an old amusing article I wrote for Soldier of Fortune’s magazine’s ‘I Was There’ page called ‘First Chill’ about my uncle’s first experience in combat in Mozambique during the Colonial War.
The story is written in the first person.
When it was published, there were a couple of errors.
One is that my uncle’s name was spelled wrong. His name is Jaime, a common Lusophone name, not ‘Jamie’.
The other mistake was in what I wrote, re: “…not denied the privilege of having an all-expense-paid trip to Africa courtesy of President Salazar.” At the time Jaime was deployed to Mozambique in 1970, António de Oliveira Salazar was no longer the Prime Minister and dictator of Portugal. He left office in 1968 due to a stroke. Marcelo Caetano led the country until he was deposed during the Carnation Revolution in April 1974. The Carnation Revolution also ended the colonial wars.
Something worth noting is not long after Jaime’s deployment to Mozambique, he volunteered to command an all black native unit, which gave him rank and a lot of interesting war stories.
I don’t think Soldier of Fortune Magazine had ever published a story about a Portuguese soldier’s experiences in the colonial wars in Africa. 1
Article Text:
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 President Salazar. 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.
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.
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 quafters, 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.
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.
By Jaime de Melo and Royce de Melo.
Published in Soldier of Fortune Magazine, October edition, 1998.
–RdM
- Portuguese veterans: I’ve had this impression that it’s almost shameful in Portugal to discuss the colonial wars or to honour the veterans, despite there being memorial near the famous Torre de Belem dedicated to those who fought, see: Monumento aos Combatentes do Ultramar .
The socialist-driven Carnation Revolution, a coup really, and its post-colonial-war governance changed Portuguese culture and political culture– the Portuguese Communist Party (PCP) “is one of the strongest communist parties in Western Europe and the oldest Portuguese political party with uninterrupted existence”.
To show how shamefully the Portuguese have treated their veterans, read about the most decorated Portuguese soldier in the country’s history. Marcelino da Mata, a Portuguese Army Officer and an African from Portuguese Guinea, a.k.a. Guinea Bissau. In other words Portugal’s most decorated soldier in history was a black African colonial soldier fighting to keep Guinea Bissau Portuguese and to remain a Portuguese citizen– all peoples in the empire were considered citizens under the policies of the Ultramar. The way Marcelino was treated is appalling. In fact, when the Carnation Revolution happened, Marcelino was coincidentally in Portugal and was tortured by the new regime. Why would a socialistic coup group driven by a desire to end the colonial wars want to torture an African colonial soldier? Maybe because Marcelino didn’t fit their narrative.
Marcelino died of Covid in Portugal on February 11, 2021, at age 80, and was never given Portuguese citizenship despite what he went through, his loyalties to Portugal, his sacrifice, and his heroism fighting for Portugal. ↩︎
Portuguese soldier in Portuguese history.
In Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, there is a memorial dedicated to Portuguese veterans of the Colonial Wars.
