Many years ago (1984) during the South African border war, I was based at a place in South West Africa (Namibia) called Ondangwa. It used to be an airforce base and as paras we would be there to do search and rescue in case a jetjock got whacked over enemy territory. We would then have to go in by Heli and get the pilot out as soon as possible. So besides some admin, technical and logistical units, us (1 Parachute Battalion) and some Special Forces dudes, the whole base was essentially run by the airforce.
Now with that said, let me get back to the cats. The following categories of folks can stop reading here,
Those filling their faces (dinner)
Those who are super sensitive to animal abuse perpetrated by young drunk idiots who were bored and who now repent for their sins
Any other pussy lovers who might find this offensive.
That said, you have been warned so do not come back to me if the rest of the story offends..
Ok, now it is just us again, back to the cat story.
Our base (paratroopers) was a large tent camp with our HQ situated right on the helicopter (Puma) apron and literally 10 feet away from the airforce Ops room. This all served as a way of getting us airborne quickly when the shit hit the fan. Right next to our base were two large helicopter maintenance hangars. At night, the drains and water run-off areas around these hangars came alive with the spitting, snarling, screaming and hissing noises made by cats patrolling their terrain, chasing adversaries, attracting females and generally shagging until all hours of the morning.
Our tolerance level to all this nightly feline activity quickly diminished due to the fact that the boys on standby were not getting their well deserved rest, the chef was complaining about cats raiding the kitchen and worst of all, they were coming into the pub after hours and knocking bottles off the shelves and pissing on the carpet. Mainly due to the latter, war was declared and after a couple of bottles of Red Heart Rum, an assasination squad was appointed. I was barman on duty that night so I was not part of the squad but was on hand to select the drunkest, meanest looking sons of bitches that I knew would scare the living shit out any misbehaving sexually overactive feral cat!
Anyway, at 23h00, this intrepid 3 man squad vetured into the dark night to settle the score. Being slap bang in the middle of an active airforce base, these operations were classified top secret so the use of noise emitting weaponry was strictly prohibited. Another rule was that the results of the anti-cat covert activity was to be displayed to the pub judges.
After about 45 mins, the night hunters stumbled into the pub demanding strong beverages. They looked like shit, scratched to hell with bleeding arms and faces, torn t-shirts and ripped nylon jogging shorts. It looked as if they had been shagged by gorillas instead of hunting some pussy! It turned out that they had decided to spread out in a three man line abreast attack formation, thereby attempting to trap the felines up against the hangar walls. Their plan was then to each grab one and strangle the living crap out of it and head back to the pub mission accomplished. What these drunken turkeys forgot was how pissed off a trapped feral cat can get. They managed to trap one against the hangar wall by all jumping on it at the same time. One dude even tried to wrestle the downpipe which stood its ground and inflicted some nasty cuts to his hands face! Once trapped by two rum swilling meat bombs, the cat went positively ape shit! The more they tried to stangle it, the more it fought. When gutter guy joined the fray, the cat called short finals and was out of there, leaving very distinct departure tracks up their noses and over their heads! These sorry SOB`s were fed ample spots of R&C, given saline drips with anti-biotic and dismissed...not only for the night but from active anti-cat duty altogether.
Night two found yours truly still on bar duty. This was self appointed duty as I wanted to see what the next bunch of asses would do before trying to think of an alternative. The fact that I was the ranking senior had nothing to do with it as these little disciplinary issues never interfered with pub time or extramural activity such as cat assasinations. At 23h00 a new squad was despatched with the customary wave of a half full glass after being daubed in camo grease. Their battle gear included, gloves (that we used to role barbed wire), combat jackets and para jump helmets made from Kevlar. You may think serious overkill but here but if you had of seen the condition of the rocket scientists from the first night you would have also condoned the battle order! They also had a large coil of nylon rope that we used for rappeling from choppers.
At the 12 midnight cut off time these f-cking ninjas cruised into the pub smiling and congratulating each other. The judges immediately demanded the evidence of the 6 cats they had boasted terminating. The ninja squad told us that we had to wait until morning to view the evidence. Under the Rum rules, this was found to be perfectly acceptable.
Morning came to me (the senior guy at the time) in the form of two highly pissed off helicopter techies. They demanded I follow them to the hangar to see what my "troops" had done. We rounded the corner and there in all their glory, were 6 cats suspeneded from rope and hanging from a beam linking the two hangars. The frigging cats were still kicking. Being ever so responsible, I issued orders for their immediate release and promised my new airforce buddies that the perpetrators would be hunted down and would suffer the same fate. I failed to tell them that the guilty persons were my own non-commissioned officers and not my normally docile and battle weary troops.
On night three, I started off the evening with a stern lecture on cat abuse and the significant role played by body weight and how Isaac helped us with the drop before a neck broke. Hanging was therefore out of the question. I appointed a new squad leader and gave him a half bottle of rum to help make his final selection of his squad and a new modus operandi. To my great relief, one of the special forces dudes popped in for a toot and offered some sound advice. Man, this guy spoke from experience. It was inspirational to listen to his tales of conquest and to the descriptive fine art of feline capture and extermination. The new squad listened with eager anticiption, salivating into their rum glasses. Special forces dude would accompany the rookies and would offer technical advise. After 30 mins of scurrying around the stores and after being kitted out in a similar fashion to the infamous ninja squad (minus the rope), the most potentently equipped feline assasination squad I have ever had the honour of witnessing, slipped silently out into the still night.
Midnight came and the special forces wannabee squad returned as silently as they had departed. Leader boy dumped a large hessian bag onto the bar counter. I opened it and inside was the remains of at least 15 mutilated cats with these weird and freaky "smiles" on their faces. I was contemplating asking for detail and trying to muster the balls to actually listen to what had transpired. Special forces dude volunteered his explanation which went as follows:
The new omnipotent fearless special forces wanabee squad 3 had devised a cunning plan. Each man in the team was given a specific duty. #1 was designated as the catcher who, after the team herded the cat into a corner, grabbed it firmly and held it. This guy had all the protective gear on. #2 held a box of S4 detonators and a bottle of vaseline. Let me explain the S4 detonator briefly. It is a silver cylinder about the size of a cigarette. We use it for setting off explosives so essentially, it makes a small bang to set off a big one. If you accidentally held it in your hand for too long, the heat from your body is enough to set it off. One chap I met held one in his hand too long and lost everything below the elbow. That being said, #3 acted as the det inserter. He would lift the tail of the cat, dip the det into the vaseline and then the well greased slippery det would be slid into the cat`s ringpiece. The cat would be released and between 60 and 90 seconds later, the det would blow, neatly severing head and shoulders from the rest. Now, I am not saying that what we did was right but it did solve the cat population problem. It was almost silent due to the fact that it was inserted and insulated and it was regarded by all present at the time as a highly effective and humane method. The official airforce alternative was to be poisoning and we did not endorse that.
That was just to satisfy the bleeding hearts so, now, back to the pub. It was the following night and our famous cat squad was spouting off about what frigging heros they were. The assasination tools and equipment were stacked over a bar stool in anticipation for a late night excursion. To our astonishment, a large white cat came cruising into the bar. Before I could soberly react to the fact that it was not feral and transmit rapid orders to the hero squad, they automatically swept into fluid action. It was an astonishing display of well co-ordinated military precision honed after a life time of drills and movement commited to memory, man it was f-cking poetry in motion.
Before I could bring my glass to my lips as a prelude to issueing a command to the contrary, that baby had its lethal dose and it was dumped to the floor as per the SOP`s. To the shock of the hero squad, the cat sort of shuffled across the floor rubbing its ass. The ferals had run like hell! I saved the pub carpet floor from potential damage and issued a rapid command to the effect that they toss the f-cking cat over the wall. This was done with with the same enthusiasm by the hero squad and the cat was out of sight and hopefully out of mind. About 2 mins later, we heard a muffled "fwuump" from the airforce ops room closely followed by a scream of anguish. Seconds later the scream identified itself in the form of the airforce officer on duty who happened to be a major. All hell broke loose. The well trained super stealthy ultra silent special forces wannabee squad made a hastly sexual retreat and f-cked off just as the darts team made a gap for the door. Before I could bring a well discipline salute to my brow, the frigging pub was empty and I absorbed a bollocking of note. Once again, I pleaded innocence and stated that the cat was in the pub that it had probably eaten something that disagreed with it. Shit, I did not know what to say to appease the Major. Lamely, I invited him and his mates for a barbeue the following night. Friday nights at the Para Pub were well known on base for solid pissups of note and an invite was not to be sneezed at!.
The Major did pitch the next night and was in a far better mood. As the evening progressed, he told us his side of the story. He was in the Ops room when fluffy the 44 Squadron mascot came sliding into the room on her ass. Major bent down to "tsch tsch" and pet their favourite cat when it exploded all over his uniform. Bits of fluffy were sent into all corners of the Ops room. A tiny bit of fluffy also lodged itself in Majors ear! Fluffy`s head came to rest on a filing cabinet and the place was a mess. After he told his story there were some heartfelt sighs and a couple of sniggers. One of the other airforce dudes actully laughed. He reckoned that fluffy was a flea infested shitbag that often shat in their dorm rooms and used their pin up posters as scratching posts! As the night moved on, the cat was mourned no more.
Needless to say, the super dooper feline hero assasination squad was disbanded but we stuck to our story about the cat eating something. The truth would have caused untold shit on base.
Anway, you guys triggered this fond memory with your cat skinning so I figure I am not to blame.
To the over sensitive folks and pussie lovers who object strongly, my tongue in cheek apologies.
Not to be confused with Springjob, Handjob, Blowjob or any other job......except a flyingjob!