Lament for a Hero.

Hannes Wessels,

I have known John ‘Jungle’ Jordan from school-days. He was senior to me so we were not close but I remember him so well from those times. Powerfully built, blonde and handsome, he was a star-swimmer, fine sportsman and passed all his exams but despite being a bit of a ‘heavy’ he was a quietly spoken, gentle man possessed of a kindly demeanour that earned him the affection and respect of all who knew him.

Sadly he died earlier this week which came as a shock following a fall. But since his passing I have thought about him a lot, not only because I shall miss him, but because he was in many ways typical of many of my generation in the way he tried to live his life in the midst of the political and economic turbulence that came calling through no fault of his own.

After school, he, like most Rhodesian schoolboys went to do his National Service, elected to do it in the army, and acquired a commission as a 1st Lieutenant. At the end of his service he joined the bank in Umtali and set about building a career and I have no doubt he would, in more peaceful times, have gone to the top of his chosen profession.

Unfortunately for him, beyond the banking-hall the bush-war was escalating, and news from the battlefields grew grimmer as school and other friends began to die in increasing numbers as they fought to fend off the Sino/Soviet backed enemy insurgencies coming out of neighbouring Mozambique and Zambia that were wrecking increasing havoc within the country.

Being the man he was he realised his career and personal well-being could no longer be given a priority; his country was under siege, the stakes had been raised and he needed to do more. He decided the best he could do was offer himself to the SAS and try and become a better soldier and thereby make a bigger contribution to defending his homeland.

As an officer from the Territorial Reserve he was not received with much warmth from the hard men of the regiment’s Training Troop who were mostly Regular or career soldiers. And coming as an officer into a unit that was almost entirely staffed by Regular Officers, he could expect to be cut absolutely no slack, in fact, for him, the bar was probably raised.

Undaunted, John took on the challenge of a brutally exhausting selection course and no matter what difficulties came his way, he overcame them, passed the course, was awarded his colours and became a combat-ready SAS officer.

Soon he was deployed on some incredibly dangerous missions, one a long range reconnaissance into the heart of enemy country in Mozambique with his great friend and school contemporary Richard Stannard. But for the bravery and skill of a helicopter pilot the two would almost certainly have perished. Quickly recognised for his fortitude, courage and calmness under fire his deployments became increasingly frequent resulting in him being decorated for valour by the country’s president.

Alas, for John and all those who served with him, their selflessness and commitment was trumped by grey men in grey suits in faraway places, and all was lost. A new country named Zimbabwe led by Robert Mugabe emerged and the dye was cast.

A future under the new leadership brandishing a ‘liberation’ theology cloaked in Marxist-Leninist socialism was not for John and he departed the country he loved with a heavy heart.

I write about John because I look back at the man I knew, I look at the world today, and I am reminded that there was a time, when he, as a white Rhodesian Special Forces Officer, was typical of the type of man portrayed to a global audience by a horribly hostile media-complex; as a ‘racist’, a member of an ‘oppressive, privileged, white minority’, and someone standing aggressively in the way of the ‘liberation’ of an oppressed black majority. He, like the rest of us became an international pariah, Rhodesian passport holders were denied entry to virtually every country in the world including Britain. The British governments of the time opened their doors to all-comers but those like John who believed they were fighting for the same values bequeathed them by the motherland were not wanted. As a result, the country today is increasingly polarised and fractured by ethnic and religious division.

Unfortunately, the great falsehood about what was actually happening in this country under siege was successfully communicated across the world and into the corridors of power where life-altering decisions are made by presidents and prime-ministers, and the response was the political, economic and military pressure that wrought the changes leading to the transfer of power and the subsequent destruction of a country.

The moral of the story is those who control the media, in many ways control the world because they shape the way people think, act and vote. And they are very dangerous because they are invariably unknown and they are almost completely unaccountable.

John Jordan, like most of the white Rhodesians I knew, was a good man, he was not a racist, he was not a killer, he was a Christian subscribing to the belief that all men are equal under God, he believed in love and forgiveness. But he knew wicked opportunism when he saw it and was quick to answer the call. Unfortunately he and those he fought with, were powerless in the face of evil, faceless people in foreign lands who peddled a litany of lies and won the day.

If there is a heaven, the angels will have the blessed company of a hero.