THE JANITOR

September 1, 1939. Blitzkrieg was visited on Poland courtesy of Adolf Hitler. 

At 11:15am on Sunday, 3 September, in a radio broadcast of about five minutes, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain announced that Britain was at war with Germany. Three days later South Africa joined the rest of the British Commonwealth in what was an inexorable march to a World War. The call for volunteers went out from General Smuts soon after.

In a classroom at a prestigious boys’ school in Johannesburg a Form V class was preparing for the final Transvaal Senior Certificate examination. Of those fellows, most would join the Union Defence Force, and take the Red Oath indicating a willingness to serve anywhere in Africa (later, the New Oath, extending that commitment to “anywhere in the world”) for as long as the War lasted. Some would never come home. Others would return with visible war wounds or missing limbs. Most returned with a scarred psyche which was not immediately evident. Few were left untouched by the experience of battle or the privations suffered as Prisoners of War.

Alfred Heasman hunkered down with his books for the final stint at school before he, too, would forgo a carefree youth as a university student, but instead commit himself to the discipline of the army and the privations of life as a soldier at the front. His final days as a scholar brought sound academic results, especially in the field of mathematics, physical sciences and the classics (Greek and Latin) for which he attained distinctions. He certainly proved himself to be no slouch.

The Union Defence Force was totally unprepared for participation in a war when South Africa sided with Britain. The number of officers was in the hundreds and there were just over five thousand active servicemen. This sorry state of affairs was exacerbated by a shortage of equipment. The call for volunteers went out, and before the end of 1940, willing and able young men who had signed up for service under the command of Brigadier Dan Pienaar in East Africa already numbered almost 30 000. Alfred (Fred to his mates) was one of these troops who participated in the capture of the Italian post of El Wak, one of the first Allied successes of the war on land. Over the next few years Fred would be involved in numerous skirmishes and had the good fortune not to have been taken captive.

He would, however, learn the truth of the old adage, “War is Hell.” By the time the War in Europe ended on 8 May 1945, he had served in East Africa, the Western Desert and Italy. He had been shot at, and wounded by shrapnel. After a short stint in the infirmary, he was back at the front. Soon after, he had the unenviable task of having to retrieve the body of one of his buddies who had been blown to smithereens by a hand grenade. The remains were not a pretty sight. However, none of these experiences had a lasting effect on him. 

The lasting damage Fred suffered was as a result of doing what he was duty bound to do. He had to shoot and kill an enemy soldier. In his sights was a rapidly advancing German infantryman about his own age. In the heat of battle and with no time for forethought, Fred squeezed the trigger. Before his eyes, the young fellow was struck by a .303 round in his face. From Fred’s perspective he witnessed the death of the man unfold in slow motion. Imprinted in his mind was the trajectory of the round approaching and then smashing into the teenage face of the battle hardened youngster. He saw it enter the face and rip through his head, punching a gaping hole at the back of the skull as it exited along its devastating path. The body still advanced a few paces without its face and much of its head, before it collapsed in a heap a few yards from the shooter. This is the scene that was to repeatedly pop up in the nightmares from which he would henceforth suffer interminably. Both before and after demobilisation, this reel would be slowly projected on the gigantic silver screen of his mind’s eye. It would be a recurring theme of his nightmares until he, too, would exit this world and join the young German soldier in the firmament beyond. The dead soldier remained forever young to Fred, and thought of each Remembrance Day. 

“They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,” are apt words from Laurence Binyon’s poem “For the fallen.”

Fred returned to South Africa with a wounded soul. 

Given his academic achievements before his departure to the battle front, he took up the handsome bursary offered by the government to returning soldiers. His university studies and residence fees would be taken care of, after which he could join the world of work and fully reintegrate with civilian life. 

Sadly, haunted as he was by the moment he had taken a life, his studies petered out. He commenced his studies and immediately had to do battle with the haunting ghost that had taken over his mind. Anxiety permeated his every waking moment. Sleep was erratic and deeply disturbed. The downward spiral of his psyche was advancing apace and the added stress of his studies scuppered his plans. Within months he dropped out of university.

Fred was mentally and emotionally one of the War’s walking wounded. No help for dealing with these invisible scars of Post-traumatic Stress was forthcoming. Further education was well nigh impossible, given his state of mind. The possibility of employment in a stable job commensurate with his sharp intellect was unlikely.

He turned to the only place he was sure he would be accepted. His old school. He knocked on the Headmaster’s door and was offered the only position available – that of Janitor. He was given accommodation on the school grounds, meals at the boarding hostel and a stipend on which he could depend. For the next forty years, Fred the Janitor, worked faithfully for the school. He was meticulous about keeping both buildings and grounds in pristine nick. Over the years he became a permanent “fixture” – the most ardent supporter of every sports team, the most enthusiastic Old Boy, a beloved,  albeit trifle reclusive, figure whose presence became a highly valued part of the school.

About the War he never uttered a word. His experiences remained off limits for all who crossed his path. His pain he kept well hidden. 

Fred was a deeply troubled soul, but he had in no way lost his keen intellect. He kept himself informed about the world around him – devouring newspapers, books and tuning into the more cerebral radio discussions. His monthly stipend he hardly spent, but invested every penny he didn’t need to support his frugal lifestyle. He took no vacations in the forty years he worked at the school. He never owned a car. Indeed, somewhat of a hermit, he seldom ventured off the campus.

One morning there was consternation at the school. Fred had not emerged from his room. A most unusual event it was that he was not at his post, diligently doing his work as Janitor. Investigation revealed that he had sadly passed away in his sleep – as he’d lived, entirely alone.

The school was his only family by the time he died. The Headmaster had to arrange his funeral (attended by the whole school community). Amidst the deeply felt grief, the dignified send-off and a place of honour in the Wall of Remembrance, the estate had to be wound up. The solicitor revealed that Fred had left all his worldly goods to the school, to dispose of at it wished. 

Great was the surprise that the estate was not insignificant as all had anticipated it to be. Fred had not only been frugal, but a keen investor on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. He had turned his sharp mind to skillful trading of stocks and shares. He had left an astoundingly massive stock portfolio. The humble Janitor had been a multi-millionaire – a vast fortune which could for years to come fund bursaries and scholarships that in a quite unexpected twist of fate, made up for the stunting of his own education by the bitter experience of War.

Not everything in life is as it seems.

©Paul M Haupt

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