Ambushes are exciting as a child. You hide in plain sight; adults feign terror as you leap out in reveal. In their truest form ambushes are complex, deadly and a pure test of will; they require significant collective and individual discipline together with perfect technique. Hence, training is needed to effectively apply extreme violence in pitch darkness with minimal casualties to the home team.
Several decades ago, deep in the bush in Africa, we trained gentle coastal farmers and fishermen to protect their country from violent disruption, using weapons that were almost as unfamiliar to us as to them. These men had been conscripted by their government and dispatched to us to be trained. Bright, multi-lingual, often speaking as many as seven local languages, with a european tongue as their lingua franca. Happy and willing but warriors neither by instinct nor inclination.
Ambush training is a Sisyphean task, challenging the fabric of our purpose. For training to be effective, once an ambush is set, several hours must be endured before it is sprung. Hours when there is no sound, no idle chatter, no smoking (an endemic challenge in most military forces), no movement. Alertness is mandatory. As instructors we anticipated most outcomes, using redundant stealth to chastise sinners, only to find them fast asleep, tucked into sleeping bags against a chill significantly at odds with the heat of the day.
It really did not matter how often we explained, cajoled or reprimanded, these gentlemen knew that in their real world this was how they would obey any order foolish enough to expect them to risk life and limb in the dark. It is cold - so stay warm. It is dark - so sleep. Logic is cultural, so localised. Punishment does not achieve persuasion. They taught us this.
After a while, we accepted a new relationship with perfection. An ambush set at midnight would not be sprung until the deep dark, just before false dawn. Knowing the agreed time of execution, we, the re-educated staff, would settle ourselves to wait. Some would rest, resigned to the occasional murmur, whiff of tobacco or muffled snore. I would lie and look up at the shining glory that is the huge African night sky; in awe, for hours.
The analogy of diamonds thickly scattered on a black velvet blanket is no exaggeration. Starlight as bright as moonlight in Europe. So many, in so many layers of depth. Jungle eyes; searching through the immense Universe for purpose. The surprisingly diminutive Southern Cross. The arch of the Milky Way, an immortal humpback, breeching the dark seas of heaven. In those days, no satellites crossing the pristine emptiness of the dark continent.
Mesmerising.
Overwhelm.
There were occasions when I was barely in time to supervise the ambush as it activated. No matter. In the end, they understood the principles. They just abhorred the practice.
Being humbled by the infinite plays a fitting counterpoint to the simple and direct wish of the good people we taught. Men who just wanted to see their families again and not lie waiting for danger under the cold night sky, however magnificent.
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