I was alone in the veld at night, guarding the ammunition some distance from our encampment at De Brug. It was winter and icy cold; I sat motionless under a sky full of stars. Suddenly there was a rushing sound: a herd of springbok was passing, leaping over the ammo boxes and tarpaulin-covered munitions. They were oblivious to my presence; it seemed as if I could have reached out and touched them – they were no further than an arms length. And then they were gone, like a flight of angels.