Friendly Fire

It is difficult to remember after the passage of fifty years how many askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion, The King’s African Rifles were casualties of accidental discharge of weapons. There was certainly a spate of incidents in the early days of our eighteen month tour of duty in Malaya from December 1951 to June 1953 but as time went by, training and expertise in handling weapons, with ‘one up the spout’, effectively cut down the casualty rate.
The first incident I can recollect was when a patrol in thick jungle in the middle of the night panicked and let fly at what they imagined to be a gang of communist terrorists. Unfortunately, most of their weapons were pointed towards the centre of the all-round defensive position and the platoon sergeant was hit in the backside with at least two rounds of .303. The Commanding Officer was furious and gave a stern warning that any more cases of ‘bure’ (Kiswahili word pronounced ‘booray’ meaning ‘for nothing’) rounds would be met with severe disciplinary action.
It was a normal sort of day, hot as hell without a breath of wind, when bullets zipped through the thatched walls and roofs of the flimsy huts we had erected on the platform of Triang railway station (otherwise known as Battalion Headquarters 3/KAR). My instinct for preservation has always been acute and within a second I was flat on the floor of the signals office. I waited for the next volley but none came so I crawled out of the office and joined the Adjutant and a few others who had assembled outside the orderly room. We were joined by the Commanding Officer who was bristling like a wart-hog. His ‘basha’ was on the south end of the platform and it received the full force of the blast. All became clear when a young lieutenant and a patrol of askaris came walking along the railway line towards battalion headquarters.
The first person the young officer saw was the CO: “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, “I hope I haven't done any damage, my Owen gun went off as I was removing the magazine.” For a moment the CO was speechless and then a second volley (this time vocal) was let off. The subaltern was left in no doubt about the seriousness of his action and when the Adjutant told the Colonel that some of the bullets had gone through his wardrobe in his adjacent sleeping quarters, it was a wonder the miscreant was not put under arrest. The CO spent the rest of the morning composing a signal to all company commanders which spelt out, once again, his attitude to ‘bure’ rounds and what would happen to anyone else who let them off. Having got that out of his system he called for the dersi wallah (tailor) who took away some of his clothing which had taken a battering.
A few days later, I was coming out of the officers’ mess when I almost fell over a young officer who was sitting on the steps. He had just returned from patrol and, as he was in a very muddy state, he asked a mess waiter to serve him a cold beer outside. I sat alongside him and asked if he had anything to report. He told me that he and his askaris had spent three days in the jungle west of Triang rubber estates investigating some previously occupied bandit camps. As they had not been able to find any fresh tracks, he had decided to head for the railway line and battalion headquarters so that they could return to their company base on the armoured train. I noticed he was carrying an Owen gun, that unpredictable Australian sub-machine gun - and that it was loaded. I suggested he should proceed to the sand-bagged unloading bay and make safe his weapon but at that moment the waiter arrived with his beer and before I could stop him he started to unload the weapon. There was a cascade of gunfire and for the second time in a week the Commanding Officer came under fire while sitting at his desk.
The Colonel was made for speed and his long legs carried him out of his office faster than a hare breaking cover. His impetus took him almost to the steps of the officers’ mess and the smoking gun barrel of the young subaltern. The CO could be forgiven for thinking there was some sort of conspiracy on the part of his subalterns to get rid of him, but British Army officers are not, generally, that way inclined. Instead, he summoned the Adjutant and told him to put the young officer under arrest (not much point in doing that on ‘active service’) and convene a court of inquiry. The subaltern could expect to be arraigned before the Brigade Commander and receive, at least, a reprimand which he would always carry on his record of service.
In April 1952 we took delivery of the first two of our Daimler Ferret scout cars. Up until that time the Colonel travelled in a cumbersome Humber four-by-four station wagon which was vulnerable to gunfire, but in these snug little vehicles, one protecting the other, he could travel in safety anywhere.
He decided to make use of both when he and the intelligence officer were ordered to attend the Brigade Commander’s conference three days later. This gave the motor transport officer enough time to prepare the mountings for twin Bren machine guns, each with one hundred round magazines above the ‘conning tower’, which was the only way to get in and out of the vehicle.
On the day of the conference, the Intelligence Officer made sure that the Colonel would be as comfortable as possible in the rather cramped conditions of the scout car. Both vehicles were drawn up outside the officers’ mess and all the CO had to do was walk down the steps, climb on top of the leading scout car and ease himself through the hole.
The ‘bwana mkubwa’ (big master) was aptly named as he stood six feet four inches tall. Getting into the vehicle proved to be a problem but after a considerable amount of wriggling and adjustment of baggage he succeeded in getting himself settled. The IO started to tell him about the twin Bren guns that were mounted above his head and how they should be fired should the likelihood arise, but the Colonel was not listening: “What are these handle-bar things for, Charles?” he said. “They are for moving the guns up and down and sideways,” said the IO, “but whatever you do, sir, don’t squeeze the things that look like brakes.” It was too late, the Colonel had already gripped both ‘brakes’ which operated the triggers by remote control.
Battalion HQ officers had become used to the sound of sub-machine guns going off in the area of the Colonel’s basha, but twin Bren guns blasting off was something knew. The guns happened to be pointing towards the motor transport park where drivers were doing their first parade servicing - checking tyre pressures, oil and water levels etc. Two three-tonners were hit by .303 rounds while a third had two of its tyres punctured. Askaris did not wait to find where the bullets were coming from. The Sungei Triang, a fast flowing tributary of the Sungei Pahang, flowed past the far end of the MT park and most of them dived in.
The Colonel was stunned for a few seconds and then realised what had happened. In all fairness, it was not his fault that the Bren guns were loaded and the safety catches were off. But he was the vehicle commander even though he had just got in and had never travelled in such a vehicle before. The important thing was to find a scape-goat and the IO was conveniently available.
The commanding officer was never allowed to forget that unfortunate incident and he was associated with ‘bure’ rounds for the remainder of the time we served in Malaya.
‘It’s an ill-wind that blows nobody any good’. This ancient adage was borne out when the subaltern who sprayed the Colonel’s basha from the steps of the officers mess, heard nothing more about being put in front of the Brigadier.