Mau Mau Memories

In 1952, when the 3rd Battalion King’s African Rifles was involved in the communist insurrection in Malaya, another 'emergency' started in Kenya. Slowly at first and then with increasing vigour the Kikuyu reserve became a battleground for many members of that tribe in their revolt against colonial rule. The movement became known as Mau Mau and its ‘freedom fighters’, though misguided, were no less dedicated to their cause than the communists we were fighting in Malaya.

The Mau Mau emergency was at its height when we arrived at the newly built Lugard Barracks in Nanyuki in July 1953. Askaris were keen to put into practice the skills they had learnt in Malaya, but first they had to go home to see their families. Over 18 months separation meant they had accumulated over eight weeks leave and that, plus an extra day for every twenty miles marching for those who lived far from rail or bus routes, meant we were going to be out of action for a considerable time. I, as Adjutant, was soon back on duty though and was horrified to read the directive about our role in the emergency.
The first thing to happen was the posting of many African warrant officers, non-commissioned officers and askaris to newly raised KAR battalions to provide expertise in jungle warfare. Others were to be selected as instructors at the East African Training Centre at Nakuru. Then followed the departure of many of our British officers, warrant officers and NCOs who, in many cases, had extended their tours to serve with the battalion in Malaya. When the cuts and departures had taken place our superbly trained and well balanced battalion was diluted to the level of most other KAR units. The final insult was withdrawal of our jungle green webbing in exchange for old '38 pattern' khaki equipment.
We deployed to the Kikuyu reserve, with Bn. HQ at Fort Hall, in September 1953. There we took part in a number of operations which involved hundreds of so called ‘loyal’ Kikuyu armed with bows and poisoned arrows, with every tenth man carrying a shotgun. They were transported into areas to establish cordons and then used as a back-stop for fully armed members of the security forces who would beat their way through banana and maize plantations. All of us had been issued with pamphlets featuring horrific photographs of Mau Mau atrocities and there was no reluctance on the part of the security forces to shoot any terrorist who refused to surrender.
Unlike ‘freedom fighters’ of the '60s, '70s and '80s who were equipped with AK47 automatic rifles and rocket launchers, Mau Mau had few proper weapons. In addition to an assortment of ancient Italian rifles, they used whatever weapons they had captured from white farms and police armouries. They also made their own weapons. These usually consisted of a piece of wood carved into the shape of a rifle upon which a metal tube was bound with wire. The chamber was crimped to take a bullet and the firing pin was a nail attached to a piece of rubber which was pulled backwards before being released by the firer. It was an extremely hazardous operation and many Mau Mau were injured when they fired their home made guns. Nevertheless, they were status symbols and were used with considerable success to impress the mainly law abiding villagers when Mau Mau demanded food and clothing.
As always in these situations, it is the poor villager who suffers most. On one side he has the ‘freedom fighter’ exhorting him to support the cause, on pain of death if he refuses, and on the other side, the security forces destroying his crops, burning his house and confiscating his cattle if he does not give them the information they want. Chinese with their parangs and Africans with their pangas are adept at changing the contours of the human body if the party line is not followed.
As late as 1954 people in UK were only fed information approved by the ‘establishment.’ But one day a news reporter in Kenya managed to get hold of a story about a certain battalion commander who offered a cash prize to anyone in his unit who could provide evidence that he had killed a member of Mau Mau. This was the turning point in accountability of security forces, not only to their superior headquarters, but to the public at large - home and abroad. A high powered parliamentary team came to Kenya to put specific questions about giving ‘cash for kills’ to every commanding officer, second-in-command, adjutant and company commander in every combat unit. Additionally, anyone who had information they wished to divulge was invited to give evidence.

Our first casualty

Lieutenant Christopher Nunn and his platoon from ‘B’ Company took part in one of the longest patrols the battalion made during our 18 month tour in Malaya. When they returned to their base at Chukai on the north east coast after six weeks in thick jungle, many of them were in poor shape. It just so happened that the High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, decided to drop in on ‘B’ Company as he was touring east Pahang in his helicopter. Major Tim Evill, the company commander, introduced Christopher to Templer who noticed that he was in poor physical shape. He suggested that a spell at Government House in Kuala Lumpur might put some colour back into his cheeks. Within the hour Christopher was aboard the helicopter heading for the nation’s capital to spend two weeks with the High Commissioner and Lady Templer.
A few weeks after arriving in Fort Hall in 1953, Christopher took a patrol into the heartland of Kikuyu country. They based themselves at a police post and it was there just after ‘stand down’ one evening that a gang of Mau Mau attacked. The ferocity of their assault on a well defended position was unusual, but they had captured some high velocity weapons and most of them were ‘high’ on bhang.
Christopher was shot during the initial exchange of fire. Although badly wounded he continued to organise the defence of the police post throughout the night: it was not until the first streaks of dawn appeared that the enemy withdrew. Radio communications in those days were non-existent during the hours of darkness and, as the telephone line had been cut (again), we were unaware of what had happened. I remember the ambulance arriving at battalion headquarters at about 8am. In Malaya, Christopher would have been evacuated by helicopter, but such luxuries were unknown in Kenya. He was still conscious after an uncomfortable journey of twenty miles over atrocious roads, but he died an hour later.
Christopher Nunn was typical of the many national service officers the British Army used during those days when 'brush-fire wars' stretched our resources to the limit. Matched alongside bronzed Adonis-like askaris, Chris was pale, hollow-chested and looked as if he would fall over backwards when he slung his pack. But inside his slim frame beat a heart as strong as a lion.

Growing up in the KAR

I cannot remember where he came from but he adjusted to living in the servants’ quarters of the officers’ mess in Fort Hall as easily as a young lion cub deprived of its mother. Mutuli was his name, Kikuyu was his tribe and he was nine years of age; his parents had been slaughtered by Mau Mau, along with many others in his village.
He had a knack of doing and saying the right thing. While other youngsters would be shooed away if they were caught hanging around the kitchen waiting for scraps of food, Mutuli would salute any ‘wazungu’ (British ranks) he saw and talk to them respectfully in English. It was his ambition to become an askari and he observed drill movements whenever guard-mounting took place. He would then strut up and down and mimic the regimental sergeant major by carrying a stick under his arm.
When it was clear he had adopted 3/KAR, and me in particular, I decided that something had to be done about his education. There was a school in Fort Hall so I had a word with the headmaster who agreed to accept Mutuli as a pupil. I fitted him out with grey shorts, white shirts, socks and black shoes and every morning before he set off for school he would insist on reporting to me for a ‘kit inspection’.
While my orderly did his washing Mutuli insisted on putting creases in his shorts and shirt with a charcoal iron. He had learnt the technique of ‘spit polishing’ his shoes and they shone brighter than those of the provost sergeant.
Within a short time, Mutuli was top of his class and I was very pleased to read the glowing comments on his report. Homework for him was a labour of love and he would spend hours in his tent pouring over his books.
Sergeant Onyala, the mess sergeant, told me that Mutuli’s birthday would take place in a few days time and asked if it would be in order for the mpishi (cook) to make him a cake. I decided to make the day a big occasion. After all, the only link Mutuli had with his mother was the date she had brought him into the world.
I asked him if he would like to have a party to which he could bring some of his school friends. He was pleased with my suggestion so I gave the mess sergeant instructions to prepare a bumper feast for a dozen children.
I doubt if any of those who attended Mutuli’s tenth birthday party had ever eaten such exotic things as pancakes, sausage rolls, jelly, custard and chocolate pudding. The mpishi had made a good job of the birthday cake and he carried it to the table complete with ten candles burning brightly. Never have I seen children devour sugar icing, marzipan and fruit cake so swiftly as did those ‘watoto’ at Mutuli’s party in Fort Hall.
The Commanding Officer decided to hold a drinks party for the district commissioner, chief of police and a few others. I thought this would be a good opportunity to introduce Mutuli as a mess waiter.
Most evenings, when he had finished his homework, he could be found in the kitchen helping with the washing up or assisting the two Kikuyu mess waiters, Waruru and Washira, clean glasses in the bar. I proposed to fit him out with a white jacket, with regimental buttons, long white trousers and a 'tarboosh' (scarlet ‘flower-pot’ hat with black tassel). The Colonel thought it was an excellent idea and gave me permission to go ahead.
Mutuli could hardly wait for the next few days to pass before his uniform was ready to wear. In the meantime he practised carrying plates of peanuts and trays with glasses until his actions were perfect.
The District Commissioner was interested when I told him the story of our young ‘recruit’ and he had some kind words to say to him during the evening. I thought Mutuli's tunic buttons would fly off as he puffed out his chest with pride.
Mutuli stayed in Fort Hall when I went to command a rifle company at Mukuruweni. But before I returned to UK at the end of my tour in June 1954, I saw him at Embu, where battalion HQ was then sited. He was thoroughly at home and everyone thought the world of him. I am sorry to say that I lost touch with him when I left 3/KAR and I have often wondered if he ever made a career of the Army.

Long-drop

One night in Fort Hall a report came through that the Black Watch had suffered casualties in a fire-fight with a gang of Mau Mau (Major Archie Wavell, son of Field Marshal Viscount Wavell, was killed). The Commanding Officer told me to report to the police ops. room and find out what was happening, so I climbed into a Land Rover and took with me Jeremy, the assistant intelligence officer. There was too much interference on the wireless net to get an update about what happened and after an hour or so, Jeremy said he was going back to 3/KAR officers' mess on foot. I hung on for another half hour and then climbed into the Land Rover and drove back via the road that ran alongside the British warrant officers' and sergeants' mess. To my surprise, I saw Jeremy standing on the grass outside the mess with a glass in his hand talking to Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant Kelly.
Jeremy was a quiet, abstemious officer not normally given to drinking 'hard stuff'. But there he was, standing outside the sergeants’ mess with a glass of honey coloured liquid in his hand. I pulled up and asked him if he wanted a lift. He gulped down what was left and climbed into the passenger seat alongside me. I was still in first gear when I became aware of a disgusting smell. When I looked to my left I could see that Jeremy's trousers were covered in slime. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I fell down a choo (deep-trench latrine)," he replied and then burst into tears. I subsequently discovered that Jeremy had taken a short-cut across a field which took him to the main road via the car park of the sergeants' mess. During the day, workmen had partly dismantled a deep-trench latrine on the edge of the tarmac but had forgotten to cover the hole. There were no lights to guide Jeremy and the poor fellow fell in. Mercifully, the contents of the long-drop came only as far as his waist. There were no means of scaling the wall of the choo and it was unlikely that anyone would have heard him had he yelled his heart out from 15 feet below ground. There was only one course open to him and that was to attract attention by firing his revolver, which he kept in a holster on his hip.
ORQMS Kelly of the Royal Ulster Rifles, the supremo of 3/KAR orderly room, was enjoying a pint of Tusker beer with friends on the veranda of the sergeants' mess. The first two shots from Jeremy did not draw any response, so he let off four more which caused Kelly turn his head in the direction of the half dismantled latrine. Jeremy had reloaded and was about to pump a few more rounds heavenwards when Kelly's head appeared above him and asked if there was anyone down there. I arrived about five minutes later after Jeremy had been rescued.
After a thorough wash-down, both Jeremy and the Land Rover were fit for duty again.

Note: The Assistant. IO's name is disguised, otherwise the story is true.


Defiant to the end

When I became a company commander, one of my subalterns radioed in one day and reported an engagement with a Mau Mau gang. Some of the enemy had been killed and he said he was bringing the bodies and a prisoner back to base. He arrived about two hours later and started to off-load four dead Mau Mau. One other Kikuyu was lying on the floor of the truck and there was much blood about; I could see he was badly wounded.
A couple of askaris got hold of his feet and started to drag him towards the tailboard, but I intervened and told them to leave him alone until a medical orderly arrived. I climbed into the truck and saw he had gunshot wounds to both legs; his partially opened shirt revealed a large hole in his stomach from which his intestines protruded. His eyes were like those of a wild animal and he snarled like a leopard as I approached him. When I told him he would receive medical attention, he levered himself upwards on his elbows and spat in my face. The medical orderly came with a stretcher and he was taken to the aid post, but he died ten minutes later.

A pit full of panjis

Tommy Thomas and I served together in Eritrea with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I had not seen him for three years until the tent flap opened one day and in he walked. “I’m your new second-in-command,” he announced. We had a few days together before I set off for Nairobi to be a member of a general court martial trying a white officer of the Kenya Regiment accused of torturing Mau Mau suspects. On the second day of the court martial I received a call from battalion headquarters informing me that Tommy had been badly injured; when I returned to my company a few days later I found out what had happened. It seemed that Tommy had received information about an impending Mau Mau attack on a Kikuyu guard post and had gone off with an escort to warn the occupants.
Kikuyu guard posts were like Saxon villages of the 6th century in Britain. Huts of mud and wattle with thatched roofs were built on high ground while a strong wooden fence, laced with sisal fronds and thorn bush, surrounded the encampment. A ditch about 15 feet wide and 12 feet deep formed an outer perimeter. Within the pit, thousands of panjis (sharpened bamboo stakes) were driven into the ground twelve inches apart. During daylight hours a drawbridge spanned the ditch but when the sun dipped behind the Aberdare forest, the drawbridge was raised to the vertical position.
Tommy had left his vehicle at the bottom of the hill while he and his escort made their way to the guard post. Moving about at night during the Mau Mau emergency was a dangerous business, especially when trigger happy natives were likely to fire first and ask questions afterwards. Tommy shouted in a mixture of English and (limited) Kiswahili that he wanted the drawbridge lowered. Initially, there was no response and then someone replied in Kiswahili saying that if he didn’t clear off he would get some poisoned arrows and buckshot coming his way. Tommy continued to walk forward until he came to the ditch - and fell in.
Tommy was built like a tank and measured his length on the panjis at the bottom of the ditch. His escort managed to convince the guards that a ‘mzungu’ (European) had skewered himself and that assistance was urgently required.
It was a hazardous business removing Tommy from the ditch. Had the panjis been spaced further apart he would have sustained even more horrific injuries but, like an Indian fakir lying on a bed of nails, the volume of spikes in close proximity to each other saved him from worse injury. Even so, his stomach, chest and legs were punctured in many places. Tommy was made of stern stuff though and he withstood a journey of 40 miles over corrugated roads to the provincial hospital at Nyeri. The surgeon was concerned about the unseen damage to Tommy’s guts and this meant opening him up from top to bottom.
As soon as the court martial in Nairobi was over, I went to Nyeri to see him. He was beginning to look his old self again but as we talked he began to show signs of discomfort. I asked if I should call a nurse but he shook his head and said that the feeling he was experiencing happened every half hour or so. Then a look of ecstasy spread across his face and he let off the longest, loudest fart I had ever heard. The bed clothes, which looked as though they were supported on a frame, collapsed slowly like a deflating balloon. When all had subsided Tommy asked me to pass him a can of Tusker beer from a box under his bed.
Even though Tommy had a massive frame, he could not cope with such huge inflations and deflations. A few days later he blew the stitches which held his insides together and was placed on the ‘dangerously ill’ list again. He hovered on the edge of death for a long time until he recovered well enough to be cas-evac’d to UK. He did not return to the KAR.


Not his ‘cup-of-tea.'

Soon after Tommy’s accident, I received a replacement for my long serving and very experienced British Company Sergeant Major. The new chap had never served with Africans before and by the look of him had never worn khaki drill. His bush hat, with an Arabic ‘telata’ (figure three) and a crow’s neck on the upturn, looked very new and required some dust and sweat to give it character. He was allocated a 160 pounder tent and an orderly and I told him to settle in for the rest of the day. “Go and chat to the askaris,” I said. “Some of them speak English but just say ‘Jambo, habari yako?’ (Hello, what news?) to the rest.”
About ten minutes later my orderly rushed into my tent and said: “Effendi, bwana sergeant major mpya yeye anguka karibu na zariba.” (Sir, the new sergeant major has fallen down near the perimeter fence.) I hastened after Pte. Kipleli who directed me to the prostrate form of the sergeant major. A few Samburu were kicking dust over him - water was too valuable a commodity to waste where they came from, but it seemed to do the trick as he slowly opened his eyes and focused them on me. I helped him to his feet and supported him until he was settled in the shade of a fig tree. When he had recovered sufficiently, he looked around and pointed towards a trio of inscrutable Samburu askaris. “It’s them and that cow, sir,” he gasped. I began to think he had got a touch of the sun until he explained what happened.
I gathered he had seen some askaris clustered around a cow. It came from a herd that the District Officer had confiscated from some villagers who had not been forthcoming with information about Mau Mau. This happened quite often and when it did, he used to give me a cow or two for the askaris to eat. I gave the animals to Somalis to slaughter as they would do it the Moslem way, and then everyone would be able to eat the meat. Samburu come from the northern frontier district of Kenya. When at home they live mainly on a diet of cow or camel milk mixed with blood which they extract from a vein in the neck of the beast. The Samburu in camp that day gathered around and caught every drop of blood they could from the slowly expiring cow. Just as the animal was giving its last breath, the new sergeant major turned up. “Jambo, habari yako?" he said. “Jambo effendi, habari mzuri.” (Hello sir, news is good.) And then, as if drinking a toast to the new arrival, the Samburu raised their mess tins and drank the warm blood.
Still as white as a sheet, the Sergeant Major said: “I don’t think I’ll be able to get used to this, sir.” He didn’t, and soon found a more suitable billet with a British battalion where rations were delivered in the conventional way.


SMITH'S FOLLY

After spending a few months in Mukuruweini, my company moved ten miles north to another camp-site near the village of Kaheti. Maize, banana and sweet potato grew in abundance and our task was to protect villagers from Mau Mau gangs demanding food. We were encamped on a hillock with a barbed wire fence encircling the perimeter and it was necessary to have sentry posts all way around lest Mau Mau should attack us. This meant a heavy load of guard duties for the askaris so I spent some time thinking how I could reduce the commitment. The answer seemed to be a tower, where one or two sentries could do the work of a dozen. Everyone thought it a good idea so I drew up a plan.
Holes had to be dug, sandbags filled, ladders made and, finally, the cutting and placing of four stout tree trunks to provide the main supports. Askaris went to work eagerly and very soon the new guard post started to take shape. We built a platform about 25 feet from the ground and hauled sandbags through a hole in one corner to provide protection from gunfire. Then we had to make a roof out of poles covered by tarpaulin, which acted like a sail when the wind blew, so we put cross beams between the four supports. I began to wonder if the construction was top heavy but eventually it was complete and the first sentry climbed the ladder and hauled himself through the hole in the platform. A few seconds later his head appeared over the parapet of sandbags. I could see the whites of his eyes and the terror on his face as the tower rolled backwards, forwards and sideways according to the strength and direction of the wind. Nevertheless, the tower was up and running and I felt sure that askaris would get used to it after a few turns on 'stag'.
It was not until the following morning that my African Company Sergeant Major told me that my plan for reducing guard duties was not popular. It had been frightening enough in the daytime but that was nothing compared to the hours of darkness when some of the sentries became physically sick as the contraption gyrated alarmingly.
By common consent, askaris went back to the old system of having sentries at ground level, even if that meant doing more work.

Donkey work

There was a stream at the bottom of the hill below the camp where women collected water in large earthenware pots. Alone among the female fraternity was a man who loaded his donkey with so many tin cans that the poor animal could hardly stand, let alone carry its load half a mile to his hut.
I was there one day when he arrived and was appalled to see large sores on the animal's back. Without thought of the pain he was inflicting upon the poor beast he started to fill his metal containers. I told him to stop what he was doing and wait until I brought him some ointment and soft covering to put on the sores. I also provided him with a blanket to stop the cans aggravating the wounds. He seemed grateful for the interest I was taking in the welfare of his donkey, but a few days later I found that the donkey was in a worse state and that the blanket was missing. I thereupon deprived him of the animal which my orderly took back to camp. The women at the well shrieked with laughter at the man's misfortune and refused to help him. Two weeks later, when the donkey's sores had healed, I handed the animal, along with another blanket, back to the villager who had come to appreciate how difficult it was to carry water by himself. I kept my eye on him until I left Kaheti and was glad to see that the donkey was thereafter well treated.

Fundi ya mkuki

The equivalent to an Irish tinker in Kenya is the travelling spear maker. One of these, accompanied by his grandfather turned up one day and started to take orders: they travelled light; their only tools being a hammer and a hack-saw for cutting metal. There was no shortage of customers and within a short time the pair were at work cutting up an old bicycle. The old man's contribution to the partnership was to sit alongside a group of large stones, arranged in a circle, and blow air from a pair of goatskin bellows to charcoal. The 'fundi ya mkuki' (spearmaker) told me that his father was Maasai and his mother Kikuyu and that the spear he was making for me was of the type carried by his father. In the old days, and even now if lions are plentiful, no youth would aspire to become a warrior until he had killed a lion. The procedure is as follows: The lion is surrounded and the circle is closed until the animal has to burst its way out. The 'lucky' youth who the lion chooses to attack beds his spear in the ground and holds the point towards the oncoming animal which, hopefully, becomes impaled. It becomes a free-for-all then with everyone stabbing the lion until it is dead.
The sound of hammering lasted for two days and every now and then the 'fundi' would cast a critical eye down the length of the spear to make sure it was perfectly straight. I paid him a paltry amount that would be no more than £5.00 in today's money and then he and his grandfather started to cut up another old bicycle for the next order. I still have that spear as well as a Kikuyu bow and two arrows that once had poison on their tips.

The Mau Mau campaign was a messy affair with much loss of life, mainly among Africans. The so called ‘Loyal Kikuyu’ lost 1,800 killed but figures are not available for those who died in acts of tribal retribution later on. The security forces suffered 590 killed while the cost to Mau Mau was 12,515 of whom 1,015 were hanged.
It was Jomo Kenyatta, labelled the most evil of all Mau Mau and banished to the Turkana district of Northern Kenya, who was eventually recognised as the only person who could bring peace and stability to his country. He became the first black President of Kenya on 12th December 1963 and was thereafter respected throughout the world for his wisdom and magnanimity. He died as the acknowledged ‘mzee mkubwa’ (great old man) of Africa in August 1978.