For forty years or so from the start of the second world war to 1984, the Army had a code which wireless operators were obliged to use when transmitting official messages. A commanding officer, be he an army commander or a platoon commander was known as 'sunray'; the quartermaster general down to a battalion quartermaster was known as 'molar', while adjutants through their various levels from top brass in Whitehall to an infantry battalion in the field, were known as 'seagull'. The idea was to confuse the enemy by giving them no indication of what sort of sunray, molar or seagull was sending or receiving the message. I was never convinced that the enemy could be so stupid to think that a request for a hundred packets of fly papers and twenty latrine buckets could come from Whitehall and not from some poor dispirited unit camped on the edge of a swamp. The origin of these code words always puzzled me and it wasn't until I looked up ‘seagull' in a wild-life book that I found a clue.
'A seagull (code name for adjutant) is a bird that seeks the company of others of its kind, but it is quite likely to attack them with its beak or flail them with its wings. It is always in immaculate condition despite the grotty areas it inhabits. Its rasping cries are heard first thing in the morning, throughout the day and well into the night. Its eyesight and hearing are pin-sharp and it is aware of everything that goes on around it’. Possessed of an ability to propel its waste matter with unerring accuracy at a recipient of its choice, the code name 'seagull' is, without doubt, most appropriate for adjutants world wide.
When I was a young officer, I could never understand why adjutants changed their personalities when they were appointed to that particular office. Before their appointment they were nice ordinary fellows, and they reverted to their natural state when they moved on or sideways. It was the bit in the middle, when they became so bloodthirsty, that intrigued me.
As an officer cadet, I was led to believe that on being commissioned into an infantry regiment I would be joining a good club. What a rude awakening I received when, as a newly pipped second lieutenant, I was gripped hard not only by the adjutant of my unit, but the senior subaltern and the regimental sergeant major as well.
The first time I felt the sharp prick of the adjutant's fangs was when he came into the local hostelry one evening and saw me standing at the bar with one button of my service dress undone. He said nothing at the time but I had to take his word for it when I appeared before him the following morning. Civilians must think that we soldiers are a strange lot when an unfastened button can cause such a head of steam! For that offence I was awarded three extra orderly officer duties.
The award of 'three extras' was the cue for some hearty back-slapping from one's contemporaries who would be delighted to hear that someone else would be inspecting meals, mounting the guard and checking that sentries were doing their job properly in the early hours of the morning. I have known some officers, totally lacking in charm, suddenly become the most popular fellows in the mess after an award of 'seven extras'.
Eighteen months of pounding barrack squares as a private soldier and an officer cadet had obviously not brought me and the other young subalterns up to the standard required by the adjutant at Dering Lines, Brecon in 1946. We were therefore ordered to parade before that particular 'seagull' and the RSM twice a week at 07.30 hrs until further notice.
We had already received some instruction at OCTU (officer cadet training unit) in the difficult movements associated with carrying a cane on parade, but we did not measure up to seagull's requirement and were told to bring our canes with us on the next parade.
One of our number was a subaltern called Rex Farrow. Rex found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and was never properly effective until after his mid morning break. Someone always had to make sure he was on his feet with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap and a razor in the other.
Rex had been seen in the dining room but when the time came for us to assemble on the side of the square, there was no sign of him. It was too far for one of us to run back to the mess and, anyway, time was up as the adjutant and the RSM were nodding their heads as they checked their watches. With only seconds to spare, Rex came panting around the corner: "Got held up in the bog," he said as he joined us. His relief at making it on time vanished when he saw that the rest of us were carrying canes. He was almost on the point of volunteering for 'seven extras' when one of the subalterns spied a length of hollow copper pipe which some workmen had been using. He thrust it into Rex's hand and said: "Use this, it's about the same length as your cane - but for God's sake don't drop it."
Almost immediately, we were called on parade and the complicated business of twiddling our canes commenced. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped his appendage and that person turned out to be Rex Farrow. It was during that particularly difficult manoeuvre when the cane, in the perpendicular position, is brought to the horizontal when you step off. The piece of copper pipe shot out of his hand like a spear and then clattered about twenty feet across the barrack square. The adjutant screamed a command to halt and both he and the RSM marched across to where the strange object lay. The RSM prodded it with his pace stick, and it clanged again. It was not hard for the adjutant to find out what it was and where it had come from. Rex was twitching his thumbs nervously as the adjutant asked him for an explanation. He tried to explain he had left his cane in the 'bog', but this did him no good and he was thereupon awarded 'seven extras' for being idle and disrespectful.
The parade ground adjacent to South Barracks in Khartoum must be the largest in the world. With your back to the perimeter wall it extends from the Blue Nile north, east and west for hundreds of miles. The surface was crunchy gravel and all that was required to give the surface a 'Horse Guards' look was the application of whitewash lines and some spots for the markers. Twice a month Regimental Sergeant Major 'Joe' Friend would hold his parade for everyone of and under the rank of warrant officer class two. There would also be an adjutant's parade for everyone junior to the adjutant and, to complete the trio, the commanding officer would hold his parade, when everyone in the battalion was required to turn out.
These parades started just after first light and one of my enduring memories of Khartoum is the early morning sun glinting on the bayonets of hundreds of Welsh soldiers formed up in open order of companies. Parades started at such an early hour to make use of what remained of the cool night breeze; once the sun came up it was like opening an oven door.
With the sun came flies. These obnoxious insects, not to be confused with their comparatively friendly North European cousins, were early risers. Anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves shaving before going on parade, and then forced to stand immobile during the inspection, would be subjected to a mind cracking form of torture as the little monsters would pile in like a rugby scrum on the area of skinned flesh.
An enormous amount of effort was expended by soldiers the night before to make sure their turn-out was perfect. Fortunately, the officers had batmen to prepare their kit; all they had to do was ensure they put their puttees on properly.
Half an hour after we had fallen out from the adjutant's first parade in Khartoum, the orderly room runner came to my office and told me that the adjutant wanted to see me. This sounded ominous and I wondered what had gone wrong as I made my way to his office. I knocked on his door and heard his call to enter. Four full paces, halt and a smart salute brought me face to face with him. "Why were you improperly dressed on my parade this morning?" he barked. I did a mental check of everything I was wearing and could find nothing wrong. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied. "I do not understand." Seagull paused for a second or two and then said: "You were not wearing your medal." I looked at him incredulously and spluttered: " But I've only got one." "That's correct," he replied, "and you were not wearing it." I was one of those young conscripts who joined the Army in December 1944 - five months before the end of the war in Europe; the 'Victory' medal I was awarded occupied a fluffy corner of my kit bag. Many members of the battalion had been in the thick of action and this was evident on occasions such as adjutant's parades when the desert groaned under the weight of medals won in service to king and country. "I can't wear just one, sir," I protested, but it was no good. "If you appear improperly dressed on one of my parades again, you'll get five extra orderly officer duties," snapped seagull. "This time you are awarded three 'extras'. Now, get out."
The five 'extras' were not long in coming, but I received them for a quite unrelated incident. The second-in-command, Major 'Ski' Galletley, had spent the last two years of the war as a brigadier. He was the most be-medalled person in the battalion and the junior officers had the impression he had won the war single handed. He was a fiery gentleman and we all treated him with respect.
It was, therefore, with dismay that I received a note from the adjutant ordering me, as a member of an audit board, to report to the second-in-command at the sergeants' mess the following Monday morning at 08.00hrs to check the bar stock. One advantage about being signals officer was that I had my own transport in the form of two motor cycles. I did not make my move to the sergeants' mess until 07.50, which allowed me plenty of time to get to the other end of the barracks. I straddled one of the machines, slipped the gears into neutral, primed the carburettor and lunged at the kick start. There was no response from the engine at the first attempt, nor was there from the next half dozen. Fortunately, the other machine was nearby so I went through the same procedure, but to no avail. Both machines made it quite clear they were not prepared to carry me to the sergeants' mess. I looked at my watch and saw I had about six minutes to get to the other end of the barracks. Salvation came in the form of one of my signallers on a bicycle. Without bothering to explain, I requisitioned his machine and pedaled for my life. I skidded into some spiky bushes outside the entrance to the sergeants' mess and hurled myself through the door. Standing beneath the clock above the bar was the second-in-command. "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered. "You're five minutes late." Sure enough the clock above the bar registered five minutes past eight o'clock, but I sneaked a look at my own watch and saw that the time was exactly 08.00hrs. I was not brave enough to point out the discrepancy between the two timepieces, even though I was the officer responsible for keeping accurate time in the battalion. I merely muttered: "I'm sorry, sir," before I started to count the bottles and cans which had been put out for me to check.
An hour later, I picked up the bicycle, straightened the handle bars and rode back to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the correct time with the main signals exchange in Khartoum. There was no doubt about it, my watch showed the correct time.
I was pretty sure the second-in-command would put in a report about my 'late arrival' and I was not surprised when I received a call from the orderly room to report to the adjutant. This time I walked with a spring in my step to battalion headquarters and confidently saluted the adjutant when I appeared before him. "Why were you five minutes late reporting to the second-in-command this morning?" he said. "I wish to say that I was not late, sir. If you would care to check with the telephone exchange you will find that the sergeants' mess clock is five minutes fast," I replied. This was my trump card and I reckoned it would not be long before the second-in-command would tender his apologies. Perhaps he would buy me a drink in the mess and say: "Really, old chap - no hard feelings." The adjutant continued to stare at me and I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly he exploded: "I know that the clock in the sergeants' mess is five minutes fast. You should have been there five minutes early - at 07.55. I ask you once again, why were you late?" There was no answer to that, so I said nothing. "Five extra orderly officer duties," said the predatory bird.
This episode did not seem to have any long term effect upon the good relations I had among the higher echelons of command because a few weeks later the commanding officer asked me if I would like go on attachment to the Equatoria Corps of the Sudan Defence Force. It seemed that an officer of the regiment commanded the corps in the Southern Sudan and he had made an offer to host four subalterns. Mike Hughes-Morgan was my companion and we were told to prepare ourselves for a flight to Juba in seven days time.
The day before Mike and I departed, I went for a drink in the Grand Hotel in Khartoum and there met a fellow with whom I had a few cold beers. In those days the 'Grand' was one of the great meeting places in Africa. Empire flying boats of British Overseas Airways Corporation would land conveniently at 'sundowner' time on the White Nile and picturesque paddle-wheel steamers from Atbara would off-load their passengers just a few yards from the entrance to the hotel. The ghosts of General Gordon and the Mahdi seemed to stalk the tree-lined avenues and one could imagine the sight and sounds of distant battle. Looking over the water where the Blue and White Niles meet, I told my companion about the trip I was making on the morrow to the south. "What's it all about and why are they sending you all the way down there?" he asked "It's a 'swan' really," I replied, "and a good opportunity to get away from the heat of this place for a while." We chatted for some time and had a few more drinks before I caught a cab back to South Barracks.
Mike and I made an early start the next day and before the sun was high in the sky we were winging our way south in a de Havilland 'Dove' of Sudan Airways. This is not the time to describe all the fascinating experiences we had in that beautiful part of Africa which lies between the upper reaches of the White Nile, Lake Turkana in North Kenya and the southern foothills of the Ethiopian highlands. It was a big milestone in my life which eventually led me to join the King's African Rifles.
Time passed all too quickly and soon we were on our way back to Khartoum. Arriving at the airport, we were met by the orderly officer who gleefully told me that the adjutant wanted to see me as soon as I arrived in barracks. "What's gone wrong?" I asked him. "I don't know, but he looked angrier than usual."
I went to my quarters, had a shower and put on some clean khaki drill before reporting to the adjutant. Pleasantries about the trip were soon completed and then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a newspaper. "What have you got to say about this?" he said, holding up the broadsheet for me to read. I could see it was a copy of the Sudan's only English language newspaper - 'The Sudan Star' whose front page was emblazoned with the headline: 'SOUTH WALES BORDERERS OFFICER GOES ON A SWAN TO THE SOUTHERN SUDAN'. The article described, with emphasis on 'relaxation', how I viewed the prospect of a safari around Equatoria. It appeared that the Kaid (commander-in-chief) choked on his corn flakes when he read the story and my own commanding officer was pretty angry as well. All this displeasure about me giving 'off the cuff' interviews with the press filtered through to the adjutant. I was given three 'extra orderly officer duties' for 'giving military information to a person not authorised to receive it'. This was a chastening experience which stayed with me for a long time. It was not until sixteen years later when I became a member of the staff of Army Public Relations that I found the courage to speak freely with the press again.
Khartoum was a very hot place during the summer months and most British expatriates in government service, along with their families, went home on leave. In early November they began to return and the run up to Christmas was a very sociable time. Most of us found girl friends and we were soon engaged in a hectic round of parties and dances held in clubs and the sumptuous houses of their parents. We were getting into our stride and looking forward to many more months of this pleasant routine when orders arrived for the battalion to move to Asmara, the capital of the adjacent ex Italian colony of Eritrea. We spent Christmas 1949 in Khartoum and a few days later Mike Hughes Morgan and I took the advance party to Asmara.
Mike was one of those officers who exuded charm and was, without doubt, the most popular young officer in the battalion. The girls adored him and he managed to keep three of them, including one of the Kaid's daughters, completely love-struck while, at the same time, staying friends with all of them. They, along with the one I was friendly with, came along to Khartoum railway station to see us off. Despite the jokes and smiles, it was a sad occasion because an extremely happy period of our lives was coming to an end. We promised (in the case of Mike - all three) that we would write and see each other again. The green flag waved, steam gushed out of the engine and the train started to move. It was then that I cupped my girl friend's face in my hands and gave her a farewell kiss. All four stood on the platform waving farewell as we gathered speed and headed north along the Blue Nile. I never saw her again, but cursed my luck when I spotted her name in the register of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi six years later. Unfortunately, she had left the day before.
Meanwhile, the adjutant arrived on the platform just in time to see me kiss my girl friend. I was told that his legs left the ground as he vented his fury at seeing me: 'behaving in a manner unbecoming an officer'. It was obvious that the real reason for his anger was his failure to get to the railway station on time. In an ugly mood, he drove back to barracks and summoned all the other young officers to his office. He laid it on pretty thick about the lascivious behaviour he had witnessed and warned them that if there was any more of it, the person concerned would not see the light of day for three months.
A week or so after we arrived in Asmara, we were joined by the motor transport officer who brought some trucks up from Khartoum. He could hardly wait to get out of his vehicle to tell me about the adjutant's fury. I knew this particular seagull very well and that the passage of time would do nothing to mellow his attitude.. I was prepared, therefore, for the rocket I received three weeks later when he arrived in Asmara with the rest of the battalion. My contemporaries were very pleased to have a free week from doing orderly officer duties when they arrived in that pleasant city 8,000 feet up on the Hamasien plateau above the Red Sea.
Shifta (bandits) abounded in Eritrea and there was nothing they liked more than shooting Italians. The South Wales Borderers were responsible for organising convoys and supplying armed escorts to travel with them. Most of these convoy duties lost their appeal after the soldiers had travelled the route a few times, but one duty was always popular and that was the Littorina trip to Massawa on the Red Sea coast about eighty miles from Asmara.
Italians excelled in the construction of mountain railways and the one in the Red Sea hills was certainly a fine example of their skill. The subaltern whose duty it was to control the Asmara/Massawa convoys would supervise the despatch of the road convoy and then the steam train. When they were well on their way, he would embark in the Littorina diesel train and 'roller-coast' down to Massawa where he would relax for two days in the Ciao Hotel. The Ciao, as far as I know, never earned a mention in the Good Food book of Africa, but the beds were comfortable, the fans worked and, best of all, there was a swimming pool which contained fresh water, not the salty stuff that made swimming in the Red Sea distasteful. The following morning, the same procedure of seeing the convoys off on the return trip to Asmara took place. After a final swim in the pool and a drink in the bar, the officer would then board the afternoon Littorina and drive back up the mountains to Asmara.
Rifle company subalterns were the ones who usually did these duties while I, as signals officer, rarely had the opportunity to be involved. Either there was a shortage of subalterns or, perhaps, the adjutant considered I needed a change of scenery, because one day I was detailed to be the convoy/escort commander on the Asmara/Massawa run. I went through the whole routine and had a thoroughly pleasant two day break in Massawa.
I arrived back in Asmara feeling quite refreshed and after I put my kit in my room, I went along to the signals office to see if there was anything that needed my attention. 'Duke' Dyer, my signals sergeant, was there and he told me the only problem had been the signals despatch service which had run late for the last two days. This was the 'mail run' for which my organisation was responsible and it seemed that those infernal motor cycles had broken down again.
As I was walking back to the mess I saw, through an open door, the adjutant sitting at his desk. He called out to me and asked how I had enjoyed my two days in Massawa. I told him it had been good and that I would be delighted to do that job any time he liked. I mentioned I had been to my office and that I was aware that the SDS had been late on both days I had been away. "Yes," said seagull, "It was most annoying." We walked on to the veranda of battalion headquarters and he said: "Stand properly at ease." Thinking that a senior officer was about to appear, I did what I was told, expecting to be called up for the salute. The next command was: "Subaltern, right turn - quick march." Upon his further direction, I found myself marking time in front of Major 'Winky' Benyon, the second-in-command, who was sitting at his desk. "I have a complaint to make against the signals officer, sir," said the adjutant. "Twice in the last two days the signals despatch service has been late." Sunray minor (code name for the second-in-command), narrowed his lids and said: "What have you got to say?" I could hardly believe what I had heard and tried to explain I had been 80 miles away for the last two days and could not possibly be blamed for what had gone wrong with the SDS. The florid cheeks of Sunray minor became redder than usual. "Not to blame?" he thundered. "Don't try and shovel off your responsibilities just because you were not here - I won't have it. Now listen to me young man. You make sure that things run properly whether you are here or not. You will find yourself in serious trouble if it happens again." With that stern rebuke I was ordered to 'dismiss'.
I did not collect any extra orderly officer duties that time. Instead, an hour later in the officers' mess, the adjutant, accompanied by his wife, asked me to have supper with them the following night.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; the 'buck' stops with the officer. It just goes to show you do not always have to be punished to be taught a lesson.
In April 1951, I completed two and a half years service with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I wanted to join the Sudan Defence Force but, even though I was accepted, a vacancy in the near future was unlikely to appear. My commanding officer, Lt Col 'Milo' Campbell-Miles and company commander, Major Ken Taylor, had both served with the King's African Rifles and they advised me to follow their example. My application was acted upon with remarkable speed and within a few weeks I was on my way to Mombasa, in Kenya, aboard the 'EMPIRE KEN'.
I was posted to the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles which was stationed in Nanyuki. The equator ran through the bar in the Silverbeck Hotel, or so the proprietor led his customers to believe. He lost credibility with those who knew him when, a few years later, he moved the bar, along with the brass line marked N and S, a few yards left and ten feet north.
The Silverbeck was one of three good hotels in Nanyuki and within my first week with the KAR I made friends with some local settlers. "What about joining me for a night at Cloud Cottage next Friday?" said one of my new acquaintances. He was one of the white hunters based at the Mawingo Hotel (later renamed Mount Kenya Safari Club). He said he would be most grateful if I would help him look after some tourists who would be spending the night watching game from a tree house in the forest below Mount Kenya. The following Friday was Empire Day - a national holiday, so I accepted.
True to his word, he came round to the officers' mess in his 'pick-up' truck at the appointed time and took me to the Mawingo Hotel for lunch and to meet the rest of the party. At about 3pm we set off in two vehicles. We drove about two miles into the forest where we left the vehicles and walked the last half mile to Cloud Cottage.
Before we started the march, our leader briefed the half dozen or so fee paying members of the group about the abundance of game in the area. He assured them that within the next twelve hours they would see: elephant, rhinoceros and buffalo as well as lots of smaller game. "Of all these animals, the buffalo is the most dangerous and that is why we have footholds in the trees from here to Cloud Cottage," he said. He pointed to the first of these trees which had hefty wooden supports set in its trunk from ground level to twenty feet up in its branches. Suitably impressed, and feeling they were getting their money's worth, the tourists moved from tree to tree until we arrived at Cloud Cottage. As a boy, I had an ambition to build a 'den' in the trees, but it never progressed further than having a few planks placed precariously in the fork of an ash tree in the garden. Cloud Cottage fulfilled my dreams. It was a sturdy log cabin, with a veranda, built thirty feet up in a forest giant complete with everything for an overnight stay.
African servants had gone ahead and were already getting 'steam up'. They greeted us with tea and sandwiches when we climbed the ladder which they let down through a hole in the veranda.
Our leader pointed out the salt lick in the open ground to our front and explained that it was there that the animals would come after dark. We had a few hours to spare before last light so he and I went to have a closer look at the salt lick. I was a new boy to the art of reading tracks of big game, but it was not hard to recognise the spoor of elephant, rhino and buffalo when they were pointed out to me in the mud around the lick.
Mount Kenya forest is as impenetrable as the Malayan jungle and those animals that favour dark regions, in particular, black rhino, have their own runs through the thick tangle of undergrowth. I was being shown one of these, which resembled a smaller version of the London underground system, when one of the Africans gave a shout to warn us that a rhino and its calf were coming down the tunnel. A quick sprint across no-man's-land saved us from what could have been a nasty confrontation.
Nothing much happened before 8pm and then we were treated to an unforgettable spectacle of African wild life. All the large animals were there and an almost continuous procession of elephants passed below us. A high powered lamp illuminated the area and the animals seemed to appreciate the assistance we gave them to lick their delicious salt. Later on in the evening, a full moon broke through the clouds above the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and we sat well into the night watching animals come and go to a background symphony of cicadas and frogs.
At first light the following day, servants were up getting breakfast ready and cleaning the place before we started the return journey to the forest edge, There had been rain overnight and the air was fresh; eggs and bacon never tasted so good. Just in case the tourists had forgotten our leader's words of caution, he reminded them of the procedure to be adopted if an angry buffalo confronted us, and then we marched off.
There was no sign of the vehicles when we arrived at the place where we had left them, so we continued to walk. At last we found them - stuck in mud! Even with the help of the tourists, it was difficult to extricate them but, at last, we got them out and we completed our journey back to the Mawingo Hotel.
After we had off-loaded the passengers, my friend took me back to the officers' mess where I had a shower and changed into khaki drill for a working half day. I knew I was a bit late for morning parade, but it was a Saturday and there was not much going on.
I was putting on my puttees when the orderly officer stuck his head around the door and said: "Buck up, there's a good chap, the adjutant wants to see you." If someone had said that to me in my last unit, I would have feared the worst. But on this occasion the impending storm did not reveal itself until I arrived at the adjutant's office and knocked on his door.
"You've been absent without leave. I want an explanation," he said icily. At first I thought he meant I was late for morning parade so I explained I had been stuck in the mud in the forest. "What were you doing up there?" he snorted as if he thought I had been visiting a brothel. I told him I had been doing nothing more illicit than watching animals licking salt and, furthermore, on a public holiday.
Seagull had a book on his desk. He opened it, inspected the pages and said: "There's no application by you to stay a night in the forest." This was another of those occasions when I just stood still and said nothing. "Three extra orderly officer duties and make sure you obey the rules in future," he said.
Eighteen months after joining the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles I was appointed adjutant, but only after the incumbent was murdered by one of our askaris when we were serving in Malaya. If ever there was a case of stepping into a dead man's shoes, that was it. Eight years later, I was appointed adjutant again - to a territorial battalion of my regiment. So, I have had plenty of time to set guidelines for a new breed of 'seagull'.
It was my fond and pious belief that I became a friend to all and sundry until just after I retired, when I attended a comrades' dinner. One of my hosts was a retired non-commissioned officer who chatted with me about old times. He seemed to know me very well, but try as hard as I could, I was unable to remember his name. "Which company were you with?" I asked. A look of astonishment crossed his face: "Why, yours of course. HQ Company of the Borderers, in Cyprus" He went on: "Surely you remember the day when you came around the lines on inspection and put me on a charge for having a dirty bed space. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live," he said. "We were more frightened of you than we were of the adjutant."
Showing posts with label Asmara. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Asmara. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 June 2008
On a Wing and a Prayer
It was the pigeon loft under which I lived for a week in a deserted Italian house in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950 that gave me the idea of using an alternative means of communication to my wireless sets. As signals officer of my unit I was always being chased by the commanding officer for the shortcomings of the radios. There was very little I could do about it. I didn't really understand how they worked and my efforts to repair them when they went wrong usually made them worse.
We had been garrisoning a scruffy little village on the outskirts of Asmara after a Muslim fanatic tossed a bomb into a Coptic Christian funeral procession. The effect was like putting a thunderflash into a wasps' nest and the battalion had been hard pressed to find enough men to keep the two communities from slaughtering each other.
When we eventually moved back to barracks, I thought about the pigeons in the loft of the house we had used and I spoke to my signals sergeant about catching some of the birds and training them as message carriers. He was interested in the idea and, as we had reached rock bottom in communications efficiency, he thought we should give it a try. When I decided to go ahead with the project, there was no shortage of helpers from the signals platoon. Within a few days, a loft of generous proportions was constructed half way up a water tower behind the signals store.
When everything was ready, a few of us went back one evening to the deserted house armed with a pair of crook-sticks (for lifting telephone cable over trees etc.), a mosquito net, a ladder and a wicker basket. We lifted the mosquito net over the loft with the crook-sticks and then I climbed up the ladder under the net. I gently explored the inside of the loft with my hands until I found a bird. As soon as I closed my fingers around its body there was pandemonium and I was quite unprepared for the rush to escape. Pigeons can work up a fair head of steam in a small space and I was pounded on all sides by birds whose only thought was to get away from me and the confines of the mosquito net. More for self protection than trying to catch pigeons, I found that my hands were full all the time. All I had to do was pass them down to a signaller who put them straight into the basket. Within a short time we had as many birds as we wanted, had loaded them into a jeep and were heading back to camp. We put them directly into the loft where an ample supply of food was available to make them feel at home.
I managed to get hold of an old Army pamphlet on pigeon management and I learnt that new birds must be kept in the loft for seven days and fed every day just before dusk. On the eighth day, the birds should be let out just before feeding time so that they can have some exercise and then return for their food. Thereafter, they should stay quite happily in the loft and should return from considerable distances.
For the next seven days the fifteen or so birds ate a considerable amount of food and some of the more mature birds put on so much weight that I wondered if the exit from the loft was big enough to let them out. On the evening of the eighth day, the entire signals platoon turned out to see what would happen. I climbed up the ladder on the water tower, opened the door of the loft and stood back. There was a pause before the first bird came forward to have a look around. He spread his wings and flew up into the evening sky. That was the signal for the others to take-off as well. We never saw them again.
All was not lost. When I looked inside the loft, I could see some birds huddled in a corner. I left the door open hoping that the mature birds would return, while some of the youngsters stuck their heads out and vainly flapped their wings.. They were too young to fly and knowing their capabilities, went back inside and ate the food I had put down for them. After another week, they plucked up courage to jump off the water tower and it was a delight to watch them as they exercised in their new found freedom.
For the first couple of days, they were content to stay near the loft and then they became adventurous and went off to explore one of the fine legacies which the Italians had left to their former colony - the aerial ropeway. This engineering marvel, which ran near the camp perimeter, was designed to carry coal in large steel buckets from the seaport of Massawa up and over the spectacular mountain range to Asmara, eighty miles away and eight thousand feet above sea level. It had not been used commercially for a long time, but once a week someone pressed a button and the whole one hundred and sixty miles of ropeway creaked into action and ran for about half an hour. My pigeons used to sit on the wire, when it wasn't moving, and as it was so well oiled, they all developed little black backsides - by which they could be recognised.
The birds became quite tame as they were fed on food not readily available to less privileged birds in Eritrea. The cook sergeant kept me well supplied with dried peas and lentils and they soon developed into fine plump birds.
When I considered that they were old enough to do some serious work, I took them for flights in multiples of half mile distances. Before long, they were finding their way home from twenty miles away.
The commanding officer who up till now had had doubts about my signalling skills, started to show interest. I explained the reason for the large packing case half way up the tower and the system of string and pulley that ran from the signal office to a spring-loaded door on the front of the loft. The routine worked like this: (1) Pigeon lands on platform in front of closed door. (2) Platform depressed and rings bell in office. (3) Signals clerk pulls lever and opens door to loft. (4) Pigeon hops inside. (5) Signals clerk relaxes lever and closes door. (6) Signals clerk climbs ladder, catches pigeon and recovers message. It was very impressive and the CO was pleased with what promised to be a great leap forward in communication technology. From the look on his face, I believe he had a vision of pigeons winging their way around Eritrea on a sort of aerial milk-run.
This fantasy could never get off the ground for two reasons. First - pigeons can only fly in one direction; you have to take them to a distant point and then let them fly back home. Second - hawks. Eritrea abounds with all manner of birds of prey whose favourite food is pigeon. The chance of a pigeon travelling on His Majesty's service over the sort of terrain found near Asmara without being seen by a hungry carnivore was fairly slim; in the early days of my pigeon post I lost quite a few birds. A serious impediment to their mobility was the message, in a plastic bag, strapped around its leg with an elastic band. When attacked by a hawk, the poor bird must have felt like a Spitfire with its wheels down being chased by a Messerschmitt 109.
There was also the problem of transporting the birds. They never took kindly to being stuffed into cardboard boxes and being bounced around on a mule or the back seat of a jeep. I suspect that some of my signallers felt sorry for them and released them prematurely.
One day, the CO told me that he and the brigadier were going to visit one of the detachments about forty miles away on the road to Keren and that this would be a good opportunity for the brigadier to see the pigeon post in action. My most trustworthy bird was a snowy white female (marred only by a black ring on her bottom). She was placed in one of the specially prepared cardboard boxes and handed over to the intelligence sergeant who was detailed to accompany the party.
When they arrived at the detachment, the intelligence sergeant set about preparing a message to say they had arrived and would be returning in about one and a half hours time. The CO casually told the brigadier about the contents of the cardboard box and the old boy was fascinated as he watched the procedure with the plastic bag and the rubber band. "How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen this done since I was a subaltern just after the Great War. Does it work?" "Oh, yes, sir," said the sergeant, "she'll be back in Asmara in about twenty minutes." He then released the bird.
The pigeon flew up to about one hundred feet and made a number of large circular passes over the camp. "Just getting her bearings," said the colonel, "she'll be off next time around, I expect." His expectations of her flying back to Asmara were wrong. Instead, she set a southerly course and disappeared from view when she reached a range of barren hills. "She'll end up in Addis Ababa if she goes that way," grunted the brigadier, and with a motion to the colonel that he wanted to start work on more serious matters, he stomped off.
About twenty minutes later, the party were striding around the perimeter fence when a solitary white bird flew in from the south and settled on a thorn tree next to the cook house. "Isn't that your bird, Johnny?" asked the brigadier. Unless there was another white bird in Africa with a plastic bag tied around its leg, it was fair to assume this one was a member of the signals platoon of the South Wales Borderers. "Uh, yes, sir, I believe it is," said the colonel, who by now had had enough of my pigeon and wished it would fly off anywhere and not come back. The brigadier then took over. He grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it at the bird. Pigeons are sensitive creatures and they value their long association with man. This unfriendly act by a senior officer who should have known better could have destroyed the trust I had built up over a number of weeks. As the old boy was a good shot and was bending over to collect a second handful of gravel, the bird did not wait for another salvo and flew off once again in the direction of Ethiopia.
The inspection came to an end during the late afternoon and after a cup of tea in the detachment commander's tent, the party embarked in their vehicles and set off for Asmara.
Meanwhile, I was standing outside the signals office scanning the sky for my pigeon. I realised that something had gone wrong because, for once, wirelss communications were working reasonably well. I had been given a running commentary by one of the signallers who had watched the antics of the brigadier and the reluctant pigeon. I was also given the time he had left the outpost and I knew within quarter of an hour or so, when the party would arrive in camp. I also had a pretty good idea what the CO would say if I was not in possession of the pigeon post message.
From where I was in my observation post, I could see the main gate and my heart sank when I saw three vehicles approaching. The provost sergeant and a few regimental policemen tumbled out of the guard room and saluted the brigadier's jeep as it passed them and headed in the direction of the officers' mess. "Well. that's it," I said to myself. "It's only a matter of time before my birds get the order of the stock-pot." With this dismal thought in mind, I decided to slink off to my quarters and bury my head. But just then, a flash of white appeared over the roof of the signals office and, as I looked up, I saw my beautiful white bird banking in fast flight around the water tower. The signals clerk was alerted by my whoops of joy and a few seconds later I heard the bell ring as the pigeon landed on the platform. It was working like magic, the ringing stopped when the bird went inside and then the clerk pulled the lever to stop her getting out. I sprinted across to the water tower and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. I opened the door and gently removed the mesage from her leg before free-falling down the ladder in my haste to get a date/time stamp on the small piece of paper.
I felt I could face the commanding officer and the brigadier with confidence, so I made my way over to the officers' mess. It turned out better than I had hoped, for on my way to the mess I met the colonel and the brigadier on their way to see me. The CO was looking sick as he had had enough of me, my pigeon and the brigadier. "Did your bird turn up?" asked the old boy. My answer was to hold up the piece of paper. He chuckled, slapped me on my back and told me how much he appreciated initiative. I glanced across at the commanding officer who was staring at the message in disbelief. Eventually, but only after he had submitted the message to intense scrutiny, a grin spread over his face as he handed it back to me.
From that moment, and for some considerable time after, I held the position of 'most favoured subaltern'. It seemed I could do no wrong and, to add coals to an already healthy fire, the brigadier asked me to address the joint operations planning committee on the subject of 'communications in a hostile environment'.
Eritrea is still a wild and lawless country and, as yet, there is no hope of it finding a slot on the tourist route. It will happen one day though and, who knows, the aerial ropeway may come into its own again. If you ever visit one of the most remarkable capital cities in the world and take a ride on a cable car, look out for some snowy white pigeons with black backsides - they could be regimental property.
We had been garrisoning a scruffy little village on the outskirts of Asmara after a Muslim fanatic tossed a bomb into a Coptic Christian funeral procession. The effect was like putting a thunderflash into a wasps' nest and the battalion had been hard pressed to find enough men to keep the two communities from slaughtering each other.
When we eventually moved back to barracks, I thought about the pigeons in the loft of the house we had used and I spoke to my signals sergeant about catching some of the birds and training them as message carriers. He was interested in the idea and, as we had reached rock bottom in communications efficiency, he thought we should give it a try. When I decided to go ahead with the project, there was no shortage of helpers from the signals platoon. Within a few days, a loft of generous proportions was constructed half way up a water tower behind the signals store.
When everything was ready, a few of us went back one evening to the deserted house armed with a pair of crook-sticks (for lifting telephone cable over trees etc.), a mosquito net, a ladder and a wicker basket. We lifted the mosquito net over the loft with the crook-sticks and then I climbed up the ladder under the net. I gently explored the inside of the loft with my hands until I found a bird. As soon as I closed my fingers around its body there was pandemonium and I was quite unprepared for the rush to escape. Pigeons can work up a fair head of steam in a small space and I was pounded on all sides by birds whose only thought was to get away from me and the confines of the mosquito net. More for self protection than trying to catch pigeons, I found that my hands were full all the time. All I had to do was pass them down to a signaller who put them straight into the basket. Within a short time we had as many birds as we wanted, had loaded them into a jeep and were heading back to camp. We put them directly into the loft where an ample supply of food was available to make them feel at home.
I managed to get hold of an old Army pamphlet on pigeon management and I learnt that new birds must be kept in the loft for seven days and fed every day just before dusk. On the eighth day, the birds should be let out just before feeding time so that they can have some exercise and then return for their food. Thereafter, they should stay quite happily in the loft and should return from considerable distances.
For the next seven days the fifteen or so birds ate a considerable amount of food and some of the more mature birds put on so much weight that I wondered if the exit from the loft was big enough to let them out. On the evening of the eighth day, the entire signals platoon turned out to see what would happen. I climbed up the ladder on the water tower, opened the door of the loft and stood back. There was a pause before the first bird came forward to have a look around. He spread his wings and flew up into the evening sky. That was the signal for the others to take-off as well. We never saw them again.
All was not lost. When I looked inside the loft, I could see some birds huddled in a corner. I left the door open hoping that the mature birds would return, while some of the youngsters stuck their heads out and vainly flapped their wings.. They were too young to fly and knowing their capabilities, went back inside and ate the food I had put down for them. After another week, they plucked up courage to jump off the water tower and it was a delight to watch them as they exercised in their new found freedom.
For the first couple of days, they were content to stay near the loft and then they became adventurous and went off to explore one of the fine legacies which the Italians had left to their former colony - the aerial ropeway. This engineering marvel, which ran near the camp perimeter, was designed to carry coal in large steel buckets from the seaport of Massawa up and over the spectacular mountain range to Asmara, eighty miles away and eight thousand feet above sea level. It had not been used commercially for a long time, but once a week someone pressed a button and the whole one hundred and sixty miles of ropeway creaked into action and ran for about half an hour. My pigeons used to sit on the wire, when it wasn't moving, and as it was so well oiled, they all developed little black backsides - by which they could be recognised.
The birds became quite tame as they were fed on food not readily available to less privileged birds in Eritrea. The cook sergeant kept me well supplied with dried peas and lentils and they soon developed into fine plump birds.
When I considered that they were old enough to do some serious work, I took them for flights in multiples of half mile distances. Before long, they were finding their way home from twenty miles away.
The commanding officer who up till now had had doubts about my signalling skills, started to show interest. I explained the reason for the large packing case half way up the tower and the system of string and pulley that ran from the signal office to a spring-loaded door on the front of the loft. The routine worked like this: (1) Pigeon lands on platform in front of closed door. (2) Platform depressed and rings bell in office. (3) Signals clerk pulls lever and opens door to loft. (4) Pigeon hops inside. (5) Signals clerk relaxes lever and closes door. (6) Signals clerk climbs ladder, catches pigeon and recovers message. It was very impressive and the CO was pleased with what promised to be a great leap forward in communication technology. From the look on his face, I believe he had a vision of pigeons winging their way around Eritrea on a sort of aerial milk-run.
This fantasy could never get off the ground for two reasons. First - pigeons can only fly in one direction; you have to take them to a distant point and then let them fly back home. Second - hawks. Eritrea abounds with all manner of birds of prey whose favourite food is pigeon. The chance of a pigeon travelling on His Majesty's service over the sort of terrain found near Asmara without being seen by a hungry carnivore was fairly slim; in the early days of my pigeon post I lost quite a few birds. A serious impediment to their mobility was the message, in a plastic bag, strapped around its leg with an elastic band. When attacked by a hawk, the poor bird must have felt like a Spitfire with its wheels down being chased by a Messerschmitt 109.
There was also the problem of transporting the birds. They never took kindly to being stuffed into cardboard boxes and being bounced around on a mule or the back seat of a jeep. I suspect that some of my signallers felt sorry for them and released them prematurely.
One day, the CO told me that he and the brigadier were going to visit one of the detachments about forty miles away on the road to Keren and that this would be a good opportunity for the brigadier to see the pigeon post in action. My most trustworthy bird was a snowy white female (marred only by a black ring on her bottom). She was placed in one of the specially prepared cardboard boxes and handed over to the intelligence sergeant who was detailed to accompany the party.
When they arrived at the detachment, the intelligence sergeant set about preparing a message to say they had arrived and would be returning in about one and a half hours time. The CO casually told the brigadier about the contents of the cardboard box and the old boy was fascinated as he watched the procedure with the plastic bag and the rubber band. "How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen this done since I was a subaltern just after the Great War. Does it work?" "Oh, yes, sir," said the sergeant, "she'll be back in Asmara in about twenty minutes." He then released the bird.
The pigeon flew up to about one hundred feet and made a number of large circular passes over the camp. "Just getting her bearings," said the colonel, "she'll be off next time around, I expect." His expectations of her flying back to Asmara were wrong. Instead, she set a southerly course and disappeared from view when she reached a range of barren hills. "She'll end up in Addis Ababa if she goes that way," grunted the brigadier, and with a motion to the colonel that he wanted to start work on more serious matters, he stomped off.
About twenty minutes later, the party were striding around the perimeter fence when a solitary white bird flew in from the south and settled on a thorn tree next to the cook house. "Isn't that your bird, Johnny?" asked the brigadier. Unless there was another white bird in Africa with a plastic bag tied around its leg, it was fair to assume this one was a member of the signals platoon of the South Wales Borderers. "Uh, yes, sir, I believe it is," said the colonel, who by now had had enough of my pigeon and wished it would fly off anywhere and not come back. The brigadier then took over. He grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it at the bird. Pigeons are sensitive creatures and they value their long association with man. This unfriendly act by a senior officer who should have known better could have destroyed the trust I had built up over a number of weeks. As the old boy was a good shot and was bending over to collect a second handful of gravel, the bird did not wait for another salvo and flew off once again in the direction of Ethiopia.
The inspection came to an end during the late afternoon and after a cup of tea in the detachment commander's tent, the party embarked in their vehicles and set off for Asmara.
Meanwhile, I was standing outside the signals office scanning the sky for my pigeon. I realised that something had gone wrong because, for once, wirelss communications were working reasonably well. I had been given a running commentary by one of the signallers who had watched the antics of the brigadier and the reluctant pigeon. I was also given the time he had left the outpost and I knew within quarter of an hour or so, when the party would arrive in camp. I also had a pretty good idea what the CO would say if I was not in possession of the pigeon post message.
From where I was in my observation post, I could see the main gate and my heart sank when I saw three vehicles approaching. The provost sergeant and a few regimental policemen tumbled out of the guard room and saluted the brigadier's jeep as it passed them and headed in the direction of the officers' mess. "Well. that's it," I said to myself. "It's only a matter of time before my birds get the order of the stock-pot." With this dismal thought in mind, I decided to slink off to my quarters and bury my head. But just then, a flash of white appeared over the roof of the signals office and, as I looked up, I saw my beautiful white bird banking in fast flight around the water tower. The signals clerk was alerted by my whoops of joy and a few seconds later I heard the bell ring as the pigeon landed on the platform. It was working like magic, the ringing stopped when the bird went inside and then the clerk pulled the lever to stop her getting out. I sprinted across to the water tower and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. I opened the door and gently removed the mesage from her leg before free-falling down the ladder in my haste to get a date/time stamp on the small piece of paper.
I felt I could face the commanding officer and the brigadier with confidence, so I made my way over to the officers' mess. It turned out better than I had hoped, for on my way to the mess I met the colonel and the brigadier on their way to see me. The CO was looking sick as he had had enough of me, my pigeon and the brigadier. "Did your bird turn up?" asked the old boy. My answer was to hold up the piece of paper. He chuckled, slapped me on my back and told me how much he appreciated initiative. I glanced across at the commanding officer who was staring at the message in disbelief. Eventually, but only after he had submitted the message to intense scrutiny, a grin spread over his face as he handed it back to me.
From that moment, and for some considerable time after, I held the position of 'most favoured subaltern'. It seemed I could do no wrong and, to add coals to an already healthy fire, the brigadier asked me to address the joint operations planning committee on the subject of 'communications in a hostile environment'.
Eritrea is still a wild and lawless country and, as yet, there is no hope of it finding a slot on the tourist route. It will happen one day though and, who knows, the aerial ropeway may come into its own again. If you ever visit one of the most remarkable capital cities in the world and take a ride on a cable car, look out for some snowy white pigeons with black backsides - they could be regimental property.
He Went That Way
The first time I saw Jenkins 17 he was flying through the air having been ejected from the driving seat of a two horse power gharry near the old city of Famagusta in Cyprus.
I was on my way back to camp near the old Roman town of Salamis after spending a week-end in Nicosia. I had rounded a bend in a taxi when I saw coming towards me a Cypriot gharry travelling at speed and drawn by two wild eyed horses. Ahead of me was another taxi and it was obvious the two converging parties would crash; this they did with dramatic effect. The two horses were killed instantly, while the driver was catapulted over the mangled remains of the animals to end up within a few feet from the front bumper of my taxi.
I got out of the taxi to see if I could help and fully expected to find that the driver who was lying comatose on his back, dead as well. But he opened his eyes, dusted himself down and uttered a few expletives which clearly identified him as a Welshman. A couple of military policemen and the owner of the gharry hurried to the scene. The poor old Cypriot was not at all pleased with what he saw. His livelihood had come to an abrupt end and what was left of his horses was not likely to bring him much change from the knacker's yard. He quivered with rage at the sight of the person responsible for his ill fortune and would have hurled himself at his wrong doer if the military policemen had not restrained him.
"He went that way," said the young man without batting an eyelid. "Who did?" I asked. "The bloke who was driving the gharry," he replied. For coolness in the face of damning evidence, I gave him full marks, but the 'red-caps' were not impressed and put a pair of handcuffs on him. They asked me if I had seen the crash and did I know the person who was the focus of the real gharry driver's invective. To the first question I answered 'yes', and to the second I replied 'no'. "But," I went on, "this is the man who was in the driving seat." The young man gaped at me and said: "It wasn't me, sir. I can't drive a gharry. To be able to do that you have to make clucking sounds to make the horses move - and I can't do it." He then proceeded to demonstrate how he could not make clucking sounds. His face contorted into a variety of shapes as he sucked and squelched, gurgled and croaked. "There you are, sir, I can't make a clucking noise," he said. The 'red-caps' who had watched the demonstration with inscrutable looks on their faces decided that that was enough and the young man's feet left the ground as the cops whisked him off to their van.
That was my introduction to 'Jenks', or Jenkins 17 as he was known by the use of the last two digits of his Army number. After well over forty years soldiering during which time I have met many remarkable people, I can honestly say I have never met anyone who equalled Jenkins 17 for getting himself into trouble
I was the prime witness in the aforementioned incident and Jenkins had the book thrown at him. For his own good, he was banned from going anywhere near the town of Famagusta during the remainder of the battalion's stay in Cyprus. But this did not work as a few months later he stowed away on a cargo ship and was picked up in Malta. He was returned to Cyprus two weeks later where he took up residence in one of the cells in the guard room. Except for the regimental sergeant major and the provost sergeant, Jenkins got on quite well with the rest of the provost staff who made life reasonably comfortable for him.
When he was finally let out of jail to enjoy what was left of the summer of 1948, Jenkins was put on guard duty in one of the watch-towers in the fence surrounding the main illegal Jewish immigrant camp. The Jews behind the barbed wire looked upon us in very much the same way as they had looked upon the Nazis under whom many of these poor people suffered during the war. Their aim was to get to Palestine and turn it into the Jewish homeland of Israel. They knew they would have to fight for their country and during their enforced seclusion in Cyprus, young men and women of military age were kept busy with a strict programme of military training. The walls of their lecture huts were made of unopened cans of pineapples and peaches provided in vast quantities by American Jewish organisations. They had dummy wooden rifles which they made themselves, parade grounds, assault courses and all the paraphernalia you would expect to find in a normal infantry battalion 'up-country' station.
Our sentries used to sit in the watch-towers and keep an eye on things, in particular the many shapely young Jewesses in the briefest swim wear (also supplied by the Americans). One day the commanding officer, accompanied by the adjutant and the regimental sergeant major, was making a routine inspection. As the party approached one of the watch-towers they were startled to hear the sound of parade ground orders being shouted, while the Jews on their parade ground responded with commendable smartness. All the usual stuff like: 'Saluting to the front --", "Left wheel" and "Right wheel," "Advance in review order," etc. came thundering out from somewhere or other, but it was not until the RSM looked upwards to the watch-tower that all became clear. There was Jenkins 17, with his beret stuck on the back of his head, so thoroughly in command of the parade that he was quite oblivious of the high powered party below him. With a roar, the RSM brought Jenkins's drill parade to an abrupt end. A substitute sentry was found and Jenkins was taken to the guard-room where, once again, he took up residence in the familiar little cell.
Jenkins cultivated a friendship with the medical officer who practised natural methods to bring relief from sickness and suffering. Ailments ranging from tonsillitis and torn ligaments to athlete's foot received the same prescription: "let the sun get at it." But for Jenkins, the contents of the pill and medicine cupboard were always available. He had the knack of being able to press the right button just before battalion drill parades and no matter how hard his company sergeant major tried, Jenkins - with the help of the medical officer, would always pip him at the post.
On one occasion, Jenkins had been given some exotic mixture by the MO which made his hair fall out. 'Excused hair-cuts until further notice' was the entry on his sick-note which he was careful to carry around in the back of his pay-book. When he wore a beret, his bald patch could not be seen and even though he could not grow hair on the top of his head, it grew in profusion around the level of his ears and the back of his neck. The blonde curls and wisps of hair that hung over his collar were like red rags to a bull when the company and regimental sergeant major were about, but there was nothing they could do as the medical officer guarded him like a prize poodle.
When we arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950, Jenk's wanderlust was reactivated and he started off on his own to walk to South Africa. After he had trudged a few hundred miles and the mountains of Ethiopia were getting higher and higher, he realised he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he turned round and headed back. The regimental sergeant major was waiting for him when he returned to Asmara and once again he was back in the cell in the guard room.
A few months later he had another try. I was on my way back from Massawa where I had spent a few days fishing when Jenkins passed me pedalling the orderly room bicycle on Nefasit Staircase, one of the steep stretches of road between the seaport and Asmara; he was heading for the coast, about seventy five miles away where he planned to stow away on a ship. I felt it was my duty to stop at the next police post and request them to alert another post further down the road that a British 'civilian' was on his own on a bicycle. This was an extremely dangerous thing to do as shifta (bandits) were active and would have thought nothing of killing a single white man. Jenkins was apprehended and later that day was once more back in the guard room.
The adjutant, who had tried everything to reform Jenkins, produced the last trick in his bag - 'absolution'. He made Jenkins the orderly room runner and gave him the bicycle he had used in his attempt to reach the Red Sea coast. This worked and from then on, and certainly until I left the battalion in 1951, Jenkins became a model orderly room runner.
The bicycle which had never seen an oily rag, was polished and burnished until it shone like a new medal. He carried a brew-can on the handlebars and this was always full of the cook sergeant's very best tea. Jenkins became a welcome visitor in company offices; not only did he deliver a piping hot drink as well as letters and messages from the orderly room, but he also knew what was inside the envelopes and would often give good advice about their contents. I remember him coming into the signals office one day with my annual confidential report. He watched me as I read it and commented: "Not a bad one at all, sir."
When old soldiers look back on their service they think about the good times and the many people who have enriched their lives. I will always remember Jenkins 17 because he was an individual who liked to do things his way. The full power of authority was often directed against him, and it hurt. But that did not stop him from doing what he wanted when he felt the urge. I haven't seen him for nearly half a century, but I'm still hopeful of running into him at one of our reunions.
I was on my way back to camp near the old Roman town of Salamis after spending a week-end in Nicosia. I had rounded a bend in a taxi when I saw coming towards me a Cypriot gharry travelling at speed and drawn by two wild eyed horses. Ahead of me was another taxi and it was obvious the two converging parties would crash; this they did with dramatic effect. The two horses were killed instantly, while the driver was catapulted over the mangled remains of the animals to end up within a few feet from the front bumper of my taxi.
I got out of the taxi to see if I could help and fully expected to find that the driver who was lying comatose on his back, dead as well. But he opened his eyes, dusted himself down and uttered a few expletives which clearly identified him as a Welshman. A couple of military policemen and the owner of the gharry hurried to the scene. The poor old Cypriot was not at all pleased with what he saw. His livelihood had come to an abrupt end and what was left of his horses was not likely to bring him much change from the knacker's yard. He quivered with rage at the sight of the person responsible for his ill fortune and would have hurled himself at his wrong doer if the military policemen had not restrained him.
"He went that way," said the young man without batting an eyelid. "Who did?" I asked. "The bloke who was driving the gharry," he replied. For coolness in the face of damning evidence, I gave him full marks, but the 'red-caps' were not impressed and put a pair of handcuffs on him. They asked me if I had seen the crash and did I know the person who was the focus of the real gharry driver's invective. To the first question I answered 'yes', and to the second I replied 'no'. "But," I went on, "this is the man who was in the driving seat." The young man gaped at me and said: "It wasn't me, sir. I can't drive a gharry. To be able to do that you have to make clucking sounds to make the horses move - and I can't do it." He then proceeded to demonstrate how he could not make clucking sounds. His face contorted into a variety of shapes as he sucked and squelched, gurgled and croaked. "There you are, sir, I can't make a clucking noise," he said. The 'red-caps' who had watched the demonstration with inscrutable looks on their faces decided that that was enough and the young man's feet left the ground as the cops whisked him off to their van.
That was my introduction to 'Jenks', or Jenkins 17 as he was known by the use of the last two digits of his Army number. After well over forty years soldiering during which time I have met many remarkable people, I can honestly say I have never met anyone who equalled Jenkins 17 for getting himself into trouble
I was the prime witness in the aforementioned incident and Jenkins had the book thrown at him. For his own good, he was banned from going anywhere near the town of Famagusta during the remainder of the battalion's stay in Cyprus. But this did not work as a few months later he stowed away on a cargo ship and was picked up in Malta. He was returned to Cyprus two weeks later where he took up residence in one of the cells in the guard room. Except for the regimental sergeant major and the provost sergeant, Jenkins got on quite well with the rest of the provost staff who made life reasonably comfortable for him.
When he was finally let out of jail to enjoy what was left of the summer of 1948, Jenkins was put on guard duty in one of the watch-towers in the fence surrounding the main illegal Jewish immigrant camp. The Jews behind the barbed wire looked upon us in very much the same way as they had looked upon the Nazis under whom many of these poor people suffered during the war. Their aim was to get to Palestine and turn it into the Jewish homeland of Israel. They knew they would have to fight for their country and during their enforced seclusion in Cyprus, young men and women of military age were kept busy with a strict programme of military training. The walls of their lecture huts were made of unopened cans of pineapples and peaches provided in vast quantities by American Jewish organisations. They had dummy wooden rifles which they made themselves, parade grounds, assault courses and all the paraphernalia you would expect to find in a normal infantry battalion 'up-country' station.
Our sentries used to sit in the watch-towers and keep an eye on things, in particular the many shapely young Jewesses in the briefest swim wear (also supplied by the Americans). One day the commanding officer, accompanied by the adjutant and the regimental sergeant major, was making a routine inspection. As the party approached one of the watch-towers they were startled to hear the sound of parade ground orders being shouted, while the Jews on their parade ground responded with commendable smartness. All the usual stuff like: 'Saluting to the front --", "Left wheel" and "Right wheel," "Advance in review order," etc. came thundering out from somewhere or other, but it was not until the RSM looked upwards to the watch-tower that all became clear. There was Jenkins 17, with his beret stuck on the back of his head, so thoroughly in command of the parade that he was quite oblivious of the high powered party below him. With a roar, the RSM brought Jenkins's drill parade to an abrupt end. A substitute sentry was found and Jenkins was taken to the guard-room where, once again, he took up residence in the familiar little cell.
Jenkins cultivated a friendship with the medical officer who practised natural methods to bring relief from sickness and suffering. Ailments ranging from tonsillitis and torn ligaments to athlete's foot received the same prescription: "let the sun get at it." But for Jenkins, the contents of the pill and medicine cupboard were always available. He had the knack of being able to press the right button just before battalion drill parades and no matter how hard his company sergeant major tried, Jenkins - with the help of the medical officer, would always pip him at the post.
On one occasion, Jenkins had been given some exotic mixture by the MO which made his hair fall out. 'Excused hair-cuts until further notice' was the entry on his sick-note which he was careful to carry around in the back of his pay-book. When he wore a beret, his bald patch could not be seen and even though he could not grow hair on the top of his head, it grew in profusion around the level of his ears and the back of his neck. The blonde curls and wisps of hair that hung over his collar were like red rags to a bull when the company and regimental sergeant major were about, but there was nothing they could do as the medical officer guarded him like a prize poodle.
When we arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950, Jenk's wanderlust was reactivated and he started off on his own to walk to South Africa. After he had trudged a few hundred miles and the mountains of Ethiopia were getting higher and higher, he realised he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he turned round and headed back. The regimental sergeant major was waiting for him when he returned to Asmara and once again he was back in the cell in the guard room.
A few months later he had another try. I was on my way back from Massawa where I had spent a few days fishing when Jenkins passed me pedalling the orderly room bicycle on Nefasit Staircase, one of the steep stretches of road between the seaport and Asmara; he was heading for the coast, about seventy five miles away where he planned to stow away on a ship. I felt it was my duty to stop at the next police post and request them to alert another post further down the road that a British 'civilian' was on his own on a bicycle. This was an extremely dangerous thing to do as shifta (bandits) were active and would have thought nothing of killing a single white man. Jenkins was apprehended and later that day was once more back in the guard room.
The adjutant, who had tried everything to reform Jenkins, produced the last trick in his bag - 'absolution'. He made Jenkins the orderly room runner and gave him the bicycle he had used in his attempt to reach the Red Sea coast. This worked and from then on, and certainly until I left the battalion in 1951, Jenkins became a model orderly room runner.
The bicycle which had never seen an oily rag, was polished and burnished until it shone like a new medal. He carried a brew-can on the handlebars and this was always full of the cook sergeant's very best tea. Jenkins became a welcome visitor in company offices; not only did he deliver a piping hot drink as well as letters and messages from the orderly room, but he also knew what was inside the envelopes and would often give good advice about their contents. I remember him coming into the signals office one day with my annual confidential report. He watched me as I read it and commented: "Not a bad one at all, sir."
When old soldiers look back on their service they think about the good times and the many people who have enriched their lives. I will always remember Jenkins 17 because he was an individual who liked to do things his way. The full power of authority was often directed against him, and it hurt. But that did not stop him from doing what he wanted when he felt the urge. I haven't seen him for nearly half a century, but I'm still hopeful of running into him at one of our reunions.
Sunday, 3 February 2008
AT SEA WITH 3/KAR
Part 1
In May 1951, askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles were told they were going to Malaya for eighteen months to take part in the fight against communist terrorists. Some of them must have thought that a life of bliss awaited them as 'Malaya', in Kiswahili, means 'lady of easy virtue'. The feeling of euphoria they had at the thought of entering Paradise on earth evaporated soon after they arrived in the Far East and found that tented camps in remote jungle locations was the nearest they were going to get to Utopia.
It was difficult trying to explain to askaris what the 'emergency' in Malaya was all about. In the early '50s Africans were not as well educated as they are today, there was no television or visual aids to explain what the country and people looked like and the wazungu's (white officers' and NCOs') attempts to describe a troopship drew wondrous looks. Except for those who lived near Lake Victoria, very few askaris had seen a large expanse of water - rivers and streams were familiar to them (but only in the wet season) and a dug-out canoe was their only perception of a boat.
I was in charge of the advance party of 3/KAR when we left Nanyuki in September 1951. The first part of our journey took us by train to Nairobi where we changed to the overnight express which carried us to Mombasa. The 'Empire Ken' was there to greet us and I for one was not impressed. Seven months previously, I had travelled on her from Massawa, in Eritrea, to Mombasa. A more uncomfortable ship would be hard to find. She had a list to port and everything you did, from drinking soup at one end of the bowl, to climbing uphill in bed when you wanted to turn over reminded you that life was lived permanently on the slant.
Already aboard, was the advance party of 1/KAR, from Nyasaland, who had travelled up from Beira and were also destined for active service in Malaya. It was not often that our askaris had the opportunity to meet fellow soldiers from so far afield but, despite a language problem, it was not long before they found ways of communicating with each other.
It was decided that askaris of 3/KAR should occupy a block house near the stern of the ship. I am sure the original design of the ship did not include this strange looking appendage but it suited our lads admirably as they had a commanding view of everything that lay before and around them. We sailed late that afternoon and the decks were full of askaris taking a last look at their homeland as we moved slowly down the channel from Mombasa harbour to the open sea.
I attended breakfast the following morning and was amused to see the askaris' reaction to British food. Instead of their normal ration of posho (crushed and boiled Indian corn), they were offered porridge, cereals, eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread and marmalade. They took the lot and came back for more! Later, I inspected the troop-decks and ablutions and was not pleased with what I saw. European style lavatories were something they were not used to - and they were filthy. I spoke to the senior African warrant officer and told him I would return in half an hour to inspect them again. Thirty minutes later, I carried out my second inspection and found little improvement. The African Platoon Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable when I asked him for an explanation. "Back in camp, effendi," he said, "that work is carried out by wachura (sweepers) - it is not the job of askaris to safisha choo (clean latrines)." I understood the reluctance of askaris to undertake such chores but I was not prepared to give way. I ordered the African warrant officer to summon three NCOs and all four followed me down through the troop decks until we reached the bottom of the ship. "If those choos are not spotlessly clean in half an hour and remain that way until we get to Aden, I will move the askaris down here," I said. The sight of waves breaking over the port holes was enough to set the NCOs running back to tell the askaris what would befall them if they did not clean the lavatories. We had no trouble after that.
A few days out from Mombasa, we arrived in Victoria Harbour, Mahé, in the Seychelles. In those days the only contact Seychellois had with the rest of the world was the occasional ship that brought mail and essential goods. Another ten years were to pass before an airport was built and another ten or fifteen before the start of international tourism. I took a few photographs from the deck of the ship but it was not until 1998 (47 years later), when my wife and I spent six weeks travel writing in Mahé and other islands in the Seychelles, that I was able to fully appreciate them.
It was another three days before we reached Aden, that barren outpost of the Empire which still served as a link between east and west and the whole of the east African seaboard. We tied up at Steamer Point from where we could see the jumble of shops, offices, market and go-downs which made this one of the wealthiest ports in the world. We said farewell to the 'Empire Ken' and began getting used to walking with both legs on level surfaces again.
We were told it would be another four days before the troopship 'Dilwara' would arrive from Liverpool to take us to Singapore and that we would be accommodated in Kor-Maksar transit camp. With typical RAF efficiency (the Royal Air Force ran just about everything in Aden), we were driven off in RAF trucks.
I had just finished my lunch in the Officers' Mess when a waiter told me I was wanted on the phone. Expecting a call from the camp commandant or some such person, I was surprised to hear the voice of my ex fiancée's mother. Her daughter and I had become engaged a few days before I left the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Asmara seven months previously and, except for a week, which she and her mother spent in Nanyuki (the latter as a chaperone), we had not had an opportunity for getting used to each other in our betrothed state. Obviously, I did not measure up to her standards as she ditched me when she returned to Asmara. This did not affect the friendly relationship I had with her mother and she decided to pop down to Aden (her husband was the Chief Executive of Aden Airways) to see me and do some shopping. We arranged to meet that evening and she arrived at 6pm in the company's limousine (driven by an immaculately dressed chauffeur) and whisked me off to the company's bungalow high up on a mountain peak. Aden is an appallingly hot place at any time of the year but the cool breezes that caressed the bungalow from its elevated position made living in this treeless wasteland almost acceptable. Mum (I still found it hard to call her anything else) had invited some friends around for a party and it was approaching midnight before I was driven back to Kor-Maksar.
We arranged trips for the askaris to the shopping centre, known as The Crescent (built to resemble the elegant early 18th century crescent in Bath). They also visited Crater, the main habitat for thousands of indigenous folk who lived cheek by jowl with their neighbours in suffocating conditions. On the way back to Kor-Maksar, we stopped at the top of the pass and inspected the many regimental badges carved into the rock by previous units who had the misfortune of being stationed there. Football and volley ball matches kept the askaris fit and worked up their appetites to enjoy the same food provided for the Aden Protectorate Levies whose camp was nearby. I continued to enjoy a good social life with Mum and wondered if my luck would extend to a delay in the arrival of the 'Dilwara' This, unfortunately, did not happen, and the elegant single funnelled, brilliant white troopship of the British India Company, with signal flags a-flying arrived on time at Steamer Point.
Mum and I had said our good-byes on the quayside, but when I went aboard I found her talking to the OC Troops, an ex-Indian Army Lieutenant Colonel who was completing his last two years military service at sea. It seemed that they knew each other from pre-war days in Karachi. The other officers of 3/KAR began to wonder how my ex-potential mother-in-law seemed to pop up when least expected. They had seen her in Nanyuki (she stayed on for an extra week when the aircraft returning to Asmara with her daughter was full), then she appeared in Aden in a chauffeur driven limousine and now she was chatting to the OC Troops. My friends were too kind to ask me what was going on but they must have wondered if she had any intention of meeting us in Colombo, our next stop. There were enough officers and NCOs to look after the askaris, so I accepted the Colonel's invitation to have a pink gin with him and Mum in his cabin.
For the first time in my life I was given a cabin of my own which was club class compared with other occasions when I had travelled by troopship. The askaris accommodation was superb as well. Instead of clumsy beds and airless troopdecks, the 'Dilwara' provided 'standee' bunks, which folded when not in use, and plenty of cool, fresh air.
Each morning, the OC Troops held an inspection of soldiers on the promenade deck. On the first day out from Aden, askaris of 1 and 3/KAR paraded as if they were on a Governor's Parade back home in their respective countries. True, they had had plenty of time to wash and iron their drill uniforms but they would have been immaculately turned out even without the facilities afforded them in Kor-Maksar camp. While aboard the 'Empire Ken', they could be seen hanging their drill out to dry on the ship's rails and using the deck as a giant ironing board for their charcoal irons. Makaa (charcoal) was as important as boot polish and Brasso to askaris and the African Warrant Officer had made sure that an adequate number of sacks had been put in the baggage van before leaving Nanyuki.
The OC Troops (remember, he was an old Indian Army hand) walked through the lines of British soldiers who had embarked at Liverpool and suffered nearly three weeks of sea sickness and sun burn. They had washed their uniforms and had tried to iron them in the crowded ironing rooms, but they looked like scarecrows compared with our askaris. His blood pressure was at bursting point when he reached our lads but he soon cooled down and started chatting to them in some Indian dialect (they could not understand a word, of course). After the parade was dismissed, the Colonel took me and the officer commanding 1/KAR advance party aside and told us that he wanted us to march through the lines of British soldiers the following day to show them what 'proper' soldiers looked like. We were horrified at this idea, especially as he intended giving a public rebuke to the British squadies for their slovenly turnout. We voiced our protest and when I asked him if he would have humiliated British soldiers in front of Indians, he realised he had gone too far. "Alright," he muttered. "But I still want you to march your askaris off through the ranks of the British soldiers - I'll leave it to them to see what 'proper' soldiers look like."
And so it was. We did not tell the askaris why they had to slow-march in open order through the ranks of sunburnt, white kneed, British soldiers who had less than six months service. Many of them were destined to join infantry regiments in Korea and would soon become seasoned soldiers.
The OC Troops asked if we could put on a show of African music and dance for cabin passengers. OC Advance Party 1/KAR, both African Warrant Officers and I put our heads together and decided it could be done. 1/KAR had brought drums with them but we in 3/KAR had to improvise with ghee cans of various sizes from the galley. These turned out to be good substitutes once they were cleaned, painted and strung with rope. The Bos'n gave us access to the sail locker where there was enough rope (to be shredded), metal rods, feather dusters and canvas to make arm and leg ornaments, head decorations, spears and shields. Boot polish tins, polished until they shone like mirrors - with things to rattle inside, were strapped to askaris' ankles and provided that essential ingredient for the rhythm of African dance.
We in 3/KAR were proud of the dancing ability of our askaris of the Kamba tribe. While most other tribesmen were content to leap in the air like a herd of Springboks, the Kamba had a vast repertoire of acrobatic dancing which set everyone's feet tapping. Lest the bulk of passengers aboard ship thought they were being left out, we performed a dress rehearsal for those that were accommodated on the troop decks. None of the squadies had seen anything like it before and from the cheers they gave, our lads felt confident to perform their show to the 'upper crust' audience the following evening.
Before the show started, I gave the following warning to the audience: "The performance you are about to see has one ingredient missing - women. Back home, the wives and girl friends whistle and encourage their men folk to become outrageous in their movements. Eventually, excitement becomes so intense that dancing stops and passion takes over." I went on to say that our soldiers were usually well behaved but: "If things get out of hand, will those young ladies in the front and second rows please get up and move to the back." The audience did not know whether or not to take me seriously and some of the young ladies looked apprehensive when the dancers appeared dressed in their finery.
The programme comprised KAR marching songs, drum beating and dancing (including some leaping in the air to satisfy the Northern Frontier tribes). The Kamba warriors, as usual, stole the show and brought to an end a magnificent performance by brandishing their shields and spears and rushing towards the young ladies in the first and second rows (the dancers had been primed). There were squeals of alarm mixed with much laughter as the young ladies acted their part in the evening's fun. It was a great success and both the Captain of the ship and the OC Troops congratulated the askaris on an excellent show.
My orderly, Kiplele arap Kindurwa, of the Kipsigis tribe, asked me why he could not get bubbles out of his soap when he showered. I told him that maji ya chumvi (salt water) was useless as far as ordinary soap was concerned and that if he wanted to lather himself, he would have to use tap or drinking water(maji ya kunywa) in the wash basins. Kiplele pondered for a few moments on this little known aspect of shipboard plumbing and then asked: "Why don't they use maji ya kunywa in the shower?" I told him that fresh water was in short supply but there was any amount of the other stuff. "Look around you, Kiplele," I said, pointing through the port hole. "As far as you can see there is maji ya chumvi and, what's more - it goes down about ten miles." Kiplele had another question to ask: "How do they get the maji ya chumvi into the boat, effendi?" I expect he had some notion of a team of sailors 'baling in' (as opposed to 'baling out' - something he experienced with his own dug-out canoe). "They draw it up through a hole in the bottom of the ship," I replied. There was one of those long drawn out utterances that Africans use when they hear bad news. Ahhhhhh-la, exploded Kiplele, and then questioned me about the hole: "Where is it? How big is it? Who looks after it?" His idea of boat building, limited as it was to hollowing out tree trunks, did not include a purpose-built hole and the fact that I had told him that maji ya chumvi went down ten miles to the seabed, made the matter much worse.
From that moment on, Kiplele lost his zest for sea travel. The matter of the hole and the thought that he might be putting the ship in danger of sinking if he used too much salt water was uppermost in his mind. I would catch him looking into the sea trying to find something he could put his feet on if the worst should happen, but it was no good. He was not happy until he marched down the gangway in Singapore docks.
We called at Colombo, the capital city and main port of Ceylon, now called, Sri Lanka. We were not allowed to go ashore so we spent time watching the changing pattern of ships, old and new, as they went about their business in the great harbour. Bum-boat men in their colourful rowing boats crowded around us as soon as we dropped anchor. It was a new experience for askaris and many of them wondered how these voluble boatmen made a living when they allowed their wooden carvings, leather goods and suchlike to be inspected by ships' passengers. Baskets on ropes went up and down for passengers to inspect - some may have gone missing, but that is a risk all bum-boat men must take. By the grins on their faces and their invitations to return, it was clear they were satisfied with their side of the bargains.
We moved out of the calm serenity of Colombo harbour to catch the strong westerly winds which had followed us from Aden. The force of these winds caused a substantial swell on the surface of the ocean and I can remember looking towards the land as we sailed south, parallel to the coastline, and seeing huge fountains of spray as the waves spent their force at the base of tall cliffs.
It was at this stage of our journey that the ship's radio broadcast the news that the High Commissioner of Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney, had been killed in a road ambush on 6 October 1951. It seemed that he and Lady Gurney were travelling in their official Rolls Royce to Frazer's Hill, a popular watering hole in the Cameron Highlands, when one of the escort vehicles broke down. As they had only a few more miles to go, Sir Henry ordered his chauffeur to carry on, leaving the other vehicle to assist the one that had stopped. An ambush party of Chinese terrorists, commanded by the notorious Su Mah, had been waiting for a suitable target for a few days and were just about to pack up and return to their jungle base, when along came a vehicle flying a Union Jack.
The first burst of machine gun fire shattered the windscreen and killed the driver. Sir Henry, attempting to draw fire away from his wife, opened the door and tried to sprint across the road, but he was killed before he reached cover.
The implication of what had happened caused shock waves throughout the ship and those of us who were bound for Malaya were in a sombre state at dinner that night. We must have passed the news on to the askaris but I cannot remember their reaction. I suppose they accepted it without comment as everything was a new experience and the death of the Bwana Mkubwa Sana (Big White Chief) was regrettable but not the end of the world.
One thing that we British officers did not appreciate was that the murder of Sir Henry Gurney was a turning point in the war. General Sir Gerald Templer was appointed the new High Commissioner and, under his dynamic leadership, the fight against communist terrorism was developed to a fine art. The King's African Rifles were among those who became experts in this type of warfare.
A few days later, the 'Dilwara' nosed her way around the southern tip of Johore and entered the approach lane to Singapore harbour. Major General A.G. O'Carroll-Scott, General Officer Commanding Singapore, came aboard soon after we tied up and greeted both advance parties (us in Kiswahili). Then came the press reporters and cameramen eager to get the first comments and pictures of African soldiers who had not been seen in this part of the world since 11th (East African) Division took part in the Burma campaign in World War Two.
That was the end of the first voyage; another 18 months would pass before askaris of the two KAR battalions would find themselves in Singapore again waiting to embark on the 'Lancashire' (1/KAR) and the'Dilwara' (3/KAR) to return to our respective countries.
PART 2
In June 1953, a few days after the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11, the 2nd (Nyasaland) Battalion KAR took over from us. Rifle companies made their way by sea, road and rail to the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi where we were accommodated while in transit.. I travelled from Kuantan (Bn HQ) on the east coast of Malaya in a LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) with the Drums Platoon, Orderly Room staff and a considerable amount of baggage. I expected to be in Singapore the following day but the Chinese captain dropped anchor only a few miles from the shore. He spoke neither English nor Malay but I gathered he had no maps and was unwilling to hazard his ship among the many offshore islands when darkness fell.
With nothing else to do, I assembled my fishing rod, attached a wooden sprat and cast the lure into the depths of the South China Sea. During the time I was on the east coast, I spent many hours fishing the estuary of the Sungei Kuantan and, on one memorable occasion, had used a tiny air-sea rescue blow-up dinghy to catch whatever was on offer in front of the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront at Kuantan.
I was sitting, rather uncomfortably, in the dinghy - which was smaller than the average bath tub, when I heard a hissing noise. I thought I had sprung a leak but when I turned around to investigate, I came face-to-face with a sea snake. The snake circled me a few times then dived, only to appear at a new quarter. My friends sitting on the balcony of the hotel (which we had requisitioned for Battalion Headquarters) could not understand why I was going around in circles and thrashing the water with my rod.
The great grandfather of that snake must have heard about my sprat because I felt a gigantic tug on my line and my rod bent almost in half. I played with my yet undisclosed catch until its head appeared on the surface. It was only then that I recognised it as a much larger version of what had confronted me outside the Nan Yang Hotel. I had no wish to haul the snake aboard and would have cut the line if it had not been for my sprat which had served me well for a long time. While I was contemplating my dilemma, I saw the Captain waving his arms and struggling to ease his massive frame down the gangway from the wheel house. He clambered over the mountain of baggage and made it quite plain to me that I must get rid of the snake.
Chinese will eat all sorts of land-based snakes but for some reason or other will have nothing to do with sea snakes - especially brilliantly coloured ones like the one on the end of my rod. A number of askaris had come to see what all the excitement was about and, as far as they were concerned, any snake - land or sea based, was something to be avoided. The problem was sorted out by the snake itself. It spat out the sprat and disappeared below the waves.
An hour or so later, Corporal Macheru - the Officers' Mess cook asked me if I would take a look at the No. 1 burner he was using to prepare curry for our evening meal. The No.1 burner operates when petrol is vaporised after being pumped through a perforated hot metal collar. Even though it looks and acts like a flame thrower, it is quite safe providing it is not put under too much pressure. If that should happen, a brass stud on top of the container blows off.
It was the pressure gauge that worried the cook; the needle was well into the 'red' and he knew not what he should do. I had never even noticed there was a pressure gauge on a No.1 burner and as I was trying to catch up on the technology of field-cooking appliances, the brass stud departed with a sound like a pistol shot. The by-product of pressure release was a sheet of flame which shot about fifty feet into the air from the hole left by the stud. The Chinese Captain was till mopping his brow following the incident with the sea snake when he saw the bows of his ship go up in flames. For the second time in an hour he eased his massive frame down the gangway, stumbled over the baggage and confronted me as I was wondering how we were going to cook the curry without a No.1 burner. The long and short of it was that we had to use the crew's cooking facilities, which further damaged relations between me and the Captain.
Late in the afternoon the following day we arrived in Singapore. I suppose the Chinese crew were as glad to see the back of us as we were to see the back of them.
During the 18 months 3/KAR had been in Malaya, askaris had no leave other than changes of scene when they spent a few days with their friends in other rifle companies. Quartermaster's convoys to collect stores in Kuala Lumpur were popular as were numerous visits to the British Military Hospital in the nation's capital for a course of masindano (needles - to cure gonorrhoea and suchlike). But while we were waiting in Kota Tinggi for the troopship to arrive, company commanders arranged shopping trips for askaris in Singapore.
Four-ton trucks carried them down the main road from Mersing to Johore Bharu where they stopped at the police station to hand in rifles for safe keeping (Singapore was not affected by the Malayan 'emergency'). Then it was across the causeway (still waiting to be properly repaired since the Japanese invaded Singapore in January 1942) and on down the Bukit Timah road to the centre of the metropolis. The joy of being let loose in a bustling city full of things to buy was a tonic to our lads who had saved up to buy presents for their wamke na watoto (wives and children). Their delight was short-lived however, for when they returned to Malaya via the causeway, they were stopped at the Custom's Post where packages were opened and duty demanded on most items. A near mutiny occurred and the askaris were still in a rebellious mood when they returned to Kota Tinggi.
It was not long before Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, the Commanding Officer, heard what had happened and made use of the 'hot-line' to Government House in Kuala Lumpur. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer was appalled and gave instruction that askaris would be refunded within twenty four hours.
With three days to go before we embarked on the 'Dilwara', one of our askaris went missing. He was seen walking towards the village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to Kota Tinggi). For an askari to stay behind in Malaya when the rest of the battalion returned to Kenya was like a swallow opting to stay in Britain through the winter. He had to be found, even if it meant turning out every available man in the battalion. This was done, and, by the grace of God he was located in thick jungle squatting inside a basha he had made for himself. He was shackled to a tent pole until it was time to board the 'Dilwara' in Singapore docks.
It is not unusual for Africans to act in strange ways and the bug which disturbed his mind was still active long after we put to sea He refused to eat and eventually was forcibly fed. The (prison) cell on the 'Dilwara' is as far forward as you can go and is triangular in shape. The rise and fall in that part of the ship is quite alarming and the continuous roller-coaster effect eventually wore him down. By the time we arrived in Mombasa he was back to normal.
The 1st Battalion KAR sailed for home on 9th April 1953, two months before 3/KAR. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer came to Singapore to see them off but, alas, was unable to say farewell to 3/KAR in person. Instead he sent a letter to Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read which read: 'I am disappointed that I cannot come in person to thank you for all you have done since you started operations in Malaya last year. Kenya can surely be proud of what you have done to contribute towards fighting communist terrorists in Malaya'.
On 3 June 1953, the General Officer Commanding Malaya, Sir Hugh Stockwell, sent a signal to the battalion: 'I want ten more communist terrorists eliminated before you go'. 3/KAR obliged by killing 11 making the total number of kills 71 (the fastest eliminating rate for any battalion in Malaya during an eighteen month period of service).
Other statistics published by the Straits Times on the eve of our departure are as follows: 163 food and arms dumps and 270 bandit camps destroyed. Senior members of the Malayan Races Liberation Army killed included: four District Committee Members, one Branch Committee secretary, one Political Commissar, Commander of 8 Independent Platoon and Wong Chee, State Committee member for Trengannu (killed by No. 6 Platoon 'B' Coy 3/KAR, the highest ranking terrorist ever to be killed in that state).
'B' Coy 3/KAR conducted a six week patrol, which was part of a combined operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles, in the state of Trengannu when askaris killed four terrorists. The length of this patrol was claimed as a record.
Two askaris were killed and five men wounded (including two officers). One officer was murdered by an askari who was later found guilty and executed in Pudu Gaol, Kuala Lumpur. For long and distinguished service, Warrant Officer Platoon Commander (WOPC) Kiberen and WOPC Kitur, both of the Nandi tribe, were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal respectively. The Commanding Officer, Lieut Col J.O. Crewe-Read, was awarded the OBE.
Captain Williams, a Welshman from Cardiff, was still in command of the 'Dilwara' , but the OC Troops had retired and was replaced by a jovial fellow who kept very much to himself. We were the only unit aboard and he had no-one to command; our own CO was quite capable of doing that. We still had morning inspections on the promenade deck and the rest of the day was spent in fitness training, English lessons and shooting at empty beer-cans over the stern of the ship. During the afternoon, askaris busied themselves washing and drying their jungle green uniforms and pressing creases with charcoal irons on the foredeck.
Colombo looked familiar when we arrived. Bum-boats were soon alongside and a brisk trade was done with askaris who knew this would be their last opportunity to take home presents from the far east. Captain Peter Harding (later to become Major Peter Harding-Rolls) knew what he wanted and sped off in a launch in search of a special present for his girl friend. He returned an hour later with a broad grin and a pouch full of sapphires.
It took just over a week to cover the last lap of the journey to Mombasa and there was a feeling of euphoria as we relaxed in the balmy weather.
We played deck games, horse racing, liar dice and bridge. We found sunny alcoves where we could read and snoozed to the sound of wires singing in the rigging. We danced - at least some of us did, as British wives were with us again, and we had a fancy dress party. We revelled in the delicious food served aboard the 'Dilwara' and we drank gin and whisky at ridiculously cheap prices. We talked a lot about what had happened over the last eighteen months and we discussed the situation in Kenya. The Mau Mau campaign was at its height and we knew that once our askaris had taken leave, there would be another war for us to deal with, perhaps worse than the one we had left behind in Malaya.
At first light on the day of our arrival, the deck was lined with askaris anxious to catch their first view of Africa - low lying and shrouded in mist. Slowly, the 'Dilwara' steamed past the two marker buoys at the entrance to the approach channel and made its way past the many attractive white homesteads on each bank to a berth in the harbour. General Sir Cameron Nicholson, the General Officer commanding East Africa (known affectionately as 'Cammy Knicks') came aboard and said he wanted to speak to the askaris. The African Regimental Sergeant Major introduced the GOC on the Tannoy system with the words: "Sikolozeni watu wote. Bwana Mkubwa Kabisa nataka kunena wewe" ("Listen in all men. The Commander-in-Chief wants to speak to you")
There was a long pause and then our Lord and Master greeted us with: "JAMBO." We were home at last.
In May 1951, askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles were told they were going to Malaya for eighteen months to take part in the fight against communist terrorists. Some of them must have thought that a life of bliss awaited them as 'Malaya', in Kiswahili, means 'lady of easy virtue'. The feeling of euphoria they had at the thought of entering Paradise on earth evaporated soon after they arrived in the Far East and found that tented camps in remote jungle locations was the nearest they were going to get to Utopia.
It was difficult trying to explain to askaris what the 'emergency' in Malaya was all about. In the early '50s Africans were not as well educated as they are today, there was no television or visual aids to explain what the country and people looked like and the wazungu's (white officers' and NCOs') attempts to describe a troopship drew wondrous looks. Except for those who lived near Lake Victoria, very few askaris had seen a large expanse of water - rivers and streams were familiar to them (but only in the wet season) and a dug-out canoe was their only perception of a boat.
I was in charge of the advance party of 3/KAR when we left Nanyuki in September 1951. The first part of our journey took us by train to Nairobi where we changed to the overnight express which carried us to Mombasa. The 'Empire Ken' was there to greet us and I for one was not impressed. Seven months previously, I had travelled on her from Massawa, in Eritrea, to Mombasa. A more uncomfortable ship would be hard to find. She had a list to port and everything you did, from drinking soup at one end of the bowl, to climbing uphill in bed when you wanted to turn over reminded you that life was lived permanently on the slant.
Already aboard, was the advance party of 1/KAR, from Nyasaland, who had travelled up from Beira and were also destined for active service in Malaya. It was not often that our askaris had the opportunity to meet fellow soldiers from so far afield but, despite a language problem, it was not long before they found ways of communicating with each other.
It was decided that askaris of 3/KAR should occupy a block house near the stern of the ship. I am sure the original design of the ship did not include this strange looking appendage but it suited our lads admirably as they had a commanding view of everything that lay before and around them. We sailed late that afternoon and the decks were full of askaris taking a last look at their homeland as we moved slowly down the channel from Mombasa harbour to the open sea.
I attended breakfast the following morning and was amused to see the askaris' reaction to British food. Instead of their normal ration of posho (crushed and boiled Indian corn), they were offered porridge, cereals, eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread and marmalade. They took the lot and came back for more! Later, I inspected the troop-decks and ablutions and was not pleased with what I saw. European style lavatories were something they were not used to - and they were filthy. I spoke to the senior African warrant officer and told him I would return in half an hour to inspect them again. Thirty minutes later, I carried out my second inspection and found little improvement. The African Platoon Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable when I asked him for an explanation. "Back in camp, effendi," he said, "that work is carried out by wachura (sweepers) - it is not the job of askaris to safisha choo (clean latrines)." I understood the reluctance of askaris to undertake such chores but I was not prepared to give way. I ordered the African warrant officer to summon three NCOs and all four followed me down through the troop decks until we reached the bottom of the ship. "If those choos are not spotlessly clean in half an hour and remain that way until we get to Aden, I will move the askaris down here," I said. The sight of waves breaking over the port holes was enough to set the NCOs running back to tell the askaris what would befall them if they did not clean the lavatories. We had no trouble after that.
A few days out from Mombasa, we arrived in Victoria Harbour, Mahé, in the Seychelles. In those days the only contact Seychellois had with the rest of the world was the occasional ship that brought mail and essential goods. Another ten years were to pass before an airport was built and another ten or fifteen before the start of international tourism. I took a few photographs from the deck of the ship but it was not until 1998 (47 years later), when my wife and I spent six weeks travel writing in Mahé and other islands in the Seychelles, that I was able to fully appreciate them.
It was another three days before we reached Aden, that barren outpost of the Empire which still served as a link between east and west and the whole of the east African seaboard. We tied up at Steamer Point from where we could see the jumble of shops, offices, market and go-downs which made this one of the wealthiest ports in the world. We said farewell to the 'Empire Ken' and began getting used to walking with both legs on level surfaces again.
We were told it would be another four days before the troopship 'Dilwara' would arrive from Liverpool to take us to Singapore and that we would be accommodated in Kor-Maksar transit camp. With typical RAF efficiency (the Royal Air Force ran just about everything in Aden), we were driven off in RAF trucks.
I had just finished my lunch in the Officers' Mess when a waiter told me I was wanted on the phone. Expecting a call from the camp commandant or some such person, I was surprised to hear the voice of my ex fiancée's mother. Her daughter and I had become engaged a few days before I left the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Asmara seven months previously and, except for a week, which she and her mother spent in Nanyuki (the latter as a chaperone), we had not had an opportunity for getting used to each other in our betrothed state. Obviously, I did not measure up to her standards as she ditched me when she returned to Asmara. This did not affect the friendly relationship I had with her mother and she decided to pop down to Aden (her husband was the Chief Executive of Aden Airways) to see me and do some shopping. We arranged to meet that evening and she arrived at 6pm in the company's limousine (driven by an immaculately dressed chauffeur) and whisked me off to the company's bungalow high up on a mountain peak. Aden is an appallingly hot place at any time of the year but the cool breezes that caressed the bungalow from its elevated position made living in this treeless wasteland almost acceptable. Mum (I still found it hard to call her anything else) had invited some friends around for a party and it was approaching midnight before I was driven back to Kor-Maksar.
We arranged trips for the askaris to the shopping centre, known as The Crescent (built to resemble the elegant early 18th century crescent in Bath). They also visited Crater, the main habitat for thousands of indigenous folk who lived cheek by jowl with their neighbours in suffocating conditions. On the way back to Kor-Maksar, we stopped at the top of the pass and inspected the many regimental badges carved into the rock by previous units who had the misfortune of being stationed there. Football and volley ball matches kept the askaris fit and worked up their appetites to enjoy the same food provided for the Aden Protectorate Levies whose camp was nearby. I continued to enjoy a good social life with Mum and wondered if my luck would extend to a delay in the arrival of the 'Dilwara' This, unfortunately, did not happen, and the elegant single funnelled, brilliant white troopship of the British India Company, with signal flags a-flying arrived on time at Steamer Point.
Mum and I had said our good-byes on the quayside, but when I went aboard I found her talking to the OC Troops, an ex-Indian Army Lieutenant Colonel who was completing his last two years military service at sea. It seemed that they knew each other from pre-war days in Karachi. The other officers of 3/KAR began to wonder how my ex-potential mother-in-law seemed to pop up when least expected. They had seen her in Nanyuki (she stayed on for an extra week when the aircraft returning to Asmara with her daughter was full), then she appeared in Aden in a chauffeur driven limousine and now she was chatting to the OC Troops. My friends were too kind to ask me what was going on but they must have wondered if she had any intention of meeting us in Colombo, our next stop. There were enough officers and NCOs to look after the askaris, so I accepted the Colonel's invitation to have a pink gin with him and Mum in his cabin.
For the first time in my life I was given a cabin of my own which was club class compared with other occasions when I had travelled by troopship. The askaris accommodation was superb as well. Instead of clumsy beds and airless troopdecks, the 'Dilwara' provided 'standee' bunks, which folded when not in use, and plenty of cool, fresh air.
Each morning, the OC Troops held an inspection of soldiers on the promenade deck. On the first day out from Aden, askaris of 1 and 3/KAR paraded as if they were on a Governor's Parade back home in their respective countries. True, they had had plenty of time to wash and iron their drill uniforms but they would have been immaculately turned out even without the facilities afforded them in Kor-Maksar camp. While aboard the 'Empire Ken', they could be seen hanging their drill out to dry on the ship's rails and using the deck as a giant ironing board for their charcoal irons. Makaa (charcoal) was as important as boot polish and Brasso to askaris and the African Warrant Officer had made sure that an adequate number of sacks had been put in the baggage van before leaving Nanyuki.
The OC Troops (remember, he was an old Indian Army hand) walked through the lines of British soldiers who had embarked at Liverpool and suffered nearly three weeks of sea sickness and sun burn. They had washed their uniforms and had tried to iron them in the crowded ironing rooms, but they looked like scarecrows compared with our askaris. His blood pressure was at bursting point when he reached our lads but he soon cooled down and started chatting to them in some Indian dialect (they could not understand a word, of course). After the parade was dismissed, the Colonel took me and the officer commanding 1/KAR advance party aside and told us that he wanted us to march through the lines of British soldiers the following day to show them what 'proper' soldiers looked like. We were horrified at this idea, especially as he intended giving a public rebuke to the British squadies for their slovenly turnout. We voiced our protest and when I asked him if he would have humiliated British soldiers in front of Indians, he realised he had gone too far. "Alright," he muttered. "But I still want you to march your askaris off through the ranks of the British soldiers - I'll leave it to them to see what 'proper' soldiers look like."
And so it was. We did not tell the askaris why they had to slow-march in open order through the ranks of sunburnt, white kneed, British soldiers who had less than six months service. Many of them were destined to join infantry regiments in Korea and would soon become seasoned soldiers.
The OC Troops asked if we could put on a show of African music and dance for cabin passengers. OC Advance Party 1/KAR, both African Warrant Officers and I put our heads together and decided it could be done. 1/KAR had brought drums with them but we in 3/KAR had to improvise with ghee cans of various sizes from the galley. These turned out to be good substitutes once they were cleaned, painted and strung with rope. The Bos'n gave us access to the sail locker where there was enough rope (to be shredded), metal rods, feather dusters and canvas to make arm and leg ornaments, head decorations, spears and shields. Boot polish tins, polished until they shone like mirrors - with things to rattle inside, were strapped to askaris' ankles and provided that essential ingredient for the rhythm of African dance.
We in 3/KAR were proud of the dancing ability of our askaris of the Kamba tribe. While most other tribesmen were content to leap in the air like a herd of Springboks, the Kamba had a vast repertoire of acrobatic dancing which set everyone's feet tapping. Lest the bulk of passengers aboard ship thought they were being left out, we performed a dress rehearsal for those that were accommodated on the troop decks. None of the squadies had seen anything like it before and from the cheers they gave, our lads felt confident to perform their show to the 'upper crust' audience the following evening.
Before the show started, I gave the following warning to the audience: "The performance you are about to see has one ingredient missing - women. Back home, the wives and girl friends whistle and encourage their men folk to become outrageous in their movements. Eventually, excitement becomes so intense that dancing stops and passion takes over." I went on to say that our soldiers were usually well behaved but: "If things get out of hand, will those young ladies in the front and second rows please get up and move to the back." The audience did not know whether or not to take me seriously and some of the young ladies looked apprehensive when the dancers appeared dressed in their finery.
The programme comprised KAR marching songs, drum beating and dancing (including some leaping in the air to satisfy the Northern Frontier tribes). The Kamba warriors, as usual, stole the show and brought to an end a magnificent performance by brandishing their shields and spears and rushing towards the young ladies in the first and second rows (the dancers had been primed). There were squeals of alarm mixed with much laughter as the young ladies acted their part in the evening's fun. It was a great success and both the Captain of the ship and the OC Troops congratulated the askaris on an excellent show.
My orderly, Kiplele arap Kindurwa, of the Kipsigis tribe, asked me why he could not get bubbles out of his soap when he showered. I told him that maji ya chumvi (salt water) was useless as far as ordinary soap was concerned and that if he wanted to lather himself, he would have to use tap or drinking water(maji ya kunywa) in the wash basins. Kiplele pondered for a few moments on this little known aspect of shipboard plumbing and then asked: "Why don't they use maji ya kunywa in the shower?" I told him that fresh water was in short supply but there was any amount of the other stuff. "Look around you, Kiplele," I said, pointing through the port hole. "As far as you can see there is maji ya chumvi and, what's more - it goes down about ten miles." Kiplele had another question to ask: "How do they get the maji ya chumvi into the boat, effendi?" I expect he had some notion of a team of sailors 'baling in' (as opposed to 'baling out' - something he experienced with his own dug-out canoe). "They draw it up through a hole in the bottom of the ship," I replied. There was one of those long drawn out utterances that Africans use when they hear bad news. Ahhhhhh-la, exploded Kiplele, and then questioned me about the hole: "Where is it? How big is it? Who looks after it?" His idea of boat building, limited as it was to hollowing out tree trunks, did not include a purpose-built hole and the fact that I had told him that maji ya chumvi went down ten miles to the seabed, made the matter much worse.
From that moment on, Kiplele lost his zest for sea travel. The matter of the hole and the thought that he might be putting the ship in danger of sinking if he used too much salt water was uppermost in his mind. I would catch him looking into the sea trying to find something he could put his feet on if the worst should happen, but it was no good. He was not happy until he marched down the gangway in Singapore docks.
We called at Colombo, the capital city and main port of Ceylon, now called, Sri Lanka. We were not allowed to go ashore so we spent time watching the changing pattern of ships, old and new, as they went about their business in the great harbour. Bum-boat men in their colourful rowing boats crowded around us as soon as we dropped anchor. It was a new experience for askaris and many of them wondered how these voluble boatmen made a living when they allowed their wooden carvings, leather goods and suchlike to be inspected by ships' passengers. Baskets on ropes went up and down for passengers to inspect - some may have gone missing, but that is a risk all bum-boat men must take. By the grins on their faces and their invitations to return, it was clear they were satisfied with their side of the bargains.
We moved out of the calm serenity of Colombo harbour to catch the strong westerly winds which had followed us from Aden. The force of these winds caused a substantial swell on the surface of the ocean and I can remember looking towards the land as we sailed south, parallel to the coastline, and seeing huge fountains of spray as the waves spent their force at the base of tall cliffs.
It was at this stage of our journey that the ship's radio broadcast the news that the High Commissioner of Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney, had been killed in a road ambush on 6 October 1951. It seemed that he and Lady Gurney were travelling in their official Rolls Royce to Frazer's Hill, a popular watering hole in the Cameron Highlands, when one of the escort vehicles broke down. As they had only a few more miles to go, Sir Henry ordered his chauffeur to carry on, leaving the other vehicle to assist the one that had stopped. An ambush party of Chinese terrorists, commanded by the notorious Su Mah, had been waiting for a suitable target for a few days and were just about to pack up and return to their jungle base, when along came a vehicle flying a Union Jack.
The first burst of machine gun fire shattered the windscreen and killed the driver. Sir Henry, attempting to draw fire away from his wife, opened the door and tried to sprint across the road, but he was killed before he reached cover.
The implication of what had happened caused shock waves throughout the ship and those of us who were bound for Malaya were in a sombre state at dinner that night. We must have passed the news on to the askaris but I cannot remember their reaction. I suppose they accepted it without comment as everything was a new experience and the death of the Bwana Mkubwa Sana (Big White Chief) was regrettable but not the end of the world.
One thing that we British officers did not appreciate was that the murder of Sir Henry Gurney was a turning point in the war. General Sir Gerald Templer was appointed the new High Commissioner and, under his dynamic leadership, the fight against communist terrorism was developed to a fine art. The King's African Rifles were among those who became experts in this type of warfare.
A few days later, the 'Dilwara' nosed her way around the southern tip of Johore and entered the approach lane to Singapore harbour. Major General A.G. O'Carroll-Scott, General Officer Commanding Singapore, came aboard soon after we tied up and greeted both advance parties (us in Kiswahili). Then came the press reporters and cameramen eager to get the first comments and pictures of African soldiers who had not been seen in this part of the world since 11th (East African) Division took part in the Burma campaign in World War Two.
That was the end of the first voyage; another 18 months would pass before askaris of the two KAR battalions would find themselves in Singapore again waiting to embark on the 'Lancashire' (1/KAR) and the'Dilwara' (3/KAR) to return to our respective countries.
PART 2
In June 1953, a few days after the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11, the 2nd (Nyasaland) Battalion KAR took over from us. Rifle companies made their way by sea, road and rail to the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi where we were accommodated while in transit.. I travelled from Kuantan (Bn HQ) on the east coast of Malaya in a LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) with the Drums Platoon, Orderly Room staff and a considerable amount of baggage. I expected to be in Singapore the following day but the Chinese captain dropped anchor only a few miles from the shore. He spoke neither English nor Malay but I gathered he had no maps and was unwilling to hazard his ship among the many offshore islands when darkness fell.
With nothing else to do, I assembled my fishing rod, attached a wooden sprat and cast the lure into the depths of the South China Sea. During the time I was on the east coast, I spent many hours fishing the estuary of the Sungei Kuantan and, on one memorable occasion, had used a tiny air-sea rescue blow-up dinghy to catch whatever was on offer in front of the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront at Kuantan.
I was sitting, rather uncomfortably, in the dinghy - which was smaller than the average bath tub, when I heard a hissing noise. I thought I had sprung a leak but when I turned around to investigate, I came face-to-face with a sea snake. The snake circled me a few times then dived, only to appear at a new quarter. My friends sitting on the balcony of the hotel (which we had requisitioned for Battalion Headquarters) could not understand why I was going around in circles and thrashing the water with my rod.
The great grandfather of that snake must have heard about my sprat because I felt a gigantic tug on my line and my rod bent almost in half. I played with my yet undisclosed catch until its head appeared on the surface. It was only then that I recognised it as a much larger version of what had confronted me outside the Nan Yang Hotel. I had no wish to haul the snake aboard and would have cut the line if it had not been for my sprat which had served me well for a long time. While I was contemplating my dilemma, I saw the Captain waving his arms and struggling to ease his massive frame down the gangway from the wheel house. He clambered over the mountain of baggage and made it quite plain to me that I must get rid of the snake.
Chinese will eat all sorts of land-based snakes but for some reason or other will have nothing to do with sea snakes - especially brilliantly coloured ones like the one on the end of my rod. A number of askaris had come to see what all the excitement was about and, as far as they were concerned, any snake - land or sea based, was something to be avoided. The problem was sorted out by the snake itself. It spat out the sprat and disappeared below the waves.
An hour or so later, Corporal Macheru - the Officers' Mess cook asked me if I would take a look at the No. 1 burner he was using to prepare curry for our evening meal. The No.1 burner operates when petrol is vaporised after being pumped through a perforated hot metal collar. Even though it looks and acts like a flame thrower, it is quite safe providing it is not put under too much pressure. If that should happen, a brass stud on top of the container blows off.
It was the pressure gauge that worried the cook; the needle was well into the 'red' and he knew not what he should do. I had never even noticed there was a pressure gauge on a No.1 burner and as I was trying to catch up on the technology of field-cooking appliances, the brass stud departed with a sound like a pistol shot. The by-product of pressure release was a sheet of flame which shot about fifty feet into the air from the hole left by the stud. The Chinese Captain was till mopping his brow following the incident with the sea snake when he saw the bows of his ship go up in flames. For the second time in an hour he eased his massive frame down the gangway, stumbled over the baggage and confronted me as I was wondering how we were going to cook the curry without a No.1 burner. The long and short of it was that we had to use the crew's cooking facilities, which further damaged relations between me and the Captain.
Late in the afternoon the following day we arrived in Singapore. I suppose the Chinese crew were as glad to see the back of us as we were to see the back of them.
During the 18 months 3/KAR had been in Malaya, askaris had no leave other than changes of scene when they spent a few days with their friends in other rifle companies. Quartermaster's convoys to collect stores in Kuala Lumpur were popular as were numerous visits to the British Military Hospital in the nation's capital for a course of masindano (needles - to cure gonorrhoea and suchlike). But while we were waiting in Kota Tinggi for the troopship to arrive, company commanders arranged shopping trips for askaris in Singapore.
Four-ton trucks carried them down the main road from Mersing to Johore Bharu where they stopped at the police station to hand in rifles for safe keeping (Singapore was not affected by the Malayan 'emergency'). Then it was across the causeway (still waiting to be properly repaired since the Japanese invaded Singapore in January 1942) and on down the Bukit Timah road to the centre of the metropolis. The joy of being let loose in a bustling city full of things to buy was a tonic to our lads who had saved up to buy presents for their wamke na watoto (wives and children). Their delight was short-lived however, for when they returned to Malaya via the causeway, they were stopped at the Custom's Post where packages were opened and duty demanded on most items. A near mutiny occurred and the askaris were still in a rebellious mood when they returned to Kota Tinggi.
It was not long before Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, the Commanding Officer, heard what had happened and made use of the 'hot-line' to Government House in Kuala Lumpur. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer was appalled and gave instruction that askaris would be refunded within twenty four hours.
With three days to go before we embarked on the 'Dilwara', one of our askaris went missing. He was seen walking towards the village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to Kota Tinggi). For an askari to stay behind in Malaya when the rest of the battalion returned to Kenya was like a swallow opting to stay in Britain through the winter. He had to be found, even if it meant turning out every available man in the battalion. This was done, and, by the grace of God he was located in thick jungle squatting inside a basha he had made for himself. He was shackled to a tent pole until it was time to board the 'Dilwara' in Singapore docks.
It is not unusual for Africans to act in strange ways and the bug which disturbed his mind was still active long after we put to sea He refused to eat and eventually was forcibly fed. The (prison) cell on the 'Dilwara' is as far forward as you can go and is triangular in shape. The rise and fall in that part of the ship is quite alarming and the continuous roller-coaster effect eventually wore him down. By the time we arrived in Mombasa he was back to normal.
The 1st Battalion KAR sailed for home on 9th April 1953, two months before 3/KAR. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer came to Singapore to see them off but, alas, was unable to say farewell to 3/KAR in person. Instead he sent a letter to Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read which read: 'I am disappointed that I cannot come in person to thank you for all you have done since you started operations in Malaya last year. Kenya can surely be proud of what you have done to contribute towards fighting communist terrorists in Malaya'.
On 3 June 1953, the General Officer Commanding Malaya, Sir Hugh Stockwell, sent a signal to the battalion: 'I want ten more communist terrorists eliminated before you go'. 3/KAR obliged by killing 11 making the total number of kills 71 (the fastest eliminating rate for any battalion in Malaya during an eighteen month period of service).
Other statistics published by the Straits Times on the eve of our departure are as follows: 163 food and arms dumps and 270 bandit camps destroyed. Senior members of the Malayan Races Liberation Army killed included: four District Committee Members, one Branch Committee secretary, one Political Commissar, Commander of 8 Independent Platoon and Wong Chee, State Committee member for Trengannu (killed by No. 6 Platoon 'B' Coy 3/KAR, the highest ranking terrorist ever to be killed in that state).
'B' Coy 3/KAR conducted a six week patrol, which was part of a combined operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles, in the state of Trengannu when askaris killed four terrorists. The length of this patrol was claimed as a record.
Two askaris were killed and five men wounded (including two officers). One officer was murdered by an askari who was later found guilty and executed in Pudu Gaol, Kuala Lumpur. For long and distinguished service, Warrant Officer Platoon Commander (WOPC) Kiberen and WOPC Kitur, both of the Nandi tribe, were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal respectively. The Commanding Officer, Lieut Col J.O. Crewe-Read, was awarded the OBE.
Captain Williams, a Welshman from Cardiff, was still in command of the 'Dilwara' , but the OC Troops had retired and was replaced by a jovial fellow who kept very much to himself. We were the only unit aboard and he had no-one to command; our own CO was quite capable of doing that. We still had morning inspections on the promenade deck and the rest of the day was spent in fitness training, English lessons and shooting at empty beer-cans over the stern of the ship. During the afternoon, askaris busied themselves washing and drying their jungle green uniforms and pressing creases with charcoal irons on the foredeck.
Colombo looked familiar when we arrived. Bum-boats were soon alongside and a brisk trade was done with askaris who knew this would be their last opportunity to take home presents from the far east. Captain Peter Harding (later to become Major Peter Harding-Rolls) knew what he wanted and sped off in a launch in search of a special present for his girl friend. He returned an hour later with a broad grin and a pouch full of sapphires.
It took just over a week to cover the last lap of the journey to Mombasa and there was a feeling of euphoria as we relaxed in the balmy weather.
We played deck games, horse racing, liar dice and bridge. We found sunny alcoves where we could read and snoozed to the sound of wires singing in the rigging. We danced - at least some of us did, as British wives were with us again, and we had a fancy dress party. We revelled in the delicious food served aboard the 'Dilwara' and we drank gin and whisky at ridiculously cheap prices. We talked a lot about what had happened over the last eighteen months and we discussed the situation in Kenya. The Mau Mau campaign was at its height and we knew that once our askaris had taken leave, there would be another war for us to deal with, perhaps worse than the one we had left behind in Malaya.
At first light on the day of our arrival, the deck was lined with askaris anxious to catch their first view of Africa - low lying and shrouded in mist. Slowly, the 'Dilwara' steamed past the two marker buoys at the entrance to the approach channel and made its way past the many attractive white homesteads on each bank to a berth in the harbour. General Sir Cameron Nicholson, the General Officer commanding East Africa (known affectionately as 'Cammy Knicks') came aboard and said he wanted to speak to the askaris. The African Regimental Sergeant Major introduced the GOC on the Tannoy system with the words: "Sikolozeni watu wote. Bwana Mkubwa Kabisa nataka kunena wewe" ("Listen in all men. The Commander-in-Chief wants to speak to you")
There was a long pause and then our Lord and Master greeted us with: "JAMBO." We were home at last.
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