Promotion Prospects

I had been in to see the Adjutant about something or other and was turning to leave when he said: "By the way, you have to sit a promotion exam in six months time." I turned around and said: "I beg your pardon, what did you say about an examination?" He repeated and expanded the unpalatable information by reeling off a list of subjects I would have to study and satisfy the examiners if I wanted to wear three pips on my shoulder. I had already been wearing the badges of rank of a captain for a year and I had not been aware that I would have to pass an examination to keep them. Besides, it was 1951, I was serving in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and killing bandits was the top priority.
There was not much one could do about studying for examinations at that time. We were in a lonely place surrounded by jungle and the only books on military subjects were a few old pamphlets, a manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations which the Adjutant kept in his tent. I discovered that the examination, for which I and three other officers of the battalion had been entered, was the first one to be held in post war years.
Prosecuting the war in Malaya under that most energetic High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, was a full time job for everyone, at least that was our excuse. It was not until we were within two weeks of the examination that the subjects we had to study began to occupy our minds.
With two days to go before E-Day, the four of us boarded the Commanding Officer's 4x4 Humber command vehicle and, escorted by a pair of Ferret scout cars, we set off for Kuala Lumpur. Each of us had been able to get a copy of the manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations. The Adjutant had provided his copies, brigade headquarters had loaned another two sets and a local rubber planter, recently retired from the Army, provided the remainder.
The examination, even after all these years, is a painful memory relieved only by the counter balance of a few nights in the bright lights of the nation's capital city. Our lack of preparation was certainly responsible for much pencil sucking and early orders for cold Tiger beers in the mess. We returned to our unit in a sombre and dejected state convinced we had failed in all subjects.
A few weeks later, we received small brown envelopes which, when opened, informed us that we had failed in all subjects except military law. This was a surprise because just before we were given the military law question papers, we were told that reference books were not allowed. They were collected from our tables and stacked on the dais occupied by the invigilating officer. In one way, it made things easier for us as we could not possibly quote chapters and paragraphs; I remember recommending the death sentence for some of the more tricky questions. However, we congratulated ourselves on not disappearing completely down the plug hole, but learnt a few weeks later that the reason for our limited success was because of the error of the invigilating officer who had deprived us of our books. It seemed that everyone had passed irrespective of how well or badly they had done.
There was another occasion when I was stationed with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Luneberg, Germany in 1956. Along with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Mike Dyer and one or two others I had been entered for the captain to major practical examination to be held in Hameln.
The others went ahead of me and it was not until the early evening that I collected my suitcase and books and boarded an Austin Champ. In those days they did not issue doors for Champs and, as we were well into autumn, it was a cold ride.
I arrived in Hameln at about 9pm and it was not difficult to find the officers' mess where I had been booked to stay; Military Police signs covered every route. Making sure that my driver had a meal and a bunk for the night, I was dropped off at the mess. I was still protected from the cold night air with my British warm overcoat and a huge scarf twisted around my neck three times.
A trio of lieutenant colonels greeted me like a long lost brother. "Good to see you at last," said one. "What would you like to drink?" said another. "A whisky and soda would do very well," I replied. "I'll get your supper fixed," said the third. I really could not have expected more hospitable treatment than I received from those kind fellows and I felt a surge of confidence for the morrow when such splendid directing staff would ease us through our tasks.
With a large whisky in one hand I started to peel off my clothing. As I did so, I became aware of two sets of eyes, both belonging to lieutenant colonels, looking at my epaulettes which carried three pips. The third half-colonel came from the kitchen area and said: "Supper's on the table," then he became absorbed with my badges of rank. Their hospitality vanished in an instant and I was given a chit pad to sign for my drink.
What happened was that they had mistaken me for the fourth member of directing staff who had not arrived. I have always looked older than I am and even as a member of the school combined cadet force, wearing a trench coat, I was often saluted by serving soldiers. It had been fun then, but in Hameln on that cold night in 1956, I became aware of the hazardous situation I had created.
The following morning, we received instructions to assemble at a grid reference about three miles away. I did not notice at the time, but afterwards remembered the casual way officers lingered over their coffee as zero hour for departure approached. As soon as I got up from the table and headed for my Austin Champ, everyone else fell in behind. With a one inch to the mile map on my lap, I led the way out of barracks.
We had not travelled more than 300 yards before we came to an 'umleitung' (diversion) sign. The German use of diversion signs has always amazed me. Wherever you go there are 'umleitungs' - even to the extent of 'umleitung' signs diverting you from 'umleitungs'. It wasn't long before I was completely lost in the back streets of that ancient town, with a huge snake of military vehicles behind me. Those officers who had lingered over their coffee were the first to make unkind remarks about my map reading. Others, who thought their career prospects were in danger, were looking at their watches and going white around the gills.
We finally extricated ourselves from the depths of Hameln and, eventually, like the pied piper, I led the column to the assembly point. Standing there on the cold hillside were four lieutenant colonels, including the one they thought was me the night before. "Where have you been?" said the one who had ordered me a large whisky. I gave a weak excuse about 'umleitungs', but I could see I was extremely unpopular with students and directing staff alike.
I spent a very uncomfortable day expecting low marks, but a few weeks later, one of those familiar small brown envelopes arrived with the good news that I had passed.

I am one of those fellows who turns up for written examinations with the minimum amount of kit ie. one red and one blue ball point pen, one fountain pen, one pencil, a rubber and a ruler. I have never felt that any of my successes, or otherwise, have been due to the tools I have used, but there are others who believe in fortifying themselves with a remarkable array of paraphernalia on their desk tops. Flasks of coffee, slide rules, geometry sets, travelling clocks, coloured inks and crayons, blotters and even slippers, change of sweaters and Beacham's powders are part of the stock in trade of those who take examinations seriously.
One fellow I met in Sennerlager was a lighter traveller than me. He turned up with only a blue biro and a ruler. With about five minutes to go before the starting bell rang, he ambled across to me and said: "Just checking - it was GOLD, JUNO and SWORD from west to east?" I gave him a puzzled look and said: "What are you talking about?" "The beaches in France, of course," he replied. I gave this some thought before asking him why he wanted to know about the beaches where the invasion force landed on D-Day. "So that I can answer the question if it comes up, you dummy," he answered. There were a few moments of panic before I assured myself that I had studied the correct campaign and he had studied the wrong one. I tried not to create a situation where this languid cavalry officer might fall on his sword but, with seconds ticking by, I had to break it to him we were doing 'North Africa'. When this alarming piece of news was confirmed by others around him, I took him across to Duncan Griffiths who had made some pretty little coloured maps on cardboard, rather like tiles on a bathroom wall. With three minutes to go, Duncan did his best to explain what the large curved arrows of troop movements meant. Half an hour after the starting bell rang, I watched him walk out of the room clutching his biro and ruler. He was not in the mess when the rest of us returned for lunch and the mess sergeant told me had seen him throw a suitcase into the back of his car and depart a few hours before.

I must have taken a nose dive on that examination because I found myself with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Norman Salmon and a few others in Tripoli, Libya a year or so later sitting another one.
We had flown from Benghazi where 1/WELCH was stationed and had spent a few days concentrated study in the comfortable officers' mess of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. The four days of the examination was an uncomfortable experience and it was with relief that I inked in the last full stop.
Tripoli, in those days, was a splendid place to be stationed. There were plenty of good hotels, a casino, night clubs and a flourishing nurses' mess. Some of us made use of our time in the city and as soon as darkness fell we called a taxi and sped off to the British Military Hospital and the nurses' mess.
We enjoyed the girls' hospitality for an hour or so and then most of us, with some of the girls, went to one of the excellent restaurants on the sea front. Later that night we did a round of the night clubs and finally got back to our beds as the first rays of dawn were showing in the eastern sky.
I was woken within a short time by a servant with the unwelcome news that the bus would leave for the airport in thirty minutes time. It was easy to see the ones who had been 'clubbing' only a few hours before. They were the ones who could not bear to sit on the seats as the bus lurched through pot holes in the road to King Idris Airport.
I sat glumly in what was called the Airport Lounge, which could easily have been mistaken for an extension of the camel market, until a Cyprus Airways plane landed and we were called forward by the air hostess. She was the daughter of a Nicosia based brigadier and was the only bit of glamour on an otherwise dull airline. "I am sorry to say we are over-booked. I need two volunteers to stay behind until next week," she said. My right arm shot up automatically and I shouted: "Me," just in case there was any competition. I need not have bothered as there were no other takers. "We shall have to draw lots then," she said and proceeded to do something with small pieces of paper in her pretty little hat. When everyone, except me, had taken one it was found that Duncan Griffiths had drawn the piece of paper with a cross on it. I could see from the look on his face that he considered this very bad news, made worse by having to spend a week with me whose nocturnal pursuits were not in line with his own. Besides, it was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take his wife out to dinner that night.
Duncan insisted on waiting until the others were airborne, just in case someone dropped dead at the last minute. It was only when he saw the wheels disappear into their niches in the wings that he accepted the fact that he was marooned in Tripoli. We boarded the bus once more and within an hour I was tucked up in bed.
At about 10am, I was woken by Duncan who had been working on a plan to get back to Benghazi. He told me that it was our duty to try and get back to our unit. "Rather like prisoners-of-war," he said. I told him that I did not feel at all like a prisoner-of-war and, that as far as I was concerned, the enforced stop-over in Tripoli was more like a gift from heaven. He was determined to go ahead with his plan though and when he outlined what he proposed to do, I could see that questions would be asked if I was not with him when he returned to Benghazi.
Phase 1. of Duncan's plan had already been completed while I was asleep. He had telephoned someone at Wheelus Field, a large American Air Force base a few miles outside Tripoli, and asked if there was anything going to Benghazi. He was told that a DC-3 would be flying there that afternoon and if we reported at 2pm, there was a good chance of getting a lift. I must have looked as miserable as Duncan looked a few hours earlier and I was furious that he had scuppered my opportunity to have seven days holiday. I packed my bags again, had lunch and then set off with Duncan in a taxi for Wheelus Field.
The DC-3 was on the runway and we were told to climb aboard. The engines roared and we started to move forward but, instead of gathering speed, we slowed down and stopped. The door of the crew compartment opened and a large gum chewing American with a gold-encrusted baseball cap said: "I hear there are Limeys aboard - and I don't carry Limeys." Duncan and I had been looking out of the window to see why we had stopped and did not pay attention to the first announcement, but someone must have pointed us out to the pilot because he marched down the aisle, confronted us and said: "Are you Limeys?" Both of us were familiar with the expression despite never having been addressed that way before. We nodded assent and without further ceremony the big aggressive American opened the door, pulled down a ladder and said: "Get off!" Summoning as much dignity as we could manage, we collected our bags and descended to the runway. The door clanged shut behind us, engines revved to full power and off went the DC-3 in the direction of Benghazi.
Duncan was anxious to recover his pound of flesh and he set off to get redress from the base commander. But everyone had their heads down and he could not find anyone who would listen to his grievance. Finally, he bowed to the inevitable and we took a taxi back to the Royal Irish Fusiliers barracks.
My fortunes seemed to be changing for the better and it looked as if I was going to get seven days leave in Tripoli after all. To give Duncan his due, he had a few more shots at trying to get back to Benghazi via local oil prospectors' aircraft, but this time he was on his own and was unsuccessful.
A week later, the two of us once again took the bumpy road to King Idris Airport. The Cyprus Airways plane arrived on time from Malta and Duncan gave a big sigh of relief when the air hostess told him she had room for both of us.

Mau Mau Memories

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

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

Our first casualty

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

Growing up in the KAR

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

Long-drop

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

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


Defiant to the end

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

A pit full of panjis

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


Not his ‘cup-of-tea.'

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


SMITH'S FOLLY

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

Donkey work

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

Fundi ya mkuki

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

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

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.