Shauri Ya Mungu (It's God's Will)

There used to be a certain type of British Army officer who, despite any bother caused by the natives, would make the early morning flight of sand grouse his first priority of the day. A person who fitted that description was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, my Commanding Officer when I served with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles. Being his Signals Officer, and later, Adjutant, I was always close to him wherever we served – be it the jungles of Malaya during the communist uprising, or the forests of Kenya during the Mau Mau campaign.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.

A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.

Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!

The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.

After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.

Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.

High Pressure Means Trouble

Within a few weeks of retiring (finally) from the Army (27th August 1993), I was taking stock of some of the things in the military museum I ran and with which I was familiar. I looked nostalgically at the Bren machine gun and the Enfield mark 4 and 5 rifles in the armoury and the old wireless sets No. 19 and 68 in 'Signals Corner'. A suit of battle-dress and a pair of ammunition boots (with thirteen studs in the leather soles - no more, no less). A Slidex card (low level cypher) and a can of Bluebell (metal polish). Some of you have never heard of these things; I won't bother to explain. But for others of my profession and vintage, they are old friends - or enemies, as the case may be. All are well past their 'sell by date', but there was one piece of kit that was going strong when I joined the Army in 1944 and was still in front line service when I bowed out. It is officially known as 'Cooker Portable No.1' but, to its friends - the 'Number One Burner'.
This truly marvellous item of equipment has been in service since 1939; its CV states: '---designed to cook for seventy persons ... can be used to cook fresh and tinned rations, producing a multi-choice but basic menu. ADVANTAGES ... operates on petrol. It is versatile and, when used with ancillary equipment, is an efficient cooker. DISADVANTAGES ... Operating at ground level increases hygiene risks as you must dig in before use. Petrol, being corrosive, eats away the inside of the tank. Annual pressure tests are essential'.
This doesn't say much for a portable cooker that has reigned supreme for over half a century and I've never known anyone worry about the 'health and safety at work' rules when the Company Quartermaster Sergeant announces that 'all-in-stew' is ready.
Basically, the No. 1 burner is a strong container which ejects petrol, under pressure, through a perforated metal ring. Initially, the petrol will burn as a liquid, but as soon as the ring becomes hot, the petrol changes to vapour and that is when the burner roars into life. For best results, the burner should be set at the end of a line of metal stands in a trench two feet deep. The flame travels down the tunnel heating as many as five dixies (containers) set on the top. Within a short time, the contents will be bubbling away merrily.
One of the nostalgic sounds within an old soldier's memory is the 'early shift' cook getting breakfast ready. He will be going about his business as quietly as he can, trying not to wake his mates, but then comes the sound of him pumping the burner; rather like the noise a bicycle pump makes when it's inflating a tyre. Next comes the roar as the petrol vaporises. It never annoyed me, rather, it was a comforting sound bringing the promise of strong, sweet, 'sergeant major's' tea within ten minutes.
Dixies on metal frames above the trench will provide hot water or boiled food, but if you are in a semi-permanent location, you can improvise with 44 gallon drums (Royal Engineers will always provide). You can then produce a splendid variety of ovens. Under my personal direction, during the Mau Mau campaign in Kenya, King's African Rifles cooks in my company constructed a huge oven of mud, stone and wattle which cooked everything. The power source was firewood, but if this was not available, we used a No. 1 burner. The heat circulated a 44 gallon drum, which was the centre piece of the oven, before dispersing through a chimney at the top. We could fry, boil, grill. roast, bake and barbecue on this contraption and it became a prototype for a number of other, but not so efficient, ovens in the Kikuyu reserve.
But let me return to the conventional No. 1 burner and a tale about another disadvantage not specifically mentioned in its CV.
In June 1953, the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles withdrew from Malaya where we had spent eighteen months helping to subdue a communist insurrection. Some of the rifle companies travelled to Singapore by road to embark aboard the troopship 'DILWARA' for our journey back to Kenya. Others travelled down the east coast of Malaya in landing craft.
As Adjutant of the battalion, I embarked in Kuantan with a motley collection of orderly room and officers' mess staff, the Drums platoon and half a dozen regimental policemen. The landing craft we travelled on was the smallest of the breed, about 60 feet long, known as LCI (landing craft infantry). It was like a Dinky toy version of its larger cousins which carry lorries, tanks and heavy machinery. The Skipper was the fattest Chinaman I have ever seen; when he entered the wheel house, there was no room for anyone else.
We slipped our moorings at about 4pm and I took a long last look at the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront, which had been my home for the previous twelve months. It was the only hotel in Kuantan at that time and the top floor had been a brothel before we requisitioned it as the officers' mess. I have no doubt that it quickly reverted to its former usage when we left.
We sailed down the broad estuary of the Sungei Kuantan to the open sea and then turned south. After proceeding a few miles, the landing craft stopped and the anchor went down. Using a mixture of Malay and English, I gathered from the Captain that he could only travel during daylight hours as he did not have any maps; scores of offshore islands inhibited movement by night.
Content that the Captain's decision was in everyone's interest, I took out my fishing rod, attached a lure in the shape of a small wooden sprat and cast it into the water. After about ten minutes, I felt a bite. I struck and then enjoyed another ten minutes of action with whatever was on the end of my line. Some of the crew showed interest in what I was doing, but when the head of my quarry broke surface, there were cries of horror. Two African askaris came to see what was going on and they also gave shouts of alarm: "Angalia, effendi. Iko nyoka mkubwa!" (Watch out, sir. That's a big snake!). I had been told about the danger of sea snakes when we arrived in Malaya, but as I had never seen one and the swimming had been so marvellous in the South China Sea at Kuantan, I never gave them a thought. The Captain waddled down the ladder from the wheel house and joined the chorus of dissent when he saw the snake, which was now squirming around on the surface. He made it quite clear that he was not going to allow the thing to be brought aboard his ship. Chinese will eat most things, including land based poisonous snakes, but those that live in the sea, are definitely not to their taste. In this, they had full support from their African passengers who considered any snake, from land or sea, was something to be avoided at all times. I was the odd one out, but only because I did not want to lose my sprat which had served me well over the years and which was now sticking head first out of the snake's mouth. The snake eventually settled the matter by spitting it out.
Corporal Macheru, the officers' mess cook, watched the drama and when things were sorted out, he went back to the bows of the ship where the No. 1 burner was in place to cook curry for our evening meal. The Captain made it plain he did not want any more trouble with snakes, so I dismantled my rod and packed my sprat. As I was doing this, Corporal Macheru told me he thought there was something wrong with the burner. When I went to investigate, I found that the indicator on the pressure gauge was well into the 'red'. As I stepped back to consider the matter, there was a sound like a pistol being fired and a huge jet of flame shot about thirty feet into the air. The instinct of self preservation has always been one of my strong points; I wheeled around and, from a standing start, cleared a six-foot table upon which sat an assortment of cooking utensils. Later, I found that a brass stud on the top of the burner blows out if the pressure gets too high. It could have been lethal if I had been standing over it.
The Captain was back in the wheel house mopping his brow after the exertion of climbing up and down his ladder when suddenly the front of his ship erupted in flame. For the second time in thirty minutes, he hurled his massive frame down the ladder and scrambled over piles of baggage to find out what had gone wrong this time. When he eventually reached me, the fire had gone out and I hastened to assure him there would be no repetition. He was not easily pacified and relations between us took another plunge when I asked him if we could use his cooking facilities, as ours did not work any more. We managed to reach Singapore two days later without any more disasters.
Since then, I have been wary of anything that operates with petrol under pressure; but there was one other occasion when I had a similar experience.
It happened when I visited one of the volunteer battalions of my Regiment at camp in Scotland. The Commanding Officer and I went to see one of the rifle companies at their camp in the Trossachs. The midges were biting like mad, so the CO suggested we stand near a No.1 burner. Instinctively, I looked at the pressure gauge and saw that the indicator was in the 'red'. "Stand clear!" I shouted and then dived for cover. The others thought I had taken leave of my senses but they joined me when a 'pistol shot' preceded a spectacular pillar of flame as the safety plug blew out.

Now that I am well and truly retired, I have plenty of memories to remind me of nearly half a century of soldiering. One of my favourites is the rattle of dixies and the No.1 burner roaring into life at the start of a new day.