91Čȱ¬

KENYA
The journey on occasions where the scenery varied was interesting especially after Voi when it became slightly cooler. However, that night, when 28 of us were crowded together in a 3rd Class Compartment, can only be described as a night of horror. Our hardships have been unparalleled in history since the Black Hole of Calcutta. The best parts of the interior to sleep on were the baggage racks followed closely by the floor under the seats out of the way of feet. The latter position I adopted owing to my height. Windows were smashed to obtain air, regardless of mosquitoes. During the night two birthdays were celebrated and a general singsong under the most harrowing circumstances was adopted. Needless to say I had little or no sleep.
At long last dawn broke and we found the train lined on either side by wandering Thomson Gazelle which grazed in amazing profusion. Occasionally, giraffe could be seen cantering across the veldt, which was covered by a rich yellow grass. By 8 o’clock we steamed into Nairobi station. We had a good breakfast and were soon on our way again. Nairobi, though not much bigger than Maritzburg was extremely pretty with a distinctly modern touch about its buildings. Our surroundings began to change and throughout the whole day we were winding our way down steep valleys, now puffing up long hills, now passing huge volcano craters and finally the great salt lake of Navasha. This lake was fascinating and left its impression of blue and silver in our minds long after. Our destination Gil Gil is comparable with the Indian villages round Sea Cow lake in Durban. It was comprised mainly of a cluster of Indian stores and garages around the station. From here the line continued to Nakuru, but we branched off and eventually stepped out on to our camping ground. The first night we slept in tents, but the next night found us rather uncomfortably spread-eagled across the floor of a large shanty. On the whole I enjoyed my stay at Gil Gil. Our training was continued, as were air guards. Our three posts are named Point, Glenwood and Berea. Although hot during the day and cool through the night, the climate was quite tolerable. Flies were the biggest curse and jigger-fleas and snakes ran them a close second and third. During our hours of rest I spent my leisure in cycling on army bikes to all places of beauty and interest. The most momentous of my rides was to Flamingo lake one brilliant Saturday afternoon. Here was a shallow salt lake of deepest blue bordered by a smooth shore of white sulphur deposit. Encircling this veritable domain of the Flamingo was a verdant undergrowth of fever trees and bush. Like a drop of Prussian blue in a saucer of green it lay with mountain peaks reaching to the sky across which scudded the notorious white rain clouds. From various folds in the hills escaped voluminous spirals of vapour from a wealth of geysers. And now the crowning splash of an artist’s brush on a beautiful picture, in the centre of the lake on an island of white mud stood the Flamingos. Thousand upon thousand of these birds in plumage from the palest pink to the deepest crimson basked in the last rays of the dying sun. And just before King Sol dipped behind the hills of mauve, his great host of subjects rose like a curtain in the breeze and thrice encircled their lake abode before the threat of darkness bade them descend. I can still remember as we trudged wearily pushing our cycles up the hillside, the last glance at that scene “so touching in its majesty.”
Apart from fishing (which I detest) reading and card-playing were our only outlets for pleasure. Apart from many platoon and section squabbles it was a free life that we spent. It was not long before our section separated and moved to a large EPIP. Here we spent many happy days, which ended only too soon. Just before we moved I had the good fortune to have a flip in a plane.
Being one of a party of ten I arrived at Nakuru aerodrome after a bumpy 30-mile journey. As the car pulled up, six fighter-bombers were preparing to leave and bomb the N.M.R. camp. One seat was open for a flip and we decided to draw. The idea was to write a number on a piece of paper and the first man to give the number in rotation got the ride. I started off, and by some undeniable luck gave No.4. I drew the right number 25 and dashed across to the waiting plane. Sans goggles, sans overalls, I jumped into the rear cockpit. A hasty consultation with the pilot about how to fix the parachute left me just as ignorant. But now a devil-may-care mood possessed me and I didn’t give a damn. In a few moments we were off. Surely there can be no more delightful sensation than rising from the ground in a tiny plane. It is as if a mighty invisible hand is drawing you away from the earth, higher and higher. In a matter of seconds we were high above the drome; homes became match-boxes and men merely specks. Miles and miles of the rift valley lay spread out below us. The three lakes, Navasha, Flamingo, and a third, whose name fails my memory, lay like three big puddles of silver on a carpet with a patchwork of green and brown. Now we roared in an arrow formation of three planes down the valley towards the camp. The blast from the propellers was terrific and my uncovered hair whipped into my eyes. A feeling of exaltation possessed me with all the valley like an open book before me, and I began to sing at the top of my voice and received a shock to find my ears had failed me completely. The reason for this I can not explain, but it had the effect of sobering me slightly. After encircling the camp twice the planes altered formation and prepared to bomb. And now came the most thrilling moment of the flight. Our plane suddenly dipped and down we went in a power dive from 3,000 feet following closely on the tail of No.2; 3000, 2800,2000, 1500, down we shot like a bolt from the blue. My stomach by this time was up by my neck but still we fell, and that peculiar high-pitched note often heard in cinemas when a plane is diving, screamed in my ears. The temperature changed rapidly. Specks became men; fantastic camouflage changed to gun emplacements. Then at a hundred feet, when I was becoming slightly uneasy we rose. My entrails promptly descended to well below their former position.
The first dive was over and as I turned in the cockpit I noted our own tent and even gun positions and most of all the uplifted wondering faces of several soldiers. This performance we repeated eight times and then we circled and flew hell-for-leather back to the drome. No sooner had my Hawker Hart landed, then another pilot ran up and asked me if I would like another spin. I told him I would. Here now was a different type of pilot to the first, who though obviously well trained was level headed. Tall and fair with blue eyes, he was the youngest pilot in the squadron. Though he was eighteen, he was considered the most skilful and daring, with several wrecked planes to his credit.
In a matter of seconds I was again in the air. This time however, we hardly rose above 500 feet. Making for the neighbouring lake he descended to about 100 feet and flew round the soda caked edge. So low were we that the stench of the sulphur deposits was nearly overpowering. Lower and lower he flew, 50 feet, 30 feet, 10 feet, and then for a split thrilling second he touched ground, bumped along twice, and took off again flying towards the eastern shore which was clothed with dense undergrowth. Never higher than 50 feet, he frightened and stampeded a herd of zebra, chased an ostrich almost decapitating it, and finally roused several hippos from their muddy lair. Soon, too soon was this crazy adventure over and as I walked back to our lorry I realised why the Empire was able to beat the superior German planes over Dunkirk. We have men of a calibre equalled only by the men of our navy and although outnumbered, our planes are the cream of our industrial attainments.
In vain did I try for Nairobi leave. And when it seemed certain that I should get leave our regiment was given orders to move. Before we left Gil Gil it became imperative for a certain number of the platoon to be transferred to a rifle company. Like a fool I remained in ack ack and lost some of my best friends. If I had gone to a rifle company I would, I am sure, never regretted my action.
It was towards the end of November, 1940, that we forsook our life of ease and comparative luxury and headed northwards to meet the advances of the Italians who had begun their invasion of Kenya. The S. African army met the enemy thrusts with three brigades of white troops and some black K.A.R’s and Nigerian troops. There were two fronts on the north east frontier around Wajir, where the first brigade operated with native troops and on the north west frontier around Marsabit. This was our destination. To reach Marsabit a desert had to be crossed and for many, many days we wound our way through the comparatively flat scrub country passing intermittent koppies and hillocks whose queer stony formations often intrigued us — one resembled Gibraltar and others human likenesses. At night we more often than not camped near an oasis. At one of these “Liasamis” I saw the biggest scorpion of the whole campaign. It became a pastime matching scorpion against scorpion in a small densely packed arena of soldiers.
It took some days to cross this semi-desert and finally we crossed the last river we were to see for many months at Archers Post. Marsabit oasis is, I think, one of the most amazing and intriguing places on earth. The oasis is really a gigantic forest, which sprawls over a sudden clump of small hills in the otherwise flat waterless country. How this forest exists I cannot say. There are no rivers for hundreds of miles, and there are only water holes in the area. The forest is far thicker than any in the Union and is comprised of large trees as old it seemed as the hills themselves. A green moss or fungus draped each tree giving it the appearance of a weeping willow. Luxuriant grass, long and green, grew in the patches, which were not already covered by the veritable jungle. This then was to be our home for five weeks and was the army’s forward base. In between two great nipples with their brassiere of green reaching up to the windswept sky, was our temporary home. Nestling under the trees were many grass huts known as “bandas.” Two or three of us lived in each of these. They were exceptionally well made and were weatherproof warm and comfortable. Their furniture consisted of beds made of sticks and odd shelves for kit. We gave them names and made them quite homely with pictures and other knick-knacks. My particular banda which I shared with one other was called “Ye olde Brothel” it being an outsize in bandas and thus a congregating place for card games and binges. Those were happy days, and our only duty other than bayonet training was to mount an air sentry on the summit of the larger of the two hills. Each morning just before dawn, three of us had to take the path up the hill. Laden with rations we spent the day up the top reading, writing, cooking and spotting for aircraft. The path was rather a precarious one, for it had to be navigated before sunrise and after sunset. It wound through the forest and skirted a cliff, rising all the time. If a person strayed off the path he was lost in a few minutes. One party in another camp did this and were lost for days before a search party of local “patriots” found them. A tribe of baboons lived in the cliff and all day long we could watch them prancing in the trees and barking. To many of us — born and bred in the towns they were rather frightening, and many a time did I cock my rifle and walk past the cliff with my heart in my mouth.
There were still many buck and an odd buffalo, which we left very much alone. At night we were particularly wary and more so when a few roars were heard in the distance. The only curse that was upon us was that of insects, or rather vermin. By day we were entertained by flies — at night mosquitoes started their antics. Not content with these there were plenty of fleas. But by far the biggest inquisitor was the tick. These ticks were no bigger than a pin head and plagued us in their thousands. I met quite a few of these in my first never-to-be-forgotten encounter. In about five minutes I took ninety off my legs and burnt hundreds more off my clothes with a cigarette. Such a curse these became, that on air guard we were forced to sit in the centre of a ground sheet and watch them cross the edges, whence they were quickly eradicated. In the cool of the trees life was pleasant and birds of many colours, species and sizes chirped and chattered above us all day. A small red speckled butterfly swarmed over the countryside all day and added colour to the already picturesque scenery. It was in these surroundings that we spent our first Christmas in the army and a very pleasant one it was. A couple of gazelle had been shot and these were roasted on an open fire on Christmas Eve. The whole platoon sat round in “braavleis” fashion, and in turn each member gave a song recitation or skit. We had ample supplies of liquor and our spirits were high. The party ended up going “Zulu” and “Hey Makadema” was the last refrain that echoed over the silent hills before we returned to our bandas. A description of celebrations at New Year would hardly be proper in this account. But a few words must be spent on the “Dance of the veiled shifta.”

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.