Nine Faces Of Kenya

by Elspeth Huxley

  Then we set off walking again, four of us this time, heading south. We walked all through the night and in the morning two of the Somalis volunteered to go ahead with a note asking for help. The third Somali stayed behind. I could scarcely walk, and on this the eleventh day, progress was even slower than before, but I knew now that help would come.

  The officer, in the last stages of thirst and exhaustion, fell asleep under a small tree, and woke to find that his Somali companion had disappeared. Thinking himself deserted, he staggered on until he could go no farther.

  I collapsed under a tree near the road and there I was found about midday by the Somali whom I thought had deserted me. But, in fact, the Somali had walked nearly twenty-five miles to find water and the same distance back again. He had walked steadily for twenty-four hours, day and night, fifty miles to rescue the white man he had befriended in his village. Goat’s milk had also been brought, and with that 1 revived again and we set out for the Somali village twenty-five miles away where the Somali, by gestures, conveyed the welcome news that there was water and plenty of food. It was a painful journey, but with the help of the Somali I made it that night. My socks had long ago given out and I had wrapped my feet in cotton wool to ease the pain. Once there I was among friends. There, too, I found the other Somalis, who had set out with us. They had searched for miles for a KAR post and failed to find it. They gave me a hut to sleep in and fed me royally on milk and boiled goat’s flesh.

  The next day a British aircraft flew over the village, but they failed to recognize me among the tribesmen. So I decided to continue my journey, mindful of my two companions left behind by the water hole in enemy territory. After a night’s rest the last stage began. The village headman set me on a camel, and with a small party we started along the road which led to an important frontier post. Ali Mohamed, the friend in need, who had walked fifty miles to find water to save my life, made his salaams and went back to his own village. And so it was that, late in the afternoon of the thirteenth day, an aircraft found us on the road, recognized the man who had been given up as dead, and dropped a message of good cheer. That night a lorry arrived and a few hours later I was shaking hands with a Kenya District Commissioner. At once a reconnaissance party was sent out back to the water hole, and a day later the two men were rescued in the last stages of exhaustion.

  Nobody can realize what thirst is like unless one has experienced it. I shall always remember those foul vultures. They came from nowhere, circled overhead and then sat on the trees under which we were lying. We tried to ignore them. But they just sat silent and still.

  Abyssinian Patchwork Kenneth Gandar Dower.

  Somali – Somali – we’re here for your sake

  But what the hell difference does the NDF2 make?

  Mussolini can have it with a great rousing cheer –

  Moyale, Mandera, El Wak and Wajir.

  They say that the Itis are ready for war –

  They want Abyssinia – but God knows what for.

  But if they want somewhere, why not NDF?

  They can have every acre – it’s OK by me.

  Song written by three British officers of the KAR stationed at Wajir 1935–36.

  By August 1940 the Italians had invaded and occupied British Somaliland. The overall British commander, General Wavell, planned a three-pronged invasion of Abyssinia (Ethiopia): from the east through British Somaliland which had first to be retaken; from the south from Kenya; and from the north through the Sudan. An East African, a South African and a Nigerian brigade advanced at whirlwind speed into British Somaliland and in February 1941 captured the capital, Kismayu, without a fight. They continued into Italian Somaliland and occupied the capital, Mogadishu. The pace quickened as they sped inland through mountainous country towards the Abyssinian capital, Addis Ababa. With the 22nd East African Brigade, commanded by Brigadier Fowkes, was Captain W. E. Crosskill, who describes the end of what has been said to be the fastest pursuit in military history.

  Brigadier Fowkes had always said that he would reach Addis Ababa first with the 22nd Brigade. He was then well to the fore, leading the field and determined to win the race by hook or by crook. Some of the stories told of the measures he took to ensure this may be apocryphal but those who knew him will be certain that there was some substance in them. One thing I do know; his Brigade transport and his alone had sufficient petrol to get there. Whilst in the Mogadishu area he had told his transport officer, Budge Gethin, to acquire, “liberate” or seize enough of the petrol abandoned by the Italians to take his Brigade Group a thousand miles. That efficient officer went into the petrol-running business enthusiastically and, during the “rest” period at Merca, had dumped hundreds of drums at various hideouts along the Strada Imperiale.

  All went well and according to plan. He was first over the Awash River and well placed with only one hundred and forty miles to go. But at this point the Divisional Commander intervened. He had orders from Force Headquarters that the South Africans should have the honour of being first into the capital, so he sent a personal signal to our Brigadier saying “Halt and allow 1 SA Bde to pass through” – or words to that effect. Undaunted the Brigadier dealt swiftly with this. Following the Nelson tradition he turned a blind eye and replied that the signal had been mutilated in transmission and was not understood. All his vehicles had plenty of petrol so on they sped.

  He had already envisaged the possibility of the General then sending another message to him by despatch rider so, in order to avoid any such catastrophe, he had instructed his rear party not to allow anyone to pass up the column – in, of course, the interests of security. But, as he bowled along, his blue pennant flying in the breeze and Addis Ababa almost in sight, the Divisional Commander played a trump card – he sent a plane to stop him. The pilot spotted the column without difficulty and then, flying so low that the drivers instinctively ducked their heads, dropped his message bag with ribbons fluttering almost on to the bonnet of the Brigadier’s car. This was force majeure with a vengeance and he halted – ten miles from the capital.

  In the event the honours were divided fairly. General Wetherall was accompanied by Brigadier Fowkes, Brigadier Pienaar of the 1st South African Brigade and Brigadier Smallwood of the Nigerian Brigade when they went to the Duke of Aosta’s residence for the signing of the armistice.

  The Two Thousand Mile War W. E. Crosskill.

  On 6 April 1941 Addis Ababa capitulated, forty days after the start of the advance from Kismayu. A war correspondent, George Kinnear of the East African Standard, reported on the entry of the British troops.

  On we trundled through the tall blue gum trees, which we were soon to grow to hate, through the endless suburbs, which always seemed about to emerge into the central plazas of a magnificent city, and never did, through the jumbled confusion of the slums of two civilizations that had been piled on top of each other and interspersed with an occasional magnificent building, well-designed, well-finished, and then dumped down illogically in the middle of a mess. The saluting got more and more terrific – British salutes from Fascist soldiers, Fascist salutes from the Abyssinian civilians – everyone was most punctilious according to his lights, except me, that is, I couldn’t salute or I would have fallen off.

  And so at last we came to the Duke of Aosta’s palace. This was a heavy, but rather imposing, building, with plenty of pillars and steps. To one side of the steps was drawn up a Fascist guard of honour, and between the pillars, swathed in green and gold, a collection of somewhat tubby-looking Fascist dignitaries stood, determined, if not to die for their regime, at least to see that it collapsed with pomp and circumstance….

  Suddenly, from beyond the palace gates, came a most impressive roar of engines. This din marked the arrival of the British, but it was actually created by a troop of Italian police on motor bicycles, who were heading our procession. They were wearing crash helmets and suits of shiny black, and as they swept up the drive they really made a most alarming spectacle. The British,
however, did not seem to be co-operating with any real sympathy for these theatricals. The cars contained only one or two leading officers and their staffs. There were no troops whatever, and the only display of force that I can recall was one apologetic-looking armoured car which crept away as soon as it could and hid itself under the shade of a stupendous tree that stood beside the palace, as though it were most embarrassed at having to be there at all. This car was decorated with a little Union Jack, made by Katharine Biggs, the daughter of Mr Walter Harragin, Kenya’s Attorney-General.

  The proceedings were short and sharp and lamentably business-like. There were no flowery speeches. General Wetherall got out of his car, met General Mambrini, was saluted by the Italian guard of honour, and dived straight into the palace to get on with the signing.

  The Italian flag had been hauled down as soon as the British arrived, well before anyone was ready for it, and General Wetherall had it reflown in order that it could be given full military honours. Once this had been done, down it came again and up went the Union Jack, to be saluted in return by the Fascist guard. That was the end of one of the most business-like ceremonies I have ever seen. As I walked out of the palace gardens to take my first proper look at this strange new city, which now was ours, I found my mind running over the details of the morning. Surely, I kept on thinking, no people in the world could have surrendered their capital so friendly as had the Italians; surely no people in the world could have occupied a conquered city, the goal of their ambitions, so altogether unostentatiously as had the British.

  Despite the fall of the capital, Italian resistance continued in the towering mountains and savage bush. At the battle of Colito in May 1941 Sergeant Nigel Leakey of the Kenya Regiment stalked a tank.

  The first thing I remember was Leakey shouting to his men, “Come on! I can hear some lorries trying to get away. Let’s stop them”. He was just going forward with three or four men. I thought they sounded most unlike lorries – more like tractors, and I said, “Hell, look out! I think it’s a tank”.

  Just about that time we heard several start up. They were in front of us in the thick bush. Then the noise stopped and for a bit we couldn’t hear a thing. And Leakey was just going forward in front of my men when we heard a noise behind us.

  This time it was obviously a tank, and we could hear the noise coming nearer to us. Suddenly we saw it, about fifty yards away from us, not going very fast – keeping to the thick bush. Eventually it stopped behind the bush and Leakey did a sort of stalk, as if he were stalking a buck or something, only it was a pretty quick one. He did a certain amount of crawling, but most of the time he was doubling from one bush to another. And then he got to the bush behind which the tank was hiding. He crawled right through the middle of the bush, up underneath the tank, and then leaped on to the front of it. I can remember seeing, as he leaped up, the chap pulled down the vizor in front.

  The tank went mad. It came out into the open, then on to the road, and went off like blazes, firing all that it had got. It had a cannon and two machine-guns on it, with an all-round traverse in the turret. Leakey was straddling the machine-gun, one leg on either side, and there he was, quite happy on top of the tank, struggling with the lid of the turret.

  After the tank had gone, I suppose, a hundred yards, I saw the lid of the turret come up. I then saw Leakey poke his revolver inside and fire four or five shots rapid. The tank immediately stopped. Then Leakey jumped off and opened the side door of the tank, and pulled out two dead bodies. One was the colonel commanding this lot of tanks. Inside the driver’s seat was a miserable specimen, who hadn’t been shot, so Leakey jumped in beside him, poked a revolver in his face, and made him drive the tank on to the side of the road. He then hauled the driver out, put an askari to guard him, and then he said, “By God, we’ll get the others – with this tank we’ve got ’em absolutely cold. We’ll get the cannon to work”

  And he struggled with the cannon for, I should think, three or four minutes, but couldn’t find out how to get it to work. It was no good asking the driver. He was so frightened that he was hardly a human being.

  So Leakey said, “Oh well, I’ll get ’em on foot”, and off he went with two askaris. I never saw him again.

  Although I have had no opportunity to contact the eye-witnesses, there is a second half to this story. Sergeant Leakey was as good as his word; he set out to catch the remaining Italian tanks, and these were last seen in full retreat, with Leakey climbing on to the back of one of them. Sergeant Leakey never returned and his body was never found, but the enemy tanks took no further part in the battle of Colito.

  Sergeant Nigel Leakey was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross.

  While Leakey charged Italian tanks, Italian tanks charged a captain in the KAR at the battle of Bubissa. His company ran into a concealed tank position and had to scatter into the bush.

  The company just disappeared like that. I started running off at my best speed, which is 3 mph in thick mud. I was about 175 yards in front of the tank, which was coming after me with its pom-poms going past me like “phut”. As I ran, I found Lance-Corporal Caprono, crouching down in a furrow where the ravine ran – he was crawling with his legs smashed, so I stopped beside him (purely because I was out of breath – no courtesy about it) and he said, “Don’t leave me, bwana”. I said, “All right, I’ll wait for you down in those huts”.

  The tanks were coming in line ahead. They couldn’t go much faster than I could at first, but then we reached a downhill bit and they started to gain. Suddenly, to my delight, I saw David still firing his mortar. I said, “For Christ’s sake pack up that thing”, and he bumped off with the bipod. David was there with two askaris – both of whom got the MM – firing their guns to the last. I managed to pass David, because he was weighted down with the bipod. The tanks were about eighty yards behind us. There were three native huts. I nipped round the right and went to the left one. I tried to get inside, and at that moment I heard the tank coming so I flung myself into a thorn bush and pretended to be dead – pretty good imitation it was too.

  Luckily my hat fell over my face and they couldn’t see if I was white or black because I was so covered with mud.

  The tank passed about five yards off – from here to the door. I thought there was a rear gunner and I expected a bullet at any moment, or the tank to swing into me. I was just going to move when another blighter came. Then I saw a door and I took a header through it and I thought I’d dash about in and out of the huts.

  I then saw David and was delighted when I had another human being somewhere near me. He came crawling in – he had been lying on his face shamming dead and they had each had a shot at him as they passed.

  After a few seconds – it seemed ages – poor old Caprono came crawling in and another fellow who was coughing blood and had been hit just above the heart. We did what we could for him – though I thought it was far better to put a pistol to his head. He was trying to give some message to his toto. David gave him his water bottle.

  By this time the tanks had spread out a bit and our own guns were registering on the huts we were in. One shell hit within nine yards. David was lying on the ground in sheep dung.

  We discussed what we should do – stay till dark or beat it? You see we were only 400 yards from the Italian main positions. We decided to clear out, if we could, as we had a wounded fellow with us. We asked him if he could crawl with us – and he was jolly good about it. He said, “Yes, I will”.

  So off we slipped. We crawled for about a mile and a quarter, and David kept plaintively complaining that my bottom was sticking up in the air and kept on showing above the young maize. David couldn’t help laughing. He said I was purple in the face and covered in mud with a great bottom sticking up.

  There were machine-guns going off all the time.

  The tanks were still scouting for people, but luckily Caprono put up a marvellous show. We decided to carry him after a mile and a quarter, and he kept on saying, “I can see you are get
ting tired, bwana, and it’s getting open country. Put me down and I’ll crawl the next 200 yards. You go to the next tuft”. So we’d go there and wait for him and hide. We did that at odd times, but we carried him for three miles. Just as we were about done, I stopped three Abyssinians with spears, who seemed fairly friendly. I took their spears and made them carry Caprono.

  We got back to the post at last – the big tree – I have never been so delighted to see the Intelligence Officer and some askaris.

  We hid Caprono at the bole of the tree and made him a stretcher out of twigs and branches. We kept on having to stop, when we heard the tanks moving.

  Then we carried him about another two miles, but we had more people to do it now. The shock had set in by now. Old Caprono was shivering and saying “Mazuri tu” [I’m all right]. We gave him a coat and a cigarette, and told someone to fetch a lorry. I remember there was a calf. The calf came trotting behind us and we stuck him in the back of the lorry.