Bitter Harvest

by Ian Smith

  Although this prospect was not all that inviting, I believed we should carry on. Our guide had brought along a friend whom he wished to familiarise with the route, so that he could be used in future as a guide. I looked at him and he nodded his agreement, so we parted company, and our group of five continued the ascent. The cold was biting more viciously, especially as we were clad in light summer clothes. Over the more difficult places where we were slipping back on the ice, it was necessary to help one another. Bill seemed to be having more trouble than the rest of us, and on one occasion when I went back to help him over a tough spot he complained that he was tired and cold. The climb ahead looked so formidable that he wanted to go back. I made it clear in no uncertain manner that there was no question of that. I put my shoulder behind him and urged him to get moving. Every step was a battle on ice which was continually getting harder and more difficult to grip. Each time I looked up at the crest above us it seemed to be as far away as ever. After a few more hours of climbing we came across a ledge of black-looking rock protruding from the ice, an enticing place for a rest, but after a few minutes, feeling the cold penetrating through my whole body, I roused myself and got the party moving again, believing it would be better to keep the blood circulating.

  Contrary to expectations, as we approached the summit, the gradient lessened, and we made greater progress, no doubt stimulated by the expectation of finally getting there. We reached the top shortly after midnight, but our problems were far from over. Taking to heart the warning to avoid attempting a descent before dawn, we were faced with an agonising wait of eight hours sitting on blocks of ice on top of the Alps, clad in our summer clothes, an experience I would be reluctant to wish even on my worst enemy. Except for our French friend who had joined us the previous day and was reasonably clad for the occasion, the rest of us sat and shivered. I had never thought that one could become physically weary of shivering and one’s teeth ache from chattering. As my feet were not only cold, but soaking wet, I decided to take my boots off. Those eight hours seemed to take longer than the previous twenty-three days of walking. When it was light enough for us to commence our descent I decided to put on my boots, but they were blocks of ice. Within about a mile the bottoms of my socks had disintegrated, and I was slipping across the ice on bare feet, which led me to conclude that if this ever happened again in the future, I would keep my boots on!

  After a few hours’ walking we came across an American patrol. As soon as they spotted us, they dropped to the ground with their guns pointing in our direction, so I asked the others to stand where they were and I walked slowly forward with my hands in the air, making it clear that I was unarmed. Once they heard my story they relaxed and came forward. We beckoned to the others to advance and join us, and then we were transported a few miles to the Americans’ canteen where we enjoyed the warmth of their hospitality and some much-needed food. We then parted company, as aircrew were to be returned to their bases by air, others by road and sea. In spite of the short duration of our association, because of the stress and tension under which we had been living we had grown close to one another. Understanding and trust had been built up, so there was emotion at our farewell. I appreciated their gratitude when they said that had it not been for my assistance they would still be behind enemy lines. As they were now in safe hands, I could leave them with a clear conscience.

  V: THE END OF WAR

  Sadly, my hoped-for posting to Britain and the Western Front did not materialise. In spite of interviews at as many levels as possible, I was confronted by the fact that regulations (and I certainly had cause to curse them that day) stated that I was to be returned to the command from which I was operating at the time I was shot down. I enquired about the possibility of hitch-hiking on a flight to London, but it was made abundantly clear that the problems were insurmountable. So the following day I was on that great old workhorse the Dakota (DC 3) — I think it fair comment to say that no other single type of aircraft could claim to have made a greater contribution to the war effort — from Marseilles to Naples.

  There were no problems at Naples. The camp was well organised, but I was very much on my guard when reporting my entry, because it was well known that if one was missing behind enemy lines for more than three months this resulted in a posting back home. The chap behind the desk read my form and said: ‘We can fly you back to Cairo immediately, and there they will make plans to get you home.’ I replied that it was my wish to go to Britain, as I had many relatives there and it was in fact my second home. I kept a straight face. Fortunately he was a reasonable and decent type, and he nodded his head and said: ‘If that’s what you want, that’s fine.’

  The miracle had worked — I could hardly believe it. I was one step nearer to getting back into action, this time in Germany on the Western Front, if only there were a ship leaving tomorrow. It did not take the bush telegraph long to get the message back to my squadron, and within a few days two of my old mates arrived to see me: Dinks Mowbray and Brian Wilson. In addition, Ian Shand, the squadron leader of 237 Squadron, walked into the mess. He had flown down on some business, and we had lunch together. He listened to my account of the previous five months and said: ‘What you did is clearly worthy of recognition, so I would like you to fly back with me this afternoon so that we can make our recommendation.’ Shortly before my sojourn behind enemy lines I had been asked to submit my record of operations to wing command, as I was one of the top-scoring pilots on our squadron, so that would still be standing to my credit.

  It would have been a happy event to go back to the squadron and see them all again, but I immediately saw red lights flashing. What if a ship suddenly departed, and I missed it? Ian did not think that posed a problem. It would be possible to check on that, he said, and I would be away only a couple of days. But of even greater concern was the possibility that, once I was back at the squadron, someone might raise the question of being missing for more than three months, and that meant a posting back home, something to be avoided at all costs.

  I had to decide quickly. It was no easy task, and difficult to explain to Ian what was going on in my mind. He was a person whom we all held in high regard, since he been awarded a DSO and DFC. I told him that, as Dinks and Brian had arrived only that morning to see me, I did not want to walk out on them. So I said that I would think over his suggestion during the weekend, and if satisfied that no boat was about to depart, I would come up to the squadron with Dinks and Brian on the Monday. We left it like that. I decided to sit tight, and every day just hoped for the news that we were to sail, believing that thereafter I would be safely out of reach.

  The following night, Saturday, I talked Dinks and Brian into coming with me to watch the finals of the Mediterranean Boxing Championships. Not surprisingly the overall standard was good, but one contest was outstanding: the cruiser-weight final between an American and a Frenchman. The American was a tall angular black fellow, while the Frenchman, by contrast, was a neat compact chap, with fair hair. It was obvious to anyone who knew anything about the sport that the Frenchman was a master-craftsman. About halfway through the first round he let rip a punch, executed with the utmost composure and timing, which connected with his opponent’s jaw and felled him as if poleaxed. I took note of his name from the programme, and it remained in my mind: Marcel Cerdan. So I was not surprised to read a few years after the war ended that he had won the world cruiser-weight title, and in France he was acclaimed the new Carpentier. Tragically, not long afterwards, at the peak of his career, he was killed in an air crash.

  It seemed an interminable time — about ten days in fact — before the order came to embark. I planned something for each day, exploring the history and art of Naples. As the opera season was in full swing, I saw a number of good operas at the famous St Carlo Opera House, and on one occasion Gigli’s daughter was the leading soprano.

  I had been given the sad news that we had lost a few more members of the squadron during my absence. There were so many occasions wh
en emotion surged through my whole system, thinking of those chaps sitting around a table in the mess or on the end of one’s camp bed in the tent of an evening, who never returned from a sortie the next day. I was only postponing my return home, but they would never go home again. Some of them had shown outstanding bravery, but they would merely go down in history as the unsung heroes, if at all. There are few more moving moments for me than a visit to the grave of the Unknown Soldier, or attending the Armistice Day Service on 11 November each year: ‘At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember them.’

  Fortunately the journey to Britain was uneventful. I enjoyed having a look at Gibraltar, a magnificent sight, which lived right up to my expectations: imposing, strong, independent, courageous, even defiant, exactly what one would have expected from this great historical symbol of the British Empire.

  In spite of the drabness of war, Britain was still inherently beautiful, with its lovely countryside, meadows, fields of crops, undulating hills and magnificent trees. London, with all of its history and majesty, was one of the great capitals of the world. But sadly the bureaucracy was there, grinding slowly, and not willing to be motivated by a bloke who came from a country called Rhodesia, and who was impatient over a humdrum thing like getting a posting to a Spitfire squadron on the Continent. But at last someone moved: I was to do an air-firing course up in Shropshire before a squadron posting. This was something of a mystery to me, since I certainly did not need any more practice at air firing, and valuable time was passing. The powers that be, however, thought it would be a wise precaution, because it was now six months since I had last flown.

  Fortunately the station in Shropshire was more attuned to the operational theatre and things moved. Much to my delight the squadron commander called me to his office after a few weeks and pointed out that my results clearly showed that I required no further practice, so he would be happy to move me on. The next day I was on my way to a transit station south of London, and soon after to a posting with 130 Squadron, part of 125 Wing based at Celle, in Germany. It was a good posting — the wing was under the command of Group Captain Johnny Johnson, who had shot down the greatest number of German planes to date. He was ably assisted by Wing Commander George Keefer, a Canadian with a tremendously successful record. Frank Wolley was our squadron commander and there were many other colourful personalities.

  The days which followed were stimulating, but the writing was on the wall as far as the Germans were concerned, and their final collapse came even sooner than we expected. I felt a kind of frustration that there had not been more time to mete out more punishment to the Nazis and the fascists who had brought so much suffering, tragedy and destruction to our world. However, when one allowed reason and logic to prevail over heart and emotion, there could only be tremendous relief and satisfaction that in the end right had prevailed over evil, and that the things we ‘Britishers’ had been brought up to believe in had triumphed. The priority now was to get the fighting men back to their homes, wives and families. One shuddered at the thought of how long it was going to take the wheels of bureaucracy to begin turning.

  Some of us were talking in the officers’ mess one evening on where we would go from here in order to bring about the kind of future we had been fighting for, a decent clean world, where our children would not be faced with the kind of situation that had confronted us. There was almost unanimity: if we did not clean up Russia with its communism, which on the evidence looked no different from Nazism or fascism, then we were leaving the job half finished. How could one condone the dreadful fact that Stalin had connived with Hitler over the invasion of Poland, and joined in dividing the spoils of their ill-gotten gains. However, there would be problems getting the politicians to go along with this — maybe not Churchill, but Roosevelt certainly seemed to have been conned by Stalin.

  Then 125 Wing was broken up and the various squadrons went their different ways. First stop for 130 (Punjab) Squadron was in Denmark — we had been adopted by the Maharajah of the Punjab and he had donated considerable sums of money towards purchasing Spitfires for the squadron. Moreover, a certain ‘modest’ sum was placed at the disposal of the squadron commander to be used at his discretion to ensure that the Maharajah’s pilots did not suffer ‘unnecessary’ hardships. A liberal interpretation necessitated that whenever we arrived at an important city, especially a capital city, we should indulge ourselves in a worthwhile dinner and hold an appropriate celebration. And there were several occasions which remain very vivid in my memory. We would inevitably end up with the rendering of many stimulating songs, and a few of the favourites had an African background. One was about the ‘Zulu Warriors’ and another concerned a ‘Matabele from Bulawayo’. As I was the only African on the squadron, obviously no one else could be expected to play the lead when these came up.

  From Celle we flew to Copenhagen, the first RAF squadron to land there, and we spent a few happy days before making our way down the coast of Europe en route to London. Thence we travelled to Aberdeen, where we enjoyed the local hospitality for a fortnight before flying across the North Sea to Kristiansand as the first RAF squadron to land in Norway, part of the operation to clean the Germans out.

  Fortunately this was not a very arduous task, and there can be few more pleasant spots on this earth to spend your summer months — about eighteen hours of sun each day, swimming, boating, fishing, rugby, soccer, and eating lobster and salmon were the place’s main atractions. As officer in charge of sport, my hands were full. One of our pilots was a Swede, and as a result of his contacts we made a plan to fly to Stockholm one long weekend, where we experienced fantastic hospitality. We were taken over by the locals who insisted on paying for everything.

  As winter approached, we were pulled back to a station in the south of England. There, we organised a few games of rugby against army camps nearby, and one across the Welsh border — all good rousing stuff. But the time had come to plan for my return home and to make the necessary arrangements for university after the new year.

  VI: HOME TO RHODESIA AND UNIVERSITY

  Rhodesia was just the same, still God’s Own Country, seen from the Dakota which flew me from Durban, where my ship had docked. My parents had motored down to meet me at RAF Kumalo, Bulawayo. The next day we drove back home to Selukwe where a warm welcome awaited me from dear Mesa, our faithful old servant, who put his arms around me and cried. During the time I was missing after being shot down, he constantly complained about the ‘terrible Germans’, and on occasion, according to my mother, his language was not all that choice! The dogs had not forgotten me either, making a great fuss. Dogs of all kinds and sizes, from fox terriers to mastiffs, have always been part of my life. Whenever one of our dogs dies, I am deeply distressed.

  My father had aged noticeably, and I only then learned from my mother that during the time I had been behind enemy lines he had gone down with double pneumonia and nearly died. Fortunately his spirit was in no way dampened and there was much for us to talk about. He asked me, now that I had had a good look at much of the rest of the world, was I still happy about Rhodesia and Africa generally? Obviously, black advancement would progress gradually, with better education and better healthcare, then there was the problem of the local custom of polygamy and the tradition of large families. This had been necessary because, under their previous existence before the white man came, more children had died than survived. However, with more blacks accepting medicine and taking advantage of the improved health standards, the majority now survived, and the population explosion was a growing problem. I had often thought on these questions, and we philosophised at length on various aspects of them.

  My father had a brother and his family well established in the United States, and they had expressed a desire to take me in with them in that tremendously exciting country. But there had never been any doubt in my mind: this was my country, my home, and I had never had any problem living with and getting along with our black people. There was a cu
ltural gap associated with our respective history, tradition and ways of life, but provided things could be done in our own time, maintaining standards of Western civilisation, there was no reason why we could not all live together to our mutual benefit, gradually bringing our black people in, as and when they were prepared to accept change.

  Certainly, there were a few mischief makers around who wanted to chase the white people away, believing that all the good things would then simply fall into their laps. The communists had already started their propaganda, but our average black was not interested. Traditionally, he was conservative and satisfied with the manner in which things were progressing.

  And so I went back to Rhodes University for a final year. This time I was reluctant to give up, having already lost five years to the war. Nevertheless, it turned out to be a stimulating experience. Nearly 50 per cent of the students were ex-servicemen, so understandably they made a tremendous impact on everything in general. This meant that times were not exactly normal for an institution accustomed to taking in teenaged school graduates and, as I was elected chairman of the students’ representative council, there were not many dull moments. We were faced with some controversial, even provocative situations, which demanded great patience, skill and tact. Although these occasions were spiced with considerable quantities of down to earth, unambiguous discussions, the end result was a balance of mature consideration and a sense of fair play. Into the bargain, the university authorities had the good sense to give a little ground at appropriate times. I maintained close contact with Major Walker and drew on the wealth of his great experience. Fortunately our friendship and mutual respect matured over the year.