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On my return back to the Anti-Tank platoon, I was billeted in the same tent as another Barrow lad. His name was Brian Dempster and although I had seen Brian often in our hometown of Barrow-in-Furness, I didn’t know him on speaking terms. From that day, when I rejoined my old platoon, Brian turned out to be a very good friend of mine and most of all I could rely on him 100%. In fact I have to say, all the lads in our tent and indeed the whole of the platoon, were a grand set of lads and I was pleased to be back in their ranks. The lads billeted in our tent along with Brian Dempster, were Brian Snagg and Alan Welsh who were both Liverpool lads, the ever smiling Brian Townson from Lancaster, Jackson Eve from Maryport, Bob Lees from South Lancashire, also Corporal Floyd from the Carlisle area and Dave Rawes from Millom. Most lads in their own respective tents knocked around together and were more compatible to each other because of this. Even so, I found all the members of the Anti-Tank platoon, great to know and indeed in my book, they were men of the first order and I feel proud, to call them my friends. The main foot patrols, were done from three base camps, each of these base camps was situated near to the French Cameroon border. Firstly, there was the Sante Customs base, aptly named, because it was a Customs post, but prior to the regiment’s arrival in the Cameroons, it had been burned down by terrorists. Down the red dirt road from the burned out building, the four tents were situated to house the occupying platoon at that base. The second base camp was Sante Coffee; this had been a coffee plantation, which had only been abandoned recently at that time. The plantation was dominated by a large European style bungalow that had obviously seen better days and on what had been the residents long lawn, was now occupied by four large tents for the occupying platoons. The last outpost was named Pinyin, which only consisted of a few mud huts and of course the assembled large tents. Each of these camps had small areas for cooking meals and the cooking at these base camps, was done by our own regimental cooks, who I thought, under the circumstances, did a good job. The three base camps were used at alternative period of times, which was usually five weeks by the platoons of (A) and (S) Company. For example, when one Company was doing duties in Bamenda Camp, the other Company was at the outposts and vice a versa. My platoon was delegated to go back to Sante Customs for a second time and that suited me fine, because I missed some of the first time, with being at Buea. The four tents pitched at Sante Customs were used by the various sections of the platoon, but the platoon officer Lieutenant Everett-Heath and Sergeant Wakefield slept in the mud huts that were adjacent to the tents. The cooking area had been made quite adequate, by all the various platoons that had been stationed at this camp. It is quite surprising the ingenuity of men in this type of environment, the things they made and used to make life better, was very remarkable to say the least. I personally, was never happier than when out on patrol and also the time went quicker and that was the name of the game. Although one’s personal hygiene was paramount at the base camps; there was no bullshit whatsoever and one could get on with proper soldiering. The dry season had been with us for a few months and previously when we used transport on the roads, everyone got caked in mud. We were now getting covered with red dust and believe me it got everywhere, but the dust was certainly better, than the soul-destroying mud. The terrain at the base camps was very hilly and with being so high up in the hills, thankfully there was very little bother from mosquitoes and with that being the case, some lads didn’t bother using their mosquito nets. I only dispensed with mine on the odd occasion, because of having been ill once, I had no intention of being ill again and I wasn’t. Each Private when on patrols, carried his 7.62 Self Loading Rifle with twenty rounds of ammunition, also his bayonet, water bottle and food, depending on how long the patrol was out. The olive green clothes, worn on all patrols, were long trousers, shirt, trilby type headgear and putties. On our feet we wore our reliable cold wet weather boots, these boots were lot more comfortable than the green issued jungle boots. Due to the proximity of the border area, most patrols lasted a day, but occasionally were much longer. Once the area being patrolled was known, it became fairly straightforward with very little happening, but it had to be done and we were there to do it. The main reason for the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment being in the Cameroons, was to oversee a forthcoming plebiscite. It was a plain vote for the people of the British Cameroons, to either join Nigeria or join the French Cameroons, with no ifs or buts. I didn’t know if it was Britain getting rid of the British Cameroons, or the other way round. What I did know, was that while all the canvassing and voting was taking place, it was our regiment’s job, to make sure there was no interference from subversive elements. The French Army had been having trouble in their section of the Cameroons for years and I found it very interesting now and again, to watch a propeller driven single engine plane, drop bombs on a bamboo thicket high up the hillside on the French side of the Cameroons. This scenario was enacted some distance from the base at Sante Customs and as it didn’t happen very often, it was quite a spectacular eye opener. On one particular day at Sante Customs, news came in that a Falani tribesman had gone missing. The Falani tribesmen are the cattle barons of the Cameroons who in there own right are quite wealthy. Two patrol sections including mine, were quickly alerted and met up with a dozen horse riding Falani tribesmen They were all armed to the teeth with all types of antiquated guns, swords and knives and etched on their faces, was a very mean look, which suggested they meant business. For the better part of two hours under a hot sun, we followed old trails that never ending wound there way over the hills that bordered the French Cameroons. The countryside in the border area reminded me ever so much, of the Langdale Pikes in the English Lake District. Finally after a lot of puffing and blowing our patrol came to the area of the last sighting of the missing Falani. Combing out quickly, it didn’t take long to find his body lying not too far away, half buried under some long grass. He had been shot in the back, while tending his now stolen cattle. The terrorists mostly had a type of shotgun, that fired a twelve- bore cartridge and not content with this, they would insert a spike-come-projectile into the end of the cartridge. This along with the shot in the cartridge could and did make a mess inside of one’s body. After having our meal around the dead Falani’s body, we turned him over to see if the projectile or bullet had made an exit. In this case, the projectile had not made an exit and after a lot of intelligent and enthusiastic theories, everyone agreed, the Falani, who strangely enough looked similar to Ho Chi Min, had been shot in the back at some distance and the projectile had hit him broadside. There was nothing clever in doing this, because it was normal, for British troops to inspect the bodies of poor souls who had met their fate in similar circumstances. Sadly at that particular time in life, the deceased man meant nothing to any one of us. The main thing being, he was not one of ours and that was paramount to one and all. The accompanying Falani tribesmen were quite understandably upset at finding one of their own people murdered and in pigeon English, noisily wanted revenge. The problem being, the terrorists who had done this cowardly act had been gone for hours. It would have been a complete waste of time trying to find them, because they would have been over the border now in the French Cameroons, which to British troops was a no go area. Having decided to return to our base camp, the leader of the accompanying Falani tribesmen, arrogantly demanded we carry the dead body back to their compound. In common English language, our NCO in charge of the patrol a fellow Barrovian named Corporal John Rennie, told them to fuck off and carry it themselves. The leader of the group of Falanis was riding a status symbol white horse and to his astonishment, we picked up the dead Falani and lay it over the horse, as in the many cowboy films I had seen as a boy at the Walney Cinema. They complained in all sorts of colourful language and gestures, but it didn’t make any difference to anyone of our patrol, because it was a simple case of take it or leave it and that was that. Having escorted the tribesmen and the dead Falani back to their compound, on a somewhat bloodied white horse, we returned to camp. The green as grass innocent days had gone forever, most certainly being replaced by a much tougher thinking man. The feeling of pity for the African had waned over the time spent in the Cameroons and for you, who read this, it may sound very cruel. You the reader have to understand that being in that situation with my fellow compatriots, the camaraderie was strong and it left no grounds for pity. It is only on reflection many years later that you have pity and understand things more fully and comprehensively The toilet facilities at most base camps, was usually a narrow plank positioned over a deep pit, 8ft x 4ft x 6ft deep. These pits could take three soldiers at a time if needed; sometimes there was a screen, sometimes not. All shyness went out of the window altogether, due to the lack of privacy and it could be quite amusing to say the least, when three of the lads were on the plank together. It wouldn’t be long, before all three of them at the top of their voices, were singing the Eton boat song, to the words of, “We all shit together.” Minds certainly broaden; I just cannot imagine myself ever doing that in civilian life, but when out in the bush, as old soldiers will tell you, one has to make do when duty calls! The battalion water vehicle would bring the essential fresh water to the camp twice a week, so that all Gerry cans could be constantly topped up. If there was a stream nearby it would be a bonus for having a much needed bath daily, but if not most outposts had made some form of improvised shower and they were a much-needed amenity. While at Sante Customs during the plebiscite, our section led by Corporal Colin Floyd had to go to another outpost named Pinyin for two days, as back up. The Mortar Platoon, who normally were stationed there, were out of camp, because of trouble elsewhere. Normally the Mortar Platoon always hogged this camp, because through their ingenuity and spadework, they had made Pinyin quite tidy. So therefore and I suppose quite rightly, they did not want any other platoon in (S) Company reaping what they had done. During guard duty that first night at Pinyin, I along with another lad whose name unfortunately I cannot remember, heard some noises coming from the food trash pit. The trash pit was situated outside the camp perimeter and again these pits were about 8ft x 4ft x 6ft. On shining our torches into the dark pit, we gazed down in total amazement, for there in the pit, were two women and a young child, each reaching out and scraping waste food off the sides of the pit clay walls. The waste food and empty cans etc were deposited in the pit on a daily basis and then quite regularly covered with a form of powdered disinfectant. I can assure you the reader, it was not a pretty sight and it certainly still effects me to this very day. It is not right, that people of this world should be in that pathetic plight, but this was Africa. It is only now, because of television, that the modern world begins to comprehend, what goes on in third world countries, where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer and I am sorry to say only the minority give a dam! I and my fellow companion, whose name unfortunately I cannot remember, before we left the pathetic trio alone in the dark pit, gave each of them, some bread and fruit from the camp’s supplies. This was the least we could do, because by rights we should have moved them on. Although it was only a small gesture, it gave the both of us the greatest of satisfaction and on hindsight, I wish I had done more. I was glad when we returned next day to Sante Customs, because when I think of Pinyin, I think of the pathetic trio. The only disturbance in our area of Sante Customs during the plebiscite voting was a stabbing in a nearby village. We were sent to the area in question, where a man had been knifed badly and although able to walk to our lorry, he was in considerable pain. The other man who did the knifing was quickly overpowered and detained and we literally threw him into the back of the lorry. He already sported a black eye and on the return journey back to the civilian jail in Bamenda, we were not altogether very sociable with him. On arrival at Bamenda jail, he was handed over to the Nigerian Police and his fate. It was ironical, later that day we found out that the guy with the black eye had caught the other man who was knifed, stealing from his hut and during the ensuing struggle, he had knifed the thief. It just goes to show you can not win them all. With the voting complete and totally much to our surprise, the people of the British Cameroons, voted to join the French Cameroons to become a Republic, by a massive vote of 19,426 for and only 220 against. When all the eyes were dotted and the tees crossed, the two countries joined together would be called the now known Cameroun Republic and on hindsight it was a very wise decision. Now the plebiscite was over, we got back to full patrolling the border areas, although the two countries were about to merge, there were still problems with active terrorists. One eventful patrol came about, when a native from a nearby village to Sante customs, informed the authorities, that he knew the whereabouts of a cave, being used as a hideout for terrorists. With the usual detailed planning, special instructions were given, making everyone aware of the situation. The informer, who was to be our guide, turned up the following morning, wearing a clean white shirt with a tie, long black trousers and carried a rolled up umbrella. He looked a real treat and I only wished I had a camera. There were fourteen men involved on this patrol, led by a Sergeant who will remain nameless and Corporals, John Rennie and Colin Floyd. Each Private was equipped with his 7.62. S.L.R (rifle) with an empty magazine attached and one full magazine of twenty rounds 7.62 ammunition, which was kept in a pouch. Also carried was a bayonet, one days ration of food, with one full water bottle. Each of the NCOs carried the 9mm. Sterling Sub Machine Gun and of course ammunition and food etc. The very reliable Landrover vehicles took the patrol so far, then it was one hell of a hike over very hilly terrain, that was scattered with bamboo thickets. As the Crow flies, distance doesn’t seem very far, but when one covers that distance over inhospitable terrain and even when everyone is in their prime fitness, it can become quite taxing under a hot sun. At one stage of the journey, because of falling rock from the higher slopes of one particular hillside, we thought we were being tracked by terrorists. On taking cover and observing through binoculars, the following band turned out to be a pack of very agile Baboons, but once we left their territory, they soon tailed off. Using a lot of energy and no little amount of puffing and blowing, the patrol got fairly strung out. I was at the front of the patrol with three other lads and the tireless villager, but because of the stragglers, the two NCOs and the Sergeant were at the rear. It is easy to become stretched out, because if anyone is suffering, the back man cannot overtake and leave the men who are struggling, hence you get strung out. Coming to a small Bamboo thicket on the slopes of a hill, the villager stopped and pointing with his umbrella said, “Its in there.” I know for a fact, one of the lads up front with me was Bob Lees, but I cannot recall the names of other two lads. Lees with a little grin said, “Right, who’s coming in?” Although at times he was not very popular with some of the lads, he was not short of nerve. I said, “Okay Bob, I’ll go in with you,” but the other two lads up front, wanted us to wait for the rest of the patrol. To their dismay, Lees and I put on our loaded magazines and proceeded into the much over grown Bamboo thicket. Moving with extreme caution, we soon observed from a short distance an entrance to a large cave. All hope of surprise had gone, because of the noise; the Sergeant was making shouting at a straggler. Bob Lees looked at me and again with a grin said, “Cover me, I’m going in.” Without another word said, he steadily went forward until he reached the cave entrance, then he waved and covered me, until I joined him at the cave. Going into the large dark cave, we found it to be empty, but obviously it had been used by a number of people fairly recently, because of the cold ashes of burned out fires and unusable garbage strewn about. The rest of the patrol were called in and gave the surrounding area a thorough search, of which nothing else of interest was found. Resting for a short time before heading back to Sante Customs, I was beginning to get doubts about our platoon Sergeant, because it was becoming quite noticeable, he was often absent when needed most. Just because one has been in the army a long time, it doesn’t mean they make good NCOs, one has to earn the respect off the lads they are leading. Saying all that, other Sergeants were first class and worthy of their rank. On the return journey, if looks could kill and because of the fruitless patrol, the villager would certainly have been dead. Our patrol made many mistakes that day and most certainly the biggest contributor to the mistakes, was certain individuals, filling their own water bottles up with lime powder and water. Some lads in the patrol had gone against all army rules in doing this and had drunk their bottles dry, long before the patrol had reached the cave. Once one starts drinking the lime and water, bottles soon became empty and believe me; they empty very quickly when under a hot sun. Consequently on the long return journey back to camp, the folly of it all started to become obvious. Lads were becoming a bit dehydrated and water was given to them from other lad’s bottles and of course in doing this one’s own bottle became empty and that led to more problems. The problems being, the persons who are suffering because of dehydration etc are also struggling more than ever to keep up with the rest of the patrol. Therefore, their kit and rifles, have to be carried by the able bodied men of the patrol, so that in the end, everyone on the patrol suffers, because of folly. My own water bottle also became empty on the way back, through giving water to mates who were suffering a bit and I say this with all honesty, they would have done the same for me if the roles were reversed. I personally, because of the lack of water, had a painful stitch in my side for hours and it just wouldn’t go away, no matter how I tried. Eventually it was a sorry looking patrol that came across a dirty pond, on the outskirts of a small native village. Each member of the patrol, thankfully, always carried in their packs purifying tablets for emergencies and believe me, this was an emergency. I do not know to this day, how none of the patrol went down ill after drinking water from that pond. What I do know, because of the purifying tablets, the water certainly revived everyone and I can assure you, while in the Cameroons, no one in our platoon ever again took lime on patrols. I have to say, there was only one man who didn’t seem to suffer that day and needless to say he was the villager with the rolled umbrella! Sante Customs Camp overlooked an African compound that was situated forty yards down a steep hillside and as the same throughout Africa, the compound housed natives of the same tribe and were obviously quite close knit community. All the huts in the compound were made of red baked clay and each of the huts had a shiny galvanized corrugated steel roof, which had taken over from the grass-thatched roofs. Nearly all the members of our platoon had made themselves catapults and to while the way the time on guard duty, we would fire stones from our catapults onto the corrugated roofs of the compound and to say it was a clang, would be an understatement. The commotion, coming from the compound was hilarious to say the least, with natives from different huts in the compound, blaming each other for the noise. When the noise died down, the catapults were fired again, until eventually the guard commander put his nightly stop to it. I along with my fellow companion on guard duty have many a time been doubled up laughing, because of the natives not knowing what was going on, or who was causing the noise. Often at Sante Customs, while lying asleep on my bed at night, I would occasionally be awoken by a clang, followed by stifled laughing outside our tent. It might sound to you the reader callous and of a warped humour, but quite honestly, I have never laughed so much in all my life and if you had been with me, so would have you! Always under a guard, half the platoon at a time would go down to a nearby stream near the camp for a wash and a bathe and with it being near a village, quite a lot of curious villagers would turn out and join in the fun splashing about. As one has to understand, a white body was an unusual sight and with me having ginger hair, I sometime was the focus of attention. All bashfulness went out of the window months before, but that didn’t really matter, because it was all good clean fun and in a way, it was the turn of those happy villagers to take the Mickey out of us. Having been out at Sante Customs for six weeks, it was our turn to be relieved by (A) Company at all the outposts and vice-a-versa. It was March now and I did not relish being at the main camp at Bamenda and all the bullshit that goes with it. Quite understandably, the army logic was to move the Companies round a bit, to maintain discipline and smartness, which of course is paramount. No doubt the food had improved considerably at Bamenda Camp, maybe this had something to do with Corporal Mahoney, having been transferred to Buea! On the platoon’s return to the main camp at Bamenda, life was definitely a lot easier than previous times and certainly more relaxing. All the tents had now been linked up with electric lighting, through the courtesy of the Royal Engineers and this was a luxury compared with the hurricane lamps. Also they had rigged up boilers, that produced hot water to the shower hut, believe me it was things like this, taken for granted in the U.K.; that were most appreciated by one and all. The first question asked about Africa is, “ Did you see any snakes?” and the answer is, not many. The Cameroons had fifty odd varieties of poisonous snakes and to my knowledge although there had been a few close shaves, not one member of the battalion was ever bitten by a snake. It was known and taught that if a snake heard anything coming in its area, thankfully from our point of view it got out of the way. There were plenty of discarded snake-skins, in areas where we had walked the night previously, while on guard duty and if a snake wanted to bite anyone it had ample opportunity to do so. The only really poisonous snake I saw, was the Black Mamba, Major Nash shot in a tree outside the medical hut. I can vouch for all the men of the battalion by stating that after the first initial weeks in the Cameroons nobody worried about snakes anymore!
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