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At night, while patrolling Bamenda Camp on guard duty, I invariably made my way to the back of the newly built small bake-house, where soldiers of the Royal Ordnance Corps baked, the much appreciated fresh bread. Although the Cameroons was near to the equator, with Bamenda Camp being a few thousand feet above sea level, the temperature dropped considerably at night. The warmth and smell of baking bread as I leaned on the wall at the back of the bake-house, reminded me of my holiday in Leeds, when my Auntie Lizzie baked her own bread, the taste of which is now lost forever. My mind drifted back twelve years previous to1948, when with my parents, our family stayed at my Auntie Lizzie’s house at 18, Elsie Crescent, Leeds. We didn’t know at the time, but this was our only family holiday together. On one of our days out, we took a tram to a place called Temple Newsham, which was on the outskirts of Leeds, where we spent a most pleasant afternoon, enjoyed by all, looking round the mansion and its surrounding grounds. Those days, as the older generation will acknowledge, it was considered a big occasion to visit places similar to Temple Newsham. As the day wore on and obviously everyone feeling quite hungry, we pestered my dad to take us into restaurant for a meal, having not been in a restaurant before, because of the War and such like. My dad dug deep into his pockets and much to our surprise and most certainly my mam’s, he agreed to take us in for a meal. Mam combed our hair, making us all look that little bit more presentable for this one off occasion. On entering the restaurant, a snooty looking waiter showed us to a table in a rather posh dining room that was brightly lit by large chandeliers. All the family sat round a large table and I along with my sister Jean and brother Frank, sat up straighter than ever before, each of us trying too look as though we had plenty of money, which we certainly hadn’t. After a short while an old waitress came to our table dressed in a black dress with a white pinafore and a matching starched hat. She said, “Its high tea only.” My dad asked for a menu and the waitress snapped back, “Its Spam or jam,” then she off-handedly looked away. My mam, who at times could be quite a fireball, said, “Spam or Jam, Spam or jam, I would rather do without.” Within seconds, we were all outside the door of the restaurant heading for the trams. Hungrily arriving back at my Auntie Lizzie’s house that evening, her home made freshly baked bread, tasted more lovelier than ever before, with extra slices all round. With these thoughts in my mind and the warm walls of the bake-house, my time on guard duty passed very quickly indeed. During all my time in the Cameroons and indeed for that matter, in all my two years National Service, I never met up with much thieving. The only time it happened to me personally was at Bamenda camp, when I had four shillings taken from the top of a boot box, that was at the side of my bed. One might say, four shillings is not worth worrying about, well I assure you it was, because four shillings bought quite a bit in the naafi those days. I knew no one in our tent had would have taken the money, because my mates were also getting bits and pieces pinched and above all, we trusted each other 100%. Consequently we decided to set a trap to catch a thief. One morning after muster, we lifted our tent houseboy into the overhead inner wall of the tent, which is commonly named a flysheet. He was instructed to watch out for anyone entering the tent, with intentions to steal, but not to give him self away in doing so. The only trouble was we completely forgot about him until late afternoon and on arriving back at the tent in hurry, to find the boy nearly unconscious and in a state of dehydration. This was all due to the temperature between the flysheet and the external canvas of the tent and I must say it was warm in there. Lifting him down ever so gently, it took a lot of fanning and cold water to bring the fourteen-year old boy back round to his senses. The brave lad had not left his position in the flysheet for six hours and needless to say, he never saw anyone enter the tent that day. It was also ironical, that nothing else was stolen out of our tent for the duration of the regiment’s stay in the Cameroons. Who knows maybe the culprit, or should I say the houseboy, had learned his lesson the hard way, because I am positive, he did not fancy another spell in the flysheet. The children of Cameroons were a very hardy breed, born and bred in absolute poverty, unless ones father is in a high position of government or medicine. Over 80% of the village children had malnutrition-related problems, which took the form of swelling in the stomach region. When I first saw the children and being very ignorant to the facts, I thought the fat stomachs, was caused from over feeding, how wrong I was. The belly button on adults and children alike were in a majority of cases absolutely grotesque, because of their shape and size, they seemed much similar to apples and pears. This happened, because of the primitive ways of handling births in the villages; not a pretty sight for anyone brought up in the modern world! Whilst on guard at one particular camp, I heard screaming coming from a perimeter wire. On investigation, I shone my torch along the wire and to my utter horror, there was a young boy no older than seven hanging from the wire fence by his grotesque belly button. The boy was trying to enter a fenced of area with intention to steal food and had slipped climbing the fence. The cry of the boy waned somewhat, on being lifted off the wire, but not before half the platoon was woken up by the screaming. Lucky for the boy he was only shocked and we didn’t let him go empty handed, because that was not our nature. One has only pity for those poor unfortunate children, being born in such an under developed environment. Even to this day, I think of that little boy screaming on that wire, in the pursuit of food and I still ask myself why. The African children, although born in squalor, were and I don’t know why, the happiest children one could ever wish to meet on this earth. When now, I see the English child spoiled for choice and still want more, my mind drifts back to those happy children of Africa who only wished for a choice. They wore the same tatty clothes, day after day and they were probably destined like their parents, to a life of poverty and further squalor. To their credit no matter what, they always had a big smile on their faces in all weathers, quite unbelievable to say the least. The United Nations, instead of just sitting on their backsides doing nothing, should make all these tin pot Presidents of poor countries get their act together and start helping the citizens of their country in more positive ways than just buying guns. During this period at Bamenda Camp, member of the platoon were picked out, to accept a most grateful invitation for dinner, by the European civilians that were in the area of Bamenda. A Company vehicle took all the invited troops to a designated crossroad, where our hosts were waiting, and in-groups of four we were taken to their various homes. Despite all the Europeans waiting at the crossroad, my three friends and I were put with an African doctor, who had six children and lived, in a large bungalow that had servants. All the doctor’s children wearing their Sunday best, were seated opposite me on a large table, each were smiling and giggling all the time and more so if you spoke to them. Some with their heads barely just above the table reminded me of a coconut stall at Morecambe, and I mean that in a nice way, because they were a lovely family. Of the other three soldiers at the table, one was sat opposite amongst the children; yes you have guessed it, no other than Arnie Marquis. Believe me, I just did not dare to look at him, because I kept getting the urge to laugh and the only way I could stop myself laughing was not looking at Arnie Marquis. On the table before us, amongst the plates of vegetables, was placed four cooked chickens and no sooner had the doctor finished saying grace, when all hell let loose. With the children to the fore, the chickens were literally torn to pieces, with each member of the family, making sure they got their share, leaving four dumbfounded soldiers picking up what we could get. While this was happening, Arnie’s eyes and my eyes met and that was it, I couldn’t control myself any longer and I burst out laughing. Arnie must have felt the same, because he followed suit, then all the children started to laugh and in a matter of seconds everyone seated at the table including the doctor were rolling about laughing. Looking back over the years, I really appreciated the kindness and hospitality shown to the four of us, by the Doctor and his wife, on that pleasant evening and most of all, who could ever forget their lovely children seated round the table with those big smiles. I am sure by now, they will all be practicing academics in the Cameroun Republic and maybe with a smile, they will remember the four British soldiers who came to dinner. To return to the main camp, it is surprising what can be made, by using ones own skill and with the abundance of bamboo, tables etc were made for personal use in most tents. Some lads were quite gifted when it came to making things out of poor resources and definitely they had untapped talent, that when home in England, would never be used again. The bamboo trunks were very hard and were godsend when making bivouacs and it can grow just about anywhere in the African soil, if you put a bamboo cane in the ground, in time it would start to bear leaves. When cutting down any form of tree, whether its bamboo or not, the name Bernard Williams always comes to mind. Bernard was four years older than my brother and I, but along with his rival Johnny Harrison, he was a gang leader and a popular one at that. His older brother had been killed in Burma in 1944 and this caused a void in the Williams family life. As there were plenty of trees where we lived, many a time we had war games. The only trouble was, that Bernard was always the British soldier and everyone tried to be on his side, because if not you were made to be the Japanese. With that being the case we always hid that little bit more diligently, because if Bernard caught you, one could and did expect a hard clout. It was bonfire time 1949, when a Mrs. Kelly from the bottom of Hastings Street, asked me if I could cut a few branches off the trees, that grew by the side of her house. These trees were in a walled off partition that adjoined her house, and had been planted by her son Fred, who had sadly lost his life at sea during the War. So these trees were very sentimental to her, and to be fair at the time, I was a bit young to understand all this. My biggest mistake, was to tell Bernard Williams that the trees needed cutting, because he was one hell of a dare devil and frightened of nothing. I only mentioned to him about the trees casually, but within a minute he came rushing down the back street carrying an axe. With tremendous vigour and determination, Bernard in no time at all, reduced the trees, to small ugly stumps. Early evening, on arriving home and finding her trees on the bonfire, a very upset Mrs. Kelly came knocking on our door at 34 Hastings Street, and shouting at me, “It was a dirty rotten trick.” I told my mam what had happened and she took me down to Mrs. Kelly’s house. I had to memorise my lines and say, “I am very sorry, but I misunderstood you.” If looks could kill, I would have been dead, but nevertheless she accepted my apology. Until the day she died, I don’t think she really ever forgave me or forgot what happened to her beloved trees. The trees never grew again and at this present day, where they were situated at the side of number 2 Hastings Street, is now covered in concrete. My dad, typically thought the whole episode hilarious and as for Bernard, I never involved him whatsoever. It was just as well, because I would have got an extra clout when caught having to play a Jap soldier again. I know Bernard was in the Army Catering Corps during his National Service, but with that axe of his, he sure would have had a field day in the Cameroons! Before (S) Company had finished their stay at Bamenda Camp, our platoon the Anti-Tank had training and lessons on 120mm Mobat. This was the main anti-tank weapon the regiment had and although for the duration of the battalion’s time in the Cameroons, our Company was formed into a rifle company. The regiment brought out to the Cameroons, one 120mm Mobat for training purposes. Due to the absence, for the rest of our time abroad of Lieutenant Everett-Heath and Sergeant Wakefied who both went home to England, because of being on the original advance party, the cadre was organised by Corporal John Rennie. Although not going into great depth as obtaining a Layers badge, the platoon were taught the make up of the weapon and the required drill etc when firing. Corporal Rennie, a fellow Barrovian, knew what he was talking about and was most helpful under the circumstances. It is like anything else, if one is interested, you will learn, if not you become a danger to everyone else and due to the back blast, this weapon was dangerous if not respected. After a couple of weeks we did tests both oral and paper about the 120mm Mobat, and those who failed were quite rightly not allowed to fire the weapon. The platoon made camp at a primitive place named Sabga, where a range was prepared. Each man of the platoon had to carry a large empty oil drum up a steep hillside. With the heat of the day, combined with the weight of the oil drum, it was completely back breaking. The smaller lads went in pairs, but had to make two journeys nevertheless and whichever way you looked at it, one suffered from aches and abrasions. With the oil drums stacked in place, each member of the platoon who had passed the preliminary tests were each allowed too fire two 120mm-mesh rounds into the target, which was the oil drums. On the side of the Mobat frame, was fixed a Light Machine gun that had a full magazine of .303 tracer rounds. To align the Mobat on its target, the Light machine Gun was fired at the target area and when the tracers hit their mark, one would then shout stand by, then fire the 120mm round. The gun was aligned with so much accuracy, that the 120mm round formed a trajectory with the tracer and met on impacting the target. These firing tests went on for about a week, before the weapon was shipped back to the main camp in Buea. My friend Brian Dempster and I found it all quite interesting and if the regiment had not gone to the Cameroons, we would have been trained and instructed properly on the weapon and its capabilities against foreign Tanks etc. I still have an old diary in my possession with notes and sketches written by Brian and I, when we were on the basic Anti Tank course together in 1961. The good news on returning from the firing range at Sabga, was that our platoon, were being sent out to the Sante Coffee outpost, for seven weeks |
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