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The news of our platoon being stationed at Sante Coffee, was good news indeed, just what the Doctor ordered, because this was by far the best outpost in the Bamenda region, much better than the others. It had been a thriving Coffee plantation, that had been vacated to the elements, only a month or so after the Kings Own Royal Borders arrive in the Cameroons. Overlooking the plantation was a large European type bungalow, with a few rundown outhouses attached. I found it very strange, because although coffee beans were growing on the tree come bushes, the estate was completely abandoned. Although it was never fully explained, it was probably because of the estate being in an isolated area, it would have made it an easy target for the terrorist who operated in that area. When Lieutenant Everett Heath and Sergeant Wakefield of the Anti-Tank Platoon, came out to the Cameroons on the advance party, they went on a reconnaissance of the area and stayed at Sante Coffee estate, while the owners were still in residence. Later, when a detachment of the platoon joined them at the estate, they went patrolling in the border region and were shot at by a terrorist group, who operated from the French side of the border. Thankfully no one was hurt, but it must have had a significant bearing, on the estate being abandoned by its owners. I along with two other Privates and Lance Corporal Borland, were volunteered on the advance party to the now deserted Sante Coffee estate. In being sent early we had to generally tidy up the bungalow and the immediate areas. The main body of the platoon came to the estate in the daylight hours, to bring out the essential stores and assemble the three large tents, which would house the platoon into their required positions. The tents and rigging were put up in true military fashion that only lads who have been in similar environments would understand. The Royal Engineers with their helpers of native labour had already dug the trash and toilet pits, before we arrived. The only bad news we had was that the new O.C. Captain Dunande and the unforgettable CSM Kershaw were also coming out to Sante Coffee and they were making the estate bungalow the Company H.Q. Captain Dunande, CSM Kershaw and the Company clerk Dave Heslop were to be billeted in the estate bungalow. I knew Dave Heslop the Company Clerk very well and found him to be a very amiable and likeable lad. Even though he got it wrong about my illness many months before when I overheard his voice through the tent walls, but it was a real sickener knowing CSM Kershaw would be with the our platoon, at Sante Coffee. I will not mention this again, but for some unknown reason, the CSM kept a comparatively low profile and this came as a surprise to the platoon in general. We all knew his likes and dislikes and with this knowledge in mind, everyone went out of their way to make sure he wasn’t riled, as life could be quite miserable if we upset him. When the Platoon finally came out to the camp, the troops in their own sections including NCOs were allotted their tents for the duration of their stay at Sante Coffee. All meals were cooked by Private Ashley a fellow National Serviceman, who only became a regimental cook while stationed at Bamenda Camp. To be fair to Ashley, he certainly made a good job of it, although we never saw much of the tinned chocolate and wine gums, because I am sure he was doing a wangle with them, but looking back it was probably a perk, which he certainly deserved. A recreation room was allocated to the platoon in the bungalow, where we could buy a beer etc and play cards, draughts or any other board games available. The lad, who looked after the recreation room come naafi, was also given sleeping quarters in a small room, next to the recreation room. The two rooms were divided by a sliding-serving-hatch-panel. This job, was given to Dave Heslop’s mate, Arnie Marquis and believe me, I shook my head when I saw Arnie behind that serving hatch for the first time, with that deadpan face of his. Over the next seven weeks, if anyone complained of being short changed or giving Arnie any lip, which was quite often, the sliding panel was slammed shut and if one was not quick enough fingers were nipped. The curses of the sufferer one would hear from our side of the panel, and muffled laughing noises from the other. Arnie and I were quite good draught players and often played games on the serving hatch ledge, if he was winning, there was no problem, but when he had no chance of winning, he would knock the draughts of the ledge and slam the panel shut in one movement. To add to one’s frustration and anger, again you would hear the muffled laughing from the other side of the panel. At the time everyone played hell about him, but we also knew, Arnie held the ace card by being in charge of the goodies etc. To my knowledge, nobody held any grudges whatsoever, and apart from a few nipped fingers, we also got plenty of laughs and in any case, it never worried Arnie one iota. I have to smile when I think about Arnie Marquis the Blackpool lad, because he brought his own brand of humour, when smiles and laughs were most needed. The old silent movie stars of old, would have been really proud of him. Wherever you are now Arnie thanks for the memories! Patrolling the surrounding countryside at Sante Coffee became fairly consistent, with a section of troops would go to a set point by vehicle, then foot patrol various areas of the British and French Cameroon border. One particular area most frequented was named the three bridges, because it was just a case of showing the local inhabitants, the British Army we were in the vicinity. Now and again, we brought back some pitiful man who was doing a bit of smuggling. Most times we let them off with a caution, but if they tried to be smart, we handed them over to the Nigerian police, who would not stand for any nonsense whatsoever. To make it more interesting and not to be unpredictable, the patrol leader would vary the patrols by calling in at different village compounds and I must stress in doing this, we had some real eye openers. It was while doing one of these detours that we went into a small compound that looked quite deserted except for a young woman, who was walking towards us. She wore a blanket type dress on the lower half of her body and on the top half, she wore pinkish-coloured bras that housed a massive pair of boobs. As she walked by, we followed in single file until she stopped outside a mud hut. Turning round to face us with a sly smile on her face, we all inquisitively gathered round. The corporal in charge of our patrol, made towards her and just before reaching her, she pulled off her bras, and grabbing hold of her left tit she squeezed. To our utter astonishment, milk shot out and hit our Corporal full in the face, leaving him and the rest of the patrol totally shell-shocked. Meanwhile, an old woman appeared from the mud hut, carrying a baby, whilst thrusting the baby into the young woman’s arms, she was also giving her a telling off in her native tongue. The young woman then disappeared into the mud hut, with a bigger sly smile on her face than she had before. On our return to camp later that day, it was a much discussed episode, but only when a certain Corporal wasn’t around! Another time near to the three bridges, we stopped a native carrying a sack full of Heineken beer and in those days we had never heard of Heineken beer. He was only doing a bit of minor smuggling, but with it being a very hot day and by using threats we would take him in, we eventually got a few bottles of beer from him. When the native reached the sanctuary of the French side of the border, he swore and ranted all sorts of abuse in a very obnoxious way. We had a regular soldier in our section that had just been transferred from (B) Company. He was called Ginger Hodgson and he said, “I’m not taking that from him.” Picking up a large stone, Ginger hurled it in the direction of the native and nearly almost immediately there was one almighty bang. The stone he threw had hit the sack of warm beer and exploded. I know it sounds callous, but we laughed ourselves hoarse, until tears were running down our faces. It must be said that Ginger Hodgson was a decent and likeable lad and as the native found out he was also a good thrower of a stone! Many a time on the border crossings, patrols would come across French Colonial troops, they were usually in pairs and obviously they patrolled areas of the French side of the border. Always they wore camouflage clothing and carried shotguns with bandoleers of ammunition. We mostly conversed in sign language, because we never crossed the border, but there was something about them we did not trust and whilst in contact with them we were forever vigilant. They looked nasty pieces of work and it wouldn’t have surprised me if they were doing a bit of killing and blaming it on others. Life is very cheap in backward countries similar to the Cameroons and no doubt, these people dressed in their camouflage uniforms, could and possibly did get away with murder. The Company Commander Captain Dunande had an invitation to see the head tribal Chief of the region. These type of Chief’s, are quite wealthy in their own right and rule the roost throughout all the African countries and the Cameroons was obviously no exception. With about twenty-men that were fully armed, Captain Dunande accepted the invitation and by motor transport, traveled the five miles or so to the Chief’s village. The village itself was more or less a large of mud huts with dried grass roofs, that must have house a couple of hundred natives. Inside the large square of mud huts, there were sections cordoned off, by four-foot high mud walls, for housing their cattle and goats. I looked over a high mud wall in the compound and it was full of women and children, one of the Nigerian policemen who was with the patrol, said it was the Chief’s harem. It seemed rather amusing, because it was one constant buzz of chattering mixed with laughter and more so at the sight of British soldiers. In all, I thought the village to be well organised and no doubt, it probably hadn’t changed for generations. The patrol led by the O.C was eventually shown into a large mud hut, where seated at the top end surrounded by five natives, sat the Chief. He was dressed in a colourful smock with a matching hat and I must admit he looked the part. I have always noticed that the higher you are in life you become, the more arrogant looking you are and the Chief, certainly fitted that description completely, because every movement he made, had style about it. Cordially, we were all given a bottle of beer each and strangely enough it was Heineken. While Captain Dunande was talking to the Chief, we were quite relaxed and generally enjoying the atmosphere, when from an entrance at the bottom of the hut, appeared thirty tribesmen, each carrying a weapon. I must stress, unlike our patrol, they did not have an automatic weapon between them, but nevertheless they carried all types of shotguns that certainly could inflict damage at close range. This surprise sudden entrance and assortment of weapons on show, to say took us all quite aback, would definitely be an understatement. I along with my fellow companions, felt very uneasy about this unusual situation, gripping our rifles very tightly, all eyes zoomed in on the O.C. for some form of instruction. During this scenario, one lad of our patrol shouted out, “Marquisard,” (terrorist) and this outcry caused a very noisy commotion amongst the tribesmen. The Chief was visibly upset by the remark and demanded an immediate apology. Captain Dunande the O.C. was a real cool customer, with tongue in cheek he calmed the situation down with choice words, becoming of a British Officer. He apologised to the Chief, for the remark that caused the upset and further defused the situation by saying, the soldier who made the remark, would personally apologise to the Chief by letter for abusing his hospitality. While this very noisy verbal was going on, we gripped our weapons and stared across at our opposite number, with more vigilance than we had ever done before. I don’t know if they were the Chief’s tribesmen or not, because it was never fully explained and as we were the Chief’s invited guests, we were expected to respect his rules and customs. What I do know, is that if it had come to the crunch, we might have had a few casualties, but we would have blown them away. All the patrol including Captain Dunande, were glad when it was time to leave the still unsettled tribesmen in the chief’s compound and return to camp. The O.C. Captain Dunande did a good job in calming everyone down in such a delicate situation and as promised, he made the Private whose name I can’t remember, write the letter of apology to the Chief. Even to this present day, I still think of that rag, tag and bobtail band, entering the Chief’s hut unannounced, and, equally I am still quite sure the chief of that region, was running with the hare and the hounds! When patrolling and searching for weapons in the isolated huts that were situated around the border areas, we confiscated knives, spears, makeshift swords and obviously guns etc. The knives and spearheads were kept personally as souvenirs. Other times, if other soldiers wanted a particular knife or spear, one could do a deal, if you had that particular knife they wanted and of course vice a versa. The last knife I kept as recently as 1997, I gave to my nephew Neil. While patrolling very isolated parts of the countryside, one lad in the platoon, now and again, took great delight in setting fire to the straw of a mud hut roof where we found illegal weapons. It became a bit of a joke when he did this and I laughed along with the rest, but on hindsight it was stupidity really and so immature by all of us. It got to a point where one had no common sense or feeling for others and I am sure I can speak for all my ex-comrades, in saying. “We are very sorry for having had that attitude.” I don’t know what Mister Baines, our old next door neighbour from 32 Hastings Street would have thought of it all. He saved our house number 34 Hastings Street from going up in flames, when I was a boy. I was showing off, to my brother Frank and Val Cumberbatch at the time and whilst playing with a lighted match, I lit one of the many hanging strands of the backroom window curtain. With a whoosh the fire spread up the curtain with tremendous ferocity and soon spread to the over hanging rack, here all the freshly ironed clothes were strung. My brother Frank in the meantime ran next door for help and thankfully help, came in the form of good old Mister Baines. While I stood wide eyed and dumbstruck, he ripped down and threw outside all the burning materials and consequently saved the house from burning down. Looking at me squarely in the face, he said, “Alan. I don’t think your mam will be too pleased when she gets home,” and typical of the man he was, Mister Baines quietly left the scene. One thing Mister Baines was definitely right about, my mam was not too pleased, because she gave me a good hiding, which I deserved. As stated earlier, on all outposts one or more Nigerian policemen would be always available if needed at all times and would accompany patrols in certain areas when requested. They could be quite ruthless at time and the Cameroon people absolutely hated them and for me personally, I did not care for them either, because of their arrogance and bullying nature. At Sante Coffee camp, the Nigerian policeman made his quarters in an old empty mud hut, about twenty yards from the tent lines. He brought with him a young woman from some village and she did his washing, ironing, cooking etc and used also for his sexual pleasure. One evening he approached one of our platoon members, who knew him quite well and said he was being transferred to another region and was not taking his woman with him. Although the woman was going back to her own village in the morning, she was there for his wishes during the night. It was kept a secret amongst one section of the platoon and consequently during the night each one had intercourse with the woman. It must be said she was a willing partner to it all and no pressure or force was brought on her whatsoever. I only knew about the episode next morning, because our section were thankfully asleep at the time and consequently was not aware of what was happening. On that following morning, I saw the very mature young woman, who looked no older than seventeen, standing near to the tent lines, in a somewhat happy mood without a care in the world. In Africa girls reach womanhood at a very early age and of course they age early in life also and she would be no exception. I felt pity then and do so now at the plight of this young woman and indeed others, because in this third world country, there was no hope or any form of prosperity for the rest of their lives. Long before CSM Kershaw was in the vicinity of the tent lines, the young woman was given half a loaf of bread and sent on her way. She looked quite happy I might add, as she disappeared out of sight and our lives forever. When men are away from home and the people they love, they act in ways alien to their character and therefore can not be judged, on one lapsed episode in life. When not on patrols, time at the camp, would be spent cleaning weapons, equipment and the immediate area of the camp. With the regiment being in the Cameroons for ten months all jobs were done with a moan and a few laughs each wishing our time away. The Sante Coffee estate had a football pitch near to the camp. That they had been built for their workers recreation. Matches were played against other platoons in what can only be described as full-blooded games with no quarter asked or given. I will say this for CSM Kershaw, he always encouraged the Company to play sport and he certainly enjoyed the rough games, without comment. Twice we played teams made up of Nigerian policemen and these games were very tough and physical indeed. With them playing in their bare feet and us playing in our army issue P.T shoes, all rules completely went out of the window, with every man for himself. The local villagers would turn out to watch and cheer themselves hoarse, because we were their team and as stated earlier, they hated the Nigerian police. It was a good job I had played rugby in civilian life, because the police never played to the rule and neither did we. In both the matches played against the Nigerian police, much to the delight of the locals, we won quite easily. We had a lad playing for us who was consistently the best player on the field every match, no matter what was the opposition, his name the unforgettable, Arnie Marquis. An entertainment crew arrived one day from the main camp at Buea, bringing with them a film to be shown. It was decided by the CSM, to show the film Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, in the nearby village compound, for the locals and our platoon to see. With soldiers and villagers mixed together in the compound square everything was going smoothly, until the big fight scene. The villagers got so excited they started wrestling and pushing amongst themselves, creating absolute bedlam. All our lads just rolled about laughing and harmlessly joined in the fun. Needles to say no more films were shown in the village or for that matter to us again. Whenever that film is shown on television, as it was one Christmas, a smile always breaks out on my face during the fight scene. About ten miles from Sante Coffee estate, was another plantation, owned by an Englishman. Near to his large house, he had a concrete type of vat that was used for a swimming pool. The Officer’s of the regiment on invitation had been using this for along time and through Captain Dunande negotiating with the plantation owner, members of the platoon were invited to go to his plantation and use his makeshift swimming pool. Everyone rather noisily had a ball, because this was our first swim for a long time and we certainly made the most of it. The Plantation owner had a Daughter of our age and she was sunbathing very close to the pool in a two piece costume, this of course became the main topic of conversation and observation. All of which is quite natural, because she loved it and teased us considerably and of course she took a bit of banter back. The owner got wind of this entire happening and needless to say we were never invited back to his plantation ever again and although it was very petty on his part, we still made the best of our only invitation. I am sure if his plantation was being attacked by terrorists; he would have welcomed us back with open arms quick enough! As any ex-serviceman would tell you, Dear John letters are servicemen’s lot, whether your army, navy or airforce. A Dear John, is basically a serviceman’s slang, for one’s girl friend or wife, sending you a letter saying they have broken off their relationship with you, to go off with someone else. Quite a few lads received letters of this nature while away in the Cameroons, which in turn was very traumatic for them. but nevertheless they took it like the men they are. To all those women who sent those Dear John letters, I am pleased to inform you your letters were nailed to the main tent poles for all and sundry too see. The upset and misery it caused must have made you all feel very proud, but thankfully the letters were few and far between. To all the women of this great country of ours, both past and present, who wrote and waited patiently for their loved ones to return home. From the bottom of my heart, may I say on behalf of my fellow countrymen, you were all truly magnificent. Other times, a soldier’s mother or father died and to me this was particularly sad, but the lad in question took it bravely, as did Dave Rawes from Millom. There was no place to go and usually lads were left on their own for awhile then his close mates would take him for a beer or two. It must and was very hard on all the ex-servicemen throughout the years, who had bereavements at home when serving abroad and couldn’t do any thing about it; you were a very brave breed indeed. When away from loved ones, you can only turn to your friends for help and the armed services are no doubt, the place to find the most loyal a friend one could ever wish to meet. When a big problem arose, one could turn to that friend for help and he would do his utmost for you and of course you did likewise. One word sums it all up, and that is solidarity. It was the backend of April 1961 now and the rainy season was getting nearer, with the odd thunderstorms and heavy rain that followed. The night sky would be lit up like have never seen before, by long forks of lightning and the normally dry cliff sides, would turn into spectacular waterfalls in just a matter of minutes. During one fierce storm, one of the main tents got blown down and with lightning all around, no one dare venture out until morning, to erect the tent back up into its original position. In between the thunderclaps of that long thunderstorm, you could hear the lads of that section, who were under the downed tent canvas, singing at the top of their voices. Africa is a vast continent, where climates can change in no time at all and with the Cameroons having heavy rainfalls, the country had plenty of water, which in turn made the soil very rich. I should imagine now at this present day, it will have been utilised and in saying that, I hope its not to line some European’s pocket. For the sake of all backward countries, I sincerely hope the days of the greedy Europeans who have bled Africa over the years, are gone forever. A sound of screeching brakes and loud shouting disturbed what had been a quiet evening. In quite some haste, one of our sections, had just returned from what normally was usually a routine patrol. Mustering around the Landrover we knew something serious had happened, because lying injured in the back of the vehicle, was two Africans, a man in his thirties and a young boy aged thirteen. Under supervision, we ever so gently lifted them onto stretchers and carried them into the recreation room of the bungalow. They were both in considerable pain and shock and under close examination, we saw the man had very bad shotgun wounds to his legs, leaving no doubt he would be crippled for the rest of his life. The boy, who remained quiet throughout his examination, had most of his left buttock shot away. While being examined and indeed during the time he was in our care, he kept looking into our observing eyes, searching for some kind of hint as to how bad his injuries were. Not once, did the brave lad complain of any discomfort throughout his ordeal and believe me, he had every right to do so. They were both patched up temporarily and rushed to our Medical Centre in Bamenda Camp and although the man lived, sadly the young boy died. I never knew if they were father or son or if they were related, but what I do know is that I had, and indeed still have, total admiration for the bravery shown by that young boy so long ago. The man and the boy were herders, looking after a few cattle close to the border with the French Cameroons, when they came ambushed by a terrorist group. Obviously the terrorists, who mainly came from the troublesome Bameleeki tribe, wanted the cattle for food and this was the easy way to obtain it. After all, stealing becomes easy when one is hungry, but murder is a different story. The two herders, although badly wounded as they were, ran away and avoided the inevitable, what pain they must have had god only knows. They had been in hiding for hours, before luckily being found by one of our patrols, which were in that area. If the two Africans had been found earlier and given prompt attention, it is possible the young boy would hopefully have lived. The callousness shown by the terrorist group, towards the two herders, made all the lads of the platoon very angry and upset that evening, I can assure you. A few days later, our platoon was briefed that we were to join up with the Mortar platoon, in a search and destroy mission on a terrorist camp, which was known to be over the border in the French Cameroons. Although not knowing the exact location of the Terrorist Camp, we knew it to be in a certain area. The French authorities gave their permission and full backing for the intended operation to go ahead. With full pack, weapons and ammunition, sections of our platoon rendezvoused at Sante Customs Camp, to meet up with the Mortar Platoon. The combined patrol of forty men including NCOs and one Sergeant, were being led by Lieutenant Olsen, who in my opinion, was the most able Officer in (S) Company, if not the battalion. Although he was not our Platoon Officer, because of Lieutenant Everett-Heath being back in England, he undoubtedly had my utmost respect. Whilst Sergeant Machin, the ex-Senior NCO of the Machine Gun Platoon was checking what rations we had brought, it was noticed that we only had tins of string beans in our packs. These tins of string beans had been put in our packs by CSM Kershaw, whilst we were stood to attention, before setting off for the rendezvous with the Mortar Platoon. This did not go down too well with Sergeant Machin who started rollicking us, but after his initial outburst of obscenities, he accepted it was not our fault. Lucky for us they had a good supply of tinned sausages and beans, although they gave you wind, they were absolutely delicious. Having gone as far as possible by vehicles, the large patrol hiked for a few hours, until we came to a known area in the Magga region, not too far from the predominantly christened Cathedral Rock, which overlooked the border into French Cameroons. Using this as a base camp, we set about cutting down the plentiful bamboo, in a close by thicket and by joining our ponchos (rainproof coats) together and using the bamboo as a framework, we made very comfortable bivouacs. Each bivouac made, housed five men, they were about six-foot square by two foot high and due to the weather so unpredictable, we were really glad of them. As you the reader are aware, rain clouds seem as though they are glued to mountainous terrain and because of that, the rain could be quite torrential, so it was imperative due to the conditions to keep as dry as possible. At 2am, both platoons barring six men for rear guard assembled at the designated start point. Setting off in complete darkness, on a very treacherous hillside, we stumbled, fell, cursed, bumped into the man in front and fell again. With the patrol being in single file one could just make out the shape of the man in front of you and if he fell over then you fell over him and so forth. Our problems were added to, by a none stop heavy downpour of rain, soon after leaving base camp. The situation became so farcical after half an hour; it seemed only a matter of time before someone in the patrol would be seriously hurt. A National Service Corporal, named George Day, who incidentally was a fellow Barrovian, whom I knew quite well from my school days, shouted to Lieutenant Olsen, that it was stupid to proceed under these conditions and said he was going no further. On hearing this, the whole patrol down the line including myself, in turn echoed George Day’s words that we weren’t going on. The Sergeant on the patrol, Machin never said a word or got involved whatsoever, it was all down to George Day and consequently Lieutenant Olsen, wisely had no alternative, but to cancel the operation. I must stress, that George Day made a decision, he should not have had to make, but indeed it was the right decision and it probably saved a life or lives being lost. We returned very much bedraggled to the base camp, in the incessant pouring rain and I don’t know even now, how the men up front, found it in all that darkness. The rear guard on hearing voices, thought it was terrorists and in their haste to take cover, knocked the bivouacs over. This was bad news indeed, as everyone on the failed patrol was cold and soaked to the skin and certainly in need of cover. There was now, no question of making up the bivouacs, because of the atrocious elements and in any case they were scattered all over the place in the dark. Orders were shouted out, to try and find some means of cover, in other words every man for himself. I can only speak for myself in saying, that I have never been so cold, wet and miserable in all my life. Everyone seemed to be like lost souls, wandering around and bumping into one another, desperately trying to find some form of cover. This scenario seemed to last quite a while and the only sounds heard, was the very colourful adjectives used in cursing the rear guard, the likes of which I have never heard before or since. More by luck than by chance I tripped over a rainproof coat that had been part of a bivouac and believe me it felt like winning the pools. I wrapped it round my wet body and rifle and shivered in what seemed an eternity, before finally dropping off to sleep. Thankfully a few hours later, it was first light and what a sight to behold. The patrol that had set of with such confidence and gusto was now lying around the camp area, a rain sodden dejected bunch. With the rain eventually finally stopping and the lads not to be beaten totally, fires were lit, and the beans and sausages cooked and devoured more readily than ever before by the more than hungry men. The dark clouds disappeared and the much in need of sun, popped up from behind the hillside and its warm rays soon dried our clothes and warmed our bodies. Needless to write, the operation was postponed and again this was a wise decision, because on that morning, I don’t think we were capable of fighting our way out of a paper bag. What those brave lads, whom served and fought in the Burma campaign during World War Two, does not bear thinking about. For all of them it must have been horrendous and each and every one of them, has my utmost respect. Having dried out and looking more like whipped dogs than soldiers, our somewhat bedraggled patrol, made the return journey back to the vehicle pick up point, where the lorries were waiting to transport the platoons back to their respective camps. The whole debacle, was a very debatable subject on the return journey and there was no doubt we all felt very disappointed it had all ended in chaotic failure. The biggest moan was saved for the rear guard at the base camp, whom knocked over all the bivouacs, but it’s easy to put the blame on someone else, because under the circumstances it could have happened to any one of us. It was pleasing to arrive back at Sante Coffee, where the first priority was the cleaning of rifles, equipment and clothing. The platoon, were all debriefed by Captain Dunande and CSM Kershaw, about the whole episode and it was agreed unanimously, it was one complete balls up, due to the bad weather. There was no mention of the sensible decision to turn back being instrumented by Corporal George Day. I am quite sure, that Lieutenant Olsen on hindsight and obviously disappointed, must have realised, that the decision to turn back was the correct one, because it was never mentioned again. I am sure for the man he was he would have thanked George Day privately for making the correct decision at the right time. A week later having done their homework on the abortive raid, we were informed at a briefing, that another attempt was planned to find and destroy the terrorist camp. This was planned for in three days time and a message had gone out to CSM Kershaw that we had not to bring any string beans! The message must have sunk in, because we were given tins of sausages and beans and believe it or not tins of chocolate bars. A week before this was planned a new Sergeant arrived at the camp, to take over the platoon for the rest of the regiments stay in the Cameroons, his name was Smethhurst. He proved, whilst in charge of the platoon, to be a leader who was efficiently organised and a man one could talk to and be listened by. As a few weeks earlier, Lieutenant Olsen led the patrol and as before we camped in the same area of the Magga region, but this time I kept hold of my poncho. Lieutenant Olsen briefed everyone, that he would lead off before dusk, with twenty men of his own platoon and make some ground before it was too dark. Sergeant Smethhurst was to follow with the Anti-Tank Platoon, just before dawn and make as much ground up as possible. It was hoped that the Mortar Platoon would find the location of the terrorist camp before bedding down for the night and basically our platoon was their back up if or when needed. As arranged Lieutenant Olsen’s platoon move out in fading light, each carrying a Sterling sub machine gun and two loaded magazines of twenty eight 9mm rounds of ammunition. The Sterling sub machine gun was most lethal over twenty to thirty yards and was just the job for close encounters. Unlike the previous time, it was a beautiful night with a blanket of stars overhead with not a sign of rain. Our platoon spent the night talking quietly in-groups, with just the odd occasionally dozing off. Along with my fellow comrades, although feeling a little nervous we were able and ready for whatever task that lay ahead. As instructed before first light we assembled and set off in pursuit of the Mortar platoon. Barring the NCOs, who had Sterling sub machine guns, the rest of the patrol carried the 7.62 Self-loading Rifle and one magazine of twenty rounds. With stout heart, our patrol set off in the early morning mist at quite a steady pace. We hiked for about half a mile, heading towards the pre-planned area and with the light and conditions very favourable, we were quietly taking the elements in our stride. Without warning, the early morning calm was suddenly shattered, by the sound of automatic gunfire in the distance. We also knew it was the sound of the Sterling Sub machine gun and that meant our lads had run into trouble. Anxiously, radio contact was made and the message, attacking terrorist camp crackled out, followed by the words, “Please make haste immediately!” As the crow flies, we were under a mile away, but it was not that easy, because of the rugged terrain and bamboo thickets to contend with. Not undaunted, Sergeant Smethhurst, led the patrol quite quickly covering a considerable amount of ground in what seemed in no time at all. The adrenaline was really pumping in all of us, each united in the same common reason, to reach and help our friends in the other platoon. The question on our lips was why didn’t they wait for our platoon to be in very close proximity before they attacked? For the last half a mile the gunfire had stopped and we could see smoke looming from trees on top of a hill and in seeing this, we knew the exact spot of the confrontation and again this saved time. As our patrol reached the lower slopes of this large bamboo wooded hillside we were nearly at running pace. Making our way, quite quickly up the narrow path that led to the summit, the smelly smoke was thickly bellowing through the bamboo trees. Although we couldn’t see, we all heard the over agitated voice of Sergeant Machin, urging our platoon to hurry up. Seb Coe could not have reached them any quicker, than we did that morning and Sergeant Smethurst replied to Machin in very strong language indeed. I am positive even to this day, that as we climbed the hill to the summit, I heard voices to the left of me. I reported it to Sergeant Smethurst, but because nobody else heard the noises, we carried on and on hindsight, it may have just been as well, because we were in no mood too parley. Another lad in the patrol with the same name surname as mine, Parkinson 44, was nearly shot by Ginger Hodgson, when he surprisingly came out of a thicket to the right of us. How he got there, I could not understand, because he had been behind Ginger, Alan Welsh and I since we had left the base camp. Nevertheless Ginger gave him a good rollicking in true army vocabulary, that I am sure he will remember to this day. When we reached the top of the hill, the first thing that met our eyes, was the body of terrorist lying sprawled on the ground. With no time to stop, we fanned out quickly to join up with the relieved looking Mortar Platoon who had made the attack. Each one of them looked wide eyed and excitable, with adrenaline still pumping in their veins, which was quite understandable for what they had all just been through. They had by luck more than judgement, stumbled on the terrorist camp, during the night, then quietly bedded down until first light. Just as dawn broke, they were spotted by a terrorist, even with the knowledge that the back up platoon, were on their way. Lieutenant Olsen had no time to wait now they were spotted and leading from the front of his platoon charged into the terrorist camp, with all guns blazing. The terrorists were completely caught with their pants down, fleeing in all directions in utter confusion and disarray. Ever so carefully in line, we made our way through the terrorist camp until we reached a bamboo thicket at the bottom end. I never knew exactly, how many people were in the camp at the time of the attack, probably in the region of twenty, but what I do know, there was one confirmed dead and two captured. The two captured, were a man and a woman and they can count themselves very fortunate, they did not lose their lives. It did not matter one way or another at the time, because if their name were on the bullet, they would have been lying alongside their dead compatriot. Thick blood trails were all over the place, especially the bamboo thicket at the bottom of the camp, where it looked as though the bamboo had literally been sprayed with blood. The terrorists, on being attacked so suddenly, had just run for their lives, forcing passageways through the densely thick bamboo thicket. The amount of blood splashed about in these forced passageways meant one thing and that was some of the terrorists had horrendous injuries. It is what I wrote when the young boy was killed, although badly wounded, the will to survive keeps one going and this was definitely the case here. Incidentally, the battalion H.Q weeks later, were informed by the French Authorities, that French patrols were finding bodies near to this vicinity, all having died of gunshot wounds. Seeing and very much remembering, the blood trails in the bamboo thicket, this certainly didn’t surprise me one iota. The camp itself, in its compete entirety was truly amazing, and perfectly camouflaged, because of the surrounding bamboo. It had been laid out in six twenty-yard long streets that had been dug out and stepped down the hillside, one below the other. Each street had a covering of corrugated iron sheeting and pieces of wood with a thatching of dried grass for camouflage. The streets were sectioned off into living quarters; and stores, both for food, water, and menthol cigarettes, which were in abundance. I only saw one chicken running about, no doubt the others must have run off in during the confusion, but it wasn’t running around for long, because Private Patterson, put it under his tunic. I saw meat hanging up in one of the sectioned off streets, but there was no sign of any cattle. The camp also had a primitive medical section, which had an assortment of antiquated equipment, but the one thing that impressed me most, was a forge they had built. It sounds so ridiculous, but it is true, built very much in the mould of a primitive blacksmith’s shop of bygone days, complete with a make shift blower and it was in this forge, where they made their own weapons including guns. All the guns made, consisted of a carved handle and stock, inferior quality tubing for the barrels, complete with forged and filed out triggers, incorporating a firing pin. Each gun made, was shaped similar, to old flintlock pistols, as seen in pirate films back home, but unlike those, these guns were made to fire a twelve bore cartridge. There were guns in various forms of completion, with each having similar base plates, that had been hammered out in the forge. For added extra strength, copper wire was tightly wrapped round the barrel and stock, making them quite lethal at close range, but personally, I would not have liked to fire one Included with five hundred or so spiked twelve bore cartridges, the lads in the patrol collected up about seventy guns including a few rifles and a couple of revolvers and I would say about half of these guns, had been made at this camp. These kind of terrorist groups were organised to cause mayhem around the countryside and if by attacking and killing these people saved innocent lives, then no doubt it was a job done with great satisfaction. Everything in the camp that was burnable was burned, any thing that was useful was destroyed, especially the forge, quite obviously, we generally made the place as best we could, unusable. Once a terrorist camp had been rumbled, an alternative site would have to be found and after seeing what they had made for themselves on that hillside, I am sure that would have been no problem. To build such an organised camp, miles from any proper civilization, still makes me shake my head, at the ingenuity of it all. The camouflaging was first class, because when at Sante Customs we would watch a French plane vainly bombing the hillsides, looking for this camp and all bombs dropped I might add, were on other hills. In my opinion, the terrorists had made a brilliant job in making this camp and whoever was their leader, must have been trained by professionals, but in writing that, they were routed by soldiers who were taught, by much superior professionals in the British Army. Resting and taking in some food, before the return journey back to base camp, we sat in a circle around the dead terrorist. He was a very big man of strong build and must have been over six foot in height. As usual he was turned over to see where the bullet exited his body and much to our amazement, the bullet had not made an exit. He had been killed at close by a 9mm round fired from a Sterling Sub Machine Gun, the bullet had entered his body through the side of his stomach, just above the hip. On the opposite side of his stomach, where we expected to see where the bullet exited, was what I can only describe as though a very long nose was sticking out, without breaking the skin of his stomach. With this and the look of what the fucking hell was that expression on his face, became the main topic of conversation. At the time the dead man, did not mean anything to anyone of us and I never saw or felt any remorse for the deceased whatsoever amongst my fellow comrades. This, to you the reader might sound so callous, but that’s the way it was and it is only on reflection many years later, that although he could have been a murderer, you also realize he was someone’s son, brother or maybe father. A Corporal in the first assault platoon, said two terrorists had come running down a path towards him and he instinctively fired a burst from his Sterling, he said both men took hits and staggered over a cliff ledge. The bodies were not seen or recovered and therefore were not confirmed, I knew the Corporal quite well and at point blank range, with him being a marksman, he would not have missed. At the time he looked quite shook up by it all and it was never mentioned again. Each soldier on leaving the terrorist camp carried one or two of the captured guns, about seventy guns in all and because of this total of guns captured, I can’t give a definite figure of how many terrorists were in the camp at the time of the attack. The ammunition, which was quite heavy, was put into two rucksacks for the two prisoners too carry. Both prisoners looked downcast, pathetic, and very frightened and after the initial none friendly approach to them, one felt a little sorry for the plight they were in, but who knows, they could have been a ruthless pair! I was at the back of the patrol on the return journey, with the two captured terrorists, just in front of me and I was told, if they try to escape, shoot them. I assure you, they did not try too escape, nor did I want them too. Engrossed in personal thoughts, the return journey firstly to the camp we set up the night before and then onto the rendezvous point with the company vehicles, seemed to pass very quickly. I kept glancing back to where the terrorist camp was situated and even then the only clue to its whereabouts, was the smoke bellowing from the bamboo-infested hillside. Once again, I can only describe it as truly amazing. Arriving back at the rendezvous point where the three-ton lorries were waiting to pick the patrol up. There was no chance of keeping any of the weapons for a souvenir, because of the diligent way we had to hand them over. I am sure Lieutenant Olsen kept hold of a stainless steel revolver, because it wasn’t amongst the piled up weapons and ammunition! It came as a surprise and a most welcome sight that also at the rendezvous point, was the most respected Commanding Officer of the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment Lieutenant Colonel Robinson. He was waiting by the side of the transport with a V.I.P, who was possibly a Member of Parliament, on a visit to the Cameroons. The C.O congratulated the men of our patrol, on a job well done and we were all a credit to the regiment. I must admit, what he said was most appreciated and gave one and all, a certain amount of satisfaction, in the knowledge that what we had been trained for, had been successful. As for the two prisoners, they were handed over to the French authorities, for a fate of which was unknown to me. The scrawny chicken that Private Patterson took, was killed, cooked and eaten by Private Ashley and his pals. The hundreds of French menthol cigarettes were smoked and I must say all the non-smokers were glad to see the back of them, because the tents and bedding completely stunk of stale mints. Lieutenant Olsen for his leadership in the operation, was awarded the Queens Commendation, I also write it was thoroughly deserved. It was also a pity, a few more of the lads on that operation, who I might add were mainly National Servicemen, didn’t get some form of deserved recognition as well. Knowing the British Army code of early morning attacks and the soldiers who instrumented it, we can thank them one and all, because through their expertise, all members of the patrol came back safely without a scratch This operation was the last main patrol while serving in the Cameroons, because our extended time of seven weeks out at Sante Coffee was at an end. Everything at the base before a platoon from (A) Company arrived became a very relaxed routine with plenty of football and sunbathing. The Grenadier Guards advance party, had arrived at Bamenda Camp and were now basically getting to know their patrol areas. Their regiment on arriving in the Cameroons was taking over all our tents, vehicles, stores and certain equipment, which of course was a godsend, because otherwise we would have had to pack it all up. The Grenadiers Guards were staying in the Cameroons for four months, for the final transitional period and believe me they were welcome to it. Leaving Sante Coffee for the last time and as you the reader must understand feeling very happy at the prospect of going home to England very soon, I knew my life would never be the same again. The grand set of men, who had been with me through good and bad times, would soon be a memory. A memory, that will be remembered always for comradeship and total sincerity.
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