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The northern area of the British Cameroons is a few thousand feet above sea level and although the Bamenda Camp, was situated on the highest point in the Bamenda Region. It did not look out of place with the rest of the region, even though it was on the summit of a hill 5000 feet above sea level. The area on the summit was very large and flat, with plenty of trees and vegetation, but what surprise me most was where the camp was built. The European farmers over the years had built for themselves a racecourse complete with rails and a few odd buildings; it was in an ideal place, because of the cooler temperature, of being quite high up. Although the Europeans did not live in the vicinity, they must have used this racecourse for their main socialising, but now for them, that was now at an end. Inside the perimeter rails of the course, were now lines of large tents, built on concrete bases, 24ft x 18ft x 2ft high. These, along with other bases being erected, were huts for stores, the cookhouse and a naafi, all built prior to our arrival or being built, by the advance party of Royal Engineers and our own Pioneer section of the Kings Own Royal Border. My hat goes off to the Advance parties in all camps led namely by CSM Marsh, S/Sgt Medway, Sgt Dickinson and of course the lads under them. When they arrived at the campsite areas, it was just a sea of mud and desolation. The atrocious conditions they worked under to make it habitable would have daunted many others. On behalf of the rank and file of the battalion, well done. It was complete chaos those early days, in that each and everyone had to carry sleeping mattresses, personal kit and anything else to do with his particular allotted tent. During all these comings and goings, the heavy downpour of rain never ceased. Everything that belonged to you was wet and caked in mud and I mean everything. When other convoys arrived with stores and provisions etc, everyone had to get stuck and get the items cleared away to their various destinations. Between the tent lines, the walkways were quickly made into quagmires of soul-destroying mud; this in turn made the moral go down somewhat! All muster calls were done by bugle calls. The sound of reveille, last post and the cookhouse call, being the known ones, but the one the Company dreaded most was the unforgettable, fall in A fall in B fall in every Company. This call told everyone in the camp, that a convoy had arrived and we the labourers had to muster, to clear everything away. The one convoy we were pleased to see, was the arrival of the wooden duck boards, and even when these were laid down between the tent lines, although obviously a lot better, mud still managed to squelch through onto your boots etc. All the regiment were green as grass to what was happening, in what can only be termed as a kick up the arse in life, but eventually one has to harden up to the situation and as time wore on, by hell we did. The camp changed daily, as new tents and the odd Nissan huts were assembled, everything that arrived at the camp or wanted changing around, we did it. As (A) Company, were out at all the patrol bases, the donkeywork was done by (S) Company, Sergeant Major Kershaw seemed to be every where and needless to say, all tents and rigging, were set up in true military style and if it wasn’t to his satisfaction, we were made to do it all again. The toilets were situated behind the Arms Store, which was on the far side of the camp. These toilets were made of the plentiful bamboo and a raffia type, of dried grass and were sectioned off over broad planks of wood that had large circular holes cut in, to take twelve troops at a time if needed. The toilets were suspended over a large pit, which chemically disinfected to keep down the smell etc. This type of toilet arrangement had been used by the British army for generations and proved quite adequate under the circumstance. In the early days at Bamenda Camp, when everyone’s stomachs, were not use to the new conditions and food. The toilets were in constant use, because of outbreaks of dioahrea, this being the only time I ever saw toilet queues form, as I will describe later. From day one at Bamenda Camp, the Company Commander Major Elliot made everyone in the camp with no exceptions and that includes officers and senior NCOs, parade at 0610 hours each morning. On this parade, all personnel were given an anti-malaria tablet, named paludrine. This parade at the time seemed so farcical and very unpopular, but it had to be attended. The weather more often than not was absolutely appalling, with exceedingly heavy rainfalls. This parade went on for about four weeks before it was stopped, but it made each and everyone aware of the dangers of malaria. From that time, it was left to the individual to take their paludrine tablets, whether you kept your own supply or took one at meal times. The tablets, were always in a position where they could be seen and therefore, gave no one the excuse of not taking them? I certainly took mine without any prompting whatsoever. Due to the camp being so high up the hillside, there was an absence of mosquitoes, but it didn’t stop me taking a tablet or stupidly not using my mosquito net. Major Elliot became very unpopular amongst the Senior NCOs and fellow Officers, or so it seemed, probably starting from the paludrine parades. His unpopularity was well rumoured at the time and it came as no surprise, when he was transferred to (HQ) Company at Buea Camp. Why I do not know, personally I cannot knock him, because if it were not for Major Elliot, I would have still been working in the cookhouse. On reflection I think the lads of (S) Company including Officers and Senior NCOs really owe Major Elliot a debt of gratitude, in the fact that not one member of the Company throughout the regiments stay in the Cameroons, caught malaria The 59th Field Squadron of the Royal Engineers built showers and washing facilities and believe me, these were a God send, because we were getting so shit up and feeling down in the dumps. When this most welcome amenity was complete, it felt like winning the pools. I can not speak too highly of the Royal Engineers and they have my most sincere thanks for making life more tolerable, during the regiment’s stay in the British Cameroons. What is so much taken for granted when at home in England, is only a far off dream, for the many thousands of British troops, who have served overseas. I assure you, when men are back home from serving abroad, life and surroundings for the rest of their lives, are so much more appreciated. The first few weeks at Bamenda the food was mainly compo rations, these rations were tinned and contained a high quality of meats, vegetables and cheese etc. All cooking was done on a type of field ovens that had blowers attached and once the cookhouse got in full swing the compo rations ended. I noticed Corporal Mahoney; the cook from Westwick Camp had arrived at Bamenda on one of the recent convoys. I made a vow to myself not to eat anything off the hot plate, as my mind was still fresh, of the days in the cookhouse with Corporal Mahoney. When checking the hot plate of the oven, to see if it was hot enough to fry eggs, he would spit on the plate and if the spit bounced off, it was ready. I don’t need to write if the hot plate was not hot enough, hence I would not be having any eggs etc when Corporal Mahoney was on duty and I didn’t. When meat was required, which was nearly every day, herdsmen would bring cattle up to the camp. A rope would be attached to one of its front legs and a rope to one of its hind legs. A man holding the end of each rope, would be five yards in front of the animal and the other man five yards behind. The animal was taken to a concrete block that was situated behind some trees at the edge of the camp and slaughtered. Only minutes would go by, before the butchered carcass of the animal, was being taken on large trays to the cookhouse. It was an absolutely horrible sight, seeing the nerves of the cut up animal still twitching on the steel plate as though it was still alive. Once the meat arrived in the cookhouse, it was sliced up into chunks, and then cooked and served up with the familiar powdered potato and string beans. The meat was nearly always undercooked and tough as old boots to eat, the meal then would normally followed, by the plentiful fresh fruit. As I wrote earlier, most of the camp at some time or another in this early period of time at Bamenda Camp had the formidable wild shites and I assure you this was no wonder, after eating that food. A constant queue would form at the toilets, that is if one could hold out long enough in the queue, the jokes and banter throughout to certain unfortunate individuals, was hilarious to say the least. We all had to take this banter some time or another, because nobody escaped those early days of the wild shites at Bamenda Camp. Over the first five or six weeks at Bamenda Camp, our stomachs toughened up considerably, because if you didn’t eat the food you go hungry, it was simply a case of take it or leave it. After a couple of months the ever-ingenious Royal Engineers installed a large refrigerator and a small bakery. And when these eventually were up and running, food did improve and again you must eat what was served up, come what may, because there are no menus. The rainy season in early October was just about at an end, and although work on the build up of the camp had to continue, it was pleasing to see local people from nearby villages, being given jobs that before had been done by (S) Company. Getting acclimatized can be very hard, as we were told from day one to get our shirts off during the day. This had its drawbacks, because if one got sun burnt and reported on sick parade, you were put on a charge. I have a fair complexion and suffered quite a bit of sunburn, but like every thing else one has to grin and bear it. One particular day after labouring in the Sun and being burnt quite badly, I was lying on my bed face down, in considerable discomfort. A young Irishman, whom I knew, said he had some foot powder that might soothe the pain. He sprinkled the powder on my very blistered back and I must say it did have a cool soothing effect, but for some reason, probably because he was Irish, he rubbed it in. Turning round, I saw Paddy looking at his hands with total astonishment on his face, there on his hands like a sheet of paper, was the skin of my back. As I got up, he ran off like rabbit, if I had got hold of him God only knows what I would have done. When things, or should I say I calmed down, and Paddy came back to the tent and said he was only trying to help me, I just smiled and shook my head, because deep down, I knew he was just trying to help. All fair complexioned men had the same problems as myself, but after many bouts of prickly heat and sunburn, I eventually began to tan and was I pleased of that. Thanks to the employment of native labour, (S) Company got on with its designated military duties. Route marching, weapon training and lectures on the surrounding countryside were stepped up and this was far better than lugging stores and provisions about. Each tent was allowed one houseboy and their duties were to keep the tent clean and laundry our O.G uniforms and this include ironing. For ironing, they would have a charcoal filled iron and in turn when the charcoal burned, the iron became very hot. With a little starch on the fabric being ironed, some of the houseboys did an excellent job. There were eight men to a tent and each gave the houseboy three shilling (15p) per week out of our two pounds ten shillings weekly wage. This being their only source of income that they would ever likely to have and they appreciated it. Although not encouraged to do so, lads brought food back from the cookhouse for them to eat and I assure you, it was quickly devoured. The ages of the houseboys ranged between fifteen and thirty and in life, one could not meet a happier crowd, but they were only allowed to work at the main camp in Bamenda. On October 1st 1960, Nigeria gained its independence and with the British Cameroons bordering Nigeria, the regiment was put on full alert for any type of disorder. All buildings of importance, such as pumping stations and banks, had to be guarded against insurgency etc. The Camp guard was doubled and each of the guard was briefed to challenge anyone suspicious three times and if there was no given response, use the bayonet. The night in question had been very quiet and I was in the middle of my last guard at 1am, when I heard footsteps on the dirt track road that cut across the bottom of the camp. It was very dark with no electricity for lighting, and as the footsteps got nearer, I issued my first challenge. Totally ignoring my challenge, the footsteps were getting louder and making out some form of figure, I issued my second challenge. Feeling a little bit nervous. I went forward towards the figure looming on the road and gave my final warning. As I moved in close, the person gave out an unintelligent utterance and then collapsed on the road in considerable pain. Flashing my torch on the prone figure, I recognised it was our Company Colour Sergeant who was completely pissed out of his mind, after summoning assistance to get him back to his quarters, it was discovered he had broken his arm. The Colour Sergeant had been a veteran from World War Two actions with the Border Regiment at Arnhem and was also known to be quite an amiable chap. A few weeks later, because of the complications to his broken arm, he was flown back to England. I never told anyone how the Colour Sergeant came to break his arm; after all, he was lucky it wasn’t a bayonet up his backside! During the course of the early weeks at Bamenda Camp, we had quite a few reconnoitering patrols to do in the Bamenda region. These patrols were done in long wheel based Landrover and were aptly named “Showing the flag patrols.” I preferred being out of the camp, because it could and was very interesting, with the patrols covered a considerable distance. It was hoped the patrols would be a moral booster to the inhabitants, in the knowledge, that they had the protection of the British Army, if or when needed. The roads or should I say tracks, were drying out now due to the end of the rainy season and instead of being caked in mud, we were getting covered with red dust. The countryside was very hilly and quite hazardous and it must be said, the Motor Transport drivers of our regiment and R.A.S.C; were magnificent throughout our time abroad. One Barrow lad named Jack Simmons and another lad named Holt made the most runs from Buea to Bamenda a 600-mile round trip and this was definitely a considerable achievement, considering the hostile terrain and terrible weather conditions. It might not have been said at the time, but they were all appreciated for what they did by all and sundry. It was on one of these many motor patrols, we stayed overnight, in a mud walled school well to the North of Bamenda. It was unusual for CSM Kershaw to accompany the motorised patrol; he told the Officer in charge, a Lieutenant Everett-Heath, that because of their cooking experience, Privates Marquis and Parkinson would do the cooking. Arnie and I just grinned at each other on hearing this, because we both knew our cooking days at Barnard Castle, was done in the vegetable room. Soon after getting a fire going, we set about opening all the compo rations, which consisted of corn beef, Irish stew, mutton scotch, tinned potatoes and string beans. Using an empty hard tack biscuit tin, all the contents were emptied. Arnie continued to stir all this up, while I opened the tins that held chocolate and wine gums. After a while Arnie asked me to stir the mixture while he went to get his mess tins. No sooner had I got hold of the spoon, than Arnie ran off like a shot and it didn’t take me long to know why. He had burnt the lot and left me with the wooden spoon. With the queue starting to form of the grumbling, hungry platoon, I proceeded to dish the food out. Only one lad did not turn up in the queue for his food and I don’t need write who that was. I took a lot of stick off the lads and because of them being so hungry, some actually forced themselves to eat the burnt food. Lieutenant Everett-Heath, with a stiff upper lip said “ Its a bit well done Parkinson.” I did not get off that lightly with CSM Kershaw, he dressed me up and down and to put it mildly said, “ I was absolutely fucking useless.” During all this bollocking I was getting, I could see the laughing face of Arnie Marquis, who was hiding behind one of the parked vehicles. I took it all in good part, because that’s the way it goes, some you win and some you lose, but one thing good came out of this, we were never asked to cook again. From that day on, it became a standing joke between Arnie and I, how he left me holding the wooden spoon. Returning back to base camp from a motorised patrol, we saw what we thought to be a white man, dressed in rags and totally disheveled, coming out of a jungle clearing. With screeching brakes, we made one mad rush to help, with thoughts of Stanley meeting Doctor Livingstone in our minds. A pathetic figure of an Albino met our eyes, he was of Negro features, but with pinkish skin on which had many sores. He had dirty matted short curly fair hair and a pinky coloured eyes, which I can assure you, he wasn’t a pretty sight. Our movement took the Albino by surprise, for the first time in his miserable life, he thought somebody was going to be friendly. I am sorry to say, with opened mouths, we took one look at him and made a quick retreat back to the vehicles, with not so much as an hello or good-bye and it is ironical, that as our vehicles pulled away, the Albino waved and smiled at us. Having just typed in those last words, it is the first time in thirty-six years, that I have felt any sadness about that poor unfortunate man. Quite regularly the Company did roadblocks in various areas of the Bamenda region; in doing this we stopped and searched for weapons etc all the transport, which used the road we blocked. The public transport in the Cameroons was named a mammy wagon, which is a type of open windowed bus. The more roadblocks we did, the more stern and tougher we became, if you weren’t stern with the people on the buses, you were on a loser. On one bus, we forcibly searched a very reluctant and angry Falani tribesman and we found in his possession two thousand, five hundred Nigerian pounds, which is the same equivalent as in Sterling. When I left work to do my National Service, my wages per year was a quarter of what the Falani had in his possession and therefore imagine one’s thoughts when we saw that money. The Falani tribesmen owned most of the cattle in the then British Cameroons and that’s why we learned, he had in his possession all that money. He was allowed to proceed on his journey a bit shook up, but otherwise unhindered. I have often thought, what would have happened, if the wrong type of people had got hold of the Falani that day, make no mistake there are good and bad in everyone, that is for sure. It is strange how one’s mind turns to thinking about food, when you are away from home and because of the food being bloody terrible at Bamenda Camp, many an hour in all personnel tents, would be spent talking about food. Oh, how I did wish for a plate of fish and chips and I didn’t care where they came from and that includes Greasy Joe’s. At the bottom of Hastings Street, where I lived, there is a fish and chip shop and during the war years it was owned by a man named Joe Condron. When Joe left, a little chaptook over, whose name I never knew, but because his chips were cooked in poor quality fat, he became known as Greasy Joe. No doubt if he had used good quality fat, the custom would have been better, because he very rarely had five customers a night, but undaunted his shop remained open most nights of the week, come what may. During the winter evenings, just the same as this present day, illuminated shop windows, are a magnet for teenagers to congregate and Greasy Joe’s was no exception. The comments about his fish and chips were comical and I suppose childish to say the least. If anyone bought chips from Greasy Joe’s, they were always given a big cheer, when they came out of his shop. One evening, my brother Frank and I were in the company of an older lad named Alan White, who was well known in the area, to be a daredevil of a lad. While walking past greasy Joe’s fish and chip shop, Alan said. “I’ve got a present for Joe.” With this he produced two fireworks that were bound together, grinning he lit the fireworks and threw them into Greasy Joe’s shop. Alan with Frank and I in quick pursuit ran across the road as fast as we could and bounded over the wall, surrounding the Catholic school. With a deafening bang and a lot of shouting and cursing, we could hear the voice of Greasy Joe shouting. “ It’s the Parkinson brothers, It’s the Parkinson brothers!” Unknown to Greasy Joe, the three of us were on the other side of the wall, rolling about laughing in muffled hysterics. Nothing ever came of it, although Frank and I kept away from that end of the Street, for a few weeks. So as I wrote earlier, I could even have ate a plate of greasy Joe’s fish and chips, but I am quite sure, if Greasy Joe knew they were for me, he would certainly, without any doubt whatsoever, have gotten his own back. Our patrol dropped lucky one day, when a Swedish Missionary who lived nearby, invited members of the patrol back to his house for a meal. I can not remember what we ate, but it was most appreciated. The biggest bonus to all the patrol was eating the meal on plates, instead of our much in use mess tins.The Missionary and his wife were very kind and of high intelligence, nothing seemed to be too much trouble, they were just quite happy that British soldiers were in the area. We must have looked a rough bunch, but to everyone’s credit, the lads behaved impeccably, to the kindness shown by the Missionary and his wife. This only happened on rare occasions, so one had to make the best of it and this we did. I haveoften wondered since, who they were and how they made out in later life, because there is one thing certain, I shall never forget their kindness, whoever they were or are. The patrol to a leper colony at a place named Mbingo was met with total apprehension, even though having being informed at the time; we could not be infected. I assure you, although being told this and ignorant of the facts, no one touched anything or let the patients touch them, just in case. The Doctors and nurses, who dedicate their lives working among such unfortunate people, deserve the highest accolade and I am sure they do not seek this, but nevertheless they deserve it. When I hear of lollipop ladies etc getting MBEs; it makes one wonder, what are the priorities in life.
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