From Desert Kingfisher
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean
On my way to the Adjutant-General’s branch of GHQ I ran into David Stirling, a subaltern in the Scots Guards, whose brother Peter, then Secretary at the Embassy in Cairo, was an old friend of mine. David was a tall, dark, strongly built young man with a manner that was usually vague, but sometimes extremely alert. He asked me what my plans were. I told him. ‘Why not join the Special Air Service Brigade?’ he said. I asked what it was. He explained that it was not really a brigade; it was more like a platoon. It was only called a brigade to confuse the enemy. But it was a good thing to be in. He had raised it himself a month or two before with some friends of his after the commando with which they had come out to the Middle East had been disbanded. Now there were about half a dozen officers and twenty or thirty other ranks. He had been made a captain and commanded it. He was also directly responsible to the Commander-in-Chief. I asked what Special Air Service meant. He said it meant that everyone had to be parachute-trained. …
It sounded promising. I said I should be delighted to join.
~
Parachuting was only part of the training. So far the SAS had attempted only one parachute operation, and it had not been a success. They had been dropped in the wrong place; they had had difficulty in reaching their target; they had run into every kind of trouble; they had lost several of their men; their stock had gone down at GHQ. After this setback, David had come to the conclusion that, in the desert, parachuting was not necessarily the best way of reaching one’s target.
The survivors of the first operations had been picked up by the Long-Range Desert Group. This was a specially equipped, specially trained unit, which had been formed the year before primarily for reconnaissance purposes. In patrols of half a dozen trucks, carrying their own water and petrol, they pushed far into the vast expanse of waterless desert which stretched away for hundreds of miles to the south of the relatively narrow coastal strip where the Desert War was being waged. They thus circumnavigated the flank of the two armies, and re-emerged miles behind the enemy lines. There they stayed for weeks on end, hiding in the desert with their trucks camouflaged, watching enemy troop movements and returning with much vital information. The desert, particularly that part of it which was nominally enemy territory, became a second home to them.
We had to have the LRDG to bring us back (for the idea that we were ‘expendable’ or a ‘suicide squad’ was strongly discouraged by all concerned). Why, David argued, should we not make use of their trucks to take us to the scene of the intended operation or at any rate to a point from which the target to be attacked could be reached on foot? It would be a safer, more comfortable and, above all, more practical way of reaching our destination than parachuting. And it would involve no great loss of time, for, when necessary, the LRDG could cover great distances very quickly.
Henceforward the LRDG provided expert knowledge of the desert, skilled navigation and first-rate administration – vital necessities where one’s life and the success of the operation depended on getting to the right place at the right time and on carrying with one a sufficient load of food, petrol and water to last the trip. David, for his part, brought to these ventures the striking power and, to their planning and execution, what Lawrence has called ‘the irrational tenth … like the kingfisher flashing across the pool’: a never failing audacity, a gift of daring improvisation, which invariably took the enemy by surprise. The resulting partnership was a most fruitful one.
The best targets were aerodromes. From these the Luftwaffe and their Italian allies regularly attacked our convoys, fighting their way through the Mediterranean to Malta, and the Eighth Army, now driven back to the Egyptian frontier. Situated hundreds of miles behind the front, these desert airfields were not heavily defended: some wire, some machine-gun posts and an occasional patrol were considered sufficient protection. After carefully studying the lie of the land, it was possible to slip through the wire under cover of darkness, and surreptitiously deposit charges of high explosive in the aircraft where they stood dotted about the airfield. The high explosive, mixed for better results with an incendiary substance, was made up into handy packages and provided with a device known as a time-pencil which could be set to detonate the charge after an interval of a quarter or half an hour. This gave the attackers time to put a mile or two of desert between themselves and the airfield before their bombs exploded and the alarm was given. After that it only remained for them to make their way back to wherever the LRDG trucks were waiting to pick them up.
Working on these lines, David achieved, in the months that followed, a series of successes which surpassed the wildest expectations of those who had originally supported his venture. No sooner was one operation completed than he was off on another. No sooner had the enemy become aware of his presence in one part of the desert and set about taking counter-measures than he was attacking them somewhere else, always where they least expected it. Never has the element of surprise, the key to success in all irregular warfare, been more brilliantly exploited. Soon the number of aircraft destroyed on the ground was well into three figures. In order to protect their rear the enemy were obliged to bring back more and more front-line troops. And all this was done with a handful of men, a few pounds of high explosive and a few hundred rounds of ammunition.
Woestynvisvanger
Uit Eastern Approaches
deur Fitzroy Maclean
Op pad na die adjudant-generaal se tak van die algemene hoofkwartier, het ek vir David Stirling raakgeloop. Hy was ’n tweede luitenant in die Scots Guards, en ek en sy broer Peter, daardie tyd die sekretaris by die ambassade in Kaïro, was ou vriende. David was ’n lang, donker, stewig geboude jongman. Wat hy in die mou gevoer het, was gewoonlik onduidelik, maar hy was soms op en wakker en besonder paraat. Hy het my gevra wat my planne was, en voorgestel dat ek by die spesiale lugdiensbrigade (die SAS) aansluit. “Wat is die SAS?” het ek gevra. Hy het verduidelik dat dit nie eintlik ’n brigade was nie, maar meer soos ’n peleton. Hulle het dit slegs ’n brigade genoem om die vyand te verwar. Maar dit was iets goeds om deel van te wees. ’n Maand of twee gelede, na die kommando, waarmee hulle saam na die Midde-Ooste gekom het, ontbind het, het hy en ’n paar vriende die SAS op die been gebring. Daar was toe omtrent ’n halfdosyn offisiere en twintig of dertig ander manskappe. Hy is bevorder tot die kaptein en bevelvoerder van die SAS en moes direk verantwoording doen aan die opperbevelhebber. “Wat beteken ‘spesiale lugdiens’?” wou ek weet. Hy het verduidelik dat dit beteken dat almal valskermopleiding moes ondergaan.
Dit het belowend geklink. Ek het gesê dat dit heel aangenaam sou wees om aan te sluit.
~
Om met ’n valskerm te spring was slegs deel van die opleiding. Tot dusver het die SAS slegs een valskerm-operasie onderneem, en dit was alles behalwe ’n sukses. Hulle is op die verkeerde plek laat spring en het moeite gehad om by hulle doelwit uit te kom. Daar was oneindige probleme en verskeie van die manskappe het omgekom. Hulle aansien by die hoofkwartier het erg gedaal. David het tot die gevolgtrekking gekom dat, om met ’n valskerm in die woestyn te spring, nie juis die beste manier was om jou teiken te bereik nie.
Die oorlewendes van die eerste operasie is deur die langafstand-woestyngroep (die LRDG) opgepik. Dit was ’n spesiaal toegerus en opgeleide eenheid wat die vorige jaar hoofsaaklik vir verkenningsdoeleindes gestig is. Die patrollies, wat bestaan het uit ’n halfdosyn vragmotors wat hulle eie water en petrol saam moes karwei, het ver in die uitgestrekte eindeloosheid van die waterlose woestyn inbeweeg. Die dorre landstreek het vir honderde myle suid van die relatiewe smal kusstrook, waar die woestynoorlog gewoed het, gestrek. Dus het hulle rondom die flanke van die twee weermagte beweeg en weer myle agter die vyandelike linies opgedoem. Daar het hulle weke lank met hulle gekamoefleerde trokke gebly en die vyandelike troepbewegings dopgehou. Só kon hulle lewensbelangrike inligting bekom. Die woestyn, veral daardie deel wat veronderstel was om vyandelike terrein te gewees het, het vir hulle ’n tweede tuiste geword.
Dit was nodig vir die LRDG om ons terug te besorg (die gedagte dat ons “vervangbaar” of ’n “kamakazi-eenheid” was, is deur almal wat daarmee gemoeid was, sterk afgekeur). Waarom, was David se vraag, kon ons nie gebruik maak van hulle trokke om ons na die toneel van die voorgenome operasie te neem nie, of ten minste tot by ’n plek waarvandaan die teiken wat aangeval moes word, te voet bereik kon word? Dit sou veiliger, geriefliker en, bowenal, ’n meer praktiese manier wees om ons bestemming te bereik as om met valskerms te spring. Dit sou verder nie te veel tyd in beslag neem nie, want, indien nodig, kon die LRDG groot afstande baie vinnig aflê.
Na dese het die LRDG deskundige kennis van die woestyn, vaardige navigasie en eersterangse administrasie voorsien – absolute noodsaaklikhede waar jou lewe en die sukses van die operasie daarvan afhang om op die regte tyd op die regte plek te wees, en om genoegsame kosvoorrade, brandstof en water vir die duur van die tog te hê. David se bydrae was die slaankrag wat hy aan dié ondernemings gebring het, en aan die beplanning en uitvoering daarvan – dit wat Lawrence “die irrasionele tiende … soos ’n visvanger wat oor die water flits” genoem het: ’n Roekeloosheid wat nooit misluk het nie, ’n gawe van waaghalsige improvisasie wat die vyand konstant verras het. Die voortspruitende vennootskap was besonder vrugbaar.
Die beste teikens was vliegvelde. Van daar af het die Luftwaffe en hulle Italiaanse bondgenote gereeld ons konvooie aangeval waar hulle hul pad oopgeveg het deur die Middellandse see na Malta, en ook die “Eighth Army” wat teen daardie tyd teruggedryf is tot teenaan die Egiptiese landsgrens. Hierdie woestynlughawens was honderde myle agter die linies geleë en nie sterk bewaak nie: draadversperrings, ’n paar masjiengeweer-wagposte, en net so af en toe ’n patrollie, is beskou as voldoende beskerming. Na deeglike bestudering van die stand van sake, was dit moontlik om onder die dekmantel van die nag deur die draadheining te glip en onopgemerk ladings brisante-springstof aan die vliegtuie, daar waar hulle verspreid op die vliegveld gestaan het, te plak. Dié springstof, wat met brandbomme gemeng was vir beter resultate, is in handige houertjies verpak en voorsien van ’n instrument wat bekend gestaan het as ’n penpotlood. Dit kon gestel word om die lading na ’n tydsverloop van ’n kwartier of ’n halfuur te laat ontplof. Dit het die aanvallers kans gegee om, voor die ontploffing en die alarm gegee is, ’n myl of twee van woestynsand tussen hulle en die vliegveld te plaas. Al wat daarna oorgebly het, was vir hulle om hul weg te vind na waar die LRDG-trokke op hulle gewag het.
Met dié werkswyse het David in die daaropvolgende maande ’n reeks suksesse behaal wat die hoogste verwagtinge van diegene wat die onderneming ondersteun het, oortref het. Die een operasie was skaars afgehandel of hulle was klaar besig met die volgende een. Sodra die vyand bewus geword het van sy teenwoordigheid in een gedeelte van die woestyn en aanstaltes gemaak het met teenmaatreëls, het hy hulle op ’n ander plek aangeval, altyd in ’n gebied waar hulle dit die minste verwag het. Die element van verrassing, die sleutel tot sukses in enige guerrilla-oorlogvoering, was nog nooit briljanter uitgebuit nie. Kort voor lank het die aantal vliegtuie wat op die grond verwoes was, maklik op meer as driesyfers gestaan. Ten einde hulle agterhoede te dek, was die vyand verplig om meer en meer van hulle frontlinietroepe terug te bring. En dit was alles gedoen met ’n handjievol manne, ’n paar pond plofstof en ’n paar honderd patrone.
Paragraph 22
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean
War, it has been said, is diplomacy continued by other means. Certainly, to me, as I sat at my desk in the Foreign Office, my own occupation, once hostilities had begun, seemed suddenly to have lost its point. I decided to resign my commission in the Diplomatic Service and to enlist.
But this was easier said than done. No sooner had I mentioned my intention of resigning than it was pointed out to me, in no uncertain terms, that my behaviour was extremely unpatriotic. For six years, they said, I had been learning my job. Now, just as I was beginning to be of some slight use, I wanted, in order to satisfy my personal vanity, to go off and play at soldiers; I must lack all sense of responsibility. But, in any case, my resignation would not be accepted. The new Defence Regulations gave the Secretary of State full powers in this respect.
‘And what if I simply go off and enlist?’ I asked.
‘If you do that,’ they said, ‘the War Office will be asked to send you back at once. In irons, if necessary.’
They had me there. I decided to go away and think again.
~
I allowed some time to elapse before making my next approach. Then I asked for an interview with the Permanent Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, Sir Alexander Cadogan. In the meanwhile I had made a careful study of the Foreign Office Regulations. Paragraph 22 gave me what I needed.
‘And what do you want?’ said Sir Alexander, who was a busy man, looking up from his desk.
‘I want to go into politics,’ I said.
‘In that case,’ he replied, without enthusiasm, for the idea of Party politics is repugnant to the permanent official, ‘in that case, you will have to leave the Service.’
I replied that I was prepared for that. In fact, if he liked I could let him have my resignation at once. And, laying a neatly written letter of resignation on his desk, I escaped from the room. A few minutes later I was in a taxi and on my way to the nearest Recruiting Office. It had been simpler than I had expected.
The processes of medical examination and enlistment took their usual somewhat lengthy course. What to me was the beginning of a new phase in my life was, to the clerks and doctors who took my particulars, so much dreary routine. After swearing the Oath and filling in a number of forms, I was given the King’s shilling and a railway warrant to Inverness. I was a Private in the Cameron Highlanders, my father’s old regiment.
~
Then one day, I was summoned to the Orderly Room and given unexpected news that I had been given an immediate commission and posted as a subaltern to the 1st Battalion.
~
There were other rumours too, disquieting hints from friends in London that my failure to enter politics had not passed unobserved; that steps were being taken to secure my return to the Foreign Office, at that time painfully under-staffed. It began to look very much as though, after a promising start, my military career might be brought to a premature end.
Only one thing could save me: early election to Parliament. I had already been in touch with Conservative Central Office. I returned to the attack with renewed vigour. I was told that there was to be a by-election at Lancaster; a Conservative candidate had not yet been adopted. If I liked, I could go up there and see what the local Association thought of me. I applied to the Colonel for a few days’ leave and went.
Diffidently I presented myself at the local Party Headquarters. It was my first experience of politics. I did not know the answers to half the questions I was asked; it was no good pretending I did. With a sinking heart I admitted my ignorance. The Executive Committee adjourned to discuss the rival merits of the various potential candidates. Surprisingly, when they came back, I was told that I had been adopted. All the more surprisingly, since I had made it clear that, if I was elected, my military duties would have to come first and my political duties second.
There was about a month before the poll. I applied for a month’s leave and started electioneering. I had hardly ever attended a political meeting. I had never made a speech in my life. By the end of a week, I was making three a night. By the end of a fortnight I was almost enjoying it. Not only my supporters, but everyone I met, took me in hand. They fed me; they stood me drinks; they gave me advice; they told me what to do and what not to do; they told me, with characteristic North Country frankness, what they thought of my speeches. Dazed but happy, I drank gallons of beer and shook thousands of hands. Perpetually late for my next appointment, I walked or drove from house to house and street to street and village to village.
Wherever I went, among supporters or opponents, I met with the same forthrightness. I had hardly ever set foot inside the House of Commons and I had no means of telling whether the life of a parliamentarian would suit me or not. But of one thing I was quite sure: that, if I was to be a politician, these were the sort of people I should like to represent.
Then came the eve of the poll: packed, noisy meetings; polling day; a tour of the constituency decked with rosettes and favours like a prize bull; the count; hushed suspense in the Town Hall; the result: I was in: MP for Lancaster.
Member of Parliament, or Platoon Commander?
As things turned out, I was not called upon to try to play this dual role for long. One night after a long day’s training on the moors, I was roused from my sleep by a dispatch rider and told to report at once to Battalion Headquarters. There I was shown a signal from the War Office. I was to proceed forthwith on embarkation leave. I had told my constituents repeatedly that, if ordered abroad, I should go. And so, leaving them in the able and experienced hands of Jim Thomas, an old friend from Foreign Office days, I went.
A week later I was in a seaplane on my way to Cairo. I had no idea what awaited me at the other end. But at least I was bound for what, in that bleak autumn of 1941, was the only active theatre of operations: the Middle East.
Paragraaf 22
Uit Eastern Approaches
deur Fitzroy Maclean
Daar is gesê dat oorlog maar net diplomasie is wat op ʼn ander manier voortgesit word. Dit het sonder twyfel vir my gelyk, daar waar ek by my lessenaar in die departement van Buitelandse Sake gesit het, dat my eie beroep, sedert vyandige optrede begin het, skielik niksbeduidend geword het. Ek het besluit om my amp in die diplomatieke diens neer te lê en om by die weermag aan te sluit.
Maar dit was makliker gesê as gedoen. Ek het skaars my voorneme genoem om te bedank, toe daar, sonder om doekies om te draai, aan my uitgewys was dat my optrede uiters onpatrioties was. Vir ses jaar, het hulle gesê, was ek besig om te leer hoe om my werk te doen. En net toe ek tekens van geringe waarde begin toon, wou ek, ten einde my eie persoonlike verwaandheid te bevredig, die loop neem en soldaatjie gaan speel; ek skiet jammerlik te kort aan enige verantwoordelikheidsbesef. Maar, in my geval, sou my bedanking nie aanvaar word nie. Die Nuwe Verdedigingsregulasies het in hierdie opsig die minister van binnelandse sake volmag gegee.
“En wat daarvan as ek hier uitstap en gaan aansluit?” het ek gevra.
“As jy dit doen,” het hulle gesê, “sal die ministerie van oorlog gevra word om jou dadelik terug te stuur. In boeie, indien nodig.”
Dit was ’n uitklophou. Ek het besluit om die aftog te blaas en die saak weer te bedink.
~
Ek het ’n tydlank gewag voor ek hulle weer genader het. Ek het ’n onderhoud versoek met die voltydse ondersekretaris van buitelandse sake, sir Alexander Cadogan. Intussen het ek ’n deeglike studie gemaak van die regulasies van die buitelandse sake. Paragraaf 22 het my gegee wat ek nodig gehad het.
“En wat wil jy hê?” het sir Alexander gevra en van sy lessenaar af opgekyk. Hy was ’n besige man.
“Ek wil ’n politikus word,” het ek gesê.
“In daardie geval,” het hy sonder entoesiasme geantwoord, want die begrip van partypolitiek was vir ’n voltydse amptenaar weersinwekkend, “in daardie geval sal jy die diens moet verlaat.”
Ek het geantwoord dat ek daarop voorbereid was. Inderdaad, as hy dit so sou verkies, kon ek daar en dan my bedanking aan hom oorhandig. En daarmee het ek ’n netjies geskrewe bedankingsbrief op sy lessenaar neergesit, en spore gemaak die studeerkamer uit. ’n Paar minute later was ek in ’n taxi op pad na die naaste werwingskantoor. Dit was eenvoudiger as wat ek verwag het.
Die mediese ondersoek en werwingsproses het hul gewone, ietwat langdurige verloop geneem. Wat vir my die begin was van ’n nuwe fase in my lewe, was vir die klerke en dokters wat my besonderhede afgeneem het, slegs vervelige roetine. Na ek die eed afgelê en ’n aantal forms ingevul het, was ek ’n soldaat met ’n spoorwegmagtiging na Inverness. Ek was ’n gewone soldaat in die Cameron Highlanders, my pa se ou regiment.
~
En toe op ’n dag is ek na die kaserne-kantoor ontbied en is die onverwagte nuus aan my meegedeel dat ek ’n onmiddellike opdrag ontvang het en as ’n tweede luitenant na die 1ste bataljon gepos is.
~
Daar was ook ander gerugte: van my vriende in Londen het die onrusbarende nuus deurskemer dat my onsuksesvolle poging om die politiek te betree, nie ongesiens verbygegaan het nie; dat stappe besig was om geneem te word om my terugkeer na buitelandse sake te verseker, want daar was by hulle ’n pynlike gebrek aan personeel. Na ’n belowende begin, het dit regtig gelyk of my militêre loopbaan afgestuur het op ’n ontydige einde.
Slegs een ding kon my red: ’n vroeë verkiesing tot parlementslid. Ek was reeds in kontak met die Konserwatiewe Party se hoofkantoor. Met hernude ywer het ek teruggekeer tot die aanval. Aan my is gesê dat daar ’n tussenverkiesing in Lancaster sou plaasvind en dat daar nog nie ’n Konserwatiewe kandidaat benoem is nie. As dit my sou geval, kon ek daarnatoe gaan en uitvind wat die plaaslike Vereniging van my gedink het. Ek het by die kolonel aansoek gedoen vir ’n paar dae se verlof en gegaan.
Ietwat beskroomd het ek myself by die plaaslike hoofkwartier van die Party aangemeld. Dit was my eerste ervaring van die politieke wêreld. Vir die helfte van die vrae wat aan my gestel was, het ek geen antwoord voor gehad nie, en om voor te gegee het dat ek wel geweet het, was buite die kwessie. Die uitvoerende komitee het verdaag om die mededingende meriete van die onderskeie kandidate te bespreek. Met hulle terugkoms het hulle tot my groot verbasing, my vertel dat ek aanvaar was. Dit was nog meer van ’n verrassing, want ek het vooraf verduidelik dat, indien hulle my verkies, my militêre pligte voorrang sou geniet.
Dit was omtrent ’n maand voor die stemmery. Ek het aansoek gedoen om vir ’n maand met verlof te gaan, en het toe met die verkiesingstryd begin. Ek was omtrent nog nooit by ’n politieke vergadering nie en het nog nooit ’n toespraak in my lewe gemaak nie. Teen die einde van ’n week het ek drie per aand gemaak, en na twee weke het ek dit amper al begin geniet. Nie net my ondersteuners nie, maar almal wat ek ontmoet het, het my onder hulle sorg geneem. Hulle het my onthaal, getrakteer met drankies, van raad bedien, en my vertel wat om te doen en wat om nie te doen nie. Hulle het met ware Noord-Engelandse openhartigheid my laat weet wat hulle van my toesprake gedink het. Ietwat verbysterd maar gelukkig, het ek gallonne bier gedrink en duisende mense se hande geskud. Ek was gedurig laat vir my volgende afspraak, soos ek van huis tot huis en straat tot straat en dorp tot dorp geloop of bestuur het.
Waarheen ek ookal gegaan het, tussen ondersteuners of teenstanders, is ek met dieselfde openhartige vriendelikheid ontmoet. Ek het so te sê nog nooit my voete in die laerhuis gesit nie, en daar was geen manier hoe ek sou weet of die lewe van ’n parlementariër my sou pas of nie. Maar van een ding was ek doodseker: as ek ’n politikus moes wees, dan sou ek graag hierdie soort mense wou verteenwoordig.
Toe het die dag voor die verkiesing aangebreek: gepakte sale, lawaaierige vergaderings; stemdag; ’n toer van die kiesafdeling uitgedos met rosette en linte soos ’n skoubul; gedempte afwagting in die stadsaal; die uitslag: ek het dit gemaak: LV vir Lancaster.
Lid van die parlement, of peloton-bevelvoerder?
Soos dit later geblyk te gewees het, was dit nie vir my bestem om hierdie dubbele rol lank te vervul nie. Na ons ’n hele lange dag met opleiding in die vleilande besig was, is ek daardie nag wakker gemaak deur ’n rapportryer en aangesê om dadelik by die bataljon se hoofkwartier aan te meld. Daar is die sein afkomstig van die ministerie van oorlog aan my gewys. Die opdrag was dat ek dadelik op verskepingsverlof moes gaan. Ek het my kiesers herhaaldelik daarop gewys dat, indien ek beveel sou word om na die buiteland te gaan, ek nie ’n ander keuse sou hê nie. En so het ek hulle in die bekwame en ervare hande van Jim Thomas, ’n ou vriend uit buitelandse sake, toevertrou en my gang gegaan.
’n Week daarna was ek op ’n seevliegtuig onderweg na Kaïro. Wat aan einde op my gewag het, het ek geen idee van gehad nie. Maar in hierdie ongure herfsgety van 1941 was ek ten minste bestemd vir die enigste aktiewe teater van militêre-aksie: die Midde-Ooste.
Beyond the Next Horizon
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
I met a shaggy old Boer hunter whose talk was to send me on a long journey. He hailed from Angola but he had spent some years in a region known as the Kaokoveld, which – with a wide sweep of his arm – he vaguely described as lying far to the north.
He told me of big game and strange tribes and of many adventures; and he told me one story in particular of how, when he was stalking an antelope towards dusk, he suddenly saw a goods train crossing the rise.
For a moment he thought he had lost his senses. Then he realised that what he was looking at was not a goods train, but hundreds of elephant marching head by tail in single file across a hill.
His stories made a strong appeal, and the thought that there was, in that distant corner, a remnant of the old savage Africa, unspoilt as yet by the white man, so fired my imagination that I decided I would go and have a look at it for myself.
~
On leaving Khairos next day, we followed a faint track which Daniel optimistically called ‘the road of the Angloa Boers’. He said it was the route taken by the Dorstland Trekkers when they passed through forty-five years before. They had no doubt cut a passage for their wagons at the time, but it required a better eye than mine to see any trace of it, and we had great difficulty in getting our cart along in the thick bush. We travelled due north to Otyitundua, reaching there in five or six days.
At night we halted, as a rule, some distance from the waterholes, for the elephant came out after dark to drink and we watched them as they filed by. The bulls and cows never drink together, but on alternate nights. The bulls pad along quietly and, taking their fill, they splash and roll in the mud, then they go off as softly as they came. But the cows can be heard approaching from a distance and they objected to our presence for, whenever they scented us, they trumpeted angrily and the calves ran about squealing, between them creating a din that was pretty alarming at first.
However, they never attempted to molest us, and on moonlit nights we were able to see them clearly. When we passed elephant in the daytime they shuffled off, although once or twice a bull faced round, his ears outstretched and his trunk upflited, as if he meant to charge. Daniel and I stood ready with our rifles in case of need, but we never had occasion to fire.
On our way to Otyitundua there was running water at several spots, and at one of these we saw the first relic of the Dorstland Trek; for here, beside a well-trodden elephant path, lay the lonely grave of one of the trekkers, and from now onward we repeatedly came on similar milestones of these indomitable pioneers. The graves are covered with mounds of limestone and they are still in good condition. Daniel even knew the names of those who lay beneath.
At Otyitundua are the ruins of the houses they built in 1878 and 1879 and the remains of their cattle kraals and walled gardens, as well as the irrigation furrows they cut to lead water to the plains below. It is hard to understand why they left a place such as this, where they could have enjoyed peace and plenty under what to them must have been ideal conditions after their wanderings in the desert, but the trek spirit drove them ever onward.
On the evening we reached the hill at Otyitundua, a troop of elephant coming to drink frightened a herd of cattle belonging to a local Herero, and the terrified animals stampeded past our cart with the elephant on their heels. But for the fact that Daniel had taken the precaution of double-tying our oxen with gemsbok riems to a big tree, they would have gone too, for they got wildly excited and tugged and strained at their bonds. Had they broken loose, I doubt if we should ever have seen them again.
The cattle and the elephant streaming by in a cloud of dust amid bellowing and trumpeting was a sight to remember. It seemed to me that the elephant were as frightened as the cattle, and that when the cattle started running they had become infected too, for they made no attempt to attack the herd. The last we saw of them, oxen and elephant were intermingled, each apparently bent on getting away from some fancied danger in the rear.
We travelled in two days to Ubombo, across picturesque, game-covered plains, with quantities of gemsbok, zebra and giraffe, and more elephant. Once I saw several full-grown giraffe, with two calves. One calf was about eight feet high, but the other could not have been more than a few days old. It was so tiny that at first I only made out a head and a pair of ears above the long grass, and I took it to be an antelope of some kind. Then they crossed an open glade and I was able to see what it was as it sprawled along, all legs and neck, beside its mother.
~
In addition to antelope there was plenty of guinea fowl, partridge and pheasant, so we kept our larder well stocked. One morning a large flock of guinea fowl running into several hundred came up a game track in single file. I waited until the front of the line was twenty yards off, and then I whistled. The birds looked up, and I sliced seven of their heads off with one bullet. It was rank murder, but it kept us in poultry for more than a week.
We halted at Ubombo for several days, then travelled for two days through increasingly thick bush to Gauko-Otawi, the Rustplaats, or resting place, of the Trekkers. Here it was that in 1878 they had built a church, their trek-fever temporarily stilled. They thought they had, at last, reached the land of their dreams, but they stayed for only two years: for these Boers Utopia always lay beyond the next horizon.
Agter die Volgende Horison
Uit No Outspan
deur Deneys Reitz
Ek het ’n ietwat verwaarloosde ou Boerejagter ontmoet, en my geselskap met hom sou my inspireer om ’n lang toer te onderneem. Hy was van Angola afkomstig, maar het ’n paar jaar in ’n omgewing wat bekend staan as die Kaokoveld – wat hy met ’n wye swaai van sy arm vaagweg aangedui het in die noorde lê – deurgebring.
Hy het my vertel van grootwild en vreemde stamme en vele avonture, en veral een storie in besonder: Hy was teen skemer besig om bokke te bekruip toe hy skielik ’n goederetrein trein oor die rantjie sien beweeg het.
Vir ’n oomblik het hy gevoel hy was van sy verstand berowe, maar toe het hy besef dat dit waarna hy gekyk het, nie ’n goederetrein was nie, maar honderde olifante wat in ’n ry agtermekaar geloop het.
Sy stories het vir my wonderlik geklink en ek het gedink dat daar êrens ’n hoekie van die ou onbeskaafde Afrika oorgebly het, wat nog steeds ongerep was, onaangeraak deur witmense. Dit het my verbeelding so aangegryp dat ek besluit het om dié plek self te gaan besigtig.
~
Toe ons die volgende dag uit Khairos vertrek het, het ons ’n dowwe paadjie gevolg wat Daniel heel optimisties “die Pad van die Angola-Boere” genoem het. Hy het gesê dat dit die roete van die Dorsland-Trekkers was wat vyf en veertig jaar gelede daar deurgetrek het. Hulle het sonder twyfel ’n pad vir hulle waens oopgekap, maar dit het ’n beter waarnemersoog as myne vereis om enige teken daarvan te bespeur, en dit was met groot moeite dat ons ons wa deur die digte bos kon kry. Ons het in ’n noordelike rigting gereis en Otyitundua na vyf of ses dae bereik.
In die aand het ons gewoonlik ’n sekere afstand van die watergate af gekamp, want die olifante het met sononder water kom drink en ons kon hulle bekyk soos hulle verby ons geloop het. Die bulle en die koeie het nooit saam gedrink nie, maar beurte gemaak. Die bulle het gedemp en byna onhoorbaar aangekom, gedrink en geplas in die water en in die modder gerol. Net so sag as wat hulle opgedaag het, het hulle weer weggegaan, maar van die koeie se aankoms, was jy van ’n afstand af al deeglik bewus en hulle het net niks van ons teenwoordigheid gehou nie. Sodra hulle ons reuk opgetel het, het hulle toornig getrompetter en die kalwers het al skreeuende rondgehardloop, en sodoende ’n kabaal veroorsaak wat aanvanklik ontstellend was.
Hulle het egter nooit probeer om ons lastig te val nie, en op maanlignagte kon ons hulle duidelik sien. Wanneer ons in die dag verby olifante beweeg het, het hulle met ’n slofgang wegbeweeg, hoewel ’n bul al een of twee keer omgedraai het met uitgestrekte ore en slurp in die lug asof hy reggemaak het om te storm. Ek en Daniel het ons gewere gereed gehou as dit nodig sou wees, maar dit was nooit nodig om te skiet nie.
Op pad na Otyitundua was daar verskeie plekke met lopende water, en by een van hierdie plekke het ons die eerste oorblyfsel van die Dorslandtrek gesien; want daar, langs ’n uitgetrapte olifantpaadjie, het die eensame graf van een van die trekkers gelê, en van daar af het ons herhaaldelik soortgelyke mylpale van daardie ontembare pioniers raakgeloop. Die grafte was bedek met kalksteen en het daar goed uitgesien. Daniel het selfs die name geken van dié wat daar begrawe was.
By Otyitundua is die murasies van huise wat hulle in 1878 en 1879 gebou het, te siene, sowel as die oorblyfsels van beeskrale en die mure om hulle tuine en die leivore wat hulle gegrawe het vir water na die laerliggende dele vir besproeiing. Dis moeilik verstaanbaar waarom hulle so ’n plek sou verlaat. Hier het hulle vrede en oorvloed ervaar in omstandighede wat vir hulle ideal moes gewees het na hulle omswerwinge in die woestyn, maar die trekkersgees het hulle voortdurend voortgedryf.
Daardie aand toe ons die koppie by Otyitundua bereik het, het ’n trop olifante wat kom drink het, ’n trop beeste wat aan ’n plaaslike Herero behoort het, op loop gejaag. Die vreesbevange diere het langs ons wa verby weggehol met die olifante op hulle hakke agterna. As dit nie was dat Daniel voorsorg getref het om ons osse deeglik met gemsbokrieme aan ’n groot boom vas te bind nie, sou hulle ook die loop geneem het, want die verskrikte diere het wild aan die rieme geruk en gepluk. As hulle daarin sou geslaag het om los te kom, sou ons hulle nooit weer gesien het nie.
Die beeste het gebulk en die olifante het getrompetter en weggestorm te midde van ’n stofwolk. Dit was ’n onvergeetlike ervaring. Dit het vir my gelyk asof die olifante en die beeste ewe verskrik was. Toe die beeste begin hardloop, het dit hulle ook aangesteek, want hulle het geen poging aangewend om die beestrop aan te val nie. Die laaste wat ons van hulle gesien het, was toe die diere deurmekaar besig was om so vinnig as moontlik te probeer wegkom van ’n denkbeeldige gevaar êrens agter hulle.
Dit het ons twee dae geneem om deur skilderagtige velde wat oortrek was van wild, tot by Ubombo te reis. Oral om ons was daar troppe gemsbokke, sebras, kameelperde en nogmaals olifante. Op ’n slag het ek verskeie uitgegroeide kameelperde met twee kalwers gesien. Een van hulle was omtrent agt voet hoog, maar die ander een kon nie veel ouer as ’n paar dae gewees het nie. Hy was só klein dat ek vir eers net ’n kop met ’n paar ore bokant die lang gras kon waarneem, sodat ek gedink het dat dit een of ander soort bok was. Eers toe hulle deur ’n oopte gestap het, kon ek sien wat dit was: ’n Jongetjie, net die ene nek en bene, wat langs sy ma gestruikelloop het.
~
Bo en behalwe die wildsbokke was daar baie tarentale, patryse en fisante, en was ons spens goed voorsien. Een oggend het daar ’n swerm tarentale van seker ’n hele paar honderd agtermekaar in ’n paadjie aangeloop gekom. Ek het gewag tot die voorstes in die ry omtrent twintig treë van my af was, en toe het ek gefluit. Die voëls het opgekyk, en met een koeël het ek sewe van hulle deur die kop geskiet. Dit was pure moord, maar vir meer as ’n week lank het ons pluimvee te ete gehad.
By Ubombo het ons vir ’n paar dae lank uitgespan en toe na Gauko-Otawi deur bosse getrek wat al digter geword het. Dit was die Rustplaats van die Trekkers. Hier het hulle in 1878 ’n kerk gebou en hulle trekkoors was vir ’n wyle gestil. Hulle het gedink dat hulle uiteindelik die land van hul drome bereik het, maar hulle het net twee jaar daar gebly. Vir dié Boere het Utopia altyd agter die volgende horison gelê.
A Long, Wolf-like Howl
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzory Maclean
All next day we rattled across Europe.
A little before midnight, leaving the last Polish station behind us, we plunged again into the dark pine forests. The snow was piled high on either side of the track and stretched away dimly under the trees. Suddenly, as I looked out of the window, I saw that we were coming to a high barbed-wire fence, floodlit, and broken at intervals by watch towers from which machine-guns protruded. The train slowed down and then passed through a high wooden arch with over it a large five-pointed red star. We were in Russia.
Soldiers, their bright green-peaked caps adorned with red star, hammer and sickle and their long grey greatcoats reaching almost to the heels of their soft top boots, boarded the train, and a few moments later we steamed into the frontier station of Negoreloye.
Here we were to change trains. Outside, on the platform, the intense cold took one’s breath away. Then we were herded into the overpowering warmth of the Customs building. This was a fine big, bright room, decorated with murals depicting scenes from Soviet life. Across its walls streamed a procession of preternaturally happy and healthy soldiers, peasants, workers, old men, women and children, getting in the harvest, driving tractors, building houses and manipulating large and complicated machines. All round the room, in half a dozen languages, golden letters a foot high invited the workers of the world to unite. In the corners stood pots, wrapped in crinkly pink paper, in which grew aspidistras.
It was then that I first noticed the smell, the smell which, for the next two and a half years, was to form an inescapable background to my life. It was not quite like anything that I had ever smelt before, a composite aroma compounded of various ingredient odours inextricably mingled one with another. There was always, so travellers in Imperial Russia tell me, an old Russian smell made up from the scent of black bread and sheepskin and vodka and unwashed humanity. Now to these were added the more modern smells of petrol and disinfectant and the clinging, cloying odour of Soviet soap. The resulting, slightly musty flavour pervades the whole country, penetrating every nook and cranny, from the Kremlin to the remotest hovel in Siberia. Since leaving Russia, I have smelt it once or twice again, for Russians in sufficiently large numbers seem to carry it with them abroad, and each time, with that special power of evocation which smells possess, it has brought back with startling vividness the memories of those years.
At last we boarded the train. I had been given a sleeping-compartment to myself. It was not unlike an ordinary European wagon-lit, but higher and larger and more ornate, with a kind of Edwardian magnificence. On a brass plate I found the date of its construction: 1903. The conductor, too, an old man with yellow parchment skin and long drooping moustaches, was of pre-revolutionary vintage and told me that he had held his present appointment since Tsarist days. With shaking hands he brought me clean sheets, and half a tumbler of vodka, a saucer of caviare and some black bread and a glass of sweet weak tea with lemon in it. Presently the engine gave a long, wolf-like howl, and we moved off at a steady fifteen miles an hour across the flat snow-covered plain in the direction of Moscow. In a few minutes I was in bed and asleep.
~
Next day I started work in the Chancery, reading back files, studying the Annual Reports and, with my gradually increasing knowledge of Russian, ploughing laboriously through the turgid columns of the Soviet press.
In Paris much of our information on the political situation had come to us from our social contacts with the people directly concerned, French politicians, journalists, civil servants and other public figures.
In Moscow things were very different. Apart from routine dealings of the strictest formality with one or two frightened officials of the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, whose attitude made it clear that they wished to have as little to do with us as possible, we had practically no contacts with Russians. It was notoriously dangerous for Soviet citizens, even in the course of their official duties, to have any kind of dealings with foreigners, for by doing so, they were bound sooner or later to attract the attention of that ubiquitous organization, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, or NKVD.
The greatest ‘purge’ in the history of the Soviet Union was reaching its height. Fear hung over the city like a mist, seeping in everywhere. Everyone lived in terror of everyone else. Everyone denounced everyone else. Agents of the NKVD were everywhere. No one could be trusted. No one was safe.
For our knowledge of what was going on about it in the country in which we were living, we relied on the columns of the Soviet press, often surprisingly revealing; on rumours, for the most part of dubious value; on such information as one could glean from the little incidents of everyday life; and on what one could see for oneself as one plodded in one’s heavy snow boots along the streets of Moscow.
But I, for one, had not altogether given up the hope of seeing Soviet life at rather closer quarters; nor had I for a moment abandoned the idea of somehow or another getting to Central Asia. With the melting of the snows, I started to draw up a plan of campaign.
