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Military Musings

by Leonard J. Gill

145 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0017; ISBN 1-55395-654-0; US$16.50, C$20.50, EUR14.00, £9.50

The experiences of a Kenya-born English lad in the fight against the terrorism of the Mau-Mau Rebellion.

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About the Book      About the Author      Reader Comments      Sample Excerpts      Catalogue Info

About the Book Entertaining tales of a Kenya Regiment soldier serving with the Kings African Rifles in anti-Mau-Mau terrorist operations. Amid the serious incidents, there are humorous and enchanting ancedotes of unforgettable characters. The book covers the relationships Len had with his African troops and their experiences which led to mutual respect and comradeship. Together they faced danger from terrorist ambushes, rogue animals and the cold, damp climate of high altitude and nutritionally inadequate diet. Sensitive contacts with the civil population led to trust and friendship toward him and his soldiers.

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About the Author Born in Kenya, East Africa, of English parents in December 1930, Len lived there until 1989. Even in a period of anti-Mau Mau Rebellion operations Len found sensitive and happy incidents among the hell of bloodshed and killing. Africans dubbed him with the nickname Mpenda raha (he who enjoys a good time). Len insists that a shot-glass of humor helps the worries go down. Len served with African troops. With them, Len matured in a way that enabled him to balance horror with humor. Military Musings epitomizes Len's ability to relate with sensitivity and understanding his army adventures. He pulls no punches in tales of deadly serious conflict, but he mitigates these with merrier moments. Len now lives in Glenwood Springs, Colorado with his wife, Kaye and Shih-tzu, Bandit.

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Reader Comments

Rambunctious Reflections, 21 September, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from Colorado, USA
What fun to hear about a boy and his memories of a lifestyle that is no more. It certainly provided quite a few chuckles and many things that were thought provoking. I especially enjoyed the prologue (I don't ordinarily read them, but this one was so filled with information it was well worth reading).

A Terrific Read!!!, 14 September, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from Bermuda
Rambunctious Reflections kept me laughing page after page. This book truly is about a time never to come again, which makes it so fascinating. It is truth through the eyes of a child. There are certainly some poignant moments, and they made the humour even richer. The fact that it is so well written, makes this anecdotal memoir a real keeper. This is a gift I will be giving to several friends for Christmas.

Amusing African Anecdotes, 13 September, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from Sheffield.U.K.
This is a very appealing patchwork of amusing short tales of the author's early childhood in Kenya.
The direct nature of the narrative draws the reader into the action.We chuckle with the author as his first stage appearance as a duck ends in a rather unexpected way and, again, as he is punished for inadvertently swearing at Gichau the gardener.
Later we see him at Kenton school and experience the antics of the Wuzzy Club!
However not all of the stories relate directly to the author.For example there is the entertaining tale of his parents' brush with a leopard on their honeymoon- and two very funny incidents about a visiting Prince.
The book contains several illustrations, which are perfectly in keeping with the humour.
All in all this is a piece of light hearted easy to read entertainment.

More Humerous African Adventures, September 11, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from U.K.
This sequel to the author's first book of memoirs, 'Rambunctious Reflections', which covers his early childhood years in Kenya, does not disappoint. Like it's predecessor it is packed full of pithy tales of adventure and bravado. Many of these are extremely funny and all are written with the humour and sensitivity of hindsight.
This time we are taken from the age of around ten, through teenage years, a spell at Dublin's Trinity College and back to Kenya for first years of employment.
The book opens with an action packed account of a family seaside holiday.
This is no ordinary holiday(but then nothing that happens through out can be described as "ordinary")- and involves the author taking it on himself to blow the roof off the privy, a close encounter with a leopard, another with two snakes, and the kitchen being stampeded by a herd of buffalo! This is not to mention his aunt's narrow escape from the clutches of a handsome young man, who was not all he appeared to be.!
The rest of the action unfolds in similar vein as we learn what it was like for a young boy to grow up in the Kenya of sixty years ago. We see him learning to ride a horse through lion inhabited terrain, with the incentive to remain in the saddle somewhat greater than usual!, shooting crocodiles and taking on such challenges as swimming round Mombasa island and embarking on a 400 mile trek, which was finished in a remarkable nine days.
I was intrigued to learn about the customs of the Masai people- their way of measuring age and distance, the tradition of circumcision, blooding the spear etc.
One of the funniest tales concerns a misunderstanding about an arsenic laced cattle dip.
In stark contrast there is the harrowing story of a young Polish boy, who had been the subject of Nazi experimentation. It does, however, have an extraordinarily positive outcome for another unfortunate person.
Of the many characters who populate the book I think perhaps it is the hapless school teachers of the PoW who stand out the most. I must confess to a certain amount of sympathy for them for the many pranks they suffer at the hands of the merciless boys!!
I was kept entertained from cover to cover and look forward to the publication of Gill's next Book.

Rambunctious Reflections, September 21, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from Aurora, CO USA
What fun this one is to read. It provides the reader with an insight into what it was to grow up in an Africa that is no more. I especially enjoyed the prologue-don't usually read them, but this one was full of information. I'm sure the story about the visit of the Prince was retold many times in that household.
I liked the story about when he cut his arm and the Masai "doctored" it for him and his father's attitude about the treatment used. How many would be that accepting now? It really is a great book and hope he will have much success.

Another Enjoyable Read by Gill, 14 September, 2003

Reviewer: A reader from Bermuda
Rollicking Recollections brings us through Len Gill's teenage years, and what exciting times they were. Can you imagine any parents today even allowing their sons to take a 400 mile walk through the bush, over 200 miles of it on foot?!? What an adventure!!
Then there is the story of his Aunt Nora and how she fell in love with the dashing Captain Lawlers.
How about the time Len blows the roof off the outdoor privy?? Great stuff, all of it. A page turner that keeps you laughing and amazed with each short episode.
Between this book and his first, Rambunctious Reflections, I'll have my Christmas shopping done in a flash. Lucky for all of us, the publisher can keep us supplied.

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Sample Excerpts

Training in Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe)

      The six month long course in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) was based on the officers' training course held at Eton Hall near Chester in England, which trained young men called up for military service during the period when every able-bodied man in the UK had to do two years National Service.
      We entered a life in which we were to be plagued by orders issued at the top of our instructors' roars. We learned to iron creases in our starched, green denim fatigues that were sharp enough to cause injury. We learned to polish brass and boots until they shone so brightly they would bring tears to the eyes. We learned to 'blanco' our webbing belts, straps, ammunition pouches and haversacks, and we learned a few bawdy army songs. We re-learned parade ground drill - how to walk forwards, turn right, turn left etc. We learned the importance of keeping our bowels open, all about 'cat sanitation' to be practiced when in the field, how to shout orders very loudly, how to clean our rifles, and then clean them again and again and again....
      We were told to wear clean underwear if we expected to get killed - so we would look decent when dead? Actually I had heard that sudden death results in soiled underwear. If you were killed or wounded in action it was proof you had been idle in the face of the enemy or had failed to pay attention during training. You would not be regarded as a hero. A good soldier kills the enemy and does not waste the money that the tax payers have provided for military training by getting in the way of enemy fire.

The Lari Massacre

      It was announced by our senior training officer that on 26th March 1953 at the Kikuyu village of Lari some twenty miles from Nairobi, a big gang had committed an appalling massacre. Over 100 Kikuyu villagers had been slaughtered by Mau-Mau terrorists. Pregnant women had their bellies slashed open, their fetuses ripped out and thrown to the ground before the eyes of the dying mothers. Victims were made to sit with heads bowed. Their heads were then severed slowly by panga (machete) wielding thugs. Children were among the dead, all of whom had been mutilated in unspeakable ways. The outrage was beyond all comprehension by most of the population of Kenya.
      A police station in the little sleepy village of Naivasha was attacked, and firearms and ammunition were stolen. Included in the terrorist's haul were fully automatic sub-machine guns and a Bren Light Machine Gun (LMG). Later, these weapons were used by the terrorists in ambushes against military patrols in the Aberdare forest. The reports enraged us and we were eager to complete our training and get back to Kenya to fight the Mau-Mau.

Sniping

      I took my patrol along the Bamboo Road, but it was clear that it was not in regular use by the terrorists. We approached the rim of a gorge to the south of the road, and I peered into it with my binoculars. I saw a narrow trail, running beside the river, which appeared to have been used. I always carried binoculars on patrol. My comrades-in-arms thought me mad as the distance one could see in the forest or in bracken or bush, was very limited. But, on several occasions, I was able to avoid discovery or followed tracks by using binoculars with which I could make out telltale signs, without exposing my patrol's position.
      Following tracks made by bare feet is not always easy, and the chasm was deep. Even using binoculars, I was not certain the trail was being used by the Mau-Mau. I decided to take a closer look later, but was reluctant to take a patrol down into the chasm, as it appeared it would be a dangerous climb over slippery rocks and through bushes clinging to the cliff. We might be mistaken for terrorists by the neighboring unit operating to the south of the canyon. I felt I could not risk the lives of my African troops.
      Later that day, feeling vulnerable, I made a lone reconnaissance. I found an easy climb down into the gorge, used by game animals. I reached the trail at the bottom of the canyon more easily than I had anticipated. With a pounding heart, I made an inspection of the trail, confirmed it was in regular use by the enemy, who faced death if seen in the proscribed area. I started a regular evening routine. Without someone to watch my back, I felt undefended when I set out daily at about 5.00 p.m. to creep through thick cover to a convenient ledge just below the rim of the canyon. Using a .303 rifle fitted with a 'scope', I lay on the ledge and awaited the appearance of terrorists.
      For nearly four weeks, almost every day, usually alone, terrorists appeared on the track at the foot of the gorge. It was easy to pick them off, usually with a single shot, from about 150 yards as they made their way slowly along the twisting path. Where they were going and why they were nearly always alone, I didn't know. I suspected they were taking messages to terrorists elsewhere, or on food foraging excursions. They were armed with pangas, and either a short spear or a bow with poisoned arrows.
      Before darkness fell each evening I returned to camp, and taking a couple of soldiers, climbed down to drag the bodies of the dead terrorists away from the river into a spur gorge. We collected their weapons and any documents they had on them. We shredded their clothing to deny its use by other terrorists. After a couple of days the corpses began to decompose. The stench funneled up the spur gorge, and went unnoticed by the terrorists, who continued to use the track almost every evening. Later the corpses were washed down the river during a big flood. They may have fed crocs a few miles downstream.
      I gained the respect of my men because I was prepared to make my way alone to take up the position from which I covered the gorge. Proof of my successes was evident when I took men down into the gorge to drag the bodies away from the river.
      My sniping ended when I failed to kill one terrorist of a group of three as they came along the track one evening. Two fell to my rifle, but the third turned and disappeared behind boulders. I supposed he reported to his gang, and they realized what had been happening to their comrades over the past weeks.
      I felt I had, to some extent, avenged the death of many innocent victims of vile Mau-Mau terrorism in the Lari massacre.

Mau-Mau Attack

      One incident occurred seven or eight miles from my platoon headquarters. We were camped in a disused warehouse. An earth road from the town of Thika ran past our camp, and continued up through the Aberdare Range forest, the hideout of terrorists. Between our headquarters and Thika, there were several coffee plantations owned by Europeans. Security for the area was in the hands of the police. I was informed by radio from Company HQ that terrorists had attacked the owners of one of the estates.
      I immediately set off with a section of my Ugandan soldiers in a truck. On arrival at the plantation I learned, from a policeman, something of what had happened. The plantation owners, an elderly couple, lived in one bungalow, while their daughter and son-in-law lived in another, a quarter of a mile away. The young couple, with their two children, had been to Thika to buy provisions. They returned to their bungalow after dark, and were unloading their purchases when flares from the other bungalow shot into the night sky. Leaving his wife and children, the son-in-law raced to his in-laws' house. Exactly what happened will never be known. The daughter waited for a phone call from her husband to tell her what had been going on. She waited in vain.
      After trying for about an hour to reach her parents by phone, the daughter phoned a neighbor and then the police. They discovered that the old couple and their son-in-law had been slashed to death, and then mutilated. Evidence indicated they had put up little resistance, hoping perhaps that the terrorists would take whatever they wanted and spare their lives. But it seemed that they had been slashed across their faces, heads and shoulders, and then butchered by decapitation. Their fingers had been severed and taken away, to be used in foul Mau-Mau oathing ceremonies. After assuring myself that the police and neighbors were in control, and looking after the grieving daughter and her children, I returned with my men to our camp.
      When I returned to the scene of the outrage early the following day, I met the daughter and her two children. They had neighbors in attendance who told me the police had determined that, after slaughtering the old couple and their son-in-law, the terrorists had taken anything that took their fancy, then trashed the house and had tried, unsuccessfully, to set fire to it. I spent the day trying to determine in which direction the gang had made off. But the whole area was criss-crossed with the tracks of plantation workers, and I was unsuccessful in unraveling the entanglement. Police dogs had also been unable to follow the tracks. They had determined that the gang had started out in the direction of the forest.
      Three weeks later, still hoping to come upon the gang or their tracks, I took a patrol into the forest, and found a terrorist camp, which we attacked. Although a sentry had seen us and had given the alarm, we managed to kill five of them, the rest racing off into the forest. Nightfall limited the time we had to carry out any follow-up, and we contented ourselves with a thorough search of the camp and the dead. A smoke-stained, silver George III tea-pot, hot water pot, milk jug and sugar bowl were discovered lying in the embers of a fire.
      I took these to the woman whose husband and parents had been murdered. She immediately recognized them, and was pleased to get them back. She asked me how we had managed to find them, and was gratified to learn at least some of the gang had paid for the murders with their lives. She had spent each night after the incident either in sleeplessness or harrowing nightmares, in fear the Mau-Mau would return.
      When I called again some days later to find out how she was managing to deal with the tragedy, and how her children were coping, I learned she had left Kenya. The plantation was being managed by a neighbor, pending the sale of the property. She felt that safety would never be a reality as long as there was one Mau-Mau left alive to find and murder her and her children.

Gentlewoman of the Bush

      It was fun to meet culturally 'unspoiled' Africans. By this I mean those who had very little or no contact with Europeans or the more 'sophisticated' Africans from urban areas. On one patrol in a Kikuyu farming area, we came upon an isolated valley at the bottom of which there was a collection of six huts. The valley was steep on three sides and one end ran down to an opening where a stream drained the valley. Over the river there was a bridge half a mile from the huts.
      I lead my tracker team down the dry, slippery, grass slope to the huts and found them to be the home of a Kikuyu family. We were met by the friendly family members who were not apprehensive of our arrival, a patrol of armed soldiers from other tribes, led by a mzungu (white man). It was usual for our patrols to be regarded as trusted, benevolent, orderly troops.
      Outside one hut, sitting on a mound in the sun, was an elderly woman covered in ragged blanket. She patted the grass in a gesture for me to sit beside her. In surprisingly good Swahili, she told me that she had been crippled since birth, and in her sixty years had never been out of the valley. I was the first mzungu she had ever seen close up. She had seen a European driving a car over the bridge but it was too far away to have seen what he looked like. She assumed that he was the District Officer (D.O.). In her life, the D.O. was the supreme authority. While we chatted, she gazed up into my face and gently stroked my arm.
      "Atiriri munduwakwa," (Listen friend,) she said in Kikuyu before reverting to Swahili, "do all wazungu (white people) have blue eyes?" she asked.
      "Well, not all. Some have brown and others have green eyes," I replied.
      "Does the District Officer have blue eyes?" she asked.
      "I don't know. I haven't met him." I answered. "What color hair has he?"
      "I don't know. It is too far to see when he drives over that bridge, and he wears a hat." The old lady shrugged, and continued. "You have hair on your arms. Do all wazungu have hairy arms?"
      "Well, not all, and most wazungu women don't have hairy arms or only very short fair hairs. But most wazungu men have hairy arms."
      "Wewe kabila gani?" (What tribe are you?)
      "We don't really have tribes like you, but I am an Englishman."
      "Do all Englishmen have blue eyes, hairy arms and brown hair on their heads?" She was very interested in my blue eyes. She had never seen blue eyes before.
      "Well, no. As I said some have brown or green eyes. Some have little or no hair on their arms, and some have black hair, some have fair hair and some have ginger hair."
      "Kumbe!" (Wow!) was her comment. And she went on to ask me all sorts of other questions. She wasn't being nosy, just curious, and I was reluctant to leave her with unanswered questions. She wanted to know about wazungu tribal customs - she couldn't accept that the English are not a tribe.
      "Tuseme, ya haki, waingereza ni kabila." (Let us say, in fact, the English are a tribe.) "Si, wana luga yao?" (Don't they have their own language?)
      "Well, other people speak English too."
      "Nani?" (Who?)
      "Americans."
      "Aren't they English?
      "Well, not really. They are a mixture. Some went to America from England but others went from other countries. Now they live in one country and call themselves Americans. And they speak a form of English."
      "Kumbe!" (Huh!) "Don't they speak real English?"
      I smiled. "Not really."
      "Sababu?" (Why?)
      "Well, they fought for their uhuru (freedom), and broke away from England. Now the English they speak is less elegant. Less refined."
      "Kumbe! ("Wow!") Why did they want uhuru?"
      "They didn't want to pay taxes."
      She grinned. "Eeeeh." (Aaaaah) I understand. Like us. Some of us didn't want to pay Hut Tax. Do Americans have to pay taxes now?"
      "Yes. To their own government."
      Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Kumbe! (Goodness me!) Didn't they know everyone has to pay taxes? How would the Serikali (Government) pay their employees, for the army, schools, roads and the District Officer if there were no taxes? The Americans must be kichwa maji (simple minded) if they didn't realise they would have to pay taxes. Kwa vyote. (Anyway.) Una mke? (Do you have a wife?) We maru?" (Are you circumcised?) She asked in Kikuyu. Her questions were becoming rather personal.
      Our free roaming conversation went on for two or three hours, and I found many of her questions difficult to answer briefly. By the time we had to leave, all her family and my tracker team were sitting around us, many of her questions and my answers were of intense interest to all. I was very reluctant to leave as I really liked the old lady who I found charming, shrewd and interesting. Her dark brown eyes flashed with intelligence and humor. I also found her to be receptive, and hungry for knowledge of the world beyond her isolated valley.
      A few members of her family had been out of the valley, some to towns where they had worked and lived among the more sophisticated people of the world, and it was from them she had learned Swahili. She was completely illiterate, and like many intelligent illiterates, she had an exceptional memory. Her learning ability was wonderful, but being a woman and crippled, she was treated as a pariah cur.
      Much of her life had been spent on the ground among the dogs, chickens, goats and crawling infants. She wore dirty rags, and little interest was taken in her by family members. A long conversation was, for her, a rare event indeed. Her chat with a mzungu had never happened before - and was unlikely to occur again. I wondered if her family would treat her differently after I left. As I reluctantly departed, we shook hands, and I pressed a few shillings into her gnarled fingers. I hoped I had kindled a spark of interest in her family for her, and I knew this visit would be remembered, and debated for many years. I told them I had enjoyed our chat immensely, and that she was a wise elder, and should be treated with respect and due deference. They agreed.

Teamwork generates telepathy

      From Ngalu, my platoon tracker, I was to gain tremendous knowledge. How good a tracker was I before Ngalu began to teach me? I don't remember. I like to think that I must have shown some skill in the art, and he recognized a worthwhile student. He had incredible eyesight. I've known him to count the tiles on the roof of a house. If I tried to do it, I went cross-eyed. On one occasion I did manage to count the number across one middle row and down one row. Multiplication gave me a figure which, according to Ngalu, was only three tiles out. He was quite impressed, particularly because I hadn't taken too long in the count. I didn't divulge my method nor that the counting had given me a headache from trying to avoid going cross-eyed.
      In the years I spent hunting Mau-Mau, I developed a very keen sense of smell. On several occasions this enabled us to surprise the enemy, or avoid bumping into big game. My carrying of my binoculars had also led to successes in finding evidence of terrorists without being seen. So, Ngalu readily gave me a few points in bushcraft, and he knew this was reciprocated by my considerable respect for his knowledge, especially in the art of tracking. He was, besides, a wonderful character with a great sense of humor. He had a sixth sense, and time and time again offered to carry the Bren just before we hit a gang.
      Naronga, a Rendile tribesman from northern Kenya, usually carried the Bren. He was a strong man, and the weight of the Bren and its spare magazines presented no problem for him. But he was always willing to hand it over and take Ngalu's Patchett for a rest. The Bren is a good weapon when contact with the enemy is made, but it is heavy and cumbersome in the jungle. Ngalu seemed to use Naronga as his personal gun bearer.
      Ngalu and Naronga were good pals, and remained so despite Ngalu's incessant ribbing. Naronga was not the brightest spark, and Ngalu's teasing only made Naronga grateful for the attention from the most gifted member of the platoon. When the bullets were flying about, Naronga would always seek out his pal to act as his bodyguard. Ngalu always kept near me as my personal bodyguard.
      Between the three of us we had a range of acute senses and useful skills: Ngalu's eyesight and tracking ability; Naronga's outstanding courage and ability with the Bren, and my sense of smell and burgeoning understanding of tracker skills. We formed a close-knit team. The more experience we gained as a team, the greater the development of the combination of sixth senses. We often saw, heard, smelled or spotted evidence of the enemy at the same moment. The necessity for communication between the three of us became redundant. The rest of the men became confident in our abilities, and thus became eager to prove their own efficacy.
      I had become an experienced patrol commander, and with my platoon of African soldiers had several successes under our belts. Friendly banter in Swahili lubricated occasions of hardship and disappointment.
      We faced further perils with confidence.

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Catalogue Information

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