One Beat of a Butterfly’s Heart: A Tanganyika Police Notebook

By Ronald Callander

In this book we are given a unique view of East Africa of the 1950s; not the stereotyped picture of wildlife safaris and leaping Masai, but the emerging independence struggle of a new African nation from the viewpoint of a white police office, in an exceptionally detailed, thoroughly readable, firsthand account of a rare period of recent history. It tells how an Australian veteran, fresh from the Korean War, became a colonial police officer in Tanganyika Territory (later Tanzania after federation with the offshore islands of Zanzibar in 1964).
 
The reader is taken on a journey which tourists in Africa never see: from back alleys and police cells in the polyglot city of Dar es Salaam, to snake-infested camps on Uganda–Ruanda border patrols, and on police field force emergency operations from barracks at the foot of Kilimanjaro. There is much here to discover about a mostly benign semi-colonial period in Africa which lasted less than fifty years, passing, in one African’s description, as briefly as a butterfly’s heartbeat; where a few conscientious white administrators and their loyal African assistants managed vast regions of a desolate territory with remarkably selfless care and scarce resources; where things worked most of the time, but sometimes where chaos reigned. It is about the country itself, its ubiquitous animals and its people at close range, including villagers, criminals, hunters, witch doctors, and colonial officials, but most of all, the African askari policemen who were the author’s close—and often only—companions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 30 Degrees South Publishers
• Release date: Oct 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781928211204

Book preview

MANENO YA MBELE

Prologue

Waiting … in this grit-dusty African police barracks at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro, for something to happen. But that is what we do a lot; wait. We are a response unit. Every police force has one. They are called a lot of different names: flying squad, special operations group, tactical response unit, mobile strike force, special weapons team … We are called ‘The Field Force’. Tanganyika Police Northern Region Field Force, to give it its full name. Based in this town, Moshi, almost on our border with Kenya, there are a hundred and thirty of us. Three white Europeans and a hundred and twenty-seven black Africans of eight different tribes. We all speak Swahili with varying degrees of proficiency, as it is a second tongue for most of us, after our born tribal language. My born tribal language is Australian English. I am one of only three Australians in this multi-national East African police force, and later I will tell you how I came to be here, if you are interested.

We in the field force respond when something happens, something which scattered local district policemen are not able or equipped to handle. To some extent all police respond when something happens, but we in the field force have only that one purpose, to react in emergency when we are ordered, like a guard dog let off the chain. Which is another reason why my platoon askaris call us, themselves, ‘Moshi Mongrels’, a private in-joke, not the kind of thing likely to be appreciated at police headquarters in the capital down on the coast. Still less by the press or some bleeding-heart citizens. They don’t mind having us to do their dirty work, but they like to acknowledge us only when we are clean and polished, parading behind the corps of drums at the opening of the High Court, or the sovereign’s birthday celebration, when our polished guns are used for snappy drill movements. They don’t really want to know anything about dawn raids on bandits, or hunting remnants of the Mau Mau from over the border, or stalking armed ivory poachers in the Mara swamps, or playing thumpo-bumpo with a rioting mob. But that’s cool, it’s our job, it’s what they pay us for.

We don’t just sit on our backsides in barracks while we wait. We constantly drill and exercise and train and act out ‘What-Ifs’ for the kind of incidents we get called out to control, so that when we have to respond our actions are easy and practised and second nature. Well, perhaps not always easy.

On this day in barracks, we are paying-out when the alarm comes; and at least this time, we get the luxury of an hour’s warning. The Regional Assistant Commissioner, on the phone from Arusha, says that we might be needed to stop an attack by Masai warriors on a government outpost 80 miles away, at a moment’s notice. He explains that wa-Arush tribesmen apparently fenced off a waterhole that the Masai cattle herders consider theirs. Blood has been spilt. A Masai leader and the local District Officer are now trying to defuse the tension. The ACP wants us on standby. So we interrupt paying-out and Sergeant-Major Salum calls a baraza beneath the trees alongside the remand prison, to issue his orders. Most of the men are in uniform because of the pay-parade, and a skeleton standby squad is already in safari kit anyway. And because I am temporarily in charge in the boss’s absence, I take the stick next, facing the circle of black faces, leaning on the stick, rotating it, telling the men what the ACP has told me on the phone. It is a clear situation to us. Even town Africans understand the implications of water access. And most of us have been in the dry Masai Steppe or the Serengeti with an empty water-bottle at some time or other. At such a time, water seems as valuable as gold; even muddy cattle-trough water tastes good when you are parched.

I notice vaguely that the place where I lean on the stick and idly turn it at our baraza ground, is developing into neat bored holes in the hard packed earth, over many such meetings. A man’s stick-manner is as individualistic as his handwriting, I guess. Dignified, tall Sergeant-Major Salum has a habit of holding the stick horizontally across his polished belt with a hand each end, like the handles of a motorcycle. When he speaks, he raises and lowers the gleaming heels of his boots, as if the effort of remaining still is too much for him. Ray Waters, our Commander (who is with another platoon at the opposite end of the region today, looking for a downed light aircraft), generally slopes the stick over one shoulder, nudging the back of his cap forward, pacing belligerently up and down inside the circle as he talks, like a wildcat in a cage, never still. Platoon Sergeant Chuma uses the stick to rap the hard ground, emphasising each point he is making with a whack. Chuma is an Mtende (a tribe which produces tough policemen and soldiers—the word chuma appropriately means ‘iron’ in Swahili—and his movements are aggressive, his speech staccato, as he gabbles out his rapid, strongly-accented Swahili. There is a young askari (policeman), Nikonori, who uses the stick like a conductor’s baton, stirring the air in front of him. Another askari, Josef, I should say 4902 Josef, because we have three constable Josefs in this unit, taps about in front of him as he speaks, like a blind person with a white cane. Another man, Mudurikata, sweeps the stick back and forward at his boot-toes, like a mine detector. But that’s when the baraza is open to all speakers. At this one, issuing operation orders, only the NCOs and I get to address the gathering. But I digress.

When Salum, Chuma and I have allocated duties in relation to this call-out, the stick passes to Willbrod, a slightly pompous new corporal who has come to us recently as a replacement. He shows signs of insecurity here, where many of the troops are more action-experienced than he is. This makes him pull rank and try hard, but in the process he sometimes makes a mistake and then blusters, trying to cover up. The askaris treat him with good-natured tolerance—he does, after all, outrank them—some following his orders with an exaggerated obedience that is hard to prohibit. Now, Willbrod gives an unnecessary repetition to his section of most of the orders Salum has already issued, with occasional side glances at me, and a pale imitation of Sergeant Chuma’s forceful delivery. I notice, in the rear, young Bugler Robert taking the mickey, and I catch his eye with a warning shake of my head. It is important that the integrity of the baraza, with its guarantee of uninterrupted speech to the holder of the stick, is maintained. Robert turns away, embarrassed. But Willbrod will improve with service, he’ll get there.

Willbrod reluctantly passes the stick to clerk Pius (pronounced ‘puce’). Pius, who is the only civilian in our unit, and who suffers from puny physique, acne and self-consciousness, somehow survives with some dignity behind his dusty repaired spectacles, in the midst of these fit, hard-as-nails paramilitary cops. It’s an uneasy sort of relationship like a kitten amongst rough and playful dogs, but he manages, and his patient forbearance guarantees him a certain respect from the troops. And me. Pius takes the stick gingerly with thumb and forefinger, as if reluctant to be responsible for it, and begins to speak. Pius operates and repairs our noisy antique typewriter, and is the only person who completely understands the bureaucratic accounting and recording systems of the government on the coast, having been trained there. Despite the fact that he continually wears a worried frown above his cloudy string-joined glasses, he must surely know that he is indispensable. Some of the men use Pius as a secretary to write letters for them. Others make him treasurer and negotiator of time-payments in the town for such things as gramophones, bicycles, and clothes. We have a police canteen in the barracks, and Mr Najmudeen, the canteen contractor, will allow askaris credit, but he is Indian and therefore mistrusted by many of the Africans. Racism is not a one-way street.

Pius finishes taking detailed notes of financial arrangements, pay allotments, credit allowances for wives, etc., and apologises to me for taking so much time. He is so self-effacing that he cannot get rid of the stick quickly enough to scurry, stoop-shouldered, with his worried frown, to his office where he is indisputably in charge.

After midday the resumed pay-out is finished, the imprest account broadsheet eventually balanced and signed (in the places where Pius directs me) for return down to HQ; and we rest. The high sun blazes on our barracks buildings, on the blinding whitewashed prison walls, on the dusty tree-lined parade square. The only sounds are the liquid calling of doves from tree shade somewhere, noises of local children playing in the dirt beneath the trees, and someone hypnotically twanging a marimba, a home-made thumb piano. Nothing much moves at this time of day, except an occasional dust-devil spiralling from nowhere, to nowhere. In front of the buildings the trucks (packed, fuelled and ready) are parked in convoy line, nose to tail, facing the main gates. Some of Corporal Anyegise’s men sit in the oven-hot covered rear of a battered Land Rover, playing cards, waiting out the stand-by in a place where they can presumably reserve a choice position for what may be a long and rough journey. Driver Otieno, in shade near the old-fashioned gravity petrol bowser, practises cowboy quick-draws with his service revolver from the long leather holster on his belt, knowing that it is forbidden even though his pistol is unloaded. At the window I shake my head in annoyance, and call orderly Japhet to tell Otieno to stop; before Sergeant Chuma catches him and gives him two weeks hard duty. I know, I’m too soft. But I need Otieno as a good driver, not wastefully confined to barracks pounding the drill square with a full pack of house-bricks and rifle at high port. Another of the drivers is asleep in the cab of a Bedford truck, with just the studded soles of his boots visible, stuck out of a side window. Someone strums a guitar over at the married quarters. A big fly buzzes in my office, rap-rapping the wall map of Northern Region, then pinking against loose puttied glass in the window. Bored, I flip through the week-old Tanganyika Standard I have already read cover to cover. The front page story is the bloody uprising in Congo next-door. Much too close. Could we be next?

The telephone rings.

As I answer it Salum’s anxious face appears in my doorway, waiting for the word, and the phone has caused several men to clatter out of the guardroom, where they sometimes lounge on benches reading comics left by the night beats. It is the Assistant Commissioner again. After his first words I am able to nod to Salum, and even while the ACP is still elaborating his cautions, the shattering alarm bell sounds outside, followed by a thunder of boots and the shouts of NCOs to their sections as they assemble. The ACP hums and haws that still we may not be needed, but if we are, it will be immediate, and therefore we should be on the scene. Destination Monduli, about a hundred miles away, the boma, or administrative centre, of the Masai district. By the time I accept the ACP’s last-minute instructions and hang up the phone, the convoy is ready, engines running. Although the alarm bell attracted wives, children, off-duty men and even some civilians, the men in the vehicles have already put on hard faces under their helmets. This is not an instruction, or a drill, just a mental adjustment which happens. Part of it is tension, excitement, apprehension. Part of it could be self-consciousness, being the centre of attention; perhaps pride in knowing they look impressive to outsiders. They look straight ahead of them, holding their rifles between their knees, ignoring the farewells and ululation of womenfolk in bright print kangas or black Islamic bui-buis. It is as if the men are saying; don’t bother me now woman, this is man’s business. Maybe they are psyching themselves up. I can’t guess what is in their minds. None of them knows when we will be back again. Maybe tonight, or we could be away for days. "Eksijan", as the askaris call it (their version of the English word ‘exigency’) and they know it as my occasional excuse for asking them to put up with some hardship: the extra week away from home, the make-do stretched rations, the half water-bottle of brackish liquid per man until we reach the wells again … But with their natural good-humour, when I call them around me in some god-forsaken wilderness and begin to apologise to them, they sometimes anticipate and mock me with a united groan, "Eksijan! Eksijan!" And even dour Sergeant Chuma will allow one of his rare smiles as I get roasted.

Sergeant- Major Salum farewells us in front of headquarters block; he is in charge now of the depleted barracks, the families, the armoury, the canteen. He will monitor our radio signals and keep in touch with our situation hourly. Bugler Robert is holding open the door of the leading Land Rover for me, and hands me my gunbelt as I get in. A bugler, you say? I know, it sounds archaic, but it makes good sense to use bugle calls in the noise—shouting, screaming, gunfire—of a riot or pitched battle, each bugle call signalling a well-known drill order: Halt; Advance; Charge; Withdraw; Present; Fire … We know all the bugle call actions by heart. From now until we return, Robert will stick by my side as messenger and bugler. In the rack under the Land Rover dashboard, Japhet, my orderly, has secured the Sterling submachine-gun with two full magazine clips which he will carry for me. He climbs into the rear with the other men making room for him, and I wave the convoy forward before closing the door as we move off. Remarkably, it is only two minutes since the phone rang, and we are already on the main road heading west away from Moshi township, the barracks behind us in a settling dust cloud. A two minute response; not the best we’ve done, but pretty damn good. I radio HQ that we are on the move and revert to listening watch on the VHF radio.

Something that I hate: the lull between call-out and our arrival at the scene of action. The drive or march to whatever we have been called out to deal with; a riot, raid, brawl, tribal battle or armed offender, always seems to drag in slow motion. Even though we are usually in constant radio contact, I am always edgy that we will arrive too late; that we should have been there NOW. And travelling at high speed does not help, although worrying about an accident might subdue the other concern. Our trucks roar along at their top cruising speed while we have the rare luxury of a sealed road, fifty yards apart, heavy duty tyres buzz-whining on the hot tarmac of the Moshi-Arusha Road. The country on either side is flat here, with dry yellow-white grass glaring in the high sunlight, occasionally dotted with herds of gazelle and zebra, and sometimes tawny rocks which look like lions—or perhaps a lion looking like a rock? The askaris in the back of my Land Rover explode with laughter at something someone has said, but the scratched perspex panel between us subdues their voices. Maybe a joke, perhaps someone has farted, who knows? The road spins away behind, and there is a watery blur of heat-haze always a little ahead of us. Insects splat against the windscreen and as we get closer to Mount Meru, we alter radio contact from Moshi Control to Arusha Control.

The country beside the road becomes lusher as we approach coffee shambas, and banana trees grow in dark green clumps next to mud-walled rondavels where wide-eyed children watch the trucks blatter through their quiet village. We slow down going into and by-passing the small township of Arusha, and soon dip down from the high land and its relative coolness, leaving the novelty of tarmac behind as we spread billowing dust, clattering south down the corrugated red-brown road which is supposed to go from Cape to Cairo. Maybe it does. ‘The Great North Road’. Although we have reduced speed on the rutted murram surface, we almost seem to be going faster as the closer grass, rocks, and trees whip past. From the back of the Land Rover now the askaris sing in harmony, "Tufunge safari, funge safari, which is a kind of travelling theme song for us. The main words mean Let’s pack up and go". It was popularly an old King’s African Rifles (KAR) army song, but it has numerous variations. There is a version of it my platoon sings with hilarious improvised verses in which my name features, but which I never manage to hear completely because they break off singing it and fall about laughing when I arrive; another private joke of theirs about something I have done or failed to do, which I may never know.

Now we turn off the main dirt road to a lesser used (and therefore better surfaced) track, climbing again through the red-brown hills, past tribal settlements of thatched mud huts ringed by thorn and manyara hedge stockades, for cattle and goats are nightly at risk here from lions or hyenas. On the grass plain away to one side a wild fire is burning freely on a mile-wide front, and a few feet ahead of the slowly advancing flames we see hundreds of birds dancing, feasting on fleeing insects, rodents, and reptiles. Fires are often started here by nomad herders, to clear dry old-growth and allow new grass through, but some fires are started by lightning, too. However it began, the birds take full advantage of it; oxpeckers, herons, secretary birds, egrets, hammerkops, swifts, flycatchers. There are also migratory storks from somewhere in Northern Europe, keeping slightly aloof from the noisy squabbling locals. A language barrier, perhaps? Or the racial superiority of knowing another world to which they will return, to re-occupy their sacred nests on thatch-roofed farms in Holland and Germany.

The village of Monduli comes into sight above us, and we slow down to allow our rear trucks to catch up, warning them over the intercom that we are approaching our destination; to get ready … The administrative settlement at the top of the hill, like all government outposts, is called the boma; which used to mean stockade or fort, but this one has no protective fence or even a thornbush enclosure. It is just a group of buildings among tall trees at the top of a steep hill, with a spectacular view over surrounding country. Someone has troubled to make a garden, with bright red canna lilies and pelargoniums bordering the walls, and coarse natural grass has been cropped to make a rough sweeping lawn round about. There are whitewashed stones marking the edges of gravel roads and pathways, and the strong alien colours of the British flag make a bright imperial splash at the top of the tall mast. As with our departure from barracks, so here too our arrival rates an audience; this time of strangers. They have probably watched us approach for fifteen minutes since our first dust-cloud left the main road miles away, this crowd of women, children and tribesmen, mostly workers or dependants of the boma. There are two white men and three African sub-officials in khaki shirts and shorts, whose large brass badges usually represent local authority, but now they step back a little at the presence of armed Field Force Police.

The professionals.

Everything with us is a practised drill become second nature. Without any order given, each convoy vehicle swings into a close-parked line, and tailgates clang down, disgorging the uniformed men who form ranks under Chuma’s keen eye, beating clouds of dust from their clothes while I go to get news from the District Officer. In the shade I learn that things have deteriorated. Not only have the Masai warriors refused a request to come to the boma for arbitration, but they have threatened to march on the boma and destroy it, as well as killing the local wa-Arush tribespeople who have taken refuge here. The renegades defied the District Commissioner and his threat of police action, and now a chief has gone (mountain to Mahomet) to try a last appeal to tribal loyalty and common sense. The DO tells me that several of the warriors are under the influence of ‘tea’ and may not listen. A tea of pot, not a pot of tea.

The day is now beautiful in the late afternoon. From the sunny hilltop, we can see miles back the way we came, across rolling countryside to the Great North Road, and beyond. There are massive tumbling blue-black stormclouds piling over Mount Meru, hiding any view of Kilimanjaro’s two peaks, Kibo and Mawenzi. At home in Moshi, our house windows look up at those two snowtops all day, in all their changes of which we never get tired. I think of Joan at home with our baby Robert there now, in another life, almost on another planet … When I phoned her from the barracks after the ACP’s first call, I told her I would send Japhet home to collect my safari box, always ready-packed for the Eksijan. I said; I’ll probably be home tonight, but anyway, tomorrow at the latest. You be careful, she warned. Yeah yeah, I joked, give Robbie a kiss for me, and have two yourself.

Although the afternoon sun blazes hot, a steady cool breeze blows across our front, about ten knots. Automatically, I find myself measuring the wind for its effect on tear-smoke. The high-frequency set in our radio van rattles coded messages back and forth between us and Provincial Headquarters. Signalman Paulo, smart in dark-blue overalls, hands me a pencilled message from HQ advising that other field force reinforcements are on the way, for support, and instructing me to "… prevent any attack on the boma, using effective minimum force …" I grunt at the familiar ambiguity of high command. ‘Minimum force’ is not measurable, except maybe by shiny-arsed desk experts in a court of enquiry after an event. If any of us are killed, or if we have to withdraw, we will not have used ‘sufficient force’. If we repel an attack but kill someone in the process, we will have used ‘excessive force’. Hence the irony. I could be wrong, but the wording of the HQ signal looks suspiciously like somebody covering his backside ‘for the record’, in case of possible questions later.

Chief William returns, depressed and frustrated, in a clattering Native Authority Land Rover. The DO introduces me to him, but we have already met before, when our Company was called out to separate Masai Il dobolai and Il kalikal age-groups fighting over some macho insult near the Naberera wells. I salute the Chief. William returns my greeting with an irritable wave of his fly-whisk. Oh well. He has failed to sway the hostile young tribesmen and apparently incurred insults to his dignity in the process. He mutters, blaming today’s youth for not obeying their elders, blaming the colonial administration, blaming himself for trying to maintain tribal tradition in the face of progress. He wears tailored slacks, shiny English tan brogues, an expensive sweater over his shirt. His Swiss watch has an expandable gold bracelet. He would not be out of place on the streets of any of the world’s capitals, while most of his tribesmen wear only a blanket draped over a shoulder, and live in manyattas made of mud and cowdung. I’m sure William is worried about the future of his minority tribespeople in relation to coming self-government, for it will be the politically-educated literate tribes of the coast who will take over when we Europeans go, most of whom consider the Masai to be primitive savages. He takes out some of his frustration on his unfortunate messenger who has inadvertently left the boma tap dripping after drinking from it. The terishi backs away, bowing low in his embarrassment and shame at having to be publicly reminded of the sacredness of water. He would do anything for his leader, and today he had been prepared to die for him on their visit to the rebels, resigned to the moment when he might have to put himself between William and a warrior’s spear. Now his pride is dashed as he turns away from his chief.

My men are now sitting, relaxed in lightweight battle equipment, facing down-hill—the direction from which we expect the war party to come. The village below is still, but several villagers gather nearby to watch the possible conflict from a distance. Monduli is a place without entertainment, and anyway, the timid de-tribalised villagers have as little time for arrogant Masai spearmen as they have for us. I hope relief platoons will arrive before the warriors, so that our combined numbers will make the Masai think twice about their threatened assault on the boma.

The chief hears them before I do. I think he means trucks, a relief column; but then my hopes drop, as I hear what he has heard. It is an eerie sound, raising the hairs on my neck, whooping yells like jackals, as an extended line of warriors lopes along the valley below in a steady striding run. I can see that the sound has affected others, too. Chuma glances at me bright-eyed and shakes his head, mumbling: "Pumbafu" (fools). Bugler Robert, a few paces beside me, stares downhill, his mouth slightly open. What instincts stir in him at the sound of a tribe which probably plundered his grandfather’s village, driving off cattle over which the Masai still believe God gave them exclusive ownership. And as if to emphasise the gap between then and now, Constable Benjamin points to a glint in the sky; a small silver cross of an airliner at the tip of its vapour trail; so high we will not hear it until it is past.

Feeling Robert’s apprehension at the whooping yells, I put my hand lightly on his shoulder, and his quick glance changes to a grin; he barks like a village dog, breaking the tension in the ranks with spontaneous laughter. Moshi Mongrels! someone shouts out our platoon nickname, like a war cry. Corporal Willbrod officiously calls his section to order and they re-adjust rifle slings and restlessly shift their boots. One of the smoke section men skylarks, pretending to cock his leg at a tree, but Chuma’s sharp voice ends the horseplay. (Or dog-play?) He beats me to it. Although it is good to break the tension, it is time for more serious stuff. We have a grandstand view. They are called elmurran, or in Swahili, moran, meaning warriors, or soldiers. Their traditional role, now that Pax Britannica has outlawed inter-tribal wars, is as protectors of livestock from predators; but even lions are smart enough to know there are safer ways to get a meal without tackling Masai cattle, so the brave moran have few chances to reward themselves with celebratory dancing campfire songs anymore. Except by foolhardy lion hunts, or spear fights among themselves, or an occasional real-or-staged raiding party on a neighbouring tribe. (Staged is fun, creating terror with little effort or risk; and if someone is foolish enough to take it seriously and fight back—well, Your Honour, you can’t really blame a warrior for …)

They come into sight again, less than a mile away below us, about twenty of them loping towards us in a striding run. Is it real or staged, this time? I order the platoon to their feet, and extend them out, so that the Masai will see the armed police clearly. They should also see the trucks. I want them to over-estimate our numbers and reconsider. I beckon the chief’s terishi, and explain in Swahili that I want him to use our loud-hailer when the warriors get closer, to warn them in ki-Masai. He agrees eagerly, asking how to use the Tannoy thing, another high-tech skill to learn and maybe boast about.

One thousand yards. Sergeant Chuma and I now reform the platoon in battle sections ready for action, with the main party together facing downhill; but also with armed guards behind us at the vehicles, facing every direction in case of flank or rear attacks. Chuma asks me if we load, and I nod. On his command, the men charge their empty rifle magazines together, like a drill, thumbing in five shining rounds from their clips, holding the top cartridge down as they slide the rifle bolt forward on an empty chamber, keeping muzzles skyward. They know their duty well, and before closing the rifle bolts completely, they wait for Chuma to walk past each row, each man, personally checking the breech of every weapon to make sure that there is not yet a round under the firing pin. If we do fire, we shall fire by intention, not by accident. Constable Tomas, one of the first aid bearers, scuttles along the askaris’ feet, collecting the emptied clips in a cloth bag. He will reload the cleaned clips with new ammunition from the heavy tin-lined case in the command vehicle, ready for re-supply if the platoon has to continue firing. But it won’t come to that, surely? Chuma and I have become so close on operations and training there is often no need for words between us as we direct the platoon. He knows me so well, he can anticipate my next move. Or is it just that we both know what must be done? Chuma could take over from me at a moment’s notice and the platoon would continue unchanged. I was about to say that we are interchangeable, but that’s not true; I could never be the skilled sergeant that he is. But if something happened to me he is able and trained to take over without hesitation or hitch. At least I have done that right.

Seven hundred and fifty yards.

I order Corporal Anyegise to lob one tear-smoke shell at the foot of a tall eucalyptus tree about two hundred yards away downhill. His riot-gun’s loud hollow Chunk! makes the civilians near us jump. Where the shell lands, exploding, white smoke pours out and streams across in a thick plume between us and the advancing war party. But the metallic explosion of the riot gun has no effect on their loping uphill run. They don’t even hesitate.

Seven hundred yards.

I order Anyegise to fire smoke volley now, aiming at that still-reeking shell down the hillside, to thicken the pungent cloud. His section’s volley sounds like some erratic fireworks and the shells begin landing downhill. It is called CS gas but strictly speaking it is not gas at all, just smoke. Ortho-chlorobenzal malononi-trile. C6H4ClCH:C(CN)2. A white powder with a melting point of 52º celsius, upon which it produces vapour, rather than a gas, but that’s splitting hairs. (Splitting ‘airs? Sorry.) CS is a lachrymator, an irritant of tear glands and nasal ducts, but non-toxic even in huge concentrations. The fact that it causes discomfort and loss of vision, as well as temporarily impairing breathing, creates panic to escape its effect, so that victims tend either to flee or rub their eyes, making things worse. Either way, it sure takes an attacker’s mind off violence fairly quickly. The action of the smoke can be reduced by wearing goggles, and can be relieved by applying water to the eyes. The manual doesn’t mention that it often affects the sender as badly as the receiver.

Chuma is at my side again, frowning, shaking his head. They are not going to stop, he says in Swahili. If they pass the smoke, I tell him, we will fire; but wait for my order. He nods agreement. The DO behind me, listening, says anxiously, "You will fire over their heads, of course." They are still his wayward children. Unlike Chief William who has washed his hands of their rebellion and now stands back at the veranda, grumpily flicking his ivory handled fly-whisk.

That’s out of the question. If we fire, we will fire for effect, bringing one man down first, and if that doesn’t halt them, we’ll fire volley.

But Christ, man! He doesn’t know what to say, twisting this way and that. I understand his distress. Someone’s death, either by spear or bullet, is minutes away. Collision course. The chief’s terishi, newly confident master of loudspeaker technology, is shouting a sing-song warning over the Tannoy in ki-Masai, and two of my squad hold high the red banner between poles, on which large white lettering is printed in Swahili, ‘Ondokeni au Tutapiga!’ (Disperse or we shoot!) Although it’s doubtful that the charging men could read it. The DO protests, desperately, You make it sound so bloody harmless …

My own tension and anxiety overcome civility and I turn urgently. "Look, what do you want, for God’s sake? They are going to attack us any minute. They are going to kill someone. The Native Authority has failed. Your authority has failed. We’re the end of the line. We’re not bobbies with a notebook to issue a summons!" He glances then at my scarred Field Force men with rifles, bandoliers, grenades, the red flash on our epaulettes which distinguishes us from normal police. My babies. My Moshi Mongrels, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I lower my voice again; it’s not his fault, dammit. He’s my friend.

"Look. We were called out to stop an attack on the boma and village. If our warning doesn’t stop them, we have to use force."

As I told the DO, we have to fire for effect, to kill or disable. It’s the rule. I mean, what do they think this is? A police gun is not a thing to wave at someone as a warning, like a flag. It’s a lethal weapon for last-resort use, to stop someone from committing a deadly felony, or in self-defence. People get confused by film and television gunplay, especially from the USA where it seems everyone waves a gun around at the drop of a hat. Here, as in England, regular police are unarmed, and it is only in rare circumstances that arms are issued, or armed units like ours are engaged. But when they are, in those extreme cases, the weapons are used to cause death or serious injury—that’s what they’re for. Our training is unequivocal: a police firearm must never be aimed and discharged unless intended to shoot someone. Firing blanks, or firing in the air, is forbidden. It achieves nothing and leads the opponent to believe the firearm is ineffective, or the police have no intention of using it.

Our instructors even quoted the Maji-Maji rebellion from German colonial days, when askaris fired into the air as ordered, over the heads of the attacking warriors whose witchdoctor, Kinjeketile, had promised that his dawa (medicine) would turn colonial bullets to water. Firing over their heads seemed to show that he was right, that the guns were harmless. Those German-led askaris were over-run, the battle escalated into all-out war, and the total uprising resulted in about 26,000 deaths before it ended.

But that was a long time ago. Only last year at Kasungamile near Lake Victoria, our own small company had dispersed an angry crowd of several thousand trying to break down a jail to release prisoners. We were about a hundred strong and we worked by the book, faced by angry militants with any weapons and missiles to hand. Minimum force. There were no injuries to speak of, apart from the usual bruises and abrasions. We used a ton of tear-smoke followed by disciplined baton charges and arrests. Although we were fully armed, only one firearm was discharged, by Corporal Mbale, who was later suspended during an enquiry. Mbale claimed that he was isolated and in danger, and that he fired his rifle into the air to scare off attackers; and he did escape unharmed and without causing injury. But the enquiry found him guilty of misuse of a firearm in contravention of police standing orders, and to the danger of the public—on the theory that any bullet fired into the air must come down again somewhere, and could put some innocent person at risk. But this is a judgement which makes some sense in a township, not in the thornbush wilderness. Mbale was reduced in rank and fined a month’s pay before being re-posted to a remote station. Cynics would say that if he had shot at and killed someone in self-defence, instead of firing over their heads, he may even have received a medal. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Before he left on re-posting, when he came to say goodbye and collect his travel warrant, he told me: "I know, effendi, it was wrong. When I lifted the rifle and fired in the air I knew it was wrong. But a moment before when I pointed my rifle at the man in front of me, I could not shoot him, whom I did not know, and who did nothing to me."

Five hundred yards.

Tear-smoke is useless due to the increasing wind, which begins to blow the smarting fumes back at us. And batons against those six-foot iron spears and sharp simis is not on. There is no time to explain to the DO about the lessons we learned from Mnazi Mmoja, from Arusha Chini, from Kasungamile and other places; the ‘incidents’ from which our tactics are constantly rewritten. It is all there, case by case; sometimes learned by mistake. We also had a world history of mob violence to learn from, where early police retreats escalated into days of lawlessness and loss of control, with rising death tolls from looting and anarchy until things were brought back under rein. The only way to stop riots or mob violence is by early, overwhelming, superiority of force. It had to be right. I needed to justify to myself, again, the reason why we might have to open fire.

I could not shoot him, whom I did not know, and who did nothing to me.

I have no quarrel with the Masai. In fact, I agree with their grievance over the waterholes. These are no western cattle barons versus the poor sod-busters. They are the last warrior-clan nomads whose way of life has been whittled away by foreign intervention and city-based bureaucracy. They are cramped by a civilisation they reject, their customs diminished by the dubious benefits of modernisation. Damn them, I am on their side! And yet, in a minute, we will open fire on them. The ammunition we use is .303" ball, hard-nosed. At this range a .303 bullet makes a small hole in a body, displacing flesh and muscle outwards, creating shock-waves of trau-matised tissue several centimetres wide around the wound. Body damage is caused partly by the size of a bullet but mainly by its velocity, which in this case is around 1,220 metre-seconds as it leaves the rifle muzzle. The strike impact is expressed by a formula, KE=MV²/2G, in which KE stands for kinetic energy, MV² for mass times velocity squared, and G for gravity per foot-second of acceleration. By memorising lecture-room gobbledygook maybe you can avoid thinking how the missile will tear into a body, encountering and smashing bone, which will convert the bullet into a spinning scythe, ripping through everything in its path. Blood vessels, nerves, organs. When a distorted bullet exits the body, it can cause a massive departure wound as big as a man’s fist.

Three hundred yards.

We can see the shine of sweat on their limbs, their long iron spear blades glint in the sun; their blankets leave the throwing arm free, and they are naked except for a belt holding their simis. Their yells make my neck prickle. They are unafraid, which is the worst kind of adversary to face, unless you too are as fearless. My No. 1 Section lie on their stomachs side-by-side as if at range practise, open-sighting along their rifles. The men of No. 2 Section kneel two paces behind them, rifle muzzles in the air at 45º. Reserve No. 3 Rifle Section stands at the rear, uneasily at ease, rifles across their chests at high port. The shadows suddenly seem long; time has been creeping up on us. A pair of finches no bigger than one’s thumb lands on the grass in front of the riflemen, darting about one another like children playing leapfrog, seemingly oblivious to our lethal presence, our heavy breathing, the smell of sweat, the creak of leather.

Thunder booms and rumbles nearer from the storm this side of Mount Meru. I tap Bugler Robert on the shoulder and he comes to attention, works his lips, and then blows the clear notes of our unit call, followed by ‘Stand Fast’. Like something out of a Boys’ Own Adventure Annual … Black riflemen in uniforms a century out of date, lying, kneeling, standing to their weapons beneath a bright Union Jack flag, a bugler’s call piercing the African afternoon … Spear-wielding tribesmen charging us with wild eyes; God, where is Biggles when you need him? But there is nothing archaic about our weaponry, even if our rifles are Second World War leftovers.

Two hundred yards.

I search the road far away again for any dust cloud from Ray’s or Chris’s reinforcement convoys, but nothing. My mouth is dry, and I take the rifle from Constable Japhet, checking breech and safety catch. If someone fires the first (please God the only) shot, it has to be me. Don’t look at anyone else now, not the moody Chief, not the agonising DO, not anxious Sergeant Chuma; only at the Masai war party still charging uphill towards us. I wish I was on that silver speck in the sky, sitting in an upholstered seat with a book and a drink, with brown-yellow-green Africa spread like a map in an atlas, unmoving, far below.

I have to choose a target. There is no obvious leader or commander, no special distinction of dress or weapon. One man is slightly ahead of the rest as they run, but perhaps he is just the fittest. He is the one. My cheek against the oiled wood of the scarred rifle stock, the twisted leather sling supports my forearm, left foot forward for stability, leaning into the familiar expected kick of the butt against my shoulder, my thumb feeling instinctively for the knurled safety-catch, my finger still outside the trigger-guard. He is the one. We both have the power to stop this now, he and I, to freeze the frame. Damn and blast him! He can stop it by halting the attack, abandoning the charge. Why doesn’t he stop?

And yes; I could stop it too, but only by retreating from the defence of the boma and its village, by evading my duty. If he backs down, he will lose … what? Face? Pride? The respect of his tribal