Curly’s Story

By Hugh Gurnell

This book tells the story of the author’s three contracts as a mercenary in the ‘64-‘65 Congo conflict. It is a vivid account of his personal experiences, from his first contract as a raw recruit to his last contract, when he was involved in the formation of the navy on Lake Tanganyika and was the first C.O.

Hugh started writing this memoire 50 years ago, but ‘switched off’ to get on with his life. Now, with pressure from the next generation, he’d like to share his experiences, as a memoire to those he served alongside, and their offspring. All events/incidents are factual, ‘warts and all’, and there are still a few out there who will vouch for their veracity. The names used are of the people who were there, describing their exploits as they happened. Hugh has, however, taken the liberty of ‘masking’ a few names to prevent possible embarrassment to their families. Those who were there will recognise them, understand, and endorse this decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hugh Gurnell
• Release date: Jul 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005043469

Book preview

Curly’s

Congo

‘64 - ‘65

– Story –

Mercenary Conflict

Hugh Gurnell

Copyright © 2020 Hugh Gurnell

Published by Hugh Gurnell Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Hugh Gurnell using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Trevor French for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Hugh Gurnell

[e-mail]

Acknowledgments

Sincere appreciation to all those I served alongside, as they made this story possible. To my family, Chris Lightfoot and ‘young Georg’ for kick-starting me into writing our story. Neville Lance and Don Reid for teaching me how to use photos, and especially to my wife of 54 years, Gail, who consistently managed to sort it all or relocate it from cyberspace when I, often, pressed a wrong key and lost it all. Last but not least, all at Reach Publishers for turning it into a book.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Abbreviations

Place Names That Have Changed

Introduction

First Contract

1.Bancroft

2.Salisbury

3.Kamina

4.Bukavu

5.Uvira

6.Goma – Kivu North Province

7.Butembo

8.Beni – Ruwenzori – Irumu

9.Bunia

Second Contract

10.Faradje

11.Niangara – Stanleyville

Third Contract

12.Albertville

13.Fizi – Baraka

Mercenaries don’t get Medals

Photo Credits

Dedication

This story is dedicated to those of us who did not make it back and lie in Congo soil, and to those who did come home but could not ‘make it’ back in the real world.

Abbreviations

Military Ranks

N.C.O.Non Commissioned Officers.

Vol.Volunteer - private in 5 Commando.

Sgt.Sergeant.

C.S.M.Company Sergeant Major.

R.S.M.Regimental Sergeant Major.

Commissioned Ranks – Officers

Sub- Lt.Sub Lieutenant.

Lt.Lieutenant.

Capt.Captain.

Cmdt.Commandant.

Lt.CmdrLieutenant Commander (Navy)

Cmdr.Commander (Navy)

Maj.Major.

Lt. Col.Lieutenant Colonel.

Col.Colonel.

Gen.General.

Weapons and Aeroplanes

AK47Russian Automatic Assault Rifle. 7,62mm. 30 round box magazine.

BazookaShoulder fired ‘missile launcher’- various sizes, but we mainly used the American 3.5 inch

B26WW2 Vintage- Twin engine light bomber/ strike aircraft, 2 man crew.

C BlocksHigh Explosive in small block shapes.

Cordtexan instantantanious detonating fuse.

C47WW2 Vintage Twin engine Cargo plane.

DC3 or Dak.WW2 Vintage. Dakota. Twin engine personnel carrying plane. (Similar to C47)

Det.Detonator- little device that initiates the detonation of explosives.

FNBelgium, Fabrique Nationale, single shot or full automatic. 7.62mm, 20 round box magazine.

FN PistolBelgium, Fabrique National, hand gun, single shot automatic, 9mm, 12 round magazine in hand grip.

FuseA length of combustible material that activates the detonator.

GPMGGeneral Purpose Machine Gun - light, 7.62mm belt feed.

H.E.High explosives.

57 mm recoillessRecoilless Rifle 57mm shell, rear load, single shot, American.

75 mm recoillessRecoilless Rifle 75mm shell, rear load, single shot, American.

SAFNBelgium, Fabrique Nationale, single shot, gas self loading. .30inch- 7,92mm. 10 shot box magazine, top loading- 2 x5 cartridge clips.

T28WW2 Vintage Single engine fighter plane, 2 man crew.

.30 BrowningAmerican, fully automatic light machine gun, .30inch, belt feed.

.50 BrowningAmerican, fully automatic heavy machine gun, .50inch, belt feed.

Other- general

ANCArmee Nationale Congolaise, The Congolese National Army- our allies.

CFLThe Company that controlled the Railways and Lake Steamers in the Congo.

CIACentral Intelligence Agency, American.

GRC 9American Army radio transmitter – receiver.

O GroupOrders Group-Senior staff meeting to plan an operation, or course of action.

KnotUnit of speed used for ships and aeroplanes = 1 nautical mile (1.85 km) per hour.

KmKilometre- Approx. three- fifths of a mile.

PRC10American army radio transmitter – receiver.

SimbaSoldiers of the rebel army.

WIGMOThe Western backed organisation that controlled the ‘Cuban Airforce’ in the Congo.

Place Names That Have Changed

Old—in textNew

Albert National ParkVirunga National Park

Alberville - CongoKalemie - DRC

Bancroft – N. Rhodesia.Chililabombwe – Zambia

Belgian Congo (Congo)Democratic Republic of the Congo

Broken Hill – N. RhodesiaKabwe – Zambia

French CongoCongo Brazzaville

Elisabethville - CongoLubumbashi – DRC

Jan Smuts Airport- R.S.A.Oliver Thambo Airport – R.S.A.

Leopoldville - CongoKinshasha – DRC

Marandellas – S. RhodesiaMarondera - Zimbabwe

Northern RhodesiaZambia

Salisbury – S. RhodesiaHarare – Zimbabwe

Stanleyville – CongoKisangani – DRC

Southern RhodesiaZimbabwe

South West AfricaNamibia

TanganyikaTanzania

Lakes

Lake Edward, Congo / UgandaLake Idi Amin- DRC / Uganda

Lake Albert, Congo / UgandaLake Mobutu Sese –Seko – DRC / Uganda

Introduction

This book tells the story of the author’s three contracts as a mercenary in the ‘64-‘65 Congo conflict.

During his 1st contract as a raw youngster he had the privilege of being a member of 53 Commando under two great leaders, Lt. Jack Maiden, an ex WWII Sergeant, and Sergeant Georg Schroeder, a Staff Sergeant Instructor from the SADF Parachute Batallion. Georg took him under his wing as his junior half-section. Operating independently, he and his unit were tasked with reclaiming a large swathe of the N.E. Congo, parts of Kivu, Ituri and Orientale Provinces from the communist backed Simba insurgents, who controlled most of the towns and over ninety per cent of these Provinces.

Their unit accomplished this at quite a cost, as only fourteen of the thirty-nine that went in weren’t killed or wounded. This number would have been higher, had it not been for Georg’s natural ‘action acumen’. The unique exploits of 53 Cdo have never been told by anyone in the unit before and need recording.

During his 2nd contract with 5 Cdo, the whole of 5 Cdo took over from where 53 had left off and retook the whole northern Congo, bordering Uganda, Sudan and the Central African Republic, then moved down to Stanleyville where they had stopped at the end of the 1st contract. An interesting, long, hard trip.

During his 3rd contract the navy was established and began operating on Lake Tanganyika, under the auspices of the CIA who supplied the boats, weapons and equipment, with the personnel supplied by 5 Cdo. He was the first C.O. of the Navy. The navy took control of the lake which was the main conduit for weapons and insurgents into the S.E. Congo, which was now the Simba’s last stronghold under Kabila’s command - they controlled the shoreline and interior from just north of Albertville to Uvira -250km. Che Guevara and a few hundred Cubans came to support Kabila’s troops, but left defeated in November ‘65. The navy was also tasked with transporting 5 Cdo personnel, equipment and vehicles to carry out the beach landings at Baraka 220 km north of their base in Albertville, this to afford them a foothold on the shore of Burton Bay. This was accomplished and the navy continued to provide support when needed. The navy’s perspective has not been documented by anyone who served in it.  

First Contract

Chapter 1

Bancroft

I climbed down the ladderways through the workings to the crosscut below where I shared a miner’s box with Snowy van Druten. This was always a good time of the day as, having gone underground at 06h00, ensured that the working area was safe after the previous day’s blast, and got my gang working where and how they should, it was now time for breakfast with my wise old friend, Snowy.

Now in his mid-50s, Snowy had been on the mines all his working life. His father was one of the Northern Rhodesian Copperbelt pioneers and Snowy had followed in his footsteps. He was hoping for another five years as a miner on Bancroft Copper Mine before retiring to his smallholding. He was a rough, tough old character, much respected on the mine, and nowadays a real family man.

The Northern Rhodesian Copperbelt extends from Broken Hill to Bancroft, which is 20 kilometres from the Congo border and lies on the southerly extension of the high grade Katanga copper-cobalt deposits that had been made known to the Belgian colonisers in the 1890s.These deposits had an influence in deciding the final placement of the borders between the Congo, Angola and Northern Rhodesia.

The first mine developed in Northern Rhodesia was Bwana Mkubwa in the 1920s, a low-grade mine at Broken Hill. Ten years later the higher-grade deposits closer to the Congo were developed, resulting in a Copperbelt boom with seven mines opening. This resulted in huge economic development for the country albeit very one-sided in that over half the Africans in formal employment were employed on or near the Copperbelt.

Mondays were usually good for a chat over breakfast, as Snowy was always interested in what we youngsters had been up to over the weekend, especially if we’d had a home game. Rugby played an important part in the social structure of the Copperbelt, and most mines fielded three teams against one of the other mining communities on most Sunday afternoons. The rugby games would provide a form of entertainment and the opportunity to socialise for the mine’s white population who would come and watch, and many would join in the festivities at the mine club after the games.

Snowy had played serious rugby in his youth, was knowledgeable about the game, and would usually rib me about something stupid I had done. That Monday morning as I sat down next to him, he just looked at me over the newspaper he was reading when I greeted him. He nodded at me with a strange look and carried on reading. He always brought the previous day’s paper down to read at the box as he said he didn’t have time at home, and it helped pass the time.

Strange, I thought, not like Snowy, but I’ll give him his space. I ate my breakfast sandwiches in silence, poured myself a cup of coffee from my flask, sat back and lit my pipe. Snowy folded the paper open in such a way that the advert page was on top and passed it on to me, still without a word, just that odd look. I saw the advertisement immediately – words to the effect of ‘Fit young men with military experience looking for employment with a difference; salary in excess of $150 per month tax free’ – with a Salisbury telephone number.

‘What’s this Snowy? It could be good.’

‘Heard they are recruiting mercenaries for the Congo. Tshombe is back in as Prime Minister of the country. Wants to keep the communists out and clear the country of the Lumumba rebels. Looks like you have lost your Zambezi trip, so might give you something else to do?’

I had planned a canoe trip down the Zambezi River from Balovale to Beira, had bought two canoes, a shotgun, other gear and sorted out permits as far as the Mozambique border below Kanyemba, where the Mozambique authorities said they would issue us permits on arrival if we ever got there. We wanted to start before the rains, when the river was low, but my companion had recently decided not to partake of this particular venture. Despite numerous ads and word-of-mouth requests, the only offer to accompany me was from a friend’s girlfriend – gorgeous and good company – but I needed someone who knew more about the river than I did. Coming from South Africa and having only seen the Zambezi from the Otto Beit Bridge at Chirundu, I did not think her a wise choice.

I was getting very restless again as I had only intended to use the Copperbelt as a means to build up a grubstake and move on. Before going to the Copperbelt I had finished my three-year Learner Mine Official course and worked as a shift boss on Welkom Gold Mine (in the then Orange Free State) before I was 21 but felt that I needed to see more of the world before becoming too complacent and settling down.

So, I had left Welkom and gone to Durban to try my luck at working a one-way passage on any ship going anywhere but had no luck without signing a minimum one-year contract, which I was not prepared to do. Then I had hitchhiked up to South West Africa (now Namibia) to try my luck with the fishing fleet in Walvis Bay. But the fleet was in harbour until some new quota system was introduced. I met with a few of the captains, who spent a fair amount of time in the bar of the Flamingo Hotel, and despite the numerous rounds of drinks I bought, they convinced me that I was wasting my time as it would take a while to get back to normal and the fleet back fishing again. As I was running out of money fast, I had to leave.

On the way up to Walvis Bay, I had spent an enjoyable night with some ‘gentlemen of the road’ who were camping rough on the outskirts of Mariental. I asked if I could join them to which they replied that they had very limited rations but added, ‘Jy is welkom om ons vuur’ (you are welcome round our fire). I left my kit with them, walked the short distance to town, bought some braai meat and a large bottle of Old Brown Sherry and rejoined them. It was a memorable night, and some interesting life histories were exchanged, possibly helped by the sherry. I lay in my sleeping bag, listening, and was awed by the brilliance of the stars.

Now on my way back, hitch-hiking out of Walvis Bay in the late afternoon, I asked the elderly couple who had given me a lift to drop me off in hilly country, about halfway to Windhoek. They did so reluctantly, with the wife saying the desert is dangerous at night, but I just wanted to have a night on my own to sort my mind out as to what to try next. When in answer to her question as to what I was going to eat or drink – which I had not thought about – I replied that one night without food would be fine and that I would likely get a lift early the next morning, she became a real mother hen and insisted on giving me most of their padkos. (Old-school Afrikaners take their travelling food [padkos] with them and don’t eat ‘kaffee kos’ [café food]. On a long trip, we still do).

I found a good spot some distance from the road noise and experienced one of the most memorable nights of my life; with very little moon, the universe was visible in its full glory. Moreover, I was very grateful for – and thoroughly enjoyed – ‘ouma’s padkos’.

After much deliberation, I decided to head for the Zambian Copperbelt. In Durban I had met up with a group of Copperbelters whose company I had really enjoyed. They were vibrant, interesting and had a zest for life. One of them was a mine captain who had said I would always get a job if my travels ever took me up that way, especially if I played rugby. Lying in my sleeping bag under the stars, I decided that six to eight months in Bancroft would enable me to save enough for something new, and I could go on from there. So, I hitch-hiked back through South Africa and Southern Rhodesia, where I had a few days in Salisbury with an old friend of my grandfather who insisted that I took the bus to Kitwe, the main town on the Copperbelt. There I met up with some of my Durban friends and Des Thompson got me a bed in the single quarters. Des and the Lecks got me to stay for a few days and offered to take me through to Slade in Bancroft on the Sunday after my arrival.

On the Saturday afternoon, Des mentioned that there was always a poker game on at the flats where the more senior singles lived. I was down to about $25 as paying my way amongst those big-bucks Copperbelters had severely depleted my meagre resources. This would mean tight living until pay day, assuming that I could get a job. I was faced with the choice of ending up totally broke or making enough to live on for a month. While in Welkom I had enjoyed poker and had learnt the hard way in a very tough school where I was always the youngest by far, but I learnt fast and usually managed to supplement my income in a bi-weekly school. At the flats that Saturday afternoon we got into a school. The locals obviously earned too much money and did not concentrate on the cards. I left with over $250, which would more than cover me for the next month. That game in Kitwe was the only game I had on the Copperbelt.

On my arrival in Bancroft, Slade was as good as his word and arranged an interview for me at the mine. After answering the first interview question ‘Do you play rugby?’ in the affirmative, I had a job! Having a blasting licence and a little experience did help though, but they seemed to have had their priorities in the right order.

Now it was six months later. I had worked hard, made some good friends, played some rugby, drank a fair amount of beer, but life was getting too settled and it was time to move on to something new. I puffed on my pipe for a bit, wrote the phone number down and passed the newspaper back to Snowy.

‘Thanks, Snowy. Will you check on my gang and see them out for me? I’m out of here and will just make the manager’s cage if I move it. See you in the pub tonight.’

‘Would come with you if I was your age, you lucky blighter.’

With a wave, I set off down the haulage at a fair clip for the shaft. As I arrived on the shaft station, the cage arrived with the underground manager and my mine captain friend.

‘Have you got a problem? Where are you going?’ Slade asked as they got out.

‘Sorry, Slade, I’m leaving. Snowy will look after my gang and clear them at the end of the shift. He has got the gang card.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Down to Salisbury to get another job,’ I replied.

‘You and your Salisbury. You can’t just leave like this,’ said the underground manager. This in reference to a rugby-free weekend a month previously when Pip, Hoss, George, Ian and I had gone down to Salisbury for an R and R weekend and only got back to the mine – four days late – on the following Thursday afternoon. Hoss talked us out of trouble, and even had the underground manager chortling at his vivid descriptions of some of our long-weekend antics. We won our rugby matches on the following Sunday, so were reluctantly forgiven.

‘Different issue this time, Mr Gilbert, but I really must leave. I will come and resign officially this afternoon.’

The cage attendant listening to all of this looked at me with a grin and asked, ‘Surface?’

‘Yes, please.’

On the way up, he asked. ‘Where are you really going?’

‘Salisbury,’ and a lot further, I hoped.

Surface couldn’t come soon enough. Now all I wanted was to get out of the mine and get going. In the change house, I had a shower, got my underground kit together, and gave it all to the change house attendant with a note about the gift to prevent him being accused of theft.

In Bancroft town, I phoned the Salisbury number from a phone booth.

‘Come to Kent House on the airport road as soon as possible as places are filling rapidly,’ said a very pleasant-sounding lady.

I booked a ticket from Kitwe to Salisbury on the first available bus – Wednesday morning – cleaned out my bank account, and made arrangements that a friend would have two signed cheques, enabling him to cash my severance pay when it was paid in, and cancelled my insurance stop order. I also cancelled my life policy (for my Mom) with Old Mutual as I did not think that it would be valid in the Congo. Back I went to the single quarter’s mess for lunch, then to the mine to submit my resignation.

The mine officials were very understanding as I had made it very clear when I signed on that it was a stopgap job and since it looked like my Zambezi trip had fallen through, I needed to move on. There were no hard feelings and they even offered to re-employ me if my plans did not work out.

Word had got around that I was leaving and although Monday was normally a quiet night at the mine club, that night ended up being a late one, with quite a turnout. Mine clubs formed an important part of the social structure on the mines back then. Only white males were allowed in the bar; white ladies could be served a drink on the veranda. This led to some interesting characters who in polite company were very reserved, but on nights like this really ‘tied the dog loose’. After much hilarity, and many choruses ad nauseam of ‘Eskimo Nel’, ‘Old King Cole’ and ‘The Captain of the Lugger’, Pip von Zeller rounded off the evening with his inimitable rendition in a fake soprano/falsetto of ‘A Couple of Newlyweds Climbed up the Stairs to Bed’. This, the only one suitable for mixed company, had us all in stitches and rounded off the evening perfectly. There were often sing-songs in the pubs up there, generally a happier atmosphere than that in South Africa, which was more aggro.

The next morning, I had a bit of a lie in to recover, then went back to town to buy a farewell present for Slade’s mom who had put me up when I arrived in Bancroft until I could get into the mine single quarters.

Sitting having a cup of coffee in the only café in town, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Bancroft was a clean, well laid out little town with a population of about 800 (Europeans, as that was all we counted in those days), tree-lined streets and neat mine houses, a two-block CBD with a bank, Post Office, a couple of essential item shops, a café and a Ladies Bar. Thinking of the Ladies Bar brought a smile to my face when I remembered the night that Pip, George and two young New Zealand female ex-pat teachers had some fun with the bar’s visiting artiste – Tessa the Tassel Tosser. They were banned for a while, but when most of us boycotted the bar, the owner soon relented.

No point in sitting here getting sentimental about the place, I thought, I’ve got some packing to do. So off I went and packed a small suitcase with a few changes of clothes to take with me. I packed up the rest of my stuff and left that for Richie Dollar to look after. Richie was our rugby captain and the pillar of propriety amongst the single younger set. When the general manager went on leave, he would entrust his house to Richie to house- and pet-sit while he was away. On one occasion while house- sitting, Richie had a party, and we were all invited. However, when Pip, Hoss, George and I arrived, we were told to join the riff-raff on the veranda; only the hoi polloi were allowed in the house. He took his duties very seriously! Eighteen months later, when I sent to have my clothes collected, I was told they had been sold to ‘defray expenses’. Richie is still fossicking in the Zimbabwe bush, searching for the next big strike, and despite the aforementioned, we’re still good friends.

While waiting for friends who were taking me through to Kitwe for another farewell that they had arranged, and where I was to overnight and then catch the bus to Salisbury the next morning, I got to thinking about some of the good times in Bancroft. One notable occasion was when I broke my thumb in rugby. (The plaster had only recently been cut off – early – but I had had enough of sitting around all day.) Gordon Mac Kenzie (‘Hoss’ due to his likeness to the trail boss in the television soap Bonanza) got the mine doctor to book him off for a few days to ‘look after Hugh’.

The two of us headed for the Kafue Swamps in his clapped-out Ford Consul with a couple of crates of beer, some meat, and other basics for a couple of days’ good fishing. Hoss – all 230 lbs of Northern Rhodesian rugby front rank – and me with my hand in a plaster cast, with a wire cage holding the thumb in traction, poling around the swamps in a hired dugout canoe, hardly a pair of elegant Venetian gondoliers! Luckily, the dugout canoe is very stable, but it was still astonishing that we didn’t go swimming on a number of occasions, especially when hippos surfaced and gave us close-range frights. Crocs and hippos were in abundance, and despite a few hair-raising moments, we had no major incidents and an interesting few days, with some good fishing too. I wondered idly whether it was this trip to the swamps that made Hoss pull out of our canoe trip down the Zambezi.

I gave the canoes and shotgun to Johnny van Rensburg, also ex-Welkom who had worked on St Helena Gold Mine. He had arrived at the personnel offices one afternoon when I happened to be there. I asked him what he was doing up on the Copperbelt and if he wanted a job. He confirmed that he did, adding that Hans was also coming and was a day or two behind him. This surprised me as I knew Hans was engaged and had been due to get married.

‘What gives?’ I asked.

Johnny looked embarrassed and said, ‘Just wait until Hans gets here and let him tell you.’

I took Johnny in to the personnel officer, who was Hoss’ brother Bim, introduced him and told Bim that his prayers were answered as here was the best hooker this club had ever seen. (Johnny had played for the St Helena Mine first ruby team in Welkom, was 30-ish and a tough, hard-hitting uncompromising player, on and off the field, as many a Copperbelt ‘bar bruiser bully’ learnt.)

Hans duly arrived a few days later, looking pretty hang-dog. In brief, Hans was engaged to the daughter of the ‘Mealie Baron’ of the northern Orange Free State. Five days before the wedding, he chickened out and told Johnny, who was to be his best man, that as much as he loved her, he was not going to marry her as he would end up being a slave to her father and brothers for the rest of his life.

‘They will kill us,’ said Johnny.

‘I know. When I jokingly asked her old man if you and I could wear jockstraps and takkies instead of those monkey suits they’ve got for us, he looked me in the eye, and said ‘Boet, if you mess up my daughter’s wedding, you’re dead.’ We looked at a map, found a mine as far from Welkom as possible, and here we are.’

Bancroft is the end of the line on the Copperbelt in Northern Rhodesia, with the Congo border post only 20-odd kilometres away. They both settled into the Copperbelt lifestyle and Johnny ended up playing provincial rugby.

Some of my friends picked me up after work and quite a contingent went through to Kitwe where we met up with Kitwe friends who would put me up for the night and drop me at the bus depot the next morning. We had a great evening at a ‘night club’ in the Edinburgh Hotel, but it ended a bit early as Hoss, in his inimitable manner, and with words to the effect of ‘no broad sits on my table with her bare arse’, slid a plate of soup under the stripper’s bare bum when she sat on our table and started to ruffle his hair (he was invariably the artiste’s scapegoat). She spun around and slapped him, whereupon, he promptly upended her over his lap and gave one wallop, leaving a distinct hand mark that was clearly visible through the remnants of soup. Suffice to say, the other patrons were not too amused at having their evening’s entertainment spoilt, especially as it was just getting to the interesting part. A fair brawl ensued, without too much damage to any of us, and all of our party got home safely.

It was a memorable end to the farewell party and my Copperbelt days.

Chapter 2

Salisbury

The bus arrived in Salisbury at sunset, and driving into town I got the impression of it being a clean, orderly, well-laid-out city. I caught a taxi to Meikles Hotel and booked in. Lying on my bed, I decided not to phone any of my friends but to have a quiet night instead and be at Kent House at 08h00 the next morning for the interview.

Kent House was out on the airport road; a small white double-storey building fairly near to the airport. There were two others in the first floor waiting room when I arrived – both middle-aged and rather weather worn. They had been in the day before and had been told to come back the following day to hear whether they had been accepted or not. They showed me a form that all applicants needed to complete. It comprised a basic brief life history questionnaire and bank account details, which I did not have. Under ‘address’ I put ‘Meikles Hotel (temp. three days) – Congo (next six months)’. The room started filling up, but there was surprisingly very little conversation; everyone appeared to be pretty tense.

Mrs Wicks arrived, an attractive middle-aged lady, hardly the typical mercenary recruiting officer, I thought. The first two were called in together. They came out looking angry and shaking their heads in disappointment – no luck for them. My turn, I went in, introducing myself as the one who had phoned from Bancroft, and passed Mrs Wicks the form. She read it and looking up at me with a grin said, ‘You got here quickly. I like the addresses.’

I took an immediate liking to her and felt more at ease. ‘Thank you. I’ve burnt my bridges and those addresses are all I’ve got.’

‘What military experience have you had?’

‘The one-year Naval Gymnasium in 1960.’

‘That’s not military!’

‘I have used rifles since I was six, and the Gym course included commando training,’ I said, stretching the truth a bit, but as an exercise we did ‘blow up’ the Steenbras River Bridge north of Gordon’s Bay, by three of us snorkelling up the river from the sea on an incoming tide at 03h00. We placed our charges undetected while it was being defended by the General Botha cadets. So that and a bit of range firing with old .303s should have counted for something.

‘Why do you want to go to the Congo?’

‘It looks interesting, and could be a lot of fun.’

‘Hardly fun, but I like your attitude.’

I don’t remember the full details of the rest of the interview, but we seemed to get on well. She told me that her husband was Alistair Wicks – Major Hoare’s second in command (2i/c) – and that I should come back at 14h00 that afternoon, but must open a bank or building society account in Salisbury and bring the details with me. Little did I know then what a propitious influence she and her husband would have on my time in the Congo.

Feeling that the interview had gone well, I caught a taxi back to town and opened a savings account with Central African Building Society (CABS). I still didn’t want to phone any friends until I knew if I was in or not – a long three-hour wait.

Mrs Wicks gave me a little grin when I got back and said, ‘You’re in. Be at Salisbury Airport at 06h00 on Sunday morning. Bring this chit, your passport, bank account details, and a small bag with one change of clothes. Good luck.’

I beamed a ‘Thank you very much ma’am,’ took the chit, and was out of there before she changed her mind.

The same taxi driver who had taken me to Kent House that morning had just dropped off another two hopefuls. He took me back to town and could obviously see by my demeanour that I had been accepted. ‘You ous is fucking mad going to that bloody country. Why interfere? Let them kill themselves. Those fucking kaffirs will kill you, put you in a big cooking pot and eat you. But good luck anyway; just keep them away from us down here!’ Our coloured community usually express themselves openly – and very graphically – and he could not have put it more succinctly. When he dropped me at Meikles, I paid him through the window and he held out his right hand saying good luck again. I shook his hand. It was the first coloured hand I had ever shaken. Three good lucks in 20 minutes! Although the second gave some food for thought, I felt I just couldn’t go wrong!

I called up a few friends to come ‘round for a farewell supper at Meikles that night and was really touched when Parry Jones (the BSAP policeman I had met in Durban and who had got me out of the Salisbury Central holding cells free without bail on our R and R weekend down from Bancroft) gave me his English double-tailed penny for good luck. I knew how he valued it, but he still owed me big time for his ignominious treatment of me after he had ‘snuck me out’ of the cells. We had got outside and I was looking for a taxi when he said, ‘No ways, you are coming with me.’ He called a friend who was on B car patrol, bundled me into the back with the native constable, got my address from me and took me home. His pounding on the door brought both Jill and her flatmate to the door. I’ve since learnt that girls don’t like it when policemen pound on their door at 02h30 in the morning. ‘Does this belong to you?’ Parry asked.

Jill gave a rather hesitant, ‘Yes’.

‘Well, keep it locked up until at least 08h00 tomorrow morning and then let it out carefully.’

Off he went with a wave over his shoulder in acknowledgement of my, ‘Thanks, Parry.’ I was given a rather frosty reception, but over a cup of coffee got a bit of humour going. However, I did not get breakfast in bed!

Duncan Tilley suggested having another dinner on Saturday night with some girls we knew. I declined, with thanks for good intentions, but opted for a night on my own to sort my mind out after all the festive farewells.

On Saturday morning I went to Barbour’s, the department store of Salisbury, to say goodbye to Mr Barbour who had put me up in his home on my way up to the Copperbelt. When I was a child, my grandfather had told me that if I ever got to Salisbury I was to phone his old friend Mr Barbour who had a shop (some ‘shop’!) there. I had done so and what a kind hospitable gentleman he was. He had picked me up in town, and taken me to his home and really spoilt me for four days, taking me first to the tobacco floors and later to the Reps Theatre to see Arsenic and Old Lace. Wherever one went in his company, it was ‘Good morning/evening, Mr Barbour’. He was a much loved and respected man whom I was very privileged to have known. On that Saturday he was

Reviews for Curly’s Story

[John Carl Roat · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great read! Yes there is blood and guts but much more! How warriors handle, their fear, their Brotherhood, their pride and love of one another! My fellow Navy SEAL, Jim Hawes fought with Curly for a short time, Hugh was the First Commanding Officer the CIA Navy in the Congo Jim relieved him. Jim turned me onto the book and speaks highly of Hugh's abilities!