There is one main road out of the port of Aden, and this runs North, across the coastal desert plain, before climbing into the foothills of the great range of barren mountains that form the hinterland, and border that massive Arabian desert that lies far beyond and is known as 'the empty quarter'.   Tucked up in the mountains, at some four thousand feet or more, lies Dhala, a small remote border town, the last stopping place before the traveller moves on into the Yemen.  As is the way with border towns a mish mash of enmities and intrigues bubbled about the small enclave, requiring a permanent garrison of a Company from Four Five Commando to provide some semblance of law and order.  The necessity for this gesture was frequently emphasised by the sniper fire and mortar bombs which were aimed at the camp from time to time by dissident tribesmen making obscure political statements which concerned the garrison  rather less than the accuracy of their fire.

At this time the trading caravans that travelled from Aden, up through the Protectorate to Dhala and on to the Yemen were being increasingly harassed by the fiercely independent tribes.  Encouraged and armed by an Egypt that was doing its best to destabilise the British presence in Arabia, each tribal state demanded its 'excise' fee from the unfortunate merchants.

 There being a number of these states to be negotiated en route to the North, there was not much left of the caravan by the time it reached its destination.

Down on the coastal plain, at Little Aden, the four remaining Companies of Four Five sweated and trained the days through, waiting for the call to move up country into the tribal territories, a call which our own intelligence told us was inevitable. Inside the small wooden hut that served as my Company office the sweltering heat was only slightly relieved by a small fan that served the  occupants who vied and manouevred for its attentions whenever one of them left the hut.  Though I was the Company Commander, the fan did not seem to be included within the aura of my authority, and as I had to leave the office more frequently than either the Sergeant Major or the Clerk, each time I returned required a re-alignment of authority to ensure that at least part of the diminutive breeze came my way.  Outside the hut the Marines of the Support Troops, the Vickers gunners, mortarmen and recconnaissance teams of the Commando were preparing for a training march, yet another clamber at speed along the jagged rim of hills that encircled the encampment.  But though the Gods may propose, it seems to be Man who ultimately disposes.  We were startled one morning to receive orders of a totally different nature. The Company phone rang, it was Tony H., the Intelligence Officer, our Hermes, winged bearer of tidings from the gods.

" There's an 'O' group at the officers mess in 15 minutes.  You'd better warn your company off for your own orders soon after lunch, say 1400 hours.  Your 'F' and 'A' echelons might as well start packing for embarkation now".

Embarkation! But we were supposed to be going North, into the hills! Where on earth could we be off to now? There was no Commando support shipping East of the Suez Canal.

The CO, Lt Col Stevens,  started his orders without any preamble.

 "Last night the battalions of the Tanganykan regiments mutinied, and there has been serious unrest in Uganda and Kenya.  President Nyere has asked for British support in quelling the mutiny and the Government have agreed to react.  The carrier Centaur is fortunately on her way to the Gulf and has been diverted to Aden.  She will arrive some time tonight.  As you know the Commando Helicopter Squadron is at Khormaksar, which is lucky, and they will be embarking as well.  Centaur is carrying her own squadron of strike aircraft so there won’t be much room on board.  We will embark tomorrow morning, with a full scale of ammunition.  All support weapons will be taken, including the anti tank guns.  The company stationed on the Yemen border at Dhala will be relieved this afternoon by a company from the garrison regiment at Aden.  A Troop of Armoured cars is already moving up there to escort them down through the mountain passes.  The ammunition will be loaded direct from the joint services park at Khormaksar."

‘Have’nt you heard its all been changed!’  or ‘Havoc!’ as the cynical Marines would put it. There were other details, but not many, for though we were taken completely by surprise at the novelty of the task, the sudden move was a commonplace event and apart from the young inexperienced Marines, the men in the Commando were well used to moving at very short notice, whether by land, sea or air.

Once again ‘Havoc’ had been sounded !  The next morning saw Four-Five embarking in Centaur, alongside the docks in Aden.  It was in many ways like any other embarkation exercise, except for the additional crane loads of live ammunition being swung on board, not only for the unit, but also for the armaments of the Sea Venoms, Centaur's strike aircraft.  At the same time the unit transport had to be hoisted up, the Commando Helicopter Squadron had to be landed on the flight deck, followed by two  RAF Belvedere helicopters, great cigar like machines that looked as clumsy as they flew.  Into this melee the Marines of the Commando were injected, taking up all the spare space that had been left by the strike aircraft which had been squeezed up to one end of the hangar.

Somehow, by evening all was ready, and we slipped out of harbour, off on a new adventure.  We were now operational. At night the ship was blacked out and we could only just see the shape of our accompanying destroyer, faintly silhouetted by the stars as she kept station astern of  us. One of the great pleasures of a darkened ship was that we could wander onto the upper decks and gaze at a panoply of stars unfaded by the deck lighting.  The effect was always startling and I never ceased to wonder at the brilliant display of light from the vast firmament which wheeled and swung above our heads, as we gently pitched and rolled on our course through the dark waters of the Indian Ocean.  Under foot could be felt the throbbing of the hull as she carried us onward, thrusting aside the white ranks of ocean foam and churning in her wake great luminous swirls beneath the dark waters.  A glowing cigarette at the end of the gun sponson  indicated that I was not alone, and in low voices we  talked the evening through until it was time to turn in.

Two nights later I was awoken by the inimitable Hermes.

"Wake up John, there's an O group in the CO's cabin in five minutes!"

"Good god Tony, what time is it?"

"One o'clock.  Chop chop, there's a bit of a panic on."

The other company commanders were already there when I arrived.

The CO's briefing was short and to the point and amounted roughly to the following plan.  One company to land on the mutineer's barracks at Colito, near Dar es Salaam. A second company to take control of all communications in Dar es Salaam, using the police station as a base.  A third company ,commandeering such aircraft as were available on the airfield , to fly inland to Tabora to ensure the safety of a small contingent of British army officers stationed there for liaison and training. And a fourth in similar fashion to fly some 500 miles South to pacify the battalion stationed in  Nachingwea.  My own company, Support Company, was held in reserve.   It was a plan that worked surprisingly well, though I offer in these pages only an account of my own part in it.

X Company, the lead company had some resistance in the initial stages and there had been some casualties among the mutineers, who had put up an initial resistance at the magazine.  When I next saw the company commander, Maj David Scott-Langley MC,  he voiced his concern at the unecessary waste of life, feeling that he might have been able to manage the assault more tidily.  But all conflict, whether on the football field or the battleground, is a compound of differing degrees of chaos and if we lose touch with the realities of life we sometimes forget this.  We are lulled by the gods into expectations and desires beyond the boundaries of possibility, and when  misfortune strikes they turn away, smiling.

For several hours Support Company sat on the flight deck, waiting for the next phase to begin, though in truth there was no 'phase' as such for the CO  had to play the game as it went along.  My small headquarters group had run out of conversation and the 'I spy' game had petered out after the signals corporal retired into a sulk because he was not allowed to use 'E' for 'ellicopter'.  An early bird had bagged H for Helicopter, and I had successfully exercised my authority in claiming C for 'Chopper.  The Sergeant Major was about to lose his temper because he was forbidden W for 'Whirlybird when the Commanding Officer appeared on the flight deck and called me over.

"Most of the mutineers are confined now in the barracks at Colito," he said.  "Those are the ones that were drunk.  One of the companies however has split up and taken off into the bundu, inland.  I want you to take four choppers, find what you can of them, and get them back to Colito barracks.   They're roughly in this area." And he placed a large fist on a totally featureless area of the map.  "By the way, they've got their weapons with them.  No fighting if you can possibly avoid it please." - he added, looking at me sideways.

We set off, four helicopters in single file, and crossed the ridge that overlooked the barracks into the hinterland of elephant grass and scrub.  There were about 60 square miles to search, covered with elephant grass and scrub.  As far as I could see there was no path leading from the coast directly inland, and so assumed that the askaris (an African word for soldiers) would cut straight across country to get as far from the scene of trouble as possible.  Looking down from the aircraft I could see the expanses of tall waving grass beneath us.  Where to start?

I then had an idea.  In Malaya we had followed terrorist tracks through the long grass quite easily.  If we could do it from the ground, surely it would be even easier from the air.  The helicopters we were using were flown by the Navy, and most of the pilots of the Commando squadrons were well known to us from exercises and operations in other parts of the world.  We had great respect not only for their flying skills, but for also for their willingness to try anything we asked of them.  I spoke through my intercom to the pilot.

 "Chris, can you move about a mile out, to the West.  When we are there fly as low as you can, quartering North West then South West, zig-zagging in line ahead.  I think we may be able to pick up their tracks in that long grass.  Got it so far?"

 "OK John, what then?"

"If you could keep yourself in the lead please, as I'll have to do the tracking from the side door.  I think it will be too complicated explaining it to the other choppers."

" OK, I've got it.  Once we start I'll go real slow."

And off we went.

For a while we flew back and forth, like aerial bloodhounds, looking for signs in the tall, waving grassland which was not unlike the lalang grass we had known so intimately in Malaya.  Shoulder high, it formed a tiresome barrier to anyone trying to move through it and reflected the sun's heat and light so remorselessly upwards that the eyes could draw little comfort from the shade of a hat.

Suddenly, there it was,  a thin path of trampled grass!

"Chris, half right, about two o'clock, can you see it? - There's a track there disappearing into that clump of trees?"

"Got it."

"Lets follow that one, there's got to be something at the end of it, even if its only an elephant."

Down we went, as low as the pilots dared, and slowly the four machines followed the tracks through the undulating country.  Sometimes we came to tree clumps, and had to quarter the ground beyond until we could pick up the trail again.  Then, as we came out through a thin belt of palms, Chris spoke.

" Bingo!  There are your boys John.  We can’t land here I'm afraid, there's too much debris to get stirred up by the rotors.  What do you want to do?"

What to do indeed! Standing on a path which they had just reached, were twenty askaris, their arms stretched into the air and their weapons laid on the ground.  I wondered afterwards how they must have felt, pressing desperately through the tall unyielding grass whilst behind them the low thunder of engines got closer and closer.  But right now it was my turn to do something.

"We'll have to rope down Chris.  Will you tell your other choppers to get rid of their sticks (troop loads) as close to me as possible.  I'm off now.  Thanks very much."

We were all well versed in the art of getting out of helicopters in as many ways as possible, and one of these methods was to throw a rope out, cling on to it and slide down while the machine hovered above the ground.  During the training and practice sessions I had always been exercised by the problem of what to do with my weapon which had to be carried slung across the back if the rope was to be negotiated without hindrance.  How did one get it into action once the ground was reached?

Out went the rope, and signalling to the machine gunner to cover my descent I launched myself out of the door.  I have to confess my heart was beating somewhat quicker than normal.  The helicopter was hovering very high above the ground but of more immediate concern was the weight of my gun across my back where it felt to be in a particularly useless position.  As I glanced down I could see the Askaris still standing there motionless, and I prayed that they would not change their minds at the sight of the one helpless creature descending towards them.  As I hit the ground, I started to fumble for my gun so unsuccessfully that an askari corporal stepped forward towards me.

"Can I help you sir." he said in clear modulated English.  I could only gape at him, then - "Yes, thanks very much, it seems to have caught up on my equipment." And gently he released my fearsome weapon and handed it to me.

The story, greatly elaborated in the officers mess later, has it that I then turned upon the group and said "Hands up you swine, you are surrounded!" - embellished of course with a thick German accent.  But the truth was, I fear, much more prosaic.  As the rest of the patrol dropped around me the surrendered weapons were collected and the Africans were allowed to drop their tired arms.  I signalled to our choppers that all was well, and within seconds the sound of their engines had disappeared over the hills and we were left to the silence of the bush with a twenty mile march ahead of us.

We relieved the askaris of their weapons, split them into two parties to reduce any possible threat they might offer, and set off back to Colito.  There was no wind and no shade whilst the heat reflected from the grass and the dusty path screwed up the eyes with glare.  After several hours of this we found the extra weight of the confiscated weapons upon our heavily loaded selves had transferred the penalties for mutiny too readily to our own shoulders, so we returned the unloaded weapons to their owners, whose light cheerful tread and chatter had started to irritate us.  Descending into a valley we saw ahead of us a small village of circular mud huts.  Cautiously, for they were unsure of our attitude and intentions, two or three women emerged and after some hesitation started to talk animatedly to the askari corporal.  This went on for some time and eventually I turned impatiently to him.

"What do they want, Corporal?"

"Well, this one here is the wife of Sergeant Lumombo.  They say he is a prisoner, confined to the barracks at Colito by your unit.  Apparently, sir, they are most anxious that he should be told that his toortass is alright."

 "Toortass? Toortass? What on earth is a toortass, Corporal?" - Could it be, say, a surgical truss? - or maybe a Swahili term for a favoured aunt? - or maybe a home brew?  Yes I'll take another glass of that splendid Toortass thanks very much, what year is it? Really, the year of the mutiny?

He looked at me in surprise, pitying me for my ignorance.  "Well sir , its a small animal with a shell, and four legs sticking out like this." - and he spread his fingers apart. "It moves very slowly you know." - he added, reassuringly.

"A tortoise! Do I understand that the health of Sergeant Lumumbo's tortoise is his primary concern this day of all days?"

"Yes sir.  He is most fond of it.  Could we please let him know?"

"Well, I'll leave that to you when we get there, Corporal."

"Very good sir."

I felt that my report to my Commanding officer could scarcely include a welfare report on the Sergeant's tortoise.  I had not, until then, ever considered that tortoises were creatures that merited human concern and love. Their whole aim in life seemed to be confined to being a tortoise - a life task which did not seem to have much room for any subtleties, but one at which they were singularly successful.  Tortoises were either well, or not well; either dead, or alive; and they were always very hard and unyielding.  How do you stroke a tortoise, surely an unrewarding experience ?  Do you use fingernails, or a hammer?  Were tortoises known to pine for their owners? How did they demonstrate their affections, did they weep like turtles? Did they wag their tails?  Where was this particular tortoise at the moment? Lying on its stomach in the hut, beating the earthen floor in frustrated yearning for its loving if mutinous master?  Such questions entertained us and relieved the tedium of the long march to Colito where we thankfully handed over our captives to David’s Company who were by now in full charge of the barracks.

We did not spend much time in Tanzania.  Four Five had settled into an enormous sports stadium outside Dar es Salaam. Ironically, this had been but recently presented by the People's Republic of China, and we were awoken every morning by the People's Liberation Army of Mozambique running round and round outside the walls, chanting loudly in unison. But that was somebody else's war, not ours.  We were more interested in the invitations that were beginning to come in from the relieved citizenry of the city, and were happily sorting out the invitation cards when Hermes appeared once again, by now capped in our imaginations by a small black cloud.

" O group, in ten minutes time!"

A groan went up - "Whereabouts?"

"In the ten and sixpennies!" - and off he went to warn the Company Sergeants Major who were encamped further down the terraces, among the cheaper seats.

And so it was that two hours later found us pouring back on board the carrier, for there was a revolution in Zanzibar, and our presence was required.
 

John Lloyd