When two lives collide, p.23
When Two Lives Collide, page 23
Kronie’s specialty was explosives. This man handled all forms of plastic and conventional explosives with a touch that deemed them harmless, resembling kids’ playthings. He also had a sixth sense for mines. One night when seeking a place to cross the Limpopo, I had been grateful for his skills. My arm was suddenly held by his vice like grip as he rolled us away from danger.
“Wait man,” he ordered, pulling me to the ground. He shuffled forward in the moon light, ordering me to stay put.
“Gotcha, ya mother fucker, OK man,” he dragged me up again.
There in his torchlight was a disarmed pressure mine which would have blown us both apart. I never had any feelings for Kronie as it was impossible to get close to him, even though he had saved both our lives. He knew a bond, albeit unspoken had formed between us.
Samuel ‘Sony’ Sharma was an enigma. Born of a white Scottish mother and an Indian father in Durban. Sony had film star good looks, a smile to rip the pants off a nun at twenty paces, with an accent that hovered twixt the Gorbals, Oxford and his birth place.
Sony was a man you either loved or hated. To me, there was nothing to hate. He claimed to have served a spell in the Indian army after the Second World War as an unarmed combat instructor. Wherever he learnt his skills, he was good. Not as fully trained in many of the killing skills as me but good. My training had the advantage of a number of long weekends with my friends at Hereford. Honing those last little touches, adding special features to pass on to others willing to learn. Sony and I were to train our charges in hand-to-hand combat, a vital element of the task ahead.
Yet I needed one more expert as a team leader. Specialist weapons man. All of us could handle our weapons, but we needed a marksman who had seen action. A ‘double cross’ man who had real notches on his belt. My task from day one had been recruitment. For I had found this small team of reprobates mostly hiding away in the seedy bars around the docks in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth.
Some like the Major was suffering the fallout of a bitter end to his ten year marriage. Removed from his children and stripped by a clever lawyer of all his assets. I found the Major propping a bar near the harbour in Port Elizabeth acting as a bouncer. His task to keep the local whites and Asians from slitting each other’s throats.
The others found me. I’d let it be known that I was recruiting ex-soldiers for private security duty. The message being that I would be in the Holiday Inn in Johannesburg over the next weekend, find me in the bar. Within 24hours I had recruited Luds, Kronie and Sony, with a promise of $2,000 a month and an upfront payment of $1,500. Their loyalty like all true mercenaries confirmed; they were mine. The next stage, which they knew was coming, the real task in hand. But I still couldn’t find my real killer. The man I knew would look for a fight. A man who could handle any confrontational situation, could be my equal, hand to hand and shoot his way out of trouble.
The Hon Edward ‘Tinker’ Bryars-Houghton was that man. The third son of a down on his luck Lord of the Realm and his Irish aristocratic wife, Shelagh O’Connor. Tinker had like Major John travelled the route of many middle and upper class English and Irish families. After Harrow, then Sandhurst, he joined the Green Jackets before transferring to the Special Boat Service. Everyone knew that Tinker was slightly dangerous, frequently disregarding the reason for well-planned orders to enable a mission to be completed. Tinker had a record of completing missions in his own inimitable way. Eventually, even the SBS considered him uncontrollable and too great a risk to the regiment and himself.
Captain Tinker Houghton, was ‘retired’ in 1972 and like many former soldiers turned to drink, living off the tail end of a once sizable trust fund. Tinker fed his need for booze, travel and beautiful women until his funds dried up. Tinker had tried his luck working for a legitimate security firm based in West London. A firm that supplied ex-soldiers, dressed in cheap tight ill-fitting charcoal grey suits. Most of the operatives were hired for their size and not their intellectual prowess. Not once did Tinker rely on his aristocratic background as a step to push him ahead of anyone. As much as he attempted to mix equally with other security blockheads, his sophistication and brainpower shone out, dividing him from the other brainless morons.
The first time I met Tinker was at an unofficial SAS/SBS reunion at a seedy strip club in Hammersmith in 1974. I’d been invited by an old instructor, who had taken me through a number of arduous weekends.
“Hi Mike, Tinker Houghton, hear you’re looking for a few boys for a security job in Africa?” he pried.
I hadn’t come to start a recruitment drive as I knew this was frowned on by the British Government.
“You heard what?” I replied, “maybe you heard wrong.”
“OK Mike, understood. I’ll call you some time. Got a card?” It was obvious he knew too much and could have pushed further.
Tinker came to South Africa later that month and joined our small band of desperados. We were now a growing mixed bunch. To a man, all in need of excitement, some of us cash, but most of all missing the camaraderie that only a military mission could offer. Now I had the full basic crew. After training for the task in my mind, I knew we could replicate this motley crew for our missions across Rhodesia.
Major John had already been taken into my confidence regarding our task well in the advanced planning stages. Both John and I discussed the next stage for our comrades. We would move to a friendly farm, just forty ‘clicks’ north east of Tzaneen, not a million miles from the South African border with Rhodesia. The farm owned by a sympathiser to the Rhodesia cause, who shared its vision of the future, along with the executives of major international agricultural and mining companies.
Glyn Cowper had farmed Blythe Farm for twelve years. He’d developed, like many professional farmers, a complete community for his black workers. New kraals had been constructed, with toilets and a washing block offering hot running water. Furthermore, there was a small community building which doubled as a school and on Sundays as a church. In fact, Glyn had created a complete community.
Glyn had never married for his life was dedicated to his work and his workers, who he considered his extended family. Glyn knew most of his workers by name. Always making time to teach English to the children. When time allowed, he would teach those parents interested in learning a few words of another language. Glyn’s special day was Sunday, when he joined with the visiting vicar to preach the gospels. Glyn considered himself a gifted musician. Frequently making his limited musical skills available for his favourite hymns. Unfortunately, the level of his musical skills failed to find favour with the congregation, most giggling at his attempts at “We plough the fields and scatter”.
Like most South African farms, Blythe Farm was some 50 square kilometres of arable and bush. There he farmed maize, wheat and potatoes. He also bred some five hundred beef cattle, who roamed the substantial area of cultivated grassland. Blythe Farm was also renowned for its dairy products produced from its herd of two hundred Friesians supplying milk and cheese to a local wholesaler in Pretoria. When I first met Glyn, I asked him how big an area the farm really covered. He reminded me of the original settler’s view, the size a real farm should occupy. “If you can see the smoke from your neighbour’s house, your farm is too small.”
Our team settled in, bunking in a timber hay barn, currently waiting next seasons hay crop. I needed the mission to begin from here, no comfortable beds, just sleeping packs and whatever comfort we could extract from the remaining loose hay. Glyn insisted that whilst we were at his farm, meals would be taken with him in the farm house. Major John’s compromise being that only evening meals and then only if we were not on exercises, would he find his terms acceptable.
“Gentlemen,” began Major John, “Mike has brought you together, a fine collection of killers and misfits, and for that I thank him. As you probably realise, our mission for the next few months will not be local security. In fact, it’s bloody dangerous, politically sensitive, and if caught, any of us will certainly be shot without trial.”
Major John waited for the words of his opening statement to sink in. No one showed the slightest reaction. He continued.
“Gentlemen, that’s excellent news. Now let me explain our task.”
Using old military maps and hand-drawn sketches, Major John detailed our mission. He explained the strain on resources, plus inadequate training of the black Rhodesian freedom fighters, all seeking an independent homeland. He went on to explain the horrors inflicted by Ian Smith’s illegal government. Smith had a highly trained force which included many South Africans determined to keep Ian Smith in power. Britain had already imposed sanctions after Ian Smith had walked away from a compromise offered at a long anticipated meeting on HMS TIGER. There in 1966, Harold Wilson, the English Prime Minister had hoped to reach an agreement for Smith to step down, allowing a peaceful handover of power.
Tinker sat restlessly, whilst Major John continued his expectations, training and risk factors. Before Major John had completed his discourse, Tinker slumped back amongst the broken hay bales, snoring like a bull elephant. Disgusted by Tinker’s action, Major John kicked out at his left leg, determined to gain the upper hand and control of the briefing. All we saw was the flash of a lengthy double-edged knife held at John’s throat.
“Never ever place any part of your body on mine again…Major,” Tinker growled, his face just a few inches from Major John. Both knew as fighting men where they stood. When Tinker handed me the knife, there was nothing else to say. A marker had been laid down.
The crunch of stones, outside Glyn’s house announced the arrival of a large car, probably a four wheel drive. Glyn stood up indicating us to silence. Tinker and Luds already had their Kalashnikovs to hand. Major John had doused the lights as Glyn made his way to the door. Before he had opened the door, the whole team had taken up defensive positions. Major John, Berretta cocked ready for whatever ensued was already through the back door with Sony. Crunching footsteps approached the front entrance on the veranda. The muffled sounds of Glyn now chatting to our unexpected guest could be heard as they made their way towards the front door.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce my good friend Edwin Mullato, an influential member of the ZANU party, intellectual and tutor in criminal studies at Harvard and Illinois University,” Glyn smiled as he introduced Edwin.
Major John and Sony appeared from behind Glyn and our guest, which brought smiles of understanding all round.
“My dear friends stand down, you’re among friends. Edwin is the reason you all joined this motley force. He wants to fully explain our mission, then anyone who feels the task too tough will be free to leave,” Glyn continued.
Edwin Mullato was now in his early forties, a Shona with a square jaw portraying a stern presence and man set in his firmly held beliefs. Edwin carried a broad smile, from which shone a mouthful of glorious sparkling white teeth. He smiled across at me, knowing our relationship coupled to our previous Rhodesian experiences should be sheltered from the team.
“My brothers,” He began as though the world was waiting, his voice powerful and alluring. “I thank you as do my fellow ZANU brothers for joining us and for meeting with me tonight. By now, you must be aware that benefactors in Europe and America are supporting our campaign by funding groups like you. May God be with you all. Mr Gilbride,” he turned to me, “you’ve done a sterling task in bringing this fine body of young men to join our campaign. Let me explain my brothers.” He settled against an old leather sofa, taking up position on its arm.
“My countrymen in Rhodesia, soon to be called Zimbabwe, need a further push to rid ourselves of the illegal regime of Prime Minister Smith. His ruthless supporters in his National Guard and the hated PATU need to be forced in submission. This cannot be achieved alone by political negotiation, unless we can show resolve with our own military prowess. We are not seeking you to fight for my black brothers. However, we urgently need your military expertise to train them into an effective fighting force.”
“My brothers,” he continued, “most people outside Africa think my people live in the jungle and fight with spears. In Rhodesia there’s a developed black middle class, educated people and even allowing for tribal differences, there’s a willingness to create a great nation away from the dictatorship of Prime Minister Smith. Brothers, you will not receive the riches of Babylon for your work today, but please rest assured our country will open its borders to trade, and once again, we shall become the bread basket of Africa.”
“Now I’ve talked much,” he concluded, “please ask anything you wish my brothers.”
The silence was palpable. The sounds of Africa overtook and swamped the stillness; each man deep in his own thoughts. Men experienced in death and the surprises that new military orders can bring. Men trained to follow orders without question. Tinker was first to blink.
“Seems we’re all ready in Sir,” Tinker offered in his cultured Irish tones. “Probably speaking for all the men Sir—think you’ve got your instructors. And probably ready for a bit of real action as well Sir.”
To a man we all stood, and one by one shook the big man’s hand. Tears trickled down his shiny checks, a seasoned war veteran smothered by the affection he had won from a group of hardened mercenaries. Edwin just nodded his appreciation, too choked up to speak.
“Shall we eat chaps—Betsy,” Glyn shouted, “food my dear, we’re hungry.”
The next days hazed into one. Each man understanding his role, routes into Rhodesia from South Africa and Mozambique were chosen, some for personnel, others for vital supplies. Major John took control of physical training of the increasing members I had recruited. Everyone subjected to full kit endurance across some of Glyn’s roughest terrain. As the only pilot in the group, I used the evenings to upgrade myself in Glyn’s Piper. A seven-year-old twin-engine six-seater that since new had only been used for fleeting excursions by Glyn to visit his parents on the outskirts of Cape Town.
However, I was missing charts. I had nothing tangible to show farm landing strips in the regions of Southern Rhodesia which was to be our target. Furthermore, I needed similar information for the border areas in Mozambique. Edwin came up trumps. Within a week, he produced both military maps and ordinance survey maps, all marked by some internal Rhodesian source with farm landing strips. Safe ones marked in blue, with the more uncertain strips marked in red. The next thing I needed were safe radio frequencies to make contact with Edwin’s guerrilla forces working in selected areas.
Glyn was a tough task master. My unofficial upgrade to twin engine aircraft and re-learning my instrument and night flying techniques was endless and intense. Together we covered every conceivable eventuality, then repeated it. Flying on instruments by day when time from physical training allowed. Then night flying with the minimum of markers to practice landing in hostile territory. In the first ten days, I flew sixty-five hours, sufficient to qualify me for a twin engine upgrade, if added to my three hundred and seventy odd hours; I had legally recorded back in the UK on a single engine Cessna 172.
It was now three weeks to the day since we had all come together at the farm for an update with Edwin. Shortly after sunrise, three battered Land Rover Safaris appeared accompanied by an approaching dust cloud. As the convoy approached, I could see each car was loaded with uniformed and heavily armed black soldiers. Glyn walked towards the convoy, disappearing into the cloud of red dust as the convoy pulled to a halt. From the back of each Land Rover tumbled heavily armed soldiers taking up protective positions. From the first car, a large black man lowered his massive body, bedecked in tribal clothing. Edwin moved across to greet him. Once the initial greetings were over, they moved to the second car. The front passenger door opened to reveal a taller man in beige military uniform of indeterminate nationality.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce our leader Robert Mugabe,” offered Edwin. “Robert, may I introduce Glyn and the team who will shortly be in Rhodesia training our brave freedom fighters.”
There was a presence about Robert Mugabe that shone out, a man you would follow, a man with a dedicated purpose in life.
“Brothers, I am humbled in your presence,” Mr Mugabe offered. “The future will be difficult to attain, but with your help and the support of other great nations, we shall gain independence and build our country to become the most powerful in Africa. A country which will forever remember your sacrifice,” he boomed.
Like my comrades I was captivated. This was not a Nuremburg call to arms from a deluded despot but a speech of such honesty and intensity that we had already become his disciples. Like a man practised in performing to any size of gathering, Mr Mugabe circulated to each man, talking as though everyone was the only person in his audience. Enough to ensure each person felt he had been individually selected for the task and had a destiny to follow.
“You are Mr Gilbride I understand?” he smiled as he gripped my hand. Obviously primed by Edwin but nonetheless, wonderfully stage managed.
As I felt Mugabe’s warm firm grip, there was a sense floating between us that other issues remained as a matter that bonded us removed from the soldiering under discussion.
“It’s you I must thank for bringing together this fine band of men,” he continued. “I’m grateful Mr Gilbride; your success for the party will be heartily rewarded. We will succeed Mr Gilbride; the tyranny of Prime Minister Smith will end.”
My eyes glazed over as his words brought caution to my thoughts. “Don’t worry, my friend,” I considered to myself, as the handshake went on just a little too long. “I know where most of the ‘bones’ are buried. One step out of place, and even Houdini would be impressed by my disappearing act, along with your ill-gotten gains.”
With that he turned his back and returned to his Land Rover. His bodyguards came to attention as he turned and raised his right hand to acknowledge us. A gesture I was to recall many times over the forthcoming years. As the convoy sped off, clouds of dust filled the blue African sky, carrying a truly great leader. Edwin returned and moved me to one side.
