LION WITH TUSK GUARDANT by J.F. MacDonald Printed by The Rhodesian Printing and Publishing Co. Ltd. Salisbury, S. Rhodesia 1945 Foreword By the Hon. Sir Godfrey Huggins, K.C.M.G., C.H., Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia IT IS with pleasure that I recommend to the attention of Rhodesians, in the year of victory in the west, an account of what has been done by the men of this Colony to bring to a successful issue hostilities upon the soil of Africa. It is not so long ago that the Government of Southern Rhodesia was considering matters of vital policy, what this country could contribute to fend off from its borders a preponderant and boastful enemy. I am glad to recommend to the reading public this story of victory in Africa; for things might have turned out so very differently. Only by magnifying many times over the effort made by Southern Rhodesians which is described in these pages, can we obtain a clear picture of how much courage and determination it took to bring about the longed-for issue, by which the British people have again saved for humanity the causes of democratic freedom and individual liberty. Had the faith been less, the spirit smaller, we should now have little reason to rejoice. As we read of the hardships suffered by our men, of the loneliness, the thirst, the danger, we are grateful to these young warriors who through privation brought us this victory. We realise, too, that many who turn these pages will do so with sadness. No price was too great to pay; but these people, by the loss of husband, sweetheart, son and father, or it may be of youth and health, have done the paying. We give them a tribute of feeling which we translate wherever possible into action. Even if we can in no way pay the debt directly, we can do so indirectly by using mind and imagination to promote the wise direction of national and international affairs in future. The future is ours through that price paid, and it is our part to ensure its quality and not to allow the potentialities of victory by lethargy to be frittered away. So I commend this book to the Rhodesians of to-morrow. Many of them are returning from active fronts to begin their mature life in the ways of peace. They joined the ranks from school, and so know little of civilian responsibilities and the economic routine. These they will learn. And it may be that years hence they will feel a thank- fulness to have known long ago and at the very beginning, something of the great world, and of the fundamental sources of human action, human bravery. It must give them a background that the rest may envy, to have faced death and won through from immense perils to the joys that safe people too often take for granted, the joys of fresh air, of food when one is hungry, of one's own family and one's own fireside. They will not underrate, when they contrast this place with the older countries they have seen upon their travels, the peculiar characteristics of Rhodesia, its width, its kindly sunlight, and its friendliness. This book records a portion of their great adventure, by which we are the gainers, and for which, in the name of Rhodesia, we thank them. Introduction THIS is the story of the part played by Southern Rhodesian troops in the African Campaigns during the first three years of the war, of the days when the frontiers of Empire were held by a pitiful few, when withdrawal and defeat were the bitter outcome of effort, and the soldier and airman faced, with absurd makeshifts and obsolete weapons, an enemy unimpaired in morale and armament. In the pride of power and victory when our resources are unlimited and our progress sure, it is easy to forget the days of blood and toil when time and again overwhelming disaster seemed imminent, and as a nation we were stricken near to death. In presenting such a theme the war historian has the choice of several methods. He may adopt the detached, impersonal attitude and scrupulously severe style of the military expert, and attempt the scientific analysis of an operation or campaign, the clear and reasoned exposition of strategy and tactics. He may write: "On the night of June 19th/20th forward elements of an enemy armoured division, deployed on a wide front, succeeded in pene- trating our minefields and in establishing themselves astride the road Acroma-El Aden, only to be ejected next morning by our troops." He may become a classic to gladden the hearts of the General Staff, and accumulate dust on a shelf at the Royal Military Academy. Clarity, accuracy, and logic will be his claim to laurels, and if he achieves these he achieves much. But not all. What of wretched humanity that wages thos^ wars, makes those operations possible, crosses the minefields taking up laboriously each mine with weary, torn fingers while the Verey flares light up the tired grey faces? Is nothing to be devoted to them except the pages of awards and casualties tucked into an appendix at the end? Alternatively, the historian may fancy the familiar, chatty style once so much favoured by some of our war correspondents: "At a dressing station on the Langemarck Road, I gave cigarettes to some of our splendid lads, who, in spite of their wounds, longed for one thing and one thing only-to have their trusty rifles and bayonets in their hands once more. They itched to be at the Hun throat. Meanwhile, down the muddy road trudged a stream of cowed, sullen, prisoners; ill-nourished, ill- clothed, ill-favoured. An M.O. standing near me said, 'Can you doubt who will win?' " This has the personal touch all right, but truth and accuracy have vanished, to be replaced by the tawdry and the insincere. The dry-as-dust, we agree, is infinitely preferable. Thus, by slow degrees, he who has the temerity to essay the role of war historian comes to full realisation of the fact that his path is beset with pitfalls, booby traps, anti- personnel mines and every devilish invention to destroy even the most vigilant. Much greater men than he have been charged with inaccuracy, superficiality, or prejudice. Herodotus, Thucydides, Holinshed, Gibbon and Macaulay, who have made a living pageant of the past, have not escaped-and how should he? To palter with the truth, he decides, is fatal. To juggle discreetly is permissible. Herodotus was not present at Thermopylae How then did he know that the Spartans combed and dressed their hair before they formed up, what few were left of them, to receive the Median onset? He must have had the story second, third or tenth hand. And does it really matter so much if the tale is false, the facts not as stated? Are we to consign it with Drake's game of bowls, Wellington's "Up Guards," and General Wolfe's recitation of "The Elegy" to that limbo of discredited tales which delighted childhood in a less sceptical age? Certainly not. Herodotus has given a picture for all time of that sublime indifference to death which was part of the Spartan warrior. He has achieved the poetic truth which transcends the truth of fact, the truth which calls the lily "the lady of the garden," as against the pedestrian accuracy of Lilium Monodelphum Szovitzianum. Besides, there were no Spartan survivors. There were no beer-sodden, bottle-nosed old sweats to write to the newspapers letters signed "One who was There" - letters contradicting in vigorous and picturesque phrase the accounts of one who was not there. But things are different today. A soldier, especially a Rhodesian soldier, returned from a campaign, is bulging with esprit de corps. His company, battalion, troop, battery, or squadron was the best company, battalion, troop, battery or squadron in the brigade, division or corps; known and admitted to be such by the unfortunates who belonged to all other companies, battalions, troops, batteries or squadrons. Did it not stand up to the whole 90th Light Division at Knightsbridge when every other company, etc., was pulling out? Definitely it did. Was it not first into the show at El Mereir when those adjectival Loamshires on the left flank let it down? It certainly was. Was justice done to its magnificent record in the official War History? Emphatically no! Then there are the sticklers for dates, times and places, those who grow angrily vocal in the columns of the local press over such a statement as this: "That night the Colonel summoned a hasty conference at Retimo. "There are three errors there," they write. "The Colonel had been killed by a bomb that afternoon, and the second-in-command held the conference. It was three miles south of Retimo, not at Retimo. It was held at one in the morning. I know, for I was there. I remember . ., etc. If this is a sample of the truth . .," etc. There is no answer to all this. It is well to know, however, what dangers face one, what cabbages, carrots and eggs of ancient vintage the audience has concealed under the folds of its cloak, and to try to win a precarious hearing for a tale of suffering, patience, courage and glory that a minstrel of old Provence would have been proud to tell. It is a truism that three eye-witnesses of a street accident will give three different accounts of what happened, which, in important details, do not corroborate each other.