Fearful Odds

Fearful Odds

A personal account of Rhodesia’s struggle

By No. 5650. D.J.M Tippetts

Ex-Chief Superintendent

British South Africa Police

(Rhodesia)

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© Copyright 2013

Dave Tippetts

The right of Dave Tippetts to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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ISBN- 978-1-78069-0698

First Published as an e-book in January 2013

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Dedication

This account is dedicated to all members of the Rhodesian Security Forces, both ‘black’ and ‘white’ – who, fell in Rhodesia’s struggle against the fearful odds of communist terrorism & communist propaganda, world opinion and United Nations mandatory sanctions.

It is also dedicated to the thousands of innocents – both ‘black’ and ‘white’ – who were slaughtered in cold blood by communist terrorists in Rhodesia.

Preface

I have been waiting for some time for someone to write a true account/history of the Rhodesian struggle for survival and, as none seemed to be forthcoming, I decided to write one myself and combine it with my ‘memoirs’.

The information used in this publication is based on my many notebooks, plus my own personal files – which every British South Africa Police Officer usually kept. I have not kept to strict chronological sequence in recording incidents in the war, apart from putting them in more or less when they occurred. They may be ‘out’ a few months – here and there – but are as accurate as I can possibly make them.

If there are inaccuracies, they will be in the events I describe that occurred in operational areas where I was not involved.

The history of the Rhodesian War, in this account, is the story of those operations in which I was involved and which occurred mainly in the Midlands, Matabeleland & Victoria provinces. That these were only ‘side-shows’, I am well aware. And it must fall to someone else to record the main operations that occurred in Mashonaland & Manicaland. I have, however, included my impressions of Mkumbura and Kandeya Tribal Trust Land, where I served in P.A.T.U. (for those of my readers from ‘Bamba Zonke’).

It is difficult to write this account whilst still trying to be modest. One inevitably pictures oneself as infallible and free from error. If this is the picture that emerges… then I apologise.

I once read the memoirs of a much decorated ‘submarine-ace’ of the Second World War – written in such a modest vein that I had the uncomfortable feeling that they were written by the ‘cabin-boy’! I did not have the handicap of being much decorated and, therefore, have no reason to be modest in recalling exploits in which I was involved.

To those of my friends who will anticipate their names being mentioned in this account – I apologise. I have left out many names and have changed others for obvious reasons. This is also the reason I have not eulogised many of my African police subordinates.

There are drawbacks in writing this account, apart from the obvious ‘skating on thin ice’ continually. One will inevitably be branded a ‘racist’ for the mere reason that one is ‘anti-communist’ (?). The fact that I ran two ‘Restriction Camps’ – notwithstanding that they were regularly inspected by the ‘Red-Cross’ (a thing, by the way, unheard of in communist countries) – also tends to qualify one for the racist ‘tag’ in terms of communist propaganda. The reasons for the restriction of the said restrictees being conveniently ignored in this account – my old enemy ‘Mungu’ being a fairly average example.

The events surrounding the cease-fire – and the elections of 1980 – are thick with ‘pitfalls’ and one must tread warily when describing same. I have stuck to my own experiences and the reader is free to believe them, or not. I would, however, refer him/her to the report of the New Zealand observers, to their parliament, and the activities relative to the ‘little black box’ – used to intimidate voters.

The mere fact that one was not prepared to serve a communist government or reside in a communist country results in leaving oneself open to attack. That one was willing – even eager – to reside under benevolent and democratic ‘black rule’ – as was provided for six months by the Bishop – being conveniently forgotten. The reader must decide whether this account contains the truth – or is an edifice of lies – whether it concerns the matter of the two old ladies on the road between Enkeldoorn and Buhera or the major matter of the briefing at New Sarum.

The two poems and the quote by Sir Winston Churchill are part of the preface and I thought them to be peculiarly appropriate.

D.J.M. Tippetts

The Cape, Republic of South Africa – 1982.

‘The Lays of Ancient Rome’

Lord Macaulay.

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the gate:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his Gods."

The Castle

Edwin Muir

All through that summer at ease we lay,

And daily from the turret wall

We watched the mowers in the hay

And the enemy half a mile away

They seemed no threat to us at all.

For what, we thought, had we to fear

With our arms and provender, load on load,

Our towering battlements, tier on tier,

And friendly allies drawing near

On every leafy summer road.

Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,

So smooth and high, no man could win

A foothold there, no clever trick

Could take us, have us dead or quick.

Only a bird could have got in.

What could they offer us for bait?

Our Captain was brave and we were true…

There was a little private gate,

A little wicked wicket gate.

The wizened warder let them through.

Oh then our maze of tunnelled stone

Grew thick and treacherous as air.

The cause was lost without a groan,

The famous citadel overthrown,

And all its secret galleries bare.

How can this shameful tale be told?

I will maintain until my death

We could do nothing, being sold;

Our only enemy was gold,

And we had no arms to fight it with.

Anatomy of a Revolution

by

Sir Winston Churchill

Communism is not only a ‘creed’ – it is a plan of campaign. A communist is not only the holder of certain opinions; he is the pledged adept of a well thought-out means of enforcing them.

The Anatomy of Discontent and Revolution has been studied in every phase and aspect and a veritable drill book prepared for subverting all existing institutions. The method of enforcement is as much a part of the communist faith as the doctrine itself.

At first, the time-honoured principles of liberalism and democracy are invoked, to shelter the infant organism. Free speech, the right of public meeting, every form of lawful political agitation and… the Constitutional Right… are paraded and asserted. Alliance is sought with every popular movement toward the left.

The creation of a mild liberal or socialist regime, in some period of convulsion, is the first milestone. But, no sooner has this been created, than it is to be overthrown. Woes and scarcity resulting from confusion must be exploited. Collisions, if possible attended with bloodshed, are to be arranged between the agents of the new government and the working people. Martyrs are to be manufactured. An apologetic attitude in the rulers should be turned to profit. Pacific propaganda may be made the ‘mask’ of hatreds never more manifested among men.

No faith need be – indeed may be – kept with non-communists. Every act of goodwill or tolerance, of conciliation on the part of governments or statesmen, is to be utilised for their ruin.

Then, when the time is ripe and the moment opportune, every form of lethal violence from mob-revolt to private-assassination must be used – without stint or compunction. The citadel will be stormed under the banners of liberty and democracy; and once the apparatus of power is in the hands of the ‘brotherhood’, all opposition, all contrary opinions, must be extinguished by death.

Democracy is but a tool to be used… and afterwards broken; liberty but a sentimental folly unworthy of the logician. The absolute rule of a self-chosen priest-hood – according to the dogmas it has learned by ‘rote’ – is to be imposed on mankind, without mitigations, forever.

All this, set out in prosy textbooks, written also in the blood of several powerful nations, is the ‘Communist Faith & Purpose’.

To be forewarned… is to be… forearmed!

Chapter One

DEPOT

As the ‘Z’ reservists were being called for the Suez crisis in 1956, I left England on the Union-Castle liner ‘Athlone Castle’ – bound for Cape Town. I had some vague ideas of growing oranges in South Africa and my benevolent Aunt had agreed to send me through Agricultural College at Stellenbosch University. However, I had reckoned without fate, in the form of a squad of recruits who were on their way to Rhodesia to join the British South Africa Police.

While talking with these lads, I was infected with their excitement at the prospect of a life of adventure and I realised that I had never really wanted to grow oranges – or go to agricultural college – but had been unable to think of anything better at the time. It was a life of adventure for me and, as a result, on my arrival in Cape Town, I forthwith applied to join the British South Africa Police, much to my Aunt’s disappointment.

With the help of a sympathetic general practitioner – who pointedly ignored my flat feet in his medical examination – and also due to the fact that the Police Recruiting Office in Salisbury had made an error in the telegram, which they despatched to me regarding the date on which I was to appear before the selection board, I managed to join the B.S.A.P.

My Aunt was adamant that I should not ride to Rhodesia on my motorbike (a 600cc Norton), so I duly packed it away in the guards’ van of the train I made my way to Salisbury on. After three days of travel, I mounted my bike at Salisbury Railway Station and, somehow, found my way through the Jacaranda and Spathodia-lined streets to the Depot. My first impressions of Salisbury were that I had come home at last – a feeling that assailed many new immigrants to Rhodesia and which usually, never left them.

The Depot lay at the end of Montagu Avenue – one of the numerous, lovely, tree-lined avenues in Salisbury and, as I rode through the white gates, I reflected on what lay before me. In my wildest imagination, I could not have conjured up the reality.

On my noisy arrival outside the recruiting office, the incumbent, Sergeant Gray, was quite taken aback and confidently advised me that my telegram had referred to the 12th April and not the 12th March, 1957. However, on my production of the document in question, he had no option but to arrange for the convening of a selection board.

Whilst Sgt Gray was absent – arranging for the convening of the board – I had an opportunity to inspect my surroundings. The buildings at the Depot were mainly brick under corrugated iron roofing and situated at the edge of a large green square – at one end of which was the Blatherwick Memorial. The square was flanked by the Officers Mess, the Regimental Institute, and the Depot offices and Recruits’ Mess. The barrack blocks were dotted about near to the Recruits’ Mess and at one end of the Depot was stabling for some 80 horses. Beyond the Officers’ Mess was the hard square used for ‘square bashing’, from which direction floated various voices of command.

The Selection Board convened after about half an hour and three officers, one of whom was the Deputy Commandant, asked me varying pertinent questions, most of which seemed designed to find out whether I was keen on sport and amenable to discipline. After satisfying the board that I was potential recruit material, I was taken to the Camp Hospital for another medical examination. I had been dreading this moment – but, again, my unforeseen arrival seemed to have thrown them off balance, as most of the examination seemed to be designed to see if my eyesight was one hundred percent, which, at that time, it fortunately was.

After this, I was taken to Cranbourne – another suburb of Salisbury – where, on an old RAF aerodrome, the Ordnance Store was situated in a convenient hangar. I was supplied with a vast quantity of kit required by a B.S.A.P recruit, from hat… soft blue, to boots… brown leather. At lunchtime, I was back at the Depot, in the Recruits’ Mess, where I met the other eleven members of squad 3/57.

Though I had been told that mine was a Rhodesia/South Africa squad, I found – in fact – that most were from the United Kingdom and had completed their National Service. Two Rhodesians and I were the youngest, all being eighteen years of age. Bill Linfield, one of the Rhodesians, was my half section – as I was billeted in a room with him, whereas most of the others were in a common barrack room. Our barrack was called ‘Fuller’ block and I was lucky to have arrived a week late, as I had missed the traditional ‘fun & games’ meted out to the newcomers, such as ‘troughing’ – a drenching in the horse troughs in the early hours of the morning.

I settled down to my six months training, which was fairly rigorous by any standards. Up at 04.30hrs to saddle and groom your horse and be ready on parade at 06.00hrs, followed by an hour of ‘equitation’. I had tried in vain in Cape Town – at a school of equitation – to learn to ride. The B.S.A.P. taught me to ride – by numbers – and there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that a recruit could be taught to ride. The usual penalty for transgressions during equitation was to ride with stirrups crossed or to follow behind the rest of the ride – on foot – running with your horse behind you. The ultimate penalty was to parade behind the guard in the evening, with full kit, saddle, bridle, horse and uniform – all in spotless order.

Following equitation came breakfast and then, every hour, another subject – musketry, law and police, animal management, veterinary, unarmed combat, foot-drill and sports – with ten minutes between each subject for a complete change of kit, followed by a new parade and inspection. For any transgressions – parade behind the guard.

Day followed day in quick succession and one learned to type the hard way – all notes to be produced, typed, the following day. It was as simple as that. As a result, one spent a great deal of time typing one’s notes. It was amazing how fast one learned to type – which became a great asset when you left the Depot. All police dockets and records being typed, as a matter of course.

When I arrived at Depot, it was still smarting from the effects of the ex-Korean War men, who had been recruits a couple of years previously. The stories told about these men were legend. One of these stalwarts had been annoyed by the bugler sounding reveille every morning and waited for him on one occasion and shot his bugle out of his hands with a .22 rifle. Upon which, the African bugler had promptly fled!

A squad of these ex-Korean War types, while once being instructed in arms drill on the hard square by an instructor known as ‘Takkie’, were being given a demonstration of how to ‘present arms’, after which Takkie threw the rifle back at the recruit from which he had borrowed same. On the command ‘Present Arms’… the entire squad went through the evolution, then simultaneously threw their rifles at ‘Takkie’, whom – it is stated – fled from the parade ground in tears of rage.

Another amusing incident I can recall revolved around a recruit who was six foot seven inches tall. We were all on parade one afternoon when the Inspector who took the parade was walking down the line, which included the tall one. When arriving in front of him, the Inspector gaped up at him in astonishment and shouted, ‘Who do you think you are, lad… a blooming giraffe?" This caused nearly all the recruits on the square to fall in a heap and probably led to the fact that, in later years, when the tall recruit left the police, he often wrote letters to the press, criticising the Force.

My time at Depot was marred by a feud I had with a riding instructor. As a result of which, I always came off second best in our numerous clashes. The feud had been triggered off by the fact that – in my second day in Depot – I was standing outside my barrack block cleaning my saddlery when the riding instructor came up and said, What are you on, lad? To which I replied – somewhat cheekily – What does it look like? He inquired my name and, having been given it, he stated that we would be seeing a lot more of each other…, which was no idle boast. Following this, my equitation periods turned into a nightmare.

No matter how well I excelled in whatever I did, I found myself riding with crossed stirrups or running behind the rest of the squad through the streets of Salisbury – leading my horse – to the derisive hoots of the local population, or put behind the guard at the end of the day, with the consequences earlier described. This persecution eventually reached such a pitch that, one morning, on mounted parade – having been put behind the guard for my leggings being a different colour than normal, although they had been fine the previous day – I stalked off the parade ground leaving my bemused horse standing. When asked where I was going by the astonished persecutor, I stated I was going to see the Commandant. At this stage, I should make it clear that my persecutor was a temporary equitation instructor and not one of the three permanent equitation instructors who were well liked if not revered. namely BILL EARLE, SMUDGE SMITH and STEVE STEPHENS.

A short time thereafter, I saw the Acting Depot Chief Inspector, a decent old fellow named ‘Bundu Charlie’ Woodgate, who, following me relating to him my story and complaint, persuaded me not to see the Commandant. He instructed me to ‘go behind the guard’ as ordered and he would ‘look into the matter’. As a result of this, the persecution ceased. I was later told that the action I had taken was not ‘frowned upon’ because it indicated ‘moral fibre’ and was apparently preferable to the individual recruit ‘blowing his brains out in desperation’, which happened on one occasion, long after I left the Depot.

Although not distinguished in the field of equitation, my experience there, and during several following years’ horse patrolling, bred in me an active dislike of horses forever after. I was more skilled in the field of musketry, achieving the grading of ‘marksman’. Thereafter, I never lost my love of shooting, which, from time to time, was to stand me in good stead.

No description of the B.S.A Police Depot in 1957 would be complete without a reference to the Depot Chief Inspector, the immortal James Edwin Luyt Weller, alias Sam.

Sam Weller was the Depot Ch/Inspector, or D.C.I., when I was in the Depot – in training. He was a short, squat man with bandy legs and a big, bulbous nose. He reminded me of ‘Punch’ – from the ‘Punch & Judy’ show. He was a master of invective and I have often stood on parade open-mouthed, as he tore strips off us recruits, with a bout of swearing that made us green with envy. He took an instant dislike to my motorcycle and, after he had found myself and one or two others practising ‘standing starts’ around the four roads of the Depot, he banned all motor-bikes and, henceforth, we had to keep them at the town Police Hostel, at Fife Avenue.

Sam was unpopular and feared. He had an unerring nose for people who were ‘skiving’ (not pulling their weight) and in later years, when I got to know him better, I realised that he had a heart of gold beneath his bluff exterior and I know that he did good deeds by stealth and gloried in his reputation as an ‘ogre’.

He used to threaten to