Category Archives: Rhodesia

Journalist, Rhodesia

“Poking the Nannies”!!

Written by COLUMBUS SMITH, Oregon

Company Sergeant Major J. Chitereka & Capt. Joe C. Smith, Zimbabwe/Rhodesia Mar. 1979
Left to Right: Company Sergeant Major J. Chitereka (DMM) and Capt. J. C. Smith, B Coy 1 RAR, 21C, prepare to write a training syllabus for PFUMO REVANHU.

Just before dawn Company Sergeant Major J. Chitereka (DMM) burst into my tent and said:

“Sir, the three trackers are missing!” I was horrified. Our full company of 153 soldiers had arrived the afternoon before and we set up our base-camp on a farmer’s property in Karoi. As Second in Command (21C) of B Company, I RAR, I was thrilled when my Commander Maj. Charley B.Piers (called to a Commanders conference in Salisbury) had entrusted me with deploying his company. But a day into that deployment, before a single patrol was launched, I had already lost three of his troops. (The year was 1978 during a Cold War chapter called The Rhodesian Bush War. Our mission was to search out and destroy communist terrorists (CTs) in an adjacent Tribal Trust Land.)

CSM Chitereka led me through the breaking dawn to the small empty tent where my three trackers normally slept. The tent backed up to a freshly ploughed field.

Exiting the back side of the tent were three sets of outbound tracks, making deep impressions in freshly—ploughed ground.

Dawn exposed the obvious target of my trackers’ ‘patrol.’ It was a small mud “Kia” about 100 meters away—on a beeline with the outgoing tracks. Instantly I recalled a very brief scene from the previous afternoon when our convoy rolled right past this Kia, just before turning into what would soon be our basecamp.

I remembered our well-turned out soldiers, some in starched Rhodesian camouflage, standing up in the backs of our troop trucks when three attractive young African women stepped out of this Kia for a better look at the men of B Company. One of the three women flashed a welcoming hand wave.

The sun was now quickly burning away any mystery about their disappearance when the three trackers began sneaking out of the hut, unaware they were being observed.

Obviously they thought they could backtrack back to camp undetected.

Instantly the bullhorn voice of his CSM Chitereka was bellowing orders across the field and our three AWOL trackers were sprinting toward us to meet their fate.

Within the hour CSM Chitereka had marched all three men to my tent “on orders” for deserting camp.

To the first tracker I asked: “Did you leave basecamp last night and poke the nannies?” “Yes, Ishe,” was his two word response.

The second tracker answered identically but not quite loud enough for CSM Chitereka who gave him a quick poke in the ribs with his pace stick. By now the soldier was standing so rigidly arched at attention he seemed to be staring at the top of my tent.

“Yes, Ishe”, he repeated ten decibels louder. But the last and final tracker marched in front of my desk seemed oddly composed. Almost righteous.

“Did you poke the nannies too!” I demanded.
“No Ishe”, he shouted back with a hint of soldierly pride.” I stood guard!”

It was hard to tell who was trying harder NOT to laugh, CSM Chitereka or myself. Somehow we maintained proper military decorum.

RAR-tracker
RAR Tracker in combat kit, 1978, illustration by John Wynne-Hopkins’ one of the Illustrations in Masodja

For punishment I ordered all three trackers to get fully kitted up -with steel helmets and full packs. Company Sergeant Major Chitereka handed them over to the tender mercies of a new Corporal. All day our midnight trackers were ‘double-timed’ over every metre of the basecamp providing great theatre for nearly all.

Our mission, I’m happy to report, was in no way interrupted and by dusk we had a number of squad-sized units deployed along the periphery of the Tribal Trust Land. The squad leaders waited silently as the eyes of their soldiers adjusted to the fading light
…before launching their patrols.)

But make no error, every step of the way this imported officer was getting valuable assistance on Rhodesian Army Military Law from a supremely proficient CSM Chitereka and it was by no means the first or last time he was of great assistance.

About a year later, just after Zimbabwe/Rhodesia’s first majority rule election, March 1979, about a hundred young African males dressed in civilian clothes suddenly appeared on post unannounced.

We learned later that these raw recruits were the beginning of the embryonic Pfumo Revanhu. CSM Chitereka and myself were ordered to begin training them immediately without being given even a hint of what their mission might be. Oh, and no, these raw recruits didn’t arrive with a training syllabus to prepare them for their undisclosed mission.

Undaunted, I grabbed two pencils, a handful of paper, and rendezvoused with CSM Chitereka at a picnic table and in three hours we had created a training syllabus with a balanced mix of drill, physical fitness, marksmanship and motivational training. His contribution to that unique training schedule was immense.

Had I but one wish it would be to sit down with CSM Chitereka over a beer and laugh about our three trackers who went AWOL to poke the nannies”…and drink a toast to the one who stood guard”.

—from NHOWO September 2013

Journalist, Rhodesia

“…A Shit Doctor” and Typhoid

“…A Shit Doctor”

Written by COLUMBUS SMITH

Private Dube waded through the empty rat packs and ammo boxes that litter a base camp during a patrol deployment and calmly faced me with the news, “Ishe (Boss), I’ve got VD (venereal disease)!”

It’s 4 a.m. and I am furious. Our 10 day R & R is just over and this is the first patrol of our six-week deployment. “Why didn’t you say something to the medic back at Methuen (Methuen Barracks-Home of 1st. Battalion, Rhodesian African Rifles.)” Private Dube has no answer. We are about to deploy into a “hot” TTL (Tribal Trust Land) and I suspect Private Dube just wants an extension on his R & R.

(Very rare occurrence. The African RAR soldier was very gung-ho and took pride in his soldiering.)

Capt. Lionel Dyck, C. Coy Commander, hears everything and orders the medic rousted from his cot. “Medic, give Lt. Smith (Left-tenant Smith) five ampoules of penicillin and five syringes.” (He turns to me) ”Lt. Smith, I want you to give Pvt Dube a shot every morning until the medicine is gone.” Capt. Dyke is angrier than I am. He can’t let Private Dube get away with this!

We launch the patrol and the next morning at 5 a.m. I am awakened by the sight of Pvt. Dube’s naked right buttock.  “I’m ready for my shot Ishe.” It is a nippy winter morning and I fumble for the cold ampoule and attempt to warm it by rolling it between my palms before sucking out the thick white serum with the syringe. I jab Private Dube in the upper thigh but notice the milky white serum trickling clown Dube’s long black leg. Whoops! My first shot ever! Dube ‘s first shot too I suspect. Not a good beginning for either of us.

Next morning the shot routine is a re-run of the first. The cold white penicillin runs all the way down from Dube’s rump to his ankle. I’m not getting the penicillin warm enough. It’s not getting into Dube’s rump! I’m ever hopeful my technique will improve with shot No.3.

Meanwhile the patrol is uneventful. No sign of the CTs (communist terrorists) and while crossing a wide open area (read dangerous) I move everyone into an on-line formation .

To my left I hear a thud and see a small puff of dust. One of my guys has fallen flat on his face in the open and be is “muttering” up a storm. I get everyone down and send my brainy African Platoon Sergeant Major Wilson (AKA Sergeant ”Willie”) over to investigate my fallen soldier who is still muttering something into the sand. A giggling Sgt. Major Wilson returns and reports that Private Dube is the fallen soldier.

“‘Why the hell are you laughing and what is Pvt. Dube muttering about?”‘ I demand.

‘You don’t want to know Sir” says Sgt. Wilson who is still giggling like a school girl but by now be has small tears in his eyes. Something is just too funny for words! I insist I want to know and he again insists I don’t. Finally I pull rank and demand the truth.

“Private Dube says you’re a shit doctor Sir!” Sgt Major Wilson blurts out but has to look away he is laughing so hard.

I organize a small patrol to escort a still muttering Pvt. Dube back to base camp. My patrol was ruined and Private Dube still had VD!

—from NHOWO April 2013

 

RAR-med

This pix IS significant. In this case a 33 yr old white Platoon Commander is sick with typhoid so sends out his African Plt. Sgt. to take over his 30 man platoon in his stead.

Sgt. Willy did a wonderful job of commanding my platoon for a six day patrol and here I am welcoming him back to camp and CONGRATULATING  him for running a good patrol.

Normal stuff in the Rhodesian African Rifles.  I got the typhoid by drinking  from a slimy green pool of water in Matibi II Tribal Trust Land. None of the Africans with me got sick from drinking from the same 12 foot diameter pool in the middle of the night.

This was my only illness. I was sidelined for only about 10 days.

PS—A girlfriend of mine, Di Cameron of Salisbury, Rhodesia, designed the camouflage Sgt. Willy & I are wearing. She was a print designer with David Whitehead Textiles.

Rhodesia

The Women of Rhodesia

Written by COLUMBUS SMITH

Rhodesia. Tiny country under communist siege 1963-’79. Every male in uniform. Regulars like me served year round (42 days in bush, 10 day R & R cycle) but even reservists served fully six months a year “in the bush” hunting CTs as we called them. Communist Terrorists (CTs) armed & trained by either the Red Chinese OR the USSR.

All the women (like the gal below) took their own role as “troop morale boosters” very seriously. Some took their troop booster role a little too seriously and would occasionally forget they were married or engaged.

If I have any criticism of Rhodesian Women it isn’t that they couldn’t always connect MY NAME –to me– but their very bad timing when they shouted out some other guy’s name.

Rhodesia troups women
Circa 1975-Dec 1979. Note ubiquitous FN 7.62 mm NATO rifle (.308) (Photo from the Photo Archives of Andrew Young on Facebook.) This gal is seeing her guy off…to the Sharp End. She is wearing a print dress made at the nearby David Whitehead Textile plant which also produced the Rhodesian Camouflage uniforms the men in the truck are wearing. Note the lady is holding the very heavy —just cleaned— “FN” just a little bit away from her clean dress. She doesn’t want it spotted with gun oil.

These women were gorgeous, or so they seemed at the time. They were shampooed, lipsticked, perfumed and wore pretty dresses. Women’s lib was never mentioned the entire time I was there (37 months… age 33 to 36.)

Hard to imagine that there was (is) anything a Colonial Woman couldn’t get from a man. Shrinking violets they weren’t/aren’t to this day. They hunted alone and most often around Salisbury’s main rail station.

One effective hunting tactic used was to dab at their eyes with a flowered handkerchief as one train pulled away from the station, full of troops bound for the front. Just as THAT train left another was rolling into the station full of very appreciative (but chivalrous) males arriving for their 10 days of R & R after weeks “in the bush.”

The sight of a distraught woman weeping on a rail platform of course overwhelmed me. It activated every ounce of chivalry (?) in me and had the same effect on almost every soldier who spilled out of the trains.

But as I look back on it I don’t actually recall ever seeing either a wet eye or a wet handkerchief (used for dabbing at imaginary tears.) But these grieving ladies would permit themselves to be comforted, walked home, and the ritual of forgetting male names, and then recalling the wrong one —at just the wrong time— began.

My cycle of life was idyllic. 42 exciting days hunting bad guys… followed by 10 days of R & R. 42 days plus 10 days R & R. 42 days plus ten days. Nothing was missing. Nothing.

But life can’t be that simple and satisfying. But it was! A man. A woman. High risk and high excitement in the combat zone AND in the bedroom. Complete.

Salisbury76-magazine cover
Salisbury, Rhodesia, circa 1975. Women of Rhodesia…in uniform. From Chris Whitehead’s front cover of RHODESIANS WORLDWIDE

 

Rhodesia

African History on Edge

This is a story about the Mau Mau panga (Simi).

Written by COLUMBUS SMITH

The Mau Mau used it as writing instrument to record their history. Just read the blade. I wrote it in Jan 2008

While the rest of the world records history with fonts and film, in Africa the nicks and gouges along bloodstained pangas tell you exactly where steel met bone.

THIS Kenyan “simi” is a double edged killer of 25 inches and actually chopped up a pre-teen white male, after he was tortured by the Kikuyus during the Mau Mau Revolt 1953-57.) He was the cousin of Di Cameron who gave me this “simi” in 1978 in Salisbury, Rhodesia. It held terrible memories for her. After the murderers were tracked down and killed the army commander gave this “memento” to her family. She was happy to get rid of it.Joseph Columbus Smith & Simi

The Mau Mau Revolt was finally suppressed but convinced Britain to order all its African colonies to hand over the reins to the natives. “Winds of Change?” More like “Blades of Change.” The Kikuyus took over in 1963. Whites-including Di’s family-fled and some went to Rhodesia. Blades won.

Simi-edge

THIS blade may have killed many more in that uprising that took about 1800 lives (‘only’ 32 of them whites on remote farms. ) But a repeat of sorts is unfolding as we speak, with a death toll of over a thousand in Kenya since President Kibaki, a Kikuyu, nullified a very close election in December when it looked like his opponent was winning. A quarter million of the 26 million Kenyans have been displaced by the tribal violence. While the Kikuyus make up but 22% of the population they dominate politics and commerce.

Simi-edge

I wish a forensic pathologist could take a close look at this blade that seems to have been made from an auto leaf spring. There must be experts who can take a look and determine what caused a nick here or slight rolled edge there. Experts out of Rwanda, Congo, and Sierra Leone……. who can read African history without a book.

Jos. Columbus Smith
Portland

Ps. Di Cameron is the designer of Rhodesian Army camouflage. She was a fabric print designer with David Whitehead Textiles in Salisbury.

“Every week I would paint patterns on canvass and drive them over to army headquarters where the generals would look at them. Finally, one week, they said they liked one of my patterns and that became the camouflage.”

I wore that camouflage for 37 months in the The Rhodesian Army. We had only ONE camouflage. Although we had a dry and wet season we simply used our old and faded uniforms for the dry season.

Rhodesia

The Last Adventurer

Written by Journalist Anthony C. LoBaido
Excerpted from: The Last Adventurer

Among these “Amerikaners” was J. Columbus Smith. The son of an Air Force pilot and a first class military brat, Smith earned a journalism degree from Sam Houston State in Texas. He served in the U.S. Army and qualified for the Special Forces. Because of his journalism background, he was appointed public information officer for all the Green Berets in Vietnam.
Read more…

Rhodesia

NY Times Article – Rhodesia

NY-Times-Rhodesia

Texan in the Rhodesian Army Says He Fights for Love, Not Money

Written by CAREY WINFREY  Special to The New York Times September 2, 1979

MAGUNGE, Zimbabwe Rhodesia, Aug.30 -When Prime Minister Abel T. Muzorewa stepped off a helicopter here this morning to be briefed on guerrilla activity in this remote northern tribal area, the first person to greet him was Joseph Columbus Smith, of San Antonio, Tex.

Today, as captain Smith, he wears the green beret of the Rhodesian African Rifles. A decade ago, as Lieutenant Smith, he wore the green beret of the United States Special Forces on duty in Vietnam.

Captain Smith is one of about 150 Americans who have brought their zest for battle to Zimbabwe Rhodesia and serve in the Government’s security forces in ranks ranging from private to major.

“I need excitement,” Captain Smith told reporters clustered around him as Bishop Muzorewa campaigned for an am­nesty program for the guerrillas. “I can’t have a non-exciting, normal life any more.”

Disenchanted With Journalism

lt was disenchantment with a career in journalism that put the son of a United States Air Force colonel back in camou­flage fatigues. After his release from the army in 1969, Mr.Smith said he became a reporter on consumer affairs for The Dayton (Ohio) Daily News. He later worked for a public television station in Washington. D.C.

But three years ago, when editors in the United States rejected a series of freelance articles he had written that were sympathetic to Rhodesia, he traded his typewriter for a .357 Magnum pistol and returned here to fight.

After presentation of his service records and an interview, Mr.Smith was given a three-year contract and the rank of lieutenant in the Rhodesian Army. Promoted to captain last year at the age of 34, he is now second in command of an infantry company of 200, the majority of whom are black.” It’s a fun army, an enthusiastic army,” he said in an amiable monotone.”It’s fun to be in. There’s a lot less waste than in Vietnam.”

Though he now calls the Vietnam War “a terrible mistake,” he finds some analogies between that conflict and the seven years of fighting here. The main similarities, he says, “are the sheer ruthless tactics, the coercive tactics” of the guerrillas.

Strong Sense of Nationalism

Captain Smith also finds a stronger sense of nationalism in Zimbabwe Rhodesia than he noted in Vietnam, a spirit he says be shares. “To help this country go to majority rule was one or the big thrills of my lifetime,” he said, describing him­ self as a “sucker for history .”

“The way I see it this is the only real experiment in democracy on the African. continent and the way the rest of the world demurs just brings tears or rage and frustration to my eyes.”

He worries that unless the world’s attitude changes, the cause he believes in may be lost. “It’s a numbers game,” he said. “The other side has the manpower. A thousand Europeans are leaving the country each month. It’s a game of attrition.”

It is a “game” that Captain Smith says he plays for love, not money. Like most foreign nationals fighting here, he bristles at any mention of the word mercenary.

“That term just grates you,” he said. “That really sticks in the craw of the Yanks over here.”

“In the first place,” he said, his voice rising for the first time in the interview, “foreigners form no special units but are integrated into the regular army. And out of 150 Americans here, I don’t know more than a dozen.”

He also points out that be is paid no more than any other army captain, about $900 a month. And because he is paid in Rhodesian dollars, which cannot be legally converted within the country andare worthless outside it. Captain Smith calls himself an “economic prisoner”.

Other foreign combatants echo his rejection of mercenary motives and his love of excitement .

“You’re absolutely terrified when people shoot at you,” said Arthur Nulty, a former chemist from England, “but nothing else has the zing of combat.”

Sgt. Hugh McCall, who grew up in lower Manhattan, described killing a man in combat as “the most exciting thing in the world.”

“There’s nothing else like it,” he told a reporter here recently. “The feeling you get when you come out of a contact – well, you bet your own life and you know It. You know you’re betting your life.”

The last time out, Sergeant McCall lost his bet. He was killed last month in an ambush, one of at least four Americans to die in this war.