Dear Sir,
The
recent WW1 Tsavo trip ably conducted by James Willson author of ‘Guerillas of
Tsavo’ awakened in me memories of WW2, less than 25 years after ‘the war to end all wars’. It dragged me back to that time of fear, cold
sweating numbing fear, as I lived through the blitz. Even to this day, I recall
the stomach curdling sound of the sirens warning us of an impending air raid. Some
years later, I was a twelve-year old sitting in the cinema on a Saturday morning
waiting to see the next episode of Zorro. The Pathé newsreel came on and I first
saw scenes of death, naked dead bodies piled high like so much debris, even the
last remnant of their modesty stripped from them. The living dead walked hesitantly, as if from another world; zombie-like figures staring at the American soldiers who had come to free them.
These
and many more images were conjured up as we travelled through that now peaceful
countryside in Taita-Taveta once the site of so much death and destruction.
Standing in a cemetery and there were many, I was conscious of the bodies lying
beneath the serried rows of identical head stones distinguished only by their
name, rank and company; young lives never fulfilled, never to feel again the
sweet breeze through their hair or see the smile on their children’s faces. The
sadness of the places touched me deeply.
In
retracing the path around the Mashoti Fort now overgrown and almost
unrecognizable by the passage of time, I tried to imagine the heat, the insects,
the discomfort and the fatigue that was the life of the soldiers most of whom
would never lived to enjoy the freedoms they had fought for.
And
finally the debacle at Salaita hill reminded me if I needed a reminder of the futility
of war.
The Editor, Old Africa,
1st September 2104
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