Abyssinian Baboon Attack

Mountain track, Abyssinia

The next instalment of my grand-uncle's war memoirs.

Spring 1941

A few months after settling down to a very nice standard of living, weather lovely and cool, so different from the Sudan, peace was interrupted by the arrival of a regiment, the Argyl and Sutherland Highlanders.

They had been chased out of Greece and Crete with terrible losses, heavily outnumbered, and had been sent down to Asmara to rest and recuperate. Every time we met in bars or cafes, their only remarks were, “Where were you lot in Greece and Crete? We were on our own, no help from you lot. You bastards.”

Fights started left, right and centre and in the end the OC Troops decided that the RAF and the Army would only be allowed out on different days of the week. This went on for a couple of months until the situation eased.

The Squadron played the local football team in the Post Stadium. We had heard about the local team, the way they introduced themselves and entered the pitch and the Squadron were ready for them. They ran out onto the pitch in single file, along the halfway line to the centre circle, right around the centre circle, across the middle to turn and face the stand. At a given signal they all raised their right arms and clenched their fists to give the Fascist salute. Trumpets, bugles, raspberries, drums and clappers sounded, drowning their salute. Our lads were just knocking the ball in the other goal. We beat them 4-1.

One of the flights had an aircraft which force-landed on an emergency strip about 50 miles into Abyssinia. Once again we loaded up the open 3-tonner, with the Cpl and driver in the front and four of us sitting in the back. It must be said that the Italians were good colonisers. In a terribly mountainous country they had built smashing roads up the sides of mountains with precipitous drops. Every water course was ducted under the road carefully. Heavy transport consisted of huge diesel lorries with often two big trailers behind.

We had been climbing and descending for about three hours when, slowly climbing up the side of a huge mountain, a huge male baboon jumped down into the middle of the road. Then another, then another, until there were about eight. Huge, snarling, menacing creatures. By the time the wagon had stopped we were about ten yards away from them. They were making mock attacks of a couple of yards, then retreating, barking all the time, fangs showing.

Then the main tribe came off the mountain across the road and down into the valley. Dozens of them. Mothers with babies hanging underneath. Always there were at least half a dozen big males menacing us. Some would move on only to be replaced by other males.

“Back up,” we shouted from the open back of the wagon. This the driver did, freewheeling backwards down the road for another 10 yards or so. We had rifles, but if they decided to attack we would not have much chance to use them.

And so they all disappeared down over the edge into the valley. It was said they often used to raid the cultivated plantations in the valleys.

A complete plug change cured the problem on the sick Wellesley. A one night stay in a native's borrowed mud hut was sufficient and we were on our way back the following day after first seeing the aircraft airborne.