aka Col Ken Sington-Gorehammer Smith MC
King’s Own 37th Royal Colonial Imperial East African Northern Frontier Light Infantry
@ The Hyenas
Regimental Song
words by Col Smith, sung to tune of well-known Nkubu aria
‘Why I don’t play anywhere near an anthill at night.’
we’re at war
watch in awe
hit with paw
crush with jaw
eat you raw
Regimental Motto; mimi fisi, wewe chakula
East Africa was my theatre of operation, Abyssinia,
the Italians, in the 1930’s etc
Bloody good troops the Samburu. Loyal, poisoned arrows, you know that?
Turkana, Galla, they’re a wonderful bunch
Ah, those were the days, squinting along the barrel of the gun,
blasting the buggers of the rocks. And in a good cause. Good fun.
Forget what it was, but a good cause.
I can’t think offhand what it was for.
Ah yes, you’re on the ball, the Second World War.
What? Fascism? Thought that was the Russians. Of course, silly of me.
Our policy was to bang, in the arm, any officer or NCO
who hadn’t fled back to HQ
making them wary about having another go.
Nothing that serious, gentleman’s war.
Their men then usually ran away,
probably fed up with damn spaghetti everyday.
They should stick to what they do well, fashion, riding scooters etc It’s not right
to fight a war on Giuseppe’s ice-cream and a scratching recording of Caruso at night.
Imagine what it does for morale; no wonder they got kicked out.
The local chaps camouflage well, among rocks, scrub and tree,
Europeans were a dead give away. Often quite literally.
Wonderful sense of humour, the East Africans, always laughing.
One old fellow had his cows stolen, so he went after the rustlers and killed them,
ten or fifteen, I think it was, spearing, bow and arrow, absolute mayhem.
Caught by the Police,
he went in front of the judge, and in defence,
asked for a light sentence, why...a first offence.
You, in the Far East? Huh, your time there was a breeze.
What fighting was there, one or two scraps at most,
until the Japanese dropped in on the Malayan coast,
and, be honest, old chap,
it wasn’t exactly a very long drawn-out theatre of war,
a couple of months after they landed, you had the fall of Singapore.
Nasty business, but Percival wasn’t to blame.
Fault lay with the bloody politicians in London.
I thought you had coolies doing all the work for you
with your Asian mistresses fanning you with a banana leaf too.
Alright, palm leaf. But you had a mistress? Really, part Dutch?
I always had the impression they didn’t mix that much.
Compare the Portuguese, Africa, Goa, Malacca, and Macau.
Four hundred plus years, some of them speak Portuguese now.
I thought Asian women spent their time in the house cooking rice
and whatever else they eat, noodles, I mean, life was pretty nice.
African women,
on the other hand, out with panga, jembi, hot sun, with the men,
eye open for some marauding cheetah
or whatever; at sunset, had to get the meal then.
I used to admire those women,
baby on back, hard manual work from dawn to dusk; the most energy your Asian women use is sitting on the floor taking off a coconut husk,
or pounding ginger in a pestle and mortar,
or hand on hip, stirring the curry.
Come on, be honest; in the films you see, they don’t give you
the impression of being in much of a hurry.
They sit outside the house chatting the whole day on the topmost stair,
playing with hibiscus petals, brushing their bloody hair.
No, the Far East, I’m afraid, seems rather tame.
In Africa, maize, yams, and your own wild game.
What did you do for dinner?
Lounge in bamboo chairs, clap hands for a whiskey, waiting for the bell to ring.
In East Africa, if you wanted to eat, you found a guinea fowl and then shot the thing.
Are you serious? Frankly, that’s rather daft.
Four thousand feet up in the Highlands, there certainly is a draught.
What did you put up with?
No wild animals, foliage, rain to cool you, no sandstorms leaving you choking.
Rubbish. How often did you see a bloody tiger? What, everyday? You’re joking.
I’m sorry, don’t get it. Oh, on the side of the can.
Good stuff in East Africa, too, Tusker and Whitecap.
After a good day’s fighting, ate dinner, then the perfect nightcap,
Come on, time for lunch, let’s pop in here for a drink.
Iced lemon tea for you. I imagine. Mineral water for me, I think.
No doubt you want Indian or Chinese;
a couscous with chicken, potatoes and carrots for me,
then oranges, dates, wash it down with a pot of mint tea.
Of course it’s African cuisine; not everyone munching yam.
Any, er, Kenyan restaurant in town?
No, thought not, bit of a rarity round here;
might have to settle for soggy fish and chips, I fear.
The Land of Hope and Glory; what a joke.
