Life has become dangerous for us all, thanks entirely to the Jews. They’ve put us, the living, into deadly danger. Millions of others haven’t been so lucky, because they’re already dead. Dead at the hands of Jewish Capitalism and Jewish Communism. Dead at the hands of the Bush family war machine. Millions of Bush victims since 1991, not to mention the Wilson, Roosevelt/Truman, Eisenhower, Johnson and Nixon dead. Mass murder always has behind it a Jewish purpose. Mass murder is good for the Jews.
The hopeful changeling now admits there is a star chamber, a death panel, operating in the White House, that decides which Americans can and should be assassinated.
We’re pretty sure that we’re on a list. The Jews have been making their lists and checking them twice. Everyone’s naughty and nobody’s nice. The big wipeout, the population reduction down to 500 million, is the only way that the Jews can think of to remove all opposition. Even if they could realize that impossible dream, they’d keep killing the survivors because that’s all they know to do. They can’t build anything other than A-bombs and plagues. They can’t do a lick of work and they’ll kill you if you do. They are the destroyers.
Anyway, the reader may be curious as to how someone could get to the point at which he seems to cultivate danger. In this writer’s case, it was automatic and started way back.
My parents put me horseback before I could walk. A professional polo player from Texas, Billy Skidmore, gave me my first horse, a very fast Thorobred mare called Chocolate Drop, when I was nine. I rode her bareback for three years because it was too hard to get a saddle on her, small as I was. Naturally this led to a lot of wrecks until my legs got strong and I could avoid getting my nuts crushed in a hard stop. Three years of that kind of riding will turn you into an honorary Comanche.
By the time I was twelve, horse people in Oakbrook wanted me to ride for them. They needed a boy because most riders were girls. An honorary Comanche was needed. A famous trainer named Hugh Gentry, who’d won the National Horse Show in New York, decided he’d train me for the US Equestrian Team. I underwent his tutelage in the art of jumping over fences and other obstacles. He put me on progressively more powerful horses and eventually one of them was too much for my young hands to control. She ran off with me, high-centered on a big jump from the wrong direction and I came off and got hung up and dragged. She kicked me in the head and about killed me. Compound skull fracture and messed up my left profile. This sort of thing is the downside of horses, which I would explore time and time again.
This was my excuse to get into something safer, like polo and eventually rodeoing. I was never comfortable jumping big Thorobreds anyway, getting them lined up and timing the jump-off point. My parents hadn’t counted on me nearly croaking, also. Nearly but not quite croaking became a specialty as I got older.
As dangerous as guns are in the wrong hands, that was never a problem for me because of hard-core safety training since age seven. I started carrying either a .38 or a .45 at age nine and have never dropped a gun or had an accidental discharge. Guns are a necessity for us all, if we haven’t all figured that out yet. Gun safety, though, must be part of our DNA. And once we are safe, we need to be carrying protection all the time. I don’t believe in concealed carry permits. We don’t need no stinkin’ permits because for one thing, the cops know you’re packing. They can drill you and say, well, we knew he was packing because his permit’s on record. We don’t require permission to take care of ourselves. We don’t just need a gun at home, where it’s “legal.” We also need it on the road or in a store or wherever. If your life’s worth protecting part of the time, it’s worth protecting all the time, as my friend Louis Beam once said to me. It’s the American way, about the only decent part of it.
Throughout high school in California I spent my spare time working on a cattle ranch in Carmel Valley and rodeoing when possible as a roper and pickup man, which is definitely the most fun thing to do in a rodeo. Not the most dangerous thing usually but it can get interesting. Bull riding is the most insanely dangerous thing in the world but the broncs can do a number on you, too.
I spent most of my high school years dealing with bullies and gangs, first in Los Altos and then Carmel. I’d won my weight division in boxing at Los Altos and this came in handy in Carmel. High school for me was like going to jail every day. I fought like a tiger and finally eliminated all opposition by my junior year. The best one, the one that set a pattern for me, started when one of the gang members grabbed my glasses as I got off the bus, another one stepped on them and the first one took a swing at me. They didn’t know about Los Altos. The fight was a good one, lasting twenty minutes or so. The one guy hemorrhaged and had to go to the hospital. The rest didn’t like the sight of blood and lost interest. No more gang problems. I should have done it a year or so earlier.
This set the pattern for my life, dealing quickly with intimidation. The teachers, counselors and administrators were all useless cowards. The only way to get along is to be willing to fight at the drop of a hat, once you know that talking and trying to avoid trouble is getting you nowhere.
In 1964 I discovered fast cars but since I was only eighteen and wanted to go road-racing in European-type single-seaters, this was not possible to do in the US, which required the driver to be twenty-one. And there was the matter of the draft, so like an idiot, I volunteered for the army. At the induction center in Oakland the doctors didn’t like the look of my knee, which had had two surgeries for a football injury. And it would have one more a year later. They told me to go home, which didn’t break my heart, since I’d figured that Vietnam would be another pointless slaughterhouse like Korea. I didn’t realize what a slaughterhouse it would actually be.
So I sold my ’55 Austin-Healy, which I had managed to spin out in the rain a couple of scary times and not get killed and bought a round-trip ticket to Melbourne, Australia. It just seemed like a good idea at the time and turned out to be a very good idea, since there was a motor racing school, the Birchwood School of Motor Racing, in Melbourne run by a transplanted Englishman named Jon Leighton. He used some very neat Lotus 18s for training and one of Jack Brabham’s world championship Cooper F-1 cars. I spent half of 1965 learning the limits of these fragile little death traps. It turned out that I had some talent for this sort of thing. Jon said that I needed to go to England where the serious formula racing was.
So I did eventually. My new wife and I spent some time down in Mexico City in ’66, where I was supposed to go to college at the University of the Americas. But we’d had to sneak in the country illegally because of a bond requirement on our new VW Microbus placed on all students. I mentioned the names of some famous Mexican polo players from Hermosillo that I’d known growing up and bribed a couple of Mexican bureaucrats to give us tourist visas after our passports had been confiscated for four days by the head of Sonora immigration. All seemed fine until the university asked for my bond number? We wasted no time escaping a Mexican jail.
By December, ’66 we were in London and I did some more training and eventually racing. At one race at Brands Hatch, which was the world’s first one for Colin Chapman’s new idea called Formula Ford, I’d lent my Lotus 51 to Ed Marriage to qualify. He spun it and broke a brake line, which wasn’t noticed by my mechanic until I was on the starting grid. He said he’d just stand here and maybe the scrutineer wouldn’t notice the puddle of brake fluid forming under the rear end. And we were off. I was outbraking the leader going into Druids when the brakes disappeared at about eighty. I shot by the leader and into a flag marshal and then into the earth bank. No seatbelts in those days. This was the same place that the son of my hero John Surtees was killed just a few years ago. The marshal survived and so did I. But I got to thinking, this is just fun and games. Maybe it’s time to grow up and so something meaningful.
We returned to the US and I enrolled at the University of Nevada at Reno. I’d been learning about Communism while in England, reading everything I could grab, and when several of my new professors started spouting off with familiar nonsense that I’d picked up in England, I decided to investigate. I got with the new Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and eventually became the secretary of our local group. I observed how the Communist professors manipulated the trusting students and conditioned them in subversion. It was mostly racial in those days. For example, we would be told to go to an apartment house and ask about the rent. The landlord would show us an apartment. Then we’d send in a black student and try to get the landlord to deny him a place. It never worked, but that was the typical way SDS would try to create race problems.
A really nasty professor from Europe figured out that I was not a genuine subversive and he said that he’d get some black thugs from Oakland to come up to Reno and deal with me. I figured it was time to do something else and I relapsed back into the racing world, starting the School of Slide Control in conjunction with the University of Nevada, which provided me with the land for my school. I was able to take much of the danger out of driving in high-speed and/or bad conditions. Growing up in the ‘50s, car crashes scared me quite a bit and there is no more useless way to lose your life. I was able to take the mystery out of sideways driving for young and old, experienced or not, but there was not sufficient demand for such knowledge and the school closed after a year. Too bad, because I’d negotiated a discount for my students with AAA.
Within a few months, I was sent to British Honduras, South Africa and Rhodesia to discuss with those governments the new country project. Mike Oliver of Carson City had written a book called A New Constitution for a New Country and had several thousand productive people who were willing to put up money and relocate to get away from the IRS and similar agencies in their respective countries. The new country would be based on no income taxes and no draft. The idea was to promote production and liberty. The government of British Honduras (Belize today) was quite willing to give us one hundred square miles but wanted us to build a highway from Belize City to Belmopan, fifty miles inland. This was too expensive. So I went to Johannesburg to meet with Dr. Nico Diederichs, the South African minister of finance. Our meeting was sabotaged by his secretary, Mr. Conradie. So I went up to Salisbury to meet with the minister of internal affairs, Jack Howman.
Howman said he’d looked over our proposal and it was too bad for us that his predecessor, Lord Graham, was not still in office as he would have favored it. But, he said, “Change has come to Rhodesia.” I said quickly, “By change, do you refer to international socialism?” He stared back at me. He finally said, “We could never exempt any group from taxation and conscription.”
The project was a failure but I discovered that a war was starting in Rhodesia. It seemed a wonderful way of life there, ex-colonial and romantic as hell. I bought a new book called The Silent War and studied it when back in the US.
We settled in Houston, where we’d left the Jeep after driving back from Central America. I got a job building a bridge downtown and enrolled in the Commercial Diving Center. Six months later I started out as a rigger with Continental Divers in Louisiana. On one offshore job setting risers on a production platform about fifty miles out in the Gulf, the sea got too rough and we were stuck on the platform. We riggers got the crane operator to dangle us over the work boat to let it get under us so we could get aboard. But as we hung over the rough sea with the work boat trying to get under us, the head rigger pulled a knife on me in the close confines of the ring basket, asked me if I was afraid to die and stabbed it into my cork life vest. We finally got back on the boat and I went below. The head rigger had mistimed his departure from the basket in the rough seas and sprained his ankle. I reappeared with my new Randall Model 1 knife with an eight-inch blade, tapped him on the shoulder and rammed it into his life vest when he turned around, penetrating it somewhat. I asked him if he was afraid to die? I had no more problems with him.
Soon, J&J Marine Divers in Pasadena, Texas hired me as a diver. One day, the owner, John Galetti, entered the divers’ area and eyed us. Settling on me, he said, “Campbell, you’re a SCUBA diver, aren’t you.” I said, “No, sir.” None of us would admit to such a thing, since we very much liked having an air hose pumping us air from the surface. The big fear was getting trapped and running out of air. “Whaddya mean? You went to diving school, didn’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “They teach you how to SCUBA dive?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. You got a job in the morning. Go upstairs and find some doubles and charge ‘em up. Be at the dock at the Ship Channel at five in the morning. An attorney from Rice University will meet you there.”
So I did. The attorney and his crew loaded me on a little Chris-Craft and we headed down the channel toward Galveston. We cruised for several miles and then dumped a metal detector over the side on a long cable. We pulled it around for an hour until there was an indication on the instruments that we’d found a sunken barge. The attorney finally said, “Okay, last year a ship hit a barge, which sank here in the channel. We’ve got to locate it and eventually bring it up. The channel has to be dredged once a year to keep it fifty feet deep for the big ships. If the dredge hits the barge down there, it’ll wreck it, big lawsuit, so go down there and find it.”
Over I went, following my line down to a concrete weight I’d thrown in first. When I got down into the black depths, I started feeling around in the mud and then started a circular search pattern around my weight, increasing the length of the tether. Then I’d pick up the weight and move it and repeat the circular pattern. The attorney and the others could see where I was by the empty bleach bottle tied to my line.
I didn’t find the barge. I found an oil drum, the only metal down there. I explored a little and found both walls of the channel. I went up and got another set of tanks and went back down. At some point, I started hearing a banging noise over the sound of the regulator bubbles.
As I pushed my hands down into the mud, feeling for the barge, I finally realized the banging sound was a ship’s engines. A ship was coming. I was in the Houston Ship Channel. It was getting so loud that my head was throbbing. What to do? I couldn’t surface or I’d be hit. I couldn’t sneak up one side because the ships caromed off them like toboggans rather than steer. How deep was I? How much space between me and the hull? I thought back to diving school and the plimsoll lines on the sides of ships. What do they draw when loaded? About thirty-five feet. And the ship channel is fifty feet deep. That’s not bad. Wait – the channel’s filled up with silt and mud and has to be dredged every year. It’s probably got ten feet of mud in it. That’s five feet between me and the hull, if I’m lucky!
So I started digging my way down in the mud, trying to cover myself up. I lay there like a flounder. Then I remembered the bleach bottle, the line to the weight and the line to my wrist. If it got in the props, it would reel me in like a fish. I tried to get it off my wrist but couldn’t tell with all the mud.
The hull passed over me, the pressure wave pushing me farther down in the muck. It seemed to take forever and I hoped I wouldn’t be sucked into the huge props as they went overhead. The ship passed and the propwash lifted me out of the mud and violently head over heels, ripping off my face mask, but I still had the regulator between my teeth. I dropped the weight belt and made my way to the surface.
The stern of the Japanese supertanker still seemed directly overhead, it was so huge. It was very low in the water, all the plimsoll lines submerged. As I bobbed around in the wake, I looked for the Chris-Craft, which I finally saw over by the shore. They’d gotten out of the way, of course. I waved but they took their time coming over, waiting until it was safe.
I clambered up the ladder and dropped the tanks on the deck. I looked at the lawyer. “Why didn’t you tell me that ship was coming? It ran right over me.”
He said, “Well, you were so far down there, I never thought you’d notice.”
No more barge hunting that day.
Oilfield diving eventually became too dangerous even for me. If the water and pressure and equipment didn’t get you, the riggers would, since they thought we were making too much money anyway. Or decompression sickness. Saturation diving required maybe a week in the deck decompression chamber and that gets old. So I headed back out west to work on a big cattle ranch in California.
When I got there the owner, Captain Robert N. Miller, said the only thing he had for me was the deer hunter job. I told him I wasn’t a hunter. He shrugged and said that’s all he had. These ranchers were growing a lot of alfalfa but there were about a thousand mule deer that had been chowing down on it. So they wanted me to take them out. I tried scaring them away with a surplus air raid siren. No luck. I started shooting the old ones and cripples. No dice. They kept eating.
One game warden was realistic about it. I was on a depredation permit which allowed spotlighting at night time. He told me to dress them out and he’d come collect them for the state mental hospital at Atascadero. So I did, but when he came to get the ones I’d shot and dressed, he said the meat was too green from all the alfalfa.
His relief, however, thought I was a very bad man and he was determined to arrest me, prosecute me and put me in jail. He tried several times to catch me and finally one night saw that I’d gotten a doe with a .45 automatic. I didn’t know it’s illegal in California to hunt deer with a handgun.
A visitor to the ranch was the former director of California’s Fish and Game Department, Nick Carty. Captain Miller told me to take him and find him a big buck, which I did. I asked Mr. Carty if he could get my Colt pistol back but he said he couldn’t. Nevertheless, a few days later I got a call at the ranch from the courthouse and the gal said to come get the gun.
Now, I was hunting mostly at night but during the day I was putting cattle guards where the gates were, digging precision rectangular holes with a back hoe for the cattle guards which were made from railroad steel. The holes were about three feet deep. I left the holes open for placing the guards later.
One of the Cat drivers, an old guy named Merle, kept pestering me to take him hunting. I said I was the only one on the permit but he kept at it and I finally said, okay. That night he accompanied me to one of the fields that had several hundred deer in it. I stayed in my Jeep and shone the spotlight on one, which he nailed with his old surplus Jap army rifle. Up roared the relief game warden with his lights off. He yelled, “Good evening, Mr. Campbell!” as he pulled next to me. “Who’s that out there?” Merle dropped down in the alfalfa and disappeared. I could see it wiggling as he scrambled away on all fours. The game warden gassed it, trying to catch Merle. I took off toward the bunk house, about ten miles away on a different part of this forty-thousand acre ranch. The warden couldn’t find Merle so he started after me. I sped up when I saw him coming and was leaving quite a dust cloud behind me. His cruiser had a lot more power and he caught up but visibility was bad.
You know what happened. I got to one of the gates, which I’d left open, and swerved to go around the gaping cattle guard hole with no cattle guard in it. The game warden couldn’t see well enough to figure what I’d done and he kept going straight at the gate. It was Dukes of Hazard. He planted his car in the hole in a very sudden stop, tearing out the whole front end. That was the last we saw of that or any game warden ever again. I heard he went through the windshield, but only part way.
All this killing and fooling with the man got me in the mood to go back to Africa. The hundreds of deer I’d killed were just trying to make a living but there were some mean boogers over there that really needed killing. I began to correspond with the Rhodesian Army and they thought I fit the bill for officer training. As I was getting ready to go, though, I got a telegram saying that I would be over the 25 year age limit when the officer training program started in January, ’73. I went anyway and appealed the ruling and was turned down. So I joined the British South Africa Police.
I joined with the promise that I would join Support Unit after six months in Uniform Branch, which I spent in Bindura and Mt. Darwin, Rhodesia, which today is known as Zimbabwe. Rhodesia when the whites were in charge, Zimbabwe now that the blacks are in charge. Rhodesia was paradise, Zimbabwe is hell.
I had radio duty one night in Mt. Darwin and my job was to take situation reports from the eighty or so white farmers in the area, every hour. They would identify themselves with “Sitrep nil,” or maybe say they heard gunfire close by, or whatever. At some point one of the Greeks in the village called to say that an African was pissing in his drive. Paris owned the gas station. I said I’d come down if I had a chance. But then one of the farmers called in to say there was gunfire in his labor compound. I called the big boss, Ron Dick, who was Officer Commanding Mashonaland Province. He was in charge of everything. I briefed him on the farm and the report. He got on the SSB and spoke with the farmer and told him the army was on the way, since I’d already notified them. Their camp was next to the police camp.
As Chief Superintendent Dick was speaking with the farmer, Paris came in the radio room. “So what are you going to do about this drunk kaffir?” Ron Dick looked at him. I explained the situation. The boss was not impressed and turned back to his radio conversation. “Oh, and he says he’s a copper!”
Ron Dick heard that and said to me, “Well, Campbell – go get him.”
I jumped up and headed for the motor pool to get a Land Rover pickup. I should have taken a half-dozen African constables with me as it turned out but it was past midnight and I couldn’t find any. So I went alone.
I drove over the hill into the village of Mt. Darwin and pulled in to Paris’ gas station. There was a white Land Rover, which should have tipped me off. A very big African was peeking around the back of it so I got out and approached, saying, “Hey, who are you?” He yelled at me to get away. He yelled that he would beat me up if I came closer. I told him to identify himself. He yelled, “I am Detective Sergeant Koronel! And you fuck off, you white one-bar PO shit!” I didn’t care for his language, especially the white part.
“Come on out and show yourself.”
“If I come out, I fuck you up!”
“Well, come on!”
He strode out toward me, brandishing fists as big as hams. I pulled my Colt .45, not pointing it at him, but off to the side so he could see it. “Ah! A pistol! You shoot-ee me?”
“Naw. Just get in the truck.”
“You no shoot-ee me?”
“Then I fuck you up!” With that he went for my head with a big fist. I slammed the Colt into the side of his head and he dropped like a stone. The Greeks around Paris cheered. After a minute, Koronel woke up, got to his knees and said, “Now I really fuck you up.” So I swung again and again he went to sleep. The second time he woke up and tried going away on all fours so I brought it down for the third time on his bloody head and he was down for the count. When he again awoke, he got up, dusted himself off and got in the back of my pickup.
I was brought up on charges by my boss. Koronel said he was going to kill me and the whole thing was brought before the boss of bosses, Ron Dick. He clucked sympathetically at Koronel’s seething version and my boss’s demand that I be sent to jail. But he told them that his orders were for PO Campbell to bring Koronel in and this the patrol officer had done. Case dismissed.
My boss was beside himself with rage. Dave Parry, the member-in-charge of police at Mt. Darwin, was infamous for getting his enemies killed. He’d sent three guys from Internal Affairs into Chesa tribal trust land to fetch their tents after leaving hurriedly due to terrorist activity. Bob Bland, Denis Sanderson and Jerry Hawkesworth were ambushed at the camp, the first two shot dead. Hawkesworth was wounded and force-marched all the way to Tanzania, finally released a year later. Sanderson had gravely insulted Parry by suggesting the tall grass in front of the police camp be mowed, as it could hide a terrorist attack. Problem was, an attack happened as soon as the sun went down. So Parry got even with him.
Parry stopped me in the hallway and said, “Campbell, you insubordinate bastard! You’re going to finish your farm patrol on a motorcycle! And I don’t want you taking that bloody .45 with you!” This was also a death sentence, since the boys in the bush could hear our Yamaha police bikes coming quite a ways and knew we were unable to defend ourselves with both hands on the handlebars. No cop had ridden a motorcycle around there for over a year. But I did it. I did, on the way back from Eric Fletcher’s farm, encounter a log across the road at high speed and laid the bike down. I’d swiped an Uzi from Parry’s gun safe and it was slung around my neck as I crawled off the dirt road into the weeds. I of course also had the Colt automatic in a shoulder holster. The boys had probably gotten bored waiting for me, or could see that I was ready to return fire, but there was no ambush that evening. This affair resulted in Ron Dick’s transferring Dave Parry to duty in Salisbury where he could order no one else to death.
On another evening, long after bedtime, I was awakened by a police reservist and summoned to the radio room. Superintendent Ron Saul told me there had been a double farm attack and I was to lead the army squad to the first one, at Ralph and Cynthia Edward’s place. A terror gang had left notes threatening a dual attack on the Edwards and on my friends Gerry and Pam Arnott and I called them on the party line before heading out with the army.
We got to the Edwards place while the attack was still going on and made our way in with me calling to Ralph not to shoot us as well. The army lieutenant had us go on foot after the cattle guard to avoid detonating a landmine with our big truck. We found notes inviting us to follow the ters, which we declined to do in the dark. We’d wait until the tracker dogs arrived at dawn. At dawn, two CID cops drove in even though the drive hadn’t been cleared of mines. One was found later and these two cops were lucky not to have been blown up. They collected terrorist cartridge casings for future prosecutions and told me that I was to take them to the second farm, that belonging to Dick and Ann Faasen. When we got there, I said this is it, but has the road been cleared? The terrorists would typically plant a Soviet or Chinese tank mine in the drive before their attack, and when the good guys came to the rescue, they’d get blown up. Detective Ted Painting said the engineers had cleared it, the army’s down at the house. Okay, let’s go in.
When you drive on dirt roads in terrorist areas, you tend to become obsessed with the appearance of the road, swerving around suspect spots that could well be where a mine was planted and covered up. On our way in, in a long right-hand bend, I thought I saw such a spot. I was jammed in the back with a half-dozen African witnesses from the Edwards attack, my rifle clamped between my knees as I looked up the road between Ted and Doug Jones, the driver. I watched the spot disappear under the hood, right about where the left front tire should run over it.
The noise was what you’d expect from twelve and a half pounds of TNT. The scene through the windscreen raised up to the sky and rotated about ninety degrees and then went black. When I awoke, I was alone. The African witnesses were gone. The Land Rover was on its side. I picked myself up and grabbed my rifle and tried making my way out. I looked down at the spongy thing I was stepping on and it was Ted Painting, now covered in dirt and gasoline from the gushing tank under his seat.
I got out and found Doug, who was just standing there, holding his chest with both arms. “Ribs are broke,” he said. I said, “Doug – Ted’s in there and there’s petrol all over him.” We bent down and grabbed hold of the roof rack and with some superhuman weird strength pulled the Land Rover back upright. I looked at Doug to congratulate him but he was gone! How could that be?
Ted was now exposed and I knelt down with him. As he was wearing shorts I could see that his left leg was broken, but it was still attached. Our main fear with landmines was losing our legs. He lay there on his stomach and opened one eye. “My back hurts and I can’t feel my leg.” “Yeah, Ted. You’ve got a broken leg but that’s all it is. You’re leg’s still there.”
“I need to look.”
“Well, if your back hurts, you don’t want to twist around now.”
“You wouldn’t fool me, would you?”
“Okay, go ahead and look.” He stretched and peered back down his leg.
Just then, Doug reappeared. He came around the front of the wreck, dusting himself off. “I don’t mind gettin’ blown up but that was ridiculous.”
“Where’d you go?”
“My coat got caught on the roof rack and took me over the top. Landed on my face.”
We put Ted on a helicopter and I wanted to go with him. But Doug and I still had to go down to Faasen’s house so he could investigate the attack. Ann had taken a bullet through her arm as she lay sleeping when the terrorists poured AK fire through the bedroom window. And her arm had been draped over her head. But there she was on the couch, chatting about it. I had a fat lip and my rifle muzzle had been jammed in my eye, Doug with broken ribs, Ann shot up. Quite a homey scene. I asked one of the army engineers how he could have missed that mine? These things happen.
Support Unit was my idea of living. We were about forty white guys and about three hundred African constables and their sergeants. We’d spend about half our six week patrols ambushing terrorists, the other half protecting cops such as Ted and Doug on their investigations of terrorist attacks. Never a dull moment. I did pull a six-week holiday tour at Vila Salazar, on the Mozambique border, guarding the top terrorist and forty-five of his senior commanders who’d been in detention for eight or nine years. That is, my men guarded them. I toured the Ghona-re-zouh game reserve in which the detention camp was situated. What a glorious place, with all the game animals of Africa in great numbers. Joshua Nkomo was the head of ZAPU, the Zimbabwe African People’s Union, supplied by the Soviet Union. The guys I was actually fighting up north were ZANU, the Zimbabwe African National Union, headed by Robert Mugabe and sponsored by the Chicoms. ZAPU operated in the southern part of the country. There’s plenty to be said about Nkomo, Mugabe and Ian Smith, but some other time.
The most dangerous thing that happened to me in Rhodesia was cerebral malaria. Regular malaria is bad enough but cerebral malaria is usually lethal. I’d neglected to take my quinine pills because they were so god-awful. It felt as if I had an ax buried in my skull and I lost over thirty pounds in three weeks of delirium and agony. The doctors in Salisbury, when I finally was taken there after two weeks in a tent in the Zambesi Valley, were surprised that I’d survived.
And then, Ian Smith declared a cease-fire. I’d seen that he’d been grooming Nkomo and Co for leadership at Vila Salazar, so I bought out the remainder of my three year contract and headed back to the US. I’d have stayed there forever, in my beloved Support Unit, if the plan had been to win.
End of Part 1