BLACK WARRIOR OF 1942

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXX, Issue 13630, 1 May 1942, Page 7

BLACK WARRIOR OF 1942

SERGEANT MUSA YOLA HAND GRENADES INSTEAD OF SPEARS FIXE FIGHTING UNITS IN WEST AFRICA This is a portrait of a Black Warrior of 194 2—a man who has learned to throw hand grenades instead of spears, and who will fight alongside British soldiers if war should come to West Africa, states Graham Stanford in a cablegram to the Overseas Daily Mail from a West African native training camp. Musa Yola, 20-year-old bush man —now a sergeant in his Majesty's Army—walked into my bungalow with a broad smile on his face and waving a piece of paper in his hand, "Sah," he said in his rich, full tones, "I have been given leave. Igo home to see my wife. It is very good." He might have been a sergeant in the British. Army, standing there in front of me. He had his annual month's leave; he had his railway voucher, which, would take him hundreds of miles through African bush and swamp-land to the village he left nearly two years ago to join the West African army; he had presents to take back to his wife, who was awaiting him. I knew Musa Yola fairly well. He was a good soldier —an N.C.O. of the type that is making our West African forces rank among the finest fighting units in the world. On Parade I have watched him on the parade ground introducing British Army discipline to natives who only a few weeks before had been running naked through the streets of villages in the heart of the African bush. "What Musa Yola do at home?" I asked. He grinned and showed his perfect teeth. "He see other boys of village. He wear his uniform very proud." I want to tell you the story of how Musa Yola came to wear the khaki shorts. It starts one day soon after the outbreak of war when a British officer, with two coloured sergeants and a doctor arrived at Musa Yola's village hundreds of miles up country. Musa Yola was as wild as they make them. He was the typical African bush-boy. The recruiting officer wanted so many boys. The chief called Musa Yola before him and asked whether he would like to become a soldier and wear the uniform of the two sergeants, who proudly walked the village. He said that Musa Yola must make up his own mind—that he need not leave the village if he did not wish to. Musa Yola decided to go with the white officer. He described to me, in his faltering English, how he left his village and walked through the bush, to the railway station—the first stage of his journey to an Initial Training Camp of the West African forces. The army career of Musa Yola is a tremendous tribute to the training methods of the West African forces. Few people in England can realise the vast amount of work which goes into the making of a, native soldier. And there are thousands undergoing training at the present time. Musa Yola, for instance, arrived at this camp completely wild. He did not know a word of English. Apart from this loin cloth he had never worn a stitch of clothing. He had thrown a spear, but there was fear in his eyes when he first handled a rifle. I Shilling a Day Thev gave him a uniform and he loved it. They gave him food which filled him out and developed his superb physique. They slowly taught him English—that was hard going, but he mastered it. They also gave him a shilling a day as a private, which money Musa Yola soon found would buy presents for his wife. It took 13 weeks to teach him the elementary rules of soldiering. By then he could march in step, do right and left turns, and the simple commands of his N.C.O. Another 13 weeks and he was well on the way to becoming the complete soldier He learned how to handle a rifle and machine-gun. and after much practice—for the natives are poor at ball games—he could throw a hand grenade. They gave him a stripe, and befo rp very long Musa Yola found himself a full sergeant in charge of other bush-boys. He was a good sergeant, because he knew just how they felt when they joined the army-

Queer Problems I have spent some days at this camp and have watched hundreds of men like Musa Yola going through their training. After dusk they parade on the square and give their deep-throated version of the National Anthem. It is hard then to imagine you are on the fringe of the African jungle. It might be any training camp in England. The code of discipline is much the same. Sometimes, of course, the white officers are conCr meed with problems that could arise only in a country like this. A recent bush exercise, for instance, was held up when a native soldier suddenly ran amok, shinned up a tree, and settled himself at the top. Someone had placed a curse on him and' he was convinced that an evil spirit was chasing him. He sat in that tree for three days. The medicine man was fetched and sprinkled the tree with lotion, but the man would not move. Eventually he came down, only to stage another sit-down strike on a reck a few days later. He was invalided out of th-3 service. But officers of the West African forces tell me there is little trouble like this —that there is a low percentage of desertion. The average native soldier is brave, efficient—perhaps backward at certain tactics —but unsurpassed at fighting in his native bush. Such a man is this Musa Yola who by now, I suppose, is cutting very much of a dash in his home village hundreds of miles up country. >