THE GYAMAN TRIBE LIVED PRIMARILY ON THE FRENCH SIDE OF THE border, but they resided on the British side as well. In other words, the border being ill defined—it was not marked at all most places—the tribesmen moved back and forth freely, hunting, grazing their cattle, and visiting friends and relatives as they saw fit. They knew the border was there because there were official crossing checkpoints every hundred miles or so. Most of the Gyaman sensibly ignored the official crossings as an unnecessary bother and simply went around them. Smuggling was an old and much-practiced tradition, to the point where none of the Gyamans even thought of it as a crime. The GCBP pretty much turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of the locals on the principle that they could not arrest everyone and that the smuggling was good for the native economy.
The Gyamans viewed the English and the French as being pretty much equal evils, but all the tribespeople universally disliked the Germans. Tribesmen shared information about the French with the English, and vice versa, but they shared nothing with the Nazis.
By interviewing the natives who had visited their friends and relatives over in the German camp, Lieutenant Dick Courtney and Jim “Baldie” Taylor quickly had a fairly accurate picture of the complete layout of SS Colonel Doctor Rudolph von Himmel’s safari base. Getting an accurate head count proved a little more difficult, but in time the two had a reasonably good idea of how many people—including Europeans, native support personnel, and security guards—were there.
For a German semi-military operation, discipline in the safari camp seemed lax. By all accounts, everyone essentially drank himself into a stupor at night and fell asleep. No German guards were on duty past midnight, but an armed squad of tough Ashanti askaris was present as a security element.
“Happens,” Lieutenant Courtney explained. “Some bwanas come on safari in the wild mysterious bush simply to get smashed, and they stay shattered the entire trip. Before the war, I spent a couple of seasons as an assistant professional hunter and shot all the trophies for more than a few great white hunters who never drew a sober breath or left camp. The film stars and royalty were the worst; tycoons and millionaires tended to have more desire to get their money’s worth.”
“I’m going to want to take a look,” Major John Randal said.
Lieutenant Courtney cut his eyes at Baldie with an unspoken question. It was one thing to paddle ashore and snatch German generals off sandy beaches or jump out of airplanes in the dead of night over enemy occupied France. It was something else to operate in darkest Africa. The Gold Coast was no place for amateurs—even decorated ones.
“Time spent on reconnaissance is rarely wasted,” Baldie intoned. “Teach you that in cavalry school, Major?”
“Roger that.”
“King’s Royal Rifles abide by the same standard,” Baldie continued, rubbing his tanned pate. “Religious about it.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Dick, why don’t you and the major pop over and put some trained eyes on the target, then get back here right quick so we can finalize our plans for the night?” Unsaid was that the young policeman would have an opportunity to weigh up Major Randal’s performance in the field. His renown as a Raider had preceded him, but reputations can be overblown and medals do not mean a thing.
“I shall want to take my trackers, X-Ray and Vanish,” Lieutenant Courtney responded. “With any luck, we can be back in about three hours.”
Major Randal repaired to his tent to organize his gear. He had not brought much with him, so it did not take long. Lieutenant Courtney tagged along. His evaluation was going to start before they even left base. Major Randal, fully aware of what was taking place, ignored him. What the young GCBP officer did not realize was that the commander of Raiding Forces was also sizing him up.
First thing, Major Randal reached around and slipped his Browning P-35 out of the Mexican slide holster in the back. He retrieved the lanyard from his carry bag and snapped it on the ring on the butt of the pistol. (The lanyard had been attached to the Browning at Calais when ex-Legionnaire Sergeant Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis had originally given the weapon to him.) Then Major Randal cracked the slide to verify that a round was in the chamber, inserted the Browning—hammer down—back into the slide, concealed it under the bush jacket he was wearing, and looped the lanyard over his neck.
Next he took his primary Colt .38 Super out of his bag and buckled it around his waist so that it rode high and flat on his right side. Then, he strapped on his High Standard .22 with the silencer. It fit flat on his left chest. Laced to the shoulder holster was his slim Wilkinson-made Fairbairn fighting knife.
Last, Major Randal drew each weapon and taking his time, cracked the slide to make sure a round was in the chamber before he lowered the hammer on each pistol in what is known as Condition Two, then holstered it. Condition Two is not the recommended method of carry. Only fools or professionals pack an automatic pistol with the hammer down on a live round. However it is an extremely fast way to get the gun into action for those who know what they are doing.
Lieutenant Courtney was impressed.
“Let’s do it, Lieutenant.”