For four or five days, while the local population established the Police Station, we slept in the open and suffered the encroachment of cloud that went with our 8,000-foot-high location.  Conditions were cold and damp.  The eleven of us lay in a circle around the Land Rover that contained our radio link to Meru.  Unidentified animal life circled around us, presumably curious about our intrusion into their area.  On one occasion Albino, an Acholi who was armed with a Greener shotgun, opened fire on an approaching entity.  We discovered a dead hyena in close proximity to our circle.

Those early days were frustrating.  Because of the daring raid on Naivasha Police Station - said to be organised by Dedan Kimathi - we were aware of our vulnerability.  Our station, though, was easily defensible: it was out in the open, with an all-round clear firing area. Once it was established, our patrols changed in format.  We would leave under cover of darkness and move into the forest hoping to avoid surveillance:  since the station was readily observable from the forest, we assumed that our movements were under observation. 

Patrol members invariably had knowledge of hunting; they were able to guide me away from my townie clumsiness.  At their behest, I stopped using the smellier items of toiletry.  I only shaved in hot water; I used a twig from the same bush as my Policemen to clean my teeth; and I would slap some mud around my crutch and under my armpits, all to reduce the odour of European cosmetics which might waft away in the wind.  As western cigarettes were reckoned to be the greatest indication of the UK Security Forces presence in the forest, it was fortunate that I have never smoked. Those who have sat long hours in ambush positions at night will be familiar with the problems. There is a need to change the focus of your eyes from time to time, since continual staring at a tree trunk or a bush will eventually lead an individual to believe there is movement.  Wild life generally avoided our presence while we were stationary.  On the move, following game tracks we would occasionally disturb buffalo or rhino and would be forced to throw ourselves into the close-meshed bush to avoid injury.  Also unfamiliar to me was a false dawn that blushed ten minutes or so before the true dawn.  A reflection of the sun from the snows of Mount Kenya?  I never discovered a rational explanation. 

We had some brushes with returning gangs but they avoided confrontation and made off at speed along any available game track.  Tologny, the Kipsigis/Masai tracker was quite capable of following up the tracks as were the three Wakamba, but following tracks is slow work and with no radio communication to warn neighbouring stations of possible encroachment, we would avoid going over station boundaries.  A dangerous incident nearly developed when we were in an ambush position near our boundary.  We sensed, rather than heard, a party of men approaching.  In the dark we were still able, by the slightest movement of the head, to communicate.  We were well situated.  I felt we were, at last, to get some of the gang that had been running rings around us.  One of the patrol whispered.  "Polisi, Bwana!"  Who it was or how he knew, I know not, but I did not want to believe him!  We were so near our first success against Brigadier Martin!  My mind raced.  Eventually, as the intruders came nearer, I shouted 'Simama!  Nani wewe?'  It was a Police Patrol!  They had received a report of movement in the area and had decided to take a chance!  My inclination had been to open fire and ask questions after.  Such things have happened.  We had had a narrow escape.  Brigadier Martin would have enjoyed hearing of such a confrontation.

 Routinely, we would leave our ambush position a little after dawn broke and make our way up the mountain through the forest growth and the bamboo belt and take a break on the moorland area just below the snow line.  On our way back down, we would 'show the flag' in archaic Colonial style, and, if fortunate, shoot a buck for the Police station.  Local Meru claimed they did not eat 'wild' meat.  If lucky we might locate and smoke out one of the 'honey hunter's' hives.  The Wakamba were adept at this task.  That moorland honey was delicious.  Constable Benjo once offered to get the honey in the manner of his village.  There were four of us in all and we lay back lazily on the moorland and watched.  Benjo took the long line we always carried with us, and ignoring the occasional threatening bee, secured the hive.  Then he laid the line straight on the ground and walked twenty or thirty yards beyond, clearing stone and bush as he went.  I was puzzled as were the others.  He then went back to the end of the line, picked it up, tugged the hive off its perch and ran like hell tugging it behind him.  The bees were not amused!  We were not amused!  There we were, ready to go into battle with the Brigadier and we were being routed by a swarm of bees.  We did not ask Benjo to repeat the demonstration.