Missing in Action Read online

  ‘Tim said to him: “Look, there is no point talking to me about Katanga. I have a brother with the Irish army in Elisabethville. Contact him and he will tell you what is really going on.” That is how Gomani came to seek me out in Katanga,’ Art added.

  Gomani then travelled through northern Rhodesia and presented himself at the Katangan border in order to secure a pass to travel onwards to Elisabethville. However, the German was stopped by Katangan soldiers and, in the presence of a white mercenary officer, was arrested and ordered into their command post. He was then told he had to carry a message to the UN in Elisabethville from Dr Godefroid Munongo, the Katangan Minister of the Interior. It was to Dr Munongo that both the gendarmes and the mercenaries answered – and it was known that he had the complete trust of President Tshombe. Munongo’s power was further cemented by the fact that he was a direct descendent of King Msiri of the Nyamwezi, one of the major tribal kingdoms of the Congo in the mid-nineteenth century.

  The UN already knew that Dr Munongo was not a man to be trifled with. He was one of those responsible for Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba’s execution. Dr Munongo – unlike others who later tried to distance themselves from the killing – was quite frank when later questioned about his role in the affair. In one report he wrote: ‘I will speak frankly. If people accuse us of killing Lumumba, I will reply: Prove it.’ Hans Gomani also knew of Dr Munongo’s reputation and readily agreed to carry the message.

  The message was a blunt threat from the Katangans that Cmdt Cahalane would be shot unless the UN complied with specific demands. They warned that other Irish and UN soldiers would also be shot as a direct response to a UN order that they claimed implied a shoot-on-sight policy for all those spotted carrying arms in Katanga. The gendarme commander said that if the UN’s special representative, Conor Cruise O’Brien, wished to reply to Dr Munongo’s message and negotiate new terms, Gomani would be acceptable as a go-between. The German realised he now had an opportunity both to help save lives and potentially secure a priceless exclusive for himself. Gomani – who was told he would be immediately released and escorted to Elisabethville if he agreed to carry the message – nodded his acceptance.

  He was then escorted to Elisabethville. But in the chaotic after-math of the UN’s Operation Morthor, how was the German to safely contact a senior UN official? Word had spread of the fighting and he knew that if he approached the Indian lines in a civilian vehicle he risked being shot on sight. Gomani then recalled his conversation with his journalist colleague in Nyasaland and decided to seek out Captain Magennis in Elisabethville. Thus, Captain Art Magennis suddenly found himself drawn into a remarkable diplomatic manoeuvre to avoid the execution of prisoners.

  Eventually, despite the chaotic communications, a meeting was arranged between Captain Art Magennis and Hans Gomani in the Leopold Hotel in the city centre. The Leopold was a favourite colonial-era haunt of soldiers, plantation owners, mining engineers and journalists who visited Elisabethville. Its wood-panelled rooms were festooned with old sofas, armchairs and wooden stools where customers escaped the steamy heat and savoured chilled bottles of the local brew, Simba Beer. Over recent weeks the Leopold had become a sanctuary from the madness spreading in the streets. Such was the scale of that madness, Magennis had to travel to the Leopold in an armoured car for fear of snipers.

  After brief introductions, Gomani relayed Dr Munongo’s message and Captain Magennis visibly paled at its import. ‘He said that the Katangans were going to court-martial Cmdt Pat Cahalane in the morning, they would find him guilty and they would shoot him. Unless, of course, the UN released the Katangan propaganda officer who had been arrested a few days before,’ Art Magennis explained. ‘Surely the Katangans wouldn’t shoot unarmed prisoners?’ the Irish officer thought. But, as he gazed out the window at the carnage in Elisabethville, he knew that anything was now possible in Katanga.

  The Irish captain knew the message had to be relayed to Conor Cruise O’Brien instantly. But first, Captain Magennis had to brief his immediate superior, the Dogra Battalion commander, on what he had just learned. The Indian listened carefully but immediately stressed that the only person who could now act was Conor Cruise O’Brien. He agreed to release Captain Magennis from his battalion duties to make contact with the UN special representative. That was easier said than done given the damage sustained by Elisabethville’s phone system. Following Operation Morthor, the Post Office and Telephone Exchange were left virtually as shell-scarred ruins. The exchange itself was a mass of wire and conductors spliced and knotted together like spaghetti.

  Miraculously, a UN communications team had managed to re-establish a single line from the exchange – and that ran directly to Cruise O’Brien’s headquarters. The Irish diplomat was shocked when he heard of the Katangan warning and dismayed that an earlier UN order had been so misinterpreted. Cruise O’Brien stressed to Magennis that the UN was fighting according to the rules of conflict as set out in the Geneva Convention and Katangan prisoners would be treated with dignity and respect. But the Irish diplomat bluntly warned that if the Katangans executed Cmdt Cahalane – or harmed any other unarmed UN prisoners – there would be dire consequences.

  Cruise O’Brien then further shocked Captain Magennis by asking if he was willing to take the message back to Dr Munongo with Hans Gomani personally and return with his reply? The Irish diplomat had ordered that his reply be translated into French, typed out on official UN paper and then copied. Two copies were handed to Captain Magennis for Dr Munongo and his Katangan commanders.

  ‘He [O’Brien] said he was going to write a letter to Munongo but he asked whether I would volunteer to deliver the letter? Now I am not in the habit of volunteering for anything, but I said “I am here now and I cannot volunteer for anything without the authority of my commander.” Dr O’Brien said he would get in contact with Lt Col McNamee and tell him about the situation. He rang me back after about 10 or 15 minutes and said “Lt Col McNamee has no objections to you volunteering yourself.” So I said that Cmdt Cahalane was my commander so of course I would go.’

  The Irish officer now had to link up with Gomani to find out how to contact Dr Munongo and the Katangans. Captain Magennis raced back to the Leopold Hotel to discover what to do next. ‘He [Gomani] said “you have to be blindfolded from when you leave the hotel. You must be unarmed and I have been tasked with disarming you and seeing that you have no weapons of any nature.” He also said that he had to drive me there. He knew the route to the location but he couldn’t tell me where we were going. What the hell other option had I? I had to go along with what he was saying,’ Art explained.

  ‘I handed over my pistol and sub-machine gun, which were locked into a hotel safe in front of me. We set off in his car. It was a fabric-roofed Citroen 2CV which had just two seats. Off we went, but we were only gone about a kilometre out of the city when a smell of burning started coming from the bloody car. I said that the clutch was burning and Gomani turned to me and asked, how did I know? I looked at him and said, “What the hell do you think the smell is?” The next thing the clutch burned through and the car stopped,’ Art explained.

  The 2CV car – Citroen’s famous ‘Deux Chevaux Vapeur’ or ‘two steam horses’ – was renowned for its reliability, but the Congo’s heat, humidity, appalling roads and chronic lack of proper servicing took its toll. The problem the duo now faced was that, with conflict raging across the city, pedestrians ran a high risk of being shot.

  ‘Gomani looked at me and said, “What are we going to do now?” I shrugged and said, “You’re the man in charge – don’t ask me. I don’t even know where we’re supposed to be going.” I had to laugh when the German looked at me and asked where we were. I was sitting in the car wearing a blindfold so we could have been on the Moon for all I knew.’

  The Irish officer took off the blindfold and realised that they had broken down directly outside Parc Albert. The local hospital was less than 200 metres away. ‘I said to him, “Look, if you can go over t
here and explain what is going on, maybe they can give you a car.” He agreed and I said there was no way I was staying waiting for him in the car. There was a big drainage ditch by the side of the road so I said I would wait for him there.’

  After a thirty-minute explanation and negotiation, the German reporter finally arrived back with a car, which the hospital authorities had agreed to loan him. The duo jumped in and motored off – leaving the 2CV stranded by the roadside. They had gone less than ten kilometres when they came upon a roadblock mounted by the Katangan gendarmes. Gomani produced the documentation he had been given on Dr Munongo’s behalf and received clearance to proceed. Sitting in the passenger seat with his blindfold in place, Captain Magennis wondered what was going to happen next. Without warning, he felt himself being roughly pulled from the car and searched by the sentries before, satisfied the UN officer was unarmed, both the captain and the reporter were ordered into a second vehicle driven by the Katangan officer controlling the roadblock.

  ‘We drove off to some kind of house a short distance away. I had the blindfold firmly in place so I’m not even sure what sort of house it was. I was led out of the car and, when I was inside, the blindfold was taken off. I discovered the building was the home of an Italian family who were farming in Katanga. I immediately realised that there were two white officers present as well as a number of black junior officers. I explained that I had a letter from Conor Cruise O’Brien of the UN to be delivered personally to Dr Munongo. They said they would not be able to get me to him at that time.

  ‘I thought they were only pulling my leg. So I said, “I’m sorry but my instructions are to deliver the letter personally – I can only deliver it to Dr Munongo, no one else is to get it.” There was a bit of an argument but, fortunately, Gomani had very good English and French and he was able to talk with the officers. Gomani was a very intelligent guy and he obviously understood my position. Finally, one of the French officers – a mercenary – said, “Look, if you cannot see your way to give this letter to Munongo’s aide-de-camp,” who I had now been introduced to, “we will just have to go ahead with [Cmdt Cahalane’s] court martial.” I was in a quandary because that was the last thing I wanted to see happen.’

  Captain Magennis agreed to hand the letter to the ADC on the strict understanding he would personally deliver it to Dr Munongo. As an added precaution, he wrote directly across the letter’s seal – so that the Katangan minister would know if the document had been tampered with. Seconds later the ADC left the farmhouse and sped off on a motorcycle waiting outside.

  ‘They then sat me down and a short while later I was served a most outstanding meal. The Italian family were incredible cooks and the smell coming out of the kitchen reminded me of the home cooking we were all missing back in Ireland. We chatted very sociably because the French officers were all able to speak English. About an hour later, the French officer said I must be tired after the adventures of the day and he brought me to an upstairs bedroom. I had to promise not to look out the window to try and identify landmarks so the farmhouse could be located at a future date. But that was it.

  ‘Shortly after dawn the next day, there was a knock on the bedroom door and I was informed that I was being taken back to Elisabethville because my mission was complete. But I said: “What about Cahalane? What about all the Irish prisoners? What are you going to do with them now?” The French officer turned to me and assured me that they would treat them as prisoners of war in accordance with the Geneva Convention. I asked whether I had his word as an officer on that and he looked me full in the face and said that I did indeed have his word. I thought that was about all I could do, so we got back into the car again and drove back to Elisabethville. He [the French officer] pulled in at the White Father’s mission near the site of the ambush at the Radio College. He got out of the car and there were three or four priests on the roadside. This French guy went up and the first thing I saw was them all smiling and shaking hands and kissing each other on the cheek.’

  The sight appalled and enraged the Irish captain. What were these clerics doing embracing mercenaries when UN soldiers were fighting and dying to keep the peace, he thought? Did they not understand what they were doing? The realisation that his commander, Cmdt Cahalane, had very probably been threatened with an execution and that dozens of his comrades were now under armed guard by the Katangans made him seethe all the more.

  ‘It was the first time in my life I ever felt such a rage. I was absolutely furious with these priests, one of whom I actually knew. His father had a garage that we [the UN] did business with. Here they all were kissing this mercenary on the cheek, laughing and joking with each other. Eventually, the French officer came back and said “I will drop you back at the hotel now”. But I asked him to wait and give me just a minute. God forgive me but I was so bloody mad I walked up to the priests and said if anything happens to my commander or any of my soldiers I will come back and burn down this church of yours. I was so furious I could hardly believe these priests, the way they were behaving. And of course at this stage I knew that I had already lost two soldiers from my unit.’

  The French mercenary – in a matter-of-fact manner – had earlier confirmed to Captain Magennis that two Irish soldiers had been killed in the course of the ambush. He did not know their names or their ranks, but he said that they had been in one of the armoured cars. The Irish officer realised that this French mercenary had actually commanded the Katangan unit that had mounted the ambush on the Radio College.

  ‘After I had spoken to the priests I turned on my heels and the French officer dropped me back to the hotel. I collected my gear, including my weapons and walked back towards the Dogra Battalion. I realised that they would know me from my time with them so I should be fairly safe. From there I waited for the negotiations to produce a ceasefire so I could hopefully rejoin the 35th Battalion.’

  Unknown to Captain Magennis, his courageous mission had already proved to be a success. The Katangans had now emphatically ruled out any form of action against the UN prisoners and, in particular, against Cmdt Cahalane, as they were mindful of the treatment of Katangan politicians and officers arrested by the UN. Cmdt Cahalane and his men had been taken to a remote farmhouse some sixty kilometres to the south-east of Elisabethville, not far off the main road to northern Rhodesia.

  Cmdt Cahalane was initially kept with his captured men – all twenty-five of them – and they were instructed by the Katangan guards to remove their shoes, socks and personal items. The Katangan guards immediately pocketed all the watches taken off by the Irish troops. About an hour later, a French officer – one of the Katangans’ senior mercenaries – arrived to question the prisoners and reacted with fury when told that they had been stripped of their personal possessions. Under the mercenary’s baleful gaze, the abashed Katangan guards immediately handed back the watches.

  The Frenchman, who was a veteran of the bitter Algerian conflict, ordered Cmdt Cahalane into a room on his own for questioning. But, before he could commence the interrogation, the Frenchman realised that Cahalane was not only partially deaf from the anti-tank rocket explosion but also showing signs of concussion. The mercenary ordered that Cahalane be given a jug of water and provided with a hot meal. He later insisted that Cahalane lie down on a bed in the farmhouse to recover his strength and promised that a doctor would be called to offer medical attention as soon as was possible.

  But the mood in the plantation house began to change. An Italian prisoner was brought in to join the Irish detainees but was brutally beaten by the Katangan gendarmes in the mistaken belief that he was Indian and one of those soldiers responsible for the Radio Katanga killings. But for the intervention of a handful of Irish soldiers, who explained in broken French that the man was Italian and not Indian, he would most likely have been beaten to death or shot.

  The next day, Cmdt Cahalane discovered to his horror that he was expected to write and sign a letter to the UN special representative, Conor Cruise O’Brien, which d
etailed a stream of alleged abuses against UN forces, in particular the Indian contingent. Cahalane was shocked to realise that he was now expected to endorse Katangan allegations that Indian troops had murdered unarmed prisoners and that UN forces were guilty of atrocities including firing on civilian ambulances, and to insist that a ceasefire was to be ordered within twenty-four hours with the phased withdrawal of all UN forces from Elisabethville.

  Cahalane was bluntly warned that if he did not sign the letter within the allotted two-hour deadline, he would face potentially dire consequences. He was also warned that the safety of his men could no longer be guaranteed. When the two hours elapsed, the French mercenary returned and, when he realised that the letter had not been signed as requested, he responded with a typical Gallic shrug. ‘You are making things very difficult for yourself,’ he said. ‘You are making things very difficult for yourself with the Katangan authorities. You are making things difficult for me to ensure your safety.’

  Unperturbed, the Irish officer responded with remarkable sang-froid and steadfastly refused to sign the letter. Later that night, Cmdt Cahalane was ordered into a room where a group of Katangans sat around a table, at the head of which sat a white European. The stunned officer was informed that this was his ‘interrogation trial’ and that a guilty verdict could well earn a sentence of death by firing squad. Throughout the bizarre proceedings, the Irish officer was questioned in French, with a French mercenary translating. The unnamed white European was identified merely as a Katangan judge. The focus of the ‘trial’ proved to be the actions of the Indian UN detachment and what position the Irish officer adopted towards them. Throughout, Cmdt Cahalane repeated his request to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. In one memorable exchange, as set out in Raymond Smith’s book The Fighting Irish, the Dublin officer bluntly rejected any suggestion of tainting his honour with an inappropriate action. ‘I will tell you nothing. I will not betray my honour as an officer and an Irishman. Not even if you torture me.’