Missing in Action Page 5
Wheelus, originally called Mellaha Air Base, was built by the Italians in the 1930s. Having seized the facility from the Germans in 1943, the US renamed the base Wheelus Field and supplied it with massive concrete runways to handle the giant long-range nuclear bombers and strike-fighters that the USAF wielded. To further complement Wheelus’ facilities, a vast gunnery range was developed at El Watia to help air crews hone their bombing and strafing skills.
At its peak in the late 1950s and early 1960s, a staggering 4,700 US personnel were stationed at Wheelus and El Watia – and, in line with US military doctrine, the base was developed to offer troopers a ‘home from home’ complete with ice-cream parlours, hamburger restaurants, a cinema and sports facilities. An impressed US Ambassador to Libya, John Wesley Jones, having toured Wheelus in 1959, referred to it as ‘a Little America – on the sparkling shores of the Med’. In common with other major US overseas bases, from Ramstein in Germany to Diego Garcia in the Pacific, Wheelus was designed to offer homesick soldiers and airmen all the comforts and attractions of Main Street USA. But the major drawback of Wheelus was the harsh north-African summer where noontime temperatures could soar to a sizzling fifty degrees Celsius (120 degrees Fahrenheit).
If the young Irish soldiers weren’t awestruck enough with US military might, their arrival at Wheelus Air Base settled matters. ‘I didn’t believe that military bases could be so huge,’ John recalled. ‘We landed and our runway was so far from the accommodation complex that we had to be taken there by a special shuttle bus. Stepping off the plane was like stepping into an oven – everyone was astounded by the heat. But when a US orderly ushered us to the canteen to get some food, we walked into a room that was beautifully air-conditioned. None of us had experienced anything like it.
‘I laugh today when I remember what it was like. None of us knew what a self-service restaurant was – so we sat down and wondered what to do next. No one wanted to look foolish so we watched to see what was happening around us. The next thing we saw a US serviceman stick his hand into an ice-filled bin and grab three or four cartons of milk. He then queued at a cooking area and was served his hot dinner. Eventually, we all did the same thing.
‘I remember it like it was yesterday because it was the first time in my life I had ever eaten a hamburger. We were absolutely starving so we helped ourselves to whatever was on offer, including the fantastic dessert trays of ice cream, apple pie and chocolate cake. There were bins full of ice and all kinds of soft drinks from Coca-Cola to Dr Pepper’s. We knew what Coke was but no one wanted to try Dr Pepper’s because we were genuinely worried that it was a drink made from pepper-spice. We were still young lads and it was like finding yourself locked in a sweet shop. It was also a bit like finding yourself in one of the Hollywood movies that we marvelled at back home. At home it was all bacon and cabbage – here it was hamburgers, French fries, milkshakes and ice-cream sundaes. We’d never even dreamed a military base would be like this.’
What shocked the Irish troops most of all was that soldiers could help themselves to food – if you felt hungry after your main course, you simply queued up and helped yourself to another. Such largesse was relatively unknown in Irish army dining halls, where soldiers fought to get decent helpings – particularly extra meat and potatoes – for their main course because they knew that it was all they would get. Return trips to the serving staff were unheard of and were likely to generate serious consequences.
‘You never, ever saw food like this back in an Irish army dining hall. It wasn’t that the food in Ireland was bad. Far from it. But this was the kind of food we all expected to be served in restaurants not army canteens. The food was really good and when we complimented one of the US servicemen who was sitting and eating beside us, he looked at us to see if we were serious or trying to make fun of him. When he realised we were genuinely impressed, he just said: “It ain’t home cooking, Paddy, but it sure will keep you going.”’
The self-service canteen underlined how much more the Irish army had in common with its British counterpart than its American host. The Irish army maintained a subtle social distinction between officers and enlisted men – a trend that dated back to the days of British rule. When one of the Irish transport planes arrived at Wheelus, the officers proceeded to sit at a table in the canteen – separate from their men – and patiently waited to be served. After a while, a US serviceman noticed what was going on and walked up to the senior officer and said: ‘Bud, everybody queues for their food here – there ain’t no table service at Wheelus.’ Privately, the ordinary Irish soldiers were delighted, although they took care not to show any outward sign of enjoyment at their officers’ loss of face.
Wheelus was an absolute revelation for the soldiers: it resembled a hotel more than a barracks. In the accommodation blocks, soldiers were ushered to proper barrack beds in blissfully air-conditioned rooms. For twelve hours, they were offered a reprieve from the oppressive cargo hold of the aircraft and the scorching heat of the Tripoli tarmac. Yet most of the Irish troops – including John O’Mahony and Pat Mullins – were too excited to sleep and recounted a journey that had already exceeded their wildest dreams.
The Irish also proved a huge attraction for the US servicemen, most of whom were only too willing to boast about their Irish roots. Several US personnel kindly offered to show the Irish troops around, while others, meeting up with Irish troops heading home on leave several months later, generously threw parties in their honour. Such extravagance didn’t last long as one Irish soldier somewhat spoiled their welcome by trying to steal cowboy boots from the room of one Texan soldier. The young Irishman was absolutely fascinated by the Texan’s boots – which looked like they had come straight from a Hollywood western – and waited until the American had fallen asleep after a drink-fuelled party before trying to secure a prized memento.
However, for John O’Mahony, Pat Mullins and the outward-bound troops, the stopover on the way to the Congo was all too short. Just twelve hours after they arrived at Wheelus, the Irish troops re-boarded the Globemaster II for the final – and most daunting – leg of their marathon journey to the Congo. But not before they enjoyed a mammoth breakfast and each received lunch ration packs from US servicemen.
Now, the troops would get a taste of just how truly vast the Dark Continent was. The plane took the soldiers across the Sahara Desert before landing to refuel at Kano in Nigeria. Modern transport planes might make the trip in a single hop from Baldonnel, but the venerable Douglas had thirsty engines and limited fuel capacity, necessitating numerous stops on long-haul delivery flights. In Nigeria, the plane would only be on the ground for a matter of hours before taking off again for the Congo, so the weary soldiers were told to stay by the aeroplane – a fact made all the more difficult by the searing heat and all-pervasive stink of kerosene fumes, which tested even the most hardened stomachs.
Having refuelled, the Globemaster lumbered back into the air for the final leg of the trip into Leopoldville in the Congo. The journey took them into the continent’s interior. As darkness fell, the characteristic flames from the exhaust of the giant Pratt & Whitney engines were all the more pronounced. One Irish trooper – having fallen asleep as the plane took off from Kano – awoke and suddenly reeled back in horror as he noticed the flames dancing outside the window. He shouted in panic to the USAF loadmaster, who immediately approached the trooper to see what was wrong. ‘The engine is on fire – there’s flames coming from the engine,’ the panicked Irish soldier pointed out. The bemused crewman stared for a second out the window, turned back to the Irish soldier and smiled calmly: ‘Buddy, it’s when you don’t see the flames that you better start worrying.’
Finally, they reached Leopoldville – the city formerly known as Kinshasa, which the Belgians had insisted on renaming in honour of Leopold II, whose colonial dreams had dragged the small European country into African affairs. Leopoldville was the administrative capital of the Congo and the seat of the central government now trying to ho
ld the sprawling country together. The city was framed by the vast Congo River, which the Irish troops craned their necks to gaze out at through the plane windows. Darkness seemed to fall fast in Africa and the river merely appeared as a snake-like meander of blackness against the twinkle of lights from the city below.
It had taken almost four days of travel, but John and the weary Irish troops finally arrived at Leopoldville shortly after 7 p.m. It had been a long, arduous journey from Fermoy, but the soldiers were grateful just to be back on terra firma. One Irish officer – perhaps better acquainted with the parade ground than field assignments – immediately ordered one of his NCOs to do a head count on the plane. The sergeant snapped to the task and began counting the soldiers who were now eager to get out of the vast cargo plane. But an amused US pilot – stretching his legs nearby – wondered aloud how even the Irish could possibly have managed to lose any soldiers while the plane was in mid-air.
A UN liaison officer greeted the 35th Battalion elements at the airport and the troops – after collecting their kit – were transferred by waiting lorry to a special transit base where they were issued their tropical kit and briefed about their six-month mission. John, Pat and the other members of the Armoured Car Group also learned precisely where in the Congo they were about to be stationed. Their great adventure had begun.
A ‘handy hurler’ in Munster GAA parlance, Pat Mullins was drafted straight into the 1st Motor Squadron team. Pat is pictured, third from left, in the back row. (Photo: Mullins family)
The Second Armoured Car Group of the 35th Irish (UN) Battalion poses for a photo in Fermoy in June 1961 before travelling to Dublin for their USAF flight to the Congo. John O’Mahony is far left, back row. Pat Mullins is beside him (second left, back row), Sgt Tim Carey is second from left in the front row. The officer in the centre of the front row is Captain Seán Hennessy. Tpr Des Keegan is third from right in the back row. (Photo: John O’Mahony)
4 – Blood, Rubber and the Brutal Congolese Civil War
The vast African country in which the young Irish soldiers landed that steamy day in June 1961 resembled a giant powder keg with multiple lit fuses.
Just one year earlier, the enormous country – seventy-five times the size of Belgium, its colonial overlord – had celebrated its in-dependence with a ceremony that echoed with the tragedies of both the past and future. Belgian and Congolese alike gathered in the Palais de la Nation in Leopoldville in stifling heat on 30 June 1960 to usher in a bright, independent future; instead the ceremony provided the spark that would doom the fledgling Democratic Republic of the Congo to years of bloodshed.
The Congo had been Africa’s worst run and most brutal colonial outpost for decades and the seeds of impending tragedy had been sown well over 100 years before. The miracle was that, sixteen years after the Second World War, the Congo had still not exploded in an orgy of violence.
In 1960–61, Irish troops – alongside soldiers from sixteen other United Nations member states – were pouring into a country bigger than western Europe to ensure that a humanitarian tragedy did not occur. Most crucially of all, they were trying to ensure that Congolese independence did not lead to a fragmentation of the vast country and jeopardise other former colonies in the region.
Reforms did occur in the Congo, but at a pitifully slow pace. To many, including veteran French and British colonial officials, the Congo’s vast potential wealth stood in tragic contrast to the fate of its people.
The Congo started out as a late-nineteenth-century private enterprise controlled by Belgium’s King Leopold II, who was enthralled by the reports of the famed Welsh-American explorer David Stanley. Stanley – who successfully found the missing missionary David Livingstone – became an ardent exponent of colonial expansion in the Congo and raved about its vast natural resources.
But unlike Livingstone, who was beloved of the African tribes for his gentility, Stanley was a harsh man who never shied away from brutal punishments and punitive expeditions if he believed tribes were thwarting his plans. Stanley eventually became known to tribes in the Congo basin as ‘Bula Matari’, a Kicongo phrase meaning ‘breaker of rocks’. It was not a term of endearment for Stanley who, by the time he had finished his Congolese ‘explorations’, had persuaded more than 350 tribal chiefs, none of whom could write or speak English or French, to sign away sovereignty over their lands.
Britain and France – leery of each other over existing colonial developments – effectively declined a Congo entanglement amid concerns it could spark a fresh war in Europe in a century where numerous wars had already been fought. Germany, then forging itself into a Prussian-led empire, was directed by Otto von Bismarck’s foreign policy, which shunned colonial baubles as a distraction from the strategic European theatre.
King Leopold, however, became a staunch supporter of Stanley and the development of the Congo. The Belgian king’s dreams were answered when his Congo Development Company was given international sanction over the vast territory. The decision came at the Berlin Conference in 1884 when von Bismarck secured Leopold as an ally by backing his Congo plans – a measure he happily took to ensure the French did not add another huge colony to their overseas empire.
All 2.34 million square kilometres of the Congo fell under King Leopold’s personal control – not that of the Belgian state. It was a situation unique in the annals of colonial history and made Leopold II, at least on paper, the greatest landowner on the planet. The Congo initially struggled to make any profit for its new Brussels-based master, but thanks to the world’s discovery of the automobile, which depended on rubber tyres, the Congo suddenly became a goldmine for Leopold. Wild rubber was one of the Congo’s greatest natural resources and in the decades before the true extent of the country’s mineral wealth was realised, this raw material transformed the sprawling African colony from a financial liability into a profitable asset.
Having initially failed to harvest the financial rewards he had expected from the Congo, King Leopold and his advisers were now determined to exploit the rubber boom for all it was worth. The world’s growing love affair with the automobile meant riches beyond compare for King Leopold. In 1890, the Congo exported just 100 tonnes of wild rubber – but, just a decade later, the country was shipping 6,000 tonnes to Europe to help shod the new cars rolling off the production lines in Britain, France and Germany. However, the rubber boom meant misery, torture and death for millions of Congolese who were forced to harvest the crop without pay and with impossibly high harvest quotas to meet.
Leopold was initially an ardent supporter of free trade and the civilising mission of colonialism, but he was persuaded by the new riches on offer to make a subtle and highly secret switch. Instead of fostering free trade, the Congo became a vast monopoly for Belgian-controlled firms – all of which paid profits to Leopold. Everything from rubber to ivory and minerals to timber was Leopold’s export preserve, although the Belgian monarch was careful not to alienate French or British interests.
But Leopold made two crucial errors: by fostering a monopolistic culture in the Congo, Leopold inevitably risked the ire of the powerful British merchants to whom protectionism was anathema; and, by effectively fiddling the export figures for the Congo to hide the true scale of his profits, he handed a potent weapon to the missionaries and reformers who were appalled at the stories of atrocities and brutal punishments now filtering out of the vast country.
The initial reports of abuses came from missionaries including the American, William Morrison. His recounting of the savage punishment of Congo tribes followed damning claims by the Anglo-French journalist, Edmond Morel, that King Leopold was duping European merchants and, most specifically, the powerful African importers-exporters in Liverpool, London, Bristol and Manchester. Morel’s revelations ensured that the missionaries’ abuse claims went right up to the cabinet table in Westminster.
London was loath to alienate an ally in Belgium, but the govern-
ment was sensitive both to protectionism and
the voting power of Britain’s Christian reformist lobby. Just forty years earlier, London had been hugely sympathetic to the Confederate cause in the US civil war, but had stayed neutral because of the overwhelming opposition of British reformists to the slave trade which the Union was fighting to abolish.
Westminster decided it had no option but to request the British consul in the Congo to investigate the reports of abuse from the missionaries. Roger Casement – who had personally known Stanley – set to work with diligence and passion. His report, submitted in December 1903, caused an international outcry and eventually resulted in Casement, an ardent Irish nationalist, being knighted.
The savage manner in which Leopold’s overseers and soldiers punished the Congolese workforces unable to meet harsh rubber targets became a cause célèbre for international civil rights campaigners for decades to come. The brutality was so appalling that it shocked a world already inured to brutality, where capital punishment was accepted as a norm of civilised society. Punishments in the Congo for trivial offences were savage in the extreme. They included the preservation, by smoking, of severed African hands by Congolese soldiers for presentation to Belgian overseers to prove that punishments had been meted out and bullets had not been expended.