LION MAN

It was August, 1903 and Kruger National Park game ranger Harry Wolhuter was returning from a horse patrol accompanied by six black game guards, a string of donkeys carrying camping equipment and supplies  and three “Boer” dogs that guarded the camp at night. The water hole they arrived at was dry and, as it was late in the afternoon, Wolhuter decided to ride ahead to the next water hole, accompanied by Bull, one of the dogs.

 

Darkness descended quickly and soon he was following the rough trail dimly illuminated by a canopy of stars. As he rode along, he heard something running in the grass nearby and assumed it was a reedbuck, common to the area. Suddenly, he realized that the noises in the grass were being made by two lions running alongside his horse. Knowing they intended to attack his horse, he dug in his spurs and made a valiant attempt to escape, but the lions were too close.

 

As his horse responded to his spurring, he felt an enormous blow on his back as one of the lions jumped up onto the horse’s hindquarters. The frantic bucking of his mount dislodged the lion, but also sent Wolhuter flying out of the saddle and onto the back of the second lion running alongside. This animal immediately grabbed him by his right shoulder and began dragging him towards a nearby patch of bush where, presumably, the lion planned to dispatch and eat its prey! As he was pulled along with his face pressed into the mane of the lion and the back of his legs dragging along the ground, Wolhuter tried digging in his spurs to slow the lion’s progress. However, this only angered the lion, which shifted its grip on his shoulder adding to his extreme agony. He tried calling out to Bull but realized that his dog had probably followed the escaping horse, not aware that he was no longer on it.

 

As the slow progress towards a certain and painful death continued, Wolhuter remembered the sheath knife on his belt. He was not very hopeful that it might still be in the sheath, as it had often fallen out on less strenuous occasions. He manoeuvred his left hand around his back and was relieved to find the knife still in its sheath. He carefully pulled the knife out and began to consider whether he would be able to reach a vital spot on the lion. He felt carefully along the animals shoulder and stabbed it twice where he thought the heart to be.

 

The lion let out a roar and released its hold on Wolhuter, who immediately stabbed it again in the throat. Judging from the gush of blood, he believed he had severed its jugular vein. To his intense relief, he heard the lion move off through the grass and, despite the pain in his shoulder, managed to get to his feet. Unsure as to whether he had seriously wounded the animal and fearful of the return of the second lion, he looked about for a tree that he could climb using only his left arm. After a few attempts, he managed to find a suitable tree which had a fork in its branches about three metres off the ground.

 

Securing himself to the trunk with his belt in case he lost consciousness, Wolhuter realized that a determined lion could probably climb high enough to get at him, but his growing weakness from loss of blood ruled out any further attempts to find another tree. Resigned to stay where he was, Wolhuter struggled to remain conscious so he could listen for the arrival of his patrol and warn them of the presence of the lions.

From his perch in the tree, Wolhuter could hear the struggles of the wounded lion and what he thought was its death moan. However, his relief was short-lived as he became aware of the return of the second lion. It did not take this lion long to discover Wolhuter in his refuge and, on reaching the base of the tree, it reared up against the trunk and began to climb up. To Wolhuter’s intense relief, his dog Bull rushed out of the darkness barking furiously at the lion, which broke off its attempt to reach him and, instead, tried to catch the dog.

Each time the lion tried to climb the tree, the dog’s frantic barking distracted it to the point where it eventually withdrew a short distance, probably hoping Wolhuter would climb down from the tree.

Wolhuter knew better than that and his patience was rewarded by the sounds of the approaching patrol. At his shouted warning, they fired off a few shots to drive off the lion and soon had a large fire burning. As they were desperately short of water, Wolhuter decided they would continue on to the next water hole, where he knew his game guards could wash and dress his wounds. The march to the water hole was agonizing for Wolhuter and made even more fearful when the patrol realized that the second lion was following them. Fortunately, Bull and the other two dogs were able to keep him at bay.

The next morning, Wolhuter sent two game guards back to the scene of the attack to look for his rifle and the dead lion. They returned having found his horse and rifle, together with the skin, skull and heart of the lion to show him where his knife had penetrated the organ.

Now unable to walk, Wolhuter had his game guards make a litter from poles and blankets and the patrol set out on the five-day march to the nearest medical help at Komatipoort. The wounds soon turned septic and Wolhuter, in great pain and with a raging fever, lapsed in and out of consciousness. The doctor at Komatipoort, who lacked the medical facilities that Wolhuter required, sent him by train to Barberton Hospital. However, even there, doctors did not hold out much hope for his survival.

Fortunately, they had not taken into account the incredible toughness of the man and his will to live. Within two months of the attack, Harry Wolhuter was back at work in his beloved Kruger National Park.

The Lindanda memorial is a series of stone tablets  marking the locations of the initial attack by the lions, the place where Wolhuter was seized by the first lion and, set in a concrete cairn, the skeletal remains of the actual tree he climbed to escape the second lion. Visitors stopping at the memorial site are not allowed to get out of their cars. However, I don’t think that anyone, once having read the description of the attack on the various tablets, would feel like leaving the safety of their car.

That evening, when we stopped for the night at Skukuza rest camp, I made a point of visiting the Stevenson-Hamilton Memorial Library. I wanted to show my son, Brad, the wall-mounted glass display case that contained the actual skin of the lion and the knife that Wolhuter used to save his life on that desperate night over 100 years ago.

The full story may be read in my 2009 book, “The Queen’s Cowboys”, which is available on www.amazon.com/The-Queens-Cowboys-ebook/dp/B00AXAQP92.

 

The Bombers of Ballale - Continued

I spent the first of my three nights on Ballale trying to sleep on a wooden bench in a open shed next to the airfield. Plagued by ants and mosquitos, I decided to spend the rest of the night sleeping on the boat jetty that stretched out over the reef that surrounded the island.
The next morning, enticed by the crystal clear water lapping around the jetty, I decided on a quick swim. As always, I was careful to scan the white, coral seafloor for any ominous black shapes cruising nearby before I jumped in.

I had been splashing around for a few minutes when a sudden, overwhelming desire to get out of the water sent me scrambling up onto the jetty. As I stood there naked and dripping wet, I was horrified to see a shark, of no mean proportions, swim casually by and circle the end of the jetty before disappearing over the edge of the reef. I would be a liar if I did not admit it gave me quite a scare.

During my stay on the island, I came across and photographed numerous Japanese aircraft including an Aichi ‘Val’ dive bomber, lots of ‘Betty’ bombers and a few crumpled wrecks of the famous ‘Zero’ fighter. During all this time I had the unsettling feeling that I was not alone. But despite circling the island once or twice and criss-crossing it numerous times, I did not see a single human being until my bush pilot friend arrived to pick me up.

You can imagine how I felt when, on my return to Australia, my research on Ballale revealed that, towards the end of 1942, the Imperial Japanese Navy shipped over 500 Allied prisoners of war, captured mostly in the fall of Singapore, to the island to construct an airfield. The prisoners were brutally ill-treated and, after the airfield was completed, the survivors were forced out into the open to die during Allied air raids, or were eventually executed and buried on the island.
A British website operated by the Children and Families of Far Eastern Prisoners of War, www.cofepow.org.uk tells their terrible story.