Old man Jack Games was born in 1887 in Wheeling, West Virginia, and was sent to a military school on the Ohio River at the age of eleven. Soon thereafter he absconded and meandered through the country, ending up in Laramie, Wyoming, where he became a first-class cowboy. Hearing of the Mexican Civil War, Jack and a friend made their way south to enter the fray. First they joined the Mexican government troops under General Carranza but then, in the best mercenary tradition, deserted Carranza on hearing of a better deal with Pancho Villa and the rebels.
That move proved a near tragic mistake, for they were captured by loyalist troops in a skirmish near Sonora, hustled off to a town called Ojinaga, and sentenced to death. On the day destined for execution by firing squad, Villa’s men rescued Jack in a gunfight, whereupon a detachment of the U.S. Cavalry took him into custody and spirited him back to El Paso—but not to freedom. With various charges hanging over his head, he was given the choice of joining the Texas Rangers or going to jail. He opted for the Rangers and entered the ranks of that formidable body of men.
Soon, however, patrolling the Rio Grande began to bore him, and he decided it was time for a change. Going absent without leave, he headed west, hoping to find his way to Hawaii. En route he met an old wrangler friend in San Francisco who owned a bar. Having overindulged, he found himself in a fight with a patron over a woman. When his adversary took an ice pick to him, he reached for a steel pipe and killed the man.
Although only in his early twenties, he found himself in jail again. While there, news reached him of a major war raging in countries the names of which made no sense to him. “France” and “Belgium” might have sounded like names on another planet, but if they were fighting, Jack was interested. He quickly determined that if there was a war, he wanted to be in on it.
He broke out and fled to Canada. The United States had become hostile territory for him, and the chance of recapture and a lengthier sentence hung heavily over him. More importantly, the country was still neutral. In Canada he applied to join the Canadian 72nd Seaforth Highlanders and was accepted for infantry training in Vancouver. When he saw his first kilt, the fighting cowboy assumed they were being funny, but after completing training and a transatlantic crossing on a cramped troopship, Jack found himself in one of the bloodiest battles in history.
During the war in France, Jack Games, in the space of little over two years, was wounded thirteen times, having been on the receiving end of bayonets, bullets, shrapnel, and gas. He emerged as one of the most highly decorated soldiers to serve with the Allies in World War I. Unable to carry on because of his injuries, however, his front line service was terminated, and he was shipped back to Canada for further surgery. The doctors wanted to amputate his right leg, but after forceful protestation he hung onto it. Although virtually useless, the injured leg enabled him to ride a horse, and after a short stint with the U.S. Cavalry on a packtrain, he went panning for gold on the Colorado River.
No bonanzas came his way, and once again boredom set in. After scraping together the funds to make the voyage to Australia, he moved through the outback from cattle station to cattle station. Five years after his arrival he was done with Australia, and the wanderlust was upon him again, and this time it was Africa that caught his fancy. He took a freighter to the South African port city of Durban, where he made inquiries about the possibilities to the north.
A ticket clerk in Durban suggested that, if cattle and horses were his forte, he make his way north to the new country then known as Southern Rhodesia. In the then-bustling frontier town of Bulawayo he found employment with the Congo-Rhodesia Cattle Company, and his new post took him to Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo. The CRCC went on to become part of the Colonial Development Corporation, and thereafter Jack became the inspiration behind the development of a booming cattle industry through the medium of a quasi-governmental body known as the Cold Storage Commission, which exists in depleted form in Zimbabwe even today.
Before retiring, Jack was arguably responsible for running more cattle than any other man alive at that time—170,000 head throughout Northern and Southern Rhodesia and what was then the Protectorate of Bechuanaland (now Botswana). Jack died in Durban in 1962, and by all accounts, he was trying his luck with the girls right up to the end.
* * * * *
Jack’s son Lewis Sturdees Games, cut from much the same cloth, was born in 1929 in the dusty cattle ranching town of Kezi, eighty miles south of Bulawayo. The year 1929 was a significant one for Rhodesia. The Depression was on, but it was also the year in which the settlers were granted self-rule by the British government and, thus, made the transition from a charter territory virtually governed by Cecil Rhodes’s British South Africa Company to a self-governing colony. In the thirty years since the territory’s founding, they had established the infrastructure that had turned a piece of wildest Africa into more than a semblance of a civilized country and a beacon of hope for hitherto primitive tribal peoples. Rhodes was by then entombed amongst the granite hills of his beloved Matopos, near present-day Bulawayo, but the seed he had sown was bearing bountiful fruit. A fabulous country was unfolding by dint of enterprise and hard work.
Lew Games was educated at Plumtree School, the first senior school in the colony and a tough place for any youngster to start out. Plumtree was situated in the dry Kalahari sandveld in virtual no-man’s-land, a hundred miles from the nearest town, on the border with Bechuanaland. It was a no frills institution with iron discipline and a heavy emphasis on team sports like cricket and rugby—that is, a nursery for the next generation of nation-builders.
As was the case in most Rhodesian schools, it was always a little unclear at Plumtree what was more important, rugby or studies. That great institution, although not quite what it was then, still functions today and has a proud record of producing many of the country’s great adventurers, hunters, and soldiers. Games, like so many of his genre, spent his time away from school on a horse—riding herd, hunting, and shooting.
After leaving school, Lew dabbled in mining, but cattle was in his blood. A hankering for livestock saw him range far and wide through the subcontinent, buying, running, moving, and selling. Covering much of the terrain on horseback, he traversed vast areas of what are now Botswana, Zambia, and Zimbabwe.
Moving cattle in that territory was never simple. Lion, leopard, and other predators were a constant threat, and the tsetse fly, vector for the killer disease trypanosomiasis (sleeping sickness), was omnipresent in the low-lying areas. Adding to that, the rains made river crossings unavoidable, and in the bigger waters the Nile crocodile lurked, hungry for a meal. On the Zambezi crocs killed so many head of cattle that eventually a rudimentary but functional pontoon had to be fashioned to transfer animals safely across the river.
For a young man who wanted the wind in his hair and who was happy to throw caution aside, it was a golden age in a golden land. The country was wide open to the innovative and adventurous, and as the white population grew so did the number of country clubs and hotels. A social dimension developed, and for the lonely cowboy there were suddenly women about. The young Games quickly noted the change in the scenery.
Lew had a sharp and angular face that hinted at Red Indian ancestry. Handsome, with hazel eyes under dark brows and a mass of black hair, he was powerfully built, tall, and walked with a languid but purposeful gait. He was laconic, a good listener, and happy to let his actions speak for him rather than words, with an unshakable insouciance that was a defining trait. Threats to his physical well-being varied from wild animals to wild husbands and cuckolded lovers; he left a trail of broken hearts in his phlegmatic wake.
The women loved him, but their husbands were understandably wary, and his reputation as a cattleman and hunter was soon matched by his reputation as a womanizer. Fortunately for him his stay in any one place was short, and there was always the wilderness to disappear back into when matters grew sticky.
As the number of cattle moving into the wild country of Matabeleland in western Rhodesia increased, the lion paid closer attention, and their depredations became more serious and costly. Men like Lew Games found that they had little time for any activity other than keeping lions at bay. But with the regularity of their encounters with these unpredictable predators came a dangerous familiarity. Sometime later, such carelessness was to play a part in his downfall.
It was in the mid-1960s when Lew was introduced to an English gentleman by the name of Hector Wilson in a pub in the then-growing town of Victoria Falls. In the course of conversation and beer quaffing, he let on that he would soon be going after some cattle-raiding lion. The English visitor was enthralled and asked if it would be possible to accompany him. Lew was happy to oblige. Not lost on him was the possibility of scaring the living daylights out of the cherubic Englishman with the silly clothes and still sillier accent. He was the perfect victim with his soft, pink face and prominent jowls and with his corpulent body and large belly that hung over his belt. His walk was more of a waddle, and he looked very much out of place among the hard men of western Rhodesia. It would be company, though, and company of an unusual type.
In an area known as Chowe near the Bechuanaland border, they set off after a group of three lion in an old Ford pickup. In the soft gusu sand of the Kalahari, the tracking was easy. Lew stopped intermittently along the trail to look at the tracks, and the pugs suggested that these were all males. Experience had taught Lew that males, unlike the female of the species, were invariably inclined to avoid direct confrontation unless cornered or wounded.
About midday, movement ahead caught his eye. Three lions came into view momentarily before slinking off into thick brush and disappearing. Wilson was apprised of the development and told to sit tight. Lew exited the vehicle and rather casually closed in on foot. The Englishman was struck by the young man’s calm in the face of danger.
Almost immediately and without warning a male charged out of the thicket. The speed of the attack and the level of unprovoked aggression took Lew completely by surprise, but a single shot turned the animal, which quickly disappeared. Overwhelmed by this unexpected belligerence, he found himself breathless and somewhat unnerved. But his reputation for calm under fire had to be protected, and he worked hard to regain his composure. The Englishman, seated in the vehicle, looked on in astonishment. The spectacle that had just unfolded before him was the stuff of fiction, surely not something one actually got to see in real life.
Lew recharged his weapon. Just before he revisited the thicket there was a loud grunt and another male came hurtling toward him. Its body was low to the ground, with muscle and sinew rippling through a glistening tawny hide. Lew saw the unblinking yellow eyes fixed on his, and without time to draw a bead he pulled the trigger. He felt the rifle jump back sharply and saw the animal stumble and fall, then spring to its feet. Within a millisecond that lion too had gone, leaving behind a puff of dust and a telltale sprinkling of dark red muscle blood. The bullet had struck. The lion was hit, hurt, almost certainly extremely angry, and, most importantly, not dead.
The afternoon’s jaunt with an English stranger had not gone as planned. It had, instead, turned into an ordeal, and it was apparent there was an urgent need to sit and take stock while bracing for further action. His next moves needed to be the right ones. With two wounded lions in the mix, mistakes would be costly. The daunting prospect of dealing with the problem alone was his privilege to ponder.
The thought of going back to seek reinforcements crossed Lew’s mind, but pride intervened. It was obvious to him that his guest was clearly less than convinced that Lew was the fearless lion killer about whom the territory was abuzz. Wilson was, however, suitably terrified. He sat immobilized in the front of the vehicle, staring fixedly ahead while beads of perspiration popped out of a pallid brow. Two charges, two shots, and nothing to see for them but a shaky and breathless white hunter. Terrified, yes; impressed, no.
Anyone but a bloody Brit, thought Lew.
Irritation briefly supplanted fear. It had been a foolish move to bring him along. Resigning himself to his fate, he struggled to recapture the calm that had come so easily only moments before. With no idea where his quarry now was, or from whence to expect the next assault, he surveyed the scene warily, noticing that the thicket opened up where it ran down to a dry riverbed.
Proceeding now with undisguised caution, he approached gingerly and made his way down into the middle of the riverbed. There he hoped he would find some open ground between himself and his adversaries. Taking it a step at a time, he scanned the brush until his head hurt. His eyes sent confusing images to a mind in a state of high alert. Then came the dreaded but unmistakable grunt of a lion immediately preceding a charge. A lion exploded out of the brush.
The cat was masterfully camouflaged, and there were moments during which the hunter’s eyes failed him. Then he saw five hundred pounds of feline fury rushing at him, blood streaming from a wound on the animal’s flank. He fired at the head, hitting the lion behind the eye, which spun the great cat around. As it whirled he fired again into the middle of the body, but the lion completed its revolution and with the agility of a ballerina corrected its balance and came at him, golden eyes blazing.
The disgusting stench of hot, fetid breath stormed his nasal passages before he felt himself hitting the ground with the animal atop him. This was a fight for life itself. The pungency of the stink from the animal’s mouth hit him again as he saw the jaws widen and the huge incisors approach. The lion closed in rapidly on his throat, blood pouring from a wound at the back of its jaw.
In desperation he punched a fist forcefully into the back of the cat’s throat, and his grasping hand felt the hot, soft epiglottal membrane at the rear as his fingers dug into soft, slippery flesh before tightening around the base of the tongue. To his astonishment the roughness of the surface enabled him to maintain his grip and heave mightily with all his strength. As the tongue slowly emerged from the back of the mouth his other hand shot out to reinforce his grip—to hang on with both hands, literally for dear life.
The big cat had taken three shots from Lew’s .470, which, fortunately, had drained the lion of much of its energy. But it was far from finished. Lew hung on to the tongue while shouting for the Englishman to help, knowing that if he lost his grip death would follow. Frustrated at being unable to bite into the head of its tormentor, the lion set about him with its claws, and Lew squirmed under the animal’s torso, trying to avoid being gouged. The gruesome sound of flesh and clothes being ripped weighed heavily on his shattered senses. Blood erupted from cuts all over his body.
With a large man pulling for all his worth on its tongue, the lion struggled to breathe, and slowly strength ebbed from its body. It became wobbly on its feet and then slumped to the ground. Lew shouted again for his companion. Despite the fact that death was staring him in the face, he remained acutely embarrassed about his predicament: the great white hunter, famous for being unruffled, hanging on to a lion’s tongue while sprawled out under the breathless beast, his clothes in shreds and blood covering his body.
Despite all the unkind thoughts that had preceded it, a sense of relief followed when Hector’s now white face, a picture of disbelief, came into view behind the wheel of the pickup as it moved slowly down the riverbed. The bewildered Englishman stopped about fifty yards away, wide-eyed, mouth gaping.
“Come closer!” Lew shouted.
The truck surged forward.
The sound of the vehicle excited the lion. It rose to its feet, then turned to face the vehicle. As it did so it dragged the hunter, still locked onto its tongue.
There was a rifle in the vehicle, and the English visitor had it in his hands. “Shall I shoot?” he asked.
Lew was well aware that, with the lion virtually on top of him, a shot from the hands of a novice would have an excellent chance of hitting him. He ordered him not to fire. It appeared that his best chance was to have the vehicle brought right to them, so that at least part of the lion would be under the car. His plan was then to release his grip quickly and bolt into the back of the vehicle.
“Come closer. Try and drive onto us without driving over me.”
The engine surged, and Wilson’s large, round eyes became bigger. The lion tried to react, but its strength was sapped. Lew pulled hard to hold it to the ground. As the vehicle came up, the lion tried to turn, and his rump went under the bumper. Lew seized the chance to release the cat and run for the back of the truck. Despite his wounds, he found himself capable of great speed. Diving over the back of the truck, he screamed, “Drive, drive!”
But a very frightened Englishman, disbelief written all over his face, was frozen into inaction. He simply stared blankly back, through the window of the cab. Then there was a thud, and the suspension shook as the lion arrived in the back of the truck. Wilson became unfrozen as his proximity to a mauling increased. Still staring fixedly to the rear he gave no thought whatsoever to what was ahead of the car. With the engine screaming he released the clutch too fast, and the car shuddered forward. All those aboard bounced and jerked clumsily about. Lion and hunter slammed against the tailgate as the vehicle accelerated, and both now found a common purpose, which was to stay in the vehicle while Wilson, still with eyes fixed to the rear, roared off, oblivious to obstacles.
Their mad dash came to a smashing end as the car plunged into a ditch, stalling the engine and shifting man and beast from the tailgate to the rear of the cab. The one cursed, the other snarled. The driver then disappeared from view as he ducked to the floor of the car to try and avoid the two who were arriving to join him on the driving seat. With his hands wrapped around his head, he lay face down on the front seat and waited to be eaten.
Lew leaped from the back onto the ground and clambered into the cab. Heart pumping wildly, he managed to haul the terrified Wilson over to his side of the cab and seize control of the car. He turned the ignition key, reversed rapidly, and then geared the car into forward motion. Not wanting to, but knowing of the need, he turned his head—and the horror returned. Glaring through the window was the lion, teeth bared in anger and obviously still feeling strongly inclined to deal with unfinished business.
Lew gunned the engine and the car surged forward, forcing the lion to the rear and out the back of the vehicle. He held the accelerator to the floor and sped away to a safe distance until the blood from a scalp wound dripping into his eyes made him stop. Next to him, Hector was sitting rigidly upright staring into space—unseeing, unthinking, unblinking.
“Hector,” he said quietly. There was no response.
“Hector!” he repeated, more loudly. The man’s head snapped toward him with such speed that there was a cracking noise. The two stared at each other. Lew forced a wan smile.
“I’m sorry about that. It was all a bit of a cock-up, I’m afraid.”
Hector slumped back into the seat. His head shook in his hands.
“I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody well believe it.” A long sigh followed. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“Can you drive me back to camp? Then we’ll take it from there.”
They swapped seats and set off. Lew surveyed his injuries and, while noting that he was lacerated from head to toe, took comfort from the fact that there appeared to be nothing life threatening. But his body felt as if it were on fire. On arrival he staggered out of the vehicle to be greeted by his cook, who was aghast at the sight of his tattered employer, covered in blood.
“What happened, nkosi?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Isiliwane ena puzile mina.” (The lion has eaten me.) he explained, then staggered off to the mess tent to collapse into a chair. The faithful servant followed him and stood before him, holding his hands over his chest.
“Eena wena funa, nkosi?” (What do you want, sir?) he asked quietly.
“Whiskey.”
Several swigs from the bottle had the desired effect, and a pleasing warmth surged through his body as a numbness started to dull the blistering pain that enveloped his body.
“Hector, please get me some warm water and Dettol out the bathroom, so I can try to clean these bloody things.”
Removing his clothes with the help of the servant shocked him. The wounds were now swollen welts lining deep incisions that laced his body, making him look like the victim of a scourging. Infection was a very real, probably life-threatening likelihood.
After cleaning the wounds and arming himself with another bottle of whiskey, he took up a comfortable position on a mattress in the back of the truck. They made for the Victoria Falls, from where they would head to the hospital in Livingstone, in what had recently become the Republic of Zambia (formerly Northern Rhodesia), just across the border.
By the time they reached their destination the whiskey had done its job, and the staff at first thought they had only a drunk to deal with. They were partly correct—but he was also in need of surgery.
The doctor, a grand old Afrikaner gentleman by the name of Corrie de Kok, had a reputation for being a very skillful surgeon but ruthless with those who wasted his time. Summoned from home to deal with an emergency, he was in a poor mood. But the sight of Games’s state of disrepair got his attention.
“Man or beast?” he asked.
Work commenced in the operating theatre, and the result was a major cleaning and suture session involving the insertion of more than two hundred stitches and the administration of a blood transfusion. The latter was to reduce the patient’s blood alcohol level.
The next day Lew awoke to an almighty hangover and a jovial surgeon who insisted that this proved there is a God: Punishment had been administered to Lew for being such a bad bastard. Rumor had it that, following the activation of the bush telegraph, husbands throughout Rhodesia were expressing joy while wondering if Games had lost any parts.
The next day, Andy MacDonald, a farmer from the Choma area of southwestern Zambia, was rushed in. He, too, had been mauled by a lion. The encounter goes down in history as one of the few recorded cases of a man fighting off a lion with his bare hands. MacDonald was an immensely powerful man—indeed, a front row forward for the rugby Springboks. When word spread of his feat, it found an appreciative audience amongst those who knew him.
De Kok performed extensive surgery and bone repair, then complained to Lew: “What the hell is wrong with you bastards? If you can’t shoot these things, stay in the bloody pub!”
Lew was starting to enjoy the company of the nurses, and notwithstanding the bandages that covered his face and body he felt reasonably sure that his overtures were starting to take effect. After promising the nurses the world he got some whiskey smuggled in to him, and life became very agreeable.
On the fourth day of his stay the skills of the long-suffering doctor were again required. A veterinary officer from northern Bechuanaland had been hurriedly admitted with a very large hole in his right buttock. In the course of fleeing an irate cow elephant, and in a desperate bid to avoid being squashed underfoot, he had tried to launch himself over a fence to safety but had come up short. Stranded, severely compromised, and rudely exposed, he had run out of options when the angry elephant caught up with him and thrust a tusk deep into his rear.
By the seventh day Lew was on the mend and excited about the progress he was making with the young nurses. The morning of the eighth saw him abruptly awakened at an unusually early hour by a crowd of menacing black men in suits wearing dark glasses, despite the fact that there was no sunlight in the room.
“Are you Mr. Lewis Sturdees Games?” they demanded.
“Yes.”
“We are from the Zambian Intelligence Service and Zambian Security Police.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him that they looked anything but intelligent, but he thought better of it.
“The rebel leader Ian Smith has declared independence,” he announced.
Lew was genuinely surprised at the news. Politics was not his strong suit. He looked at the delegation glaring at him from behind dark glasses and thought that if this weren’t serious it would be extremely funny.
“Ian who?”
“Don’t be funny,” the man warned. “You are a Rhodesian, and you know who the prime minister is.” A finger was shaken before his bandaged face. Silence followed.
“Ian Smith. The prime minister of your racist country. He has illegally declared independence from Britain.”
“Well, that sounds like a great idea to me. The British are a bunch of bloody fools.”
Unbeknownst to him, a few days previously the Rhodesian premier had, after failing to get Britain to grant the country independence, taken it unilaterally. The Rhodesians were doing what the Americans had done one hundred and seventy years earlier. Britain had insisted on a hand-over to black rule as a prerequisite for granting independence, but Smith had rejected the idea, much to the dismay of the new black government in Zambia.
The wounded hunter could see perspiration start to break out on his interrogator’s face. His aim had been to intimidate, but things weren’t going his way. MacDonald, in the next bed over, started to laugh.
“Shut up, you!” the senior policeman shouted. The big farmer battled to control his mirth. He was a Zambian citizen and could not be deported. Games, however, was a Rhodesian. Through no fault of theirs they now suddenly found themselves on different sides of the political divide. The veterinary man from Botswana, still face down, could be seen shaking, but he managed to smother his laughter in a pillow.
“You must sign this!” the policeman shouted, again directing his attention at Games and shoving a document in his face.
“Sign what?” he asked.
“You must sign this paper to denounce Ian Smith. He is a rebel and a racist, and we in Zambia are very angry. Our president, Doctor Kenneth Kaunda, is threatening an armed struggle war with racist Rhodesia!”
“Well, at the moment I can’t walk, so I’m not much use to either side.”
“You must sign this paper condemning Smith,” he shouted, shaking with anger. He shoved the form into his bandaged face.
“Ian Smith never did me any harm. I’ve got no problem with him. Never even met him. How can I sign something against him?”
“You sign or we throw you out of the hospital,” the man shouted, his fellow officers nodding vigorously in agreement.
“Well, throw me out,” he replied.
Pandemonium ensued as the policemen went storming off, looking for doctors and staff to tell them that the patient must go. De Kok and the nurses tried to reason with them, but the security men were not to be dissuaded. Suddenly it dawned on Lew that he was naked. Were they going to dress him first?
“Sister,” he called, “my clothes, please.”
Shocked by what was happening to her patient, the nurse had to tell him that the clothes worn on admission were no more. They had been destroyed.
“Well, what are they going to chuck me out in?”
For the first time he found himself in a panic. It looked as if he were now set to be deported and paraded across the Victoria Falls bridge, naked, crippled, and covered from head to toe in cuts and bruises—an awkward proposition.
His spirits lifted only a fraction when the nurse came hurrying back to his bed brandishing a bright pink nightshirt. Never in his life had he worn a nightshirt, and never had he worn anything pink. It was all a little bizarre. Then Corrie de Kok appeared.
“I’m sorry, Lew. I can’t believe they are going to do this, but I can’t change their minds. Won’t you sign the damn document?”
“No, I won’t. Thanks for all you’ve done for me. God knows what’s going on. Are they going to close the border?”
Corrie nodded forlornly.
“Come, Games! Come, Games!” The security men approached, carrying weapons.
The doctor and a nurse helped him into the shirt. Policemen quickly closed in and hauled him roughly to his feet, which were hastily shod in borrowed slippers.
“Careful—can’t you see he is hurt?” the doctor shouted. The escort hauled him out the ward.
“I’ve got a message to your mates on the other side, Lew. They’re waiting for you,” he yelled as the wounded man was bundled out the door.
Oh, hell, he thought. They’re going to be in hysterics when they see this. And they were.
Frog-marched back to Rhodesia by a dozen Zambian security men in his bright pink nightshirt, he had to smile when he saw his big-boned countrymen waiting at the simple white demarcation line at the bridge. Their laughter sounded surreal as it wafted through the sodden air rising from the thunder of the falls below.
Friends embraced him warmly, welcoming him back to the brotherhood. The Lew Games legend had taken a knock, but life was for living. The wounded deportee was ushered into the nearest bar. The war for Rhodesia was about to start. He was glad to be home.
* * * * *
Lew Games went on to become one of the best known and widely respected outfitters in the then-blossoming safari/hunting industry. Involved in some shape or form in Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe), Zambia, Botswana, and Tanzania, he later played a major role in the formation of Hunters Africa, which was, for a time, probably the premier company specializing in quality big-game hunting. Falling victim to the vicissitudes of African officialdom, the company was eventually dismantled, and Lew sought newer pastures outside of hunting that would still give him access to the wildlife that was so much a part of his life.
He acquired an abandoned piece of property in the Zambezi Valley, in an area that had been devastated by civil war and poaching, and he set to work protecting and nurturing the little that was left and reintroducing species that had been wiped out. His efforts bore fruit almost immediately, and animals long on the run found a rare and welcome sanctuary that saw game populations multiply. The prime beneficiaries of his endeavors were the elephant, which had been hunted mercilessly for their ivory. Lew, who had made a name and a living out of hunting them, was enthusiastic about having an opportunity to help during their time of need.
Many commented on the fact that Lew had an unusual way with wild game, an inexplicable ability to signal friendship to wild animals made wilder by hunting pressure and to engage them in a discourse that only he seemed able to conduct or understand. African staff spoke with wonder about game approaching to within touching distance of him, and while many were skeptical, the longer he spent in the Zambezi the more obvious it became that he did indeed have an unusual relationship with wild animals.
A bull elephant that eventually made his home close to Lew most poignantly illustrated Lew’s ability with animals. This elephant seemed to know that his life was more secure while his human friend was near. Distinctive because of his torn ears, the elephant became known as Tatters, and he made life a little dangerous for all on the property except for Lew. With Lew, Tatters was the epitome of a gentleman. Knowing Lew’s routine, Tatters would regularly appear at various times of the day and evening to pay his respects and exchange pleasantries. During those meetings all the aggression Tatters showed at other times seemed to dissipate.
This friendship continued for some years, when a particularly unusual meeting took place. Early one morning Lew was driving to the radio hut in his open Jeep to conduct a daily radio schedule when an unusually nervous Tatters made his way toward him in hurried fashion. Only on closing in did Tatters seem to relax, and then the elephant did something he had never done before. With Lew in the driver’s seat, the elephant came up to the car, made a noise that sounded like a sigh, and calmly, almost delicately, lowered his trunk into the vehicle. With the animal towering over him, Lew could do no more than sit motionless and trust to the goodwill of his friend.
As the trunk brushed lightly past him in an expression of gentle affection, Lew waited somewhat anxiously before the huge proboscis came to rest on a bar just inches above his head. Overcome by this demonstration of friendship, Lew lifted his hand to touch the elephant. Briefly, man and beast joined in a quiet moment together before Tatters backed away, lifted his trunk, and shook his head in what looked like a farewell. He then walked decisively away toward the looming hills of the Zambezi escarpment and the wilds of no-man’s-land. Two days later scouts reported finding the carcass of a large bull elephant. It was Tatters. He had come to say good-bye to his friend before he left for the mountains to die.
Lew Games spent most of the last years of his life trying to save the wildlife in the Zambezi Valley. When he died in 2002, Africa lost a remarkable man.
