IN the long long-ago, Frobisher and I, assisted by a handful of native
troopers, kept the flag flying at M'Vini.
We hoisted it to the top of a tree at sun-up, where it remained,
languidly flapping its tatters over leagues of Central African bush
till sun-set, when we hauled it down again--an arduous life. After
we had been at M'Vini about six months, had shot everything worth
shooting, and knew one another's funny stories off by heart, Frobisher
and I grew bored with each other, hated in fact the sight, sound and
mere propinquity of each other, and, shutting ourselves up in our
separate huts, communicated only on occasions of the direct necessity,
and then by the curtest of official notes. Thus a further three months
dragged on.
Then one red-hot afternoon came Frobisher's boy to my wattle-and-dab,
bearing a note.
"Visitor approaching from S.W. got up like a May-Queen; think it
must be the KAISER. Lend me a bottle of whisky and mount guard--must
impress the blighter."
I attached my last bottle of Scotch to the messenger and sallied
forth to mount a guard, none too easy a job, as the Army had gone to
celebrate somebody's birthday in the neighbouring village. However, I
discovered one remaining trooper lying in the shade of a loquat-tree.
He was sick--dying, he assured me; but I persuaded him to postpone
his demise for at least half-an-hour, requisitioned his physician (the
local witch doctor) and two camp followers, and, leaving my cook-boy
to valet them, dashed to my hut to make my own toilet. A glimpse
through the cane mats five minutes later showed me that our visitors
had arrived.
A fruity German officer in full gala rig (white gloves and all)
was cruising about on mule-back before our camp, trying to discover
whether it was inhabited or not. We let him cruise for a quarter of
an hour without taking any steps to enlighten him. Then, at a given
signal, Frobisher, caparisoned in every fal-lal he could collect,
issued from his hut, and I turned out the improvised guard. A stirring
spectacle; and it had the desired effect, for the German afterwards
admitted to being deeply impressed, especially by the local wizard,
who paraded in his professional regalia, and, coming to cross-purposes
with his rifle, bayoneted himself and wept bitterly. The ceremonies
over and the casualty removed we adjourned to Frobisher's _kya_,
broached the whisky and sat about in solemn state, stiff with
accoutrements, sodden with perspiration. Our visitor kept the Red,
White and Black flying on a tree over the border, he explained; this
was his annual ceremonial call. He sighed and brushed the sweat from
his nose with the tips of a white glove--"the weather was warm, _nicht
wahr?_" I admitted that we dabbled in flag-flying ourselves and that
the weather was all he claimed for it (which effort cost me about four
pounds in weight). Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the
hut-tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger--and the
weather again.
Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shackles of his Sam
Browne, hurled it into a corner, and began tearing at his tunic hooks.
I stared at him in amazement--such manners before visitors. But our
immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a freed lion, and,
stripping his white gloves, flung them after the Sam Browne, whereupon
a fury of undressing came upon us. Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were
piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes,
laughing and unashamed. After that we got on famously, that Teuton
and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and
left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him
farewell.
But not for long. Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the
bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.
"Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!
Durn out ze guard!" He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and
bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his
woolly pate.
His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion Brew, Otto explained,
so he had brought it along.
We wassailed deep into that night and out the other side, and we liked
our Otto more than ever. We had plenty in common, the same loneliness,
fevers, climate, and niggers to wrestle with; moreover he had been
in England, and liked it; he smoked a pipe; he washed. Also, as he
privily confided to us in the young hours of one morning, he had his
doubts as to the divinity of the KAISER, and was not quite convinced
that RICHARD STRAUSS had composed the music of the spheres.
He was a bad Hun (which probably accounted for his presence at the
uttermost, hottermost edge of the ALL-HIGHEST'S dominions), but a good
fellow. Anyhow, we liked him, Frobisher and I; liked his bull-mouthed
laughter, his drinking songs and full-blooded anecdotes, and, on the
occasions of his frequent visits, put our boredom from us, pretended
to be on the most affectionate terms, and even laughed uproariously
at each other's funny stories. Up at M'Vini, in the long long-ago,
the gleam of pyjamas amongst the loquats, and "'Ere gomes ze Sherman
invasion!" booming through the bush, became a signal for general
good-will.
In the fulness of time Otto went home on leave, and, shortly
afterwards, the world blew up.
And now I have met him again, a sodden, muddy, bloody, shrunken,
saddened Otto, limping through a snowstorm in the custody of a
Canadian Corporal. He was the survivor of a rear-guard, the Canuck
explained, and had "scrapped like a bag of wild-cats" until knocked
out by a rifle butt. As for Otto himself, he hadn't much to say; he
looked old, cold, sick and infinitely disgusted. He had always been a
poor Hun.
Only once did he show a gleam of his ancient form of those old hot,
happy, pyjama days on the Equator.
A rabble of prisoners--Jägers, Grenadiers, Uhlans, what-nots--came
trudging down the road, an unshorn, dishevelled herd of cut-throats,
propelled by a brace of diminutive kilties, who paused occasionally to
treat them to snatches of flings and to hoot triumphantly.
Otto regarded his fallen compatriots with disgusted lack-lustre eyes,
then turning to me with a ghost of his old smile, "'Ere gomes ze
Sherman invasion," said he.
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