HOW THE KOPJE WAS STORMED
A few days later the battalion left Kilwa for the scene of action, a
strong force of Germans being located by seaplane reconnaissance twenty
miles north of the Rovuma River and nearly four times that distance
from the coast.
Acting in conjunction with three battalions of the Waffs were a mounted
Boer contingent and a Punjabi regiment that had already done good
service in the northern part of the hostile colony, while three
seaplanes were "attached" to the expedition for reconnoitring purposes.
In high spirits the Waffs marched out of camp, eager for the chance of
a scrap. The only malcontents were half-a-dozen hospital cases who
perforce had to be left behind; amongst them, to his great disgust,
Second Lieutenant Spofforth, who though convalescent was unable to
bluff the doctor that his arm was "quite all right--doesn't
inconvenience me in the least, don't you know."
At the end of four days' hard marching through scrubby grounds the
troops began to climb the almost trackless hinterland, where water was
scarce and vegetation scanty. It was much of the same nature as the
veldt in the dry season, kopjes being plentifully in evidence. There
were unpleasant traces of Fritz and his native auxiliaries, for several
of the springs had been systematically poisoned and
cunningly-constructed booby-traps were frequently encountered.
Nevertheless all arms were sanguine of bringing the Huns to bay.
Strong Belgian forces operating from the westward were driving the
enemy towards the advancing British, while across the Rovuma Portuguese
troops, well supplied with light field-artillery, were considered a bar
to any attempted "break-through" on the southern frontier.
Towards evening scouts reported the "spoor" of the enemy, for the
ground bore the impression of thousands of naked footprints and those
of about a hundred booted men. A strong force of German Askaris,
supported by a "white" body of troops with machine guns and mule
batteries, were retiring in a north-westerly direction, while a small
detachment had broken off and was making almost north-east.
It was against the latter party that the Nth Waffs were to operate,
since it was recognised that a small, mobile, and determined body of
the enemy would give almost if not quite as much trouble as a large and
consequently more cumbersome force hampered with guns in a difficult
country.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, as a couple of Haussa scouts hurriedly
and stealthily rejoined the advance guard. "Tarry Barrel and Spot Cash
have tumbled upon something."
"Hun he lib for stop, sah," reported Tari Barl.
"Stopping to make fight?" asked the subaltern eagerly.
The Haussa shook his head, and moved his jaw after the manner of a
person eating.
"Lib for stop for grub," he exclaimed. "After that on him go."
"How far?" demanded Wilmshurst.
Tari Barl indicated that the scouts had followed two distinct spoors
for more than a couple of miles without actually sighting any of the
retiring enemy.
Acting upon this information the advance guard marched into the ground
on which the Huns had recently halted. Examination of the refuse and
other traces revealed the fact that the enemy had been there but a few
hours previously, for the ashes of the extinguished fires were still
hot. That the march had been resumed in a leisurely manner, showing
that as yet the hostile detachment was unaware of the close pursuit,
was evident by the systematic way in which the fires had been put out
and earth thrown lightly over the embers.
"We'll halt just beyond this spot," decided the company major, when the
rest of the four platoons joined the advance guard. "Hanged if I fancy
bivouacking on the site of a Boche camp. What do you think of the
fresh spoors, MacGregor?"
"That's the principal line of retreat, I think," replied the Rhodesian.
"They can't go very much farther, for it will be pitch black in twenty
minutes."'
"Just so," agreed the major. "Set the men to work, Mr. Wilmshurst.
Mr. Laxdale, you will please send a runner to the colonel and tell him
that we've proposed bivouacking here till dawn."
Until it was quite dark the Haussas toiled, building sangars and
constructing light connecting trenches with abattis of sharp thorns
sufficient to deter and hold up a rush of bare-footed Askaris, since
there was no knowing that after all the enemy had been informed of the
presence of the pursuing column.
In silence the men ate their rations, no fires being allowed, and
sentries to outlying piquets having been posted, the troops slept
beside their piled arms.
"What do you think of our chance of overtaking the bounders?" enquired
Wilmshurst of MacGregor, as the former prepared to visit the sentries.
"We ought to surprise them just after dawn," replied the Rhodesian.
"I'm just off to see the major and get his permission to try and
discover their position."
"But it's pitch dark," remarked Dudley. "You couldn't see your hand in
front of your face. Man, you'd be bushed for a dead cert."
"I don't know so much about that," replied MacGregor confidently. "The
fellows up at Umfuli often used to chaff me, saying that I had eyes
like a cat. Believe I have. At any rate I'll risk it, and if I'm not
back an hour before dawn my name's not MacGregor."
"Let me know if the major agrees," said Wilmshurst. "I don't want my
sentries to take pot shots at you when you return--and they are all
jolly good marksmen," he added in a tone of pride, for he had good
reason to pin his faith upon the Haussas' accuracy with a rifle.
It was not long before MacGregor returned.
"Fixed it up all right," he announced, "and now I'm off. If, just
before dawn, you hear the cry of a gnu you'll know it's this johnny
returning, so please keep the sentries well in hand."
The subaltern accompanied the Rhodesian past the alert sentries; then,
with Wilmshurst's good wishes for the best of luck, MacGregor vanished
into the night. In vain the young officer strained his ears to catch
the faint noise of the Rhodesian's footsteps or the crackle of a dry
twig under the pressure of his boot, but not a sound did the scout give
of his progress.
"Hanged if I'd like to take on his job," soliloquised Dudley, as he
slowly felt his way to the next pair of sentries. "I'd have a shot at
it if I were told off for it, of course, but this darkness seems to
have weight--to press upon a fellow's eyes. S'pose it'll end in having
to send out parties to bring the fellow in."
Truth to tell, Wilmshurst was not particularly keen on his brother's
chum. Why, he could hardly explain. It might have had something to do
with MacGregor's conduct when the lioness charged. But since then the
Rhodesian had shown considerable pluck and grit, and his voluntary
offer to plunge into the bush on a pitch dark night was a great factor
in his favour, in Dudley's opinion.
The subaltern's soliloquy was cut short by the dull glint of steel
within a few inches of his chest--even in the darkness all bayonets
seem to possess self-contained luminosity--and a voice hissed, "Who
come?"
Reassuring the sentries--there were two at each post--Wilmshurst
received the report that everything was all correct.
"Macgreg, him go," declared one of the Haussas, Macgreg being the name
by which the Rhodesian was known to the black troops.
Wilmshurst was astonished. He had heard nothing of the scout's
movements, yet the sentry, fifty yards away, had declared quite blandly
that MacGregor had passed the outlying post.
"How do you know that, Brass Pot?" asked the subaltern.
The Haussa chuckled audibly, and holding his rifle obliquely with the
bayonet thrust into the ground, placed his ear to the butt.
"Macgreg him go and go," he answered, meaning that the Rhodesian was
still on the move.
In vain Wilmshurst tested the sound-conducting properties of the rifle.
Normally of good hearing he failed to detect what to Private Brass Pot
was an accepted and irrefutable fact.
"Very good," said the subaltern, without admitting his failure. "If
you hear foot of Macgreg come this way before sergeant come for reliefs
then you send and tell me. Savvy?"
"Berry good, sah," replied the Haussa.
Having twice visited the sentries Wilmshurst returned to the bivouac to
snatch a few hours' sleep. It seemed as if he had only just dozed off
when he was awakened by Sergeant Beta Moshi, who informed him that the
men were already standing to and that the brief tropical dawn was
stealing across the sky.
"Has Macgreg returned, Bela Moshi?" asked Wilmshurst, stretching his
cramped limbs, for he had not removed his boots during the last
forty-eight hours, and with the exception of a brief interval had been
on his feet practically the whole of that time.
"MacGregor?" exclaimed Laxdale, who happened to overhear his
brother-officer's question. "Yes--rather. It seems that he struck our
main camp about an hour or so ago. The colonel's sent to say that we
are to attempt an enveloping movement. The Boches are in force on a
kopje about five miles on our right front--about eight hundred of 'em
according to MacGregor's report."
"That's good," declared Wilmshurst. All the same he felt rather
sceptical. The spoor of the right-hand column of the retiring Huns
hardly bore out the Rhodesian's statement, but evidently the scout knew
his business.
"Is MacGregor accompanying us?" he asked, as the three subalterns
prepared to rejoin their respective platoons.
"Fancy not," replied Danvers. "He's pretty well done up, I imagine.
The scrub's a bit thick out there, and a fellow can't crawl far without
picking up a few thorns. Plucky blighter, what?"
"A" Company was to work round to the right of the hostile position, "B"
operating to the left, both having two hours' start of the remainder of
the battalion, which was to deliver a frontal attack simultaneously
with the flanking movement.
With the night-mists still hanging in dense patches over the scrub
tactics were resumed. Wilmshurst had good reason to be delighted with
his men as the scouts and advance guards slipped off to their detailed
positions. At a hundred yards they were lost to sight and sound,
threading their way with the utmost caution through the long grass like
experienced hunters stalking their prey, while the various units kept
well in touch with each other by means of reliable runners. Other
methods of communication were out of the question. Flag-waving and
heliograph would have "given the show away" with the utmost certainty.
All feelings of physical tiredness vanishing under the magic spell of
impending action, Wilmshurst led his extended platoon toward their
allotted positions. It was slow work. The ground was difficult; every
spot likely to afford concealment to a hostile sniper had to be
carefully examined. The absence of bird life was ominous. It meant
that either the returning Huns had disturbed the feathered denizens or
else the advance of the Haussas had driven them over the enemy
position, in which case the wily Hun would "smell a rat."
It was noon before Wilmshurst gained his preliminary objective. The
tropical sun was beating down with terrific violence, the scrub
offering scant shelter from its scorching rays. Already the
previously-dew-sodden ground was baked stone-hard, the radiating heat
imparting an appearance of motion to every object within sight.
Literally stewing, the subaltern threw himself flat on the ground under
the slight shadow of a dried thorn bush, and waited, at intervals
sweeping the bare outlines of the kopje with his prismatic glasses.
Thirty long drawn-out minutes passed. According to plan the enveloping
movement ought to have been completed an hour ago, but not a sign was
given that "B" Company had arrived at their position--a sun-baked donga
at a distance of fifteen hundred yards behind the kopje.
Up crept Bela Moshi, his ebony features distended in a most cheerful
looking grin.
"Hun him lib for sit down, sah!" he reported. "Five Bosh-bosh (his
rendering of the word Boche) an' heap Askari--say so many."
He opened and closed his fingers of both hands four times, meaning that
the hostile post consisted of five Germans and forty native troops.
"They saw you?" asked the subaltern.
"Dem no look," replied the sergeant. "Too much busy make eat."
"How far away?"
"One tousand yards, sah," declared Bela Moshi.
Writing his report on a leaf of his pocketbook Wilmshurst gave the
paper to Tari Barl with instructions to deliver it to the company
commander.
Quickly the major's reply was received. The hostile post was to be
surrounded, but no action taken until the order was given for the
concentrated rush upon the Huns holding the kopje.
As rapidly as due caution allowed the enveloping of the outpost was
completed. From his new position, less than four hundred yards from
the spot where the unsuspecting Huns were bivouacking, Wilmshurst could
keep them under close observation.
Three of the Germans were middle-aged men, bearded, swarthy, and
dressed in coffee-coloured cotton uniform, sun helmets and gum boots.
The other two were quite young men, whose attention, despite the heat,
was mainly directed towards the Askaris. Evidently some of the stores
had gone adrift, for the young Huns were browbeating a number of
natives, punctuating their forcible remarks by liberal applications of
their schamboks, while their elders looked on in stolid but unqualified
approval.
"Dem make for one-time good shot, sah!" whispered Bela Moshi, calmly
setting the backsight of his rifle. "Blow Bosh-bosh him head-bone
inside out an' him not know anyting."
"Go steady, Bela Moshi," cautioned the subaltern. "Pass the word for
the men to fire one volley over their heads--but not before I give
orders--and then rush them with the bayonet. We want them alive,
remember."
A whistle rang out faintly away on the left. The call was repeated
much nearer, while distinct blasts rose through the heated air. It was
the signal for the advance.
Almost as soon as Wilmshurst put his whistle to his lips a crisp volley
from the rifles of his platoon rent the welkin, then with fierce shouts
the khaki-clad, barefooted Waffs leapt to their feet, their bayonets
glittering in the sun.
At first, too utterly astonished to realise that they were hopelessly
trapped and outnumbered, the Huns stood stock still, gazing stupidly at
the converging ring of steel. The Askaris for the most part attempted
to bolt, but finding their retreat cut off, grovelled in the dust.
"Hands up!" shouted Wilmshurst.
The three bearded Huns obeyed promptly and meekly. Of the others one
held up his arms with sullen reluctance, his flabby face distorted with
rage. The fifth, dropping on one knee, picked up a rifle and levelled
it at the on-rushing British officer.
"The fellow's showing pluck, by Jove!" was the thought that flashed
through Dudley's mind. Like all brave men he admired courage even in a
foe. The fact that running over rough ground and firing a revolver at
fifty yards did not give him much chance against a steadily held rifle
entered into his calculations.
Before the Hun could press trigger a score of rifles spoke. The Waffs,
on seeing their young officer's danger, took no chances, and the
German, his head and chest riddled with bullets, toppled over stone
dead upon the ground. As he fell his fingers closed convulsively
against the trigger of his rifle and the bullet intended for Wilmshurst
sung past the subaltern's left ear.
A loud yell from the other young Hun proclaimed the fact that he, too,
was hit. A bullet fired at the resisting German had been deflected,
passing through the fleshy part of his comrade's left arm. It was hard
luck on a surrendered prisoner, but on these occasions luck, both good
and bad, crops up at every available opportunity.
"Sorry, Fritz," exclaimed Wilmshurst apologetically. "Accident, you
know."
There was no time for explanation. Directing a Haussa to attend to the
Hun's injury and ordering others to round up and disarm the prisoners
Wilmshurst hurried his men to the storming of the kopje.
On all sides the Waffs were climbing the slopes, yelling and cheering
vociferously, but not an answering shout came from the rocky summit.
It required enormous restraint on the part of the foe to withhold their
fire, while already the Haussas had passed the zone where a volley at
comparatively short range would have played havoc with them.
The silence on the part of the enemy seemed incomprehensible unless,
not having sufficient numbers to hold the edges of the flat-topped hill
they had concentrated at one spot, where with machine-guns they could
rake the skyline as the Waffs breasted the top.
Over the position the exultant troops poured, the one fly in the
ointment being the fact that their rush had met with no resistance. In
extended order they re-formed and dashed across the plateau--a rapidly
contracting line of khaki tipped with steel.
Almost in the centre of the top of the kopje was an irregular mound of
piled rocks and earth. Towards this the Waffs charged, their officers
momentarily expecting the rattle of musketry and the tic-tac of
machine-guns.
Without resistance the Waffs bore on, overran the supposed earthworks
and found--nothing.
There were not even traces of Hun occupation. The enemy had got clear
away with the exception of the small post rushed by Wilmshurst's
platoon. By an evident error of judgment on the part of MacGregor--a
non-existent position had been the object of the column's attention,
and although the operations were not entirely futile officers and men
realised that they had experienced a great disappointment.
Descending the kopje the Waffs fell in, having secured their prisoners
under a strong escort. The order to march was about to be given when
the distant rattle of musketry was distinctly heard.
The colonel looked at the senior major enquiringly.
"A raiding crush, sir," replied the latter to the unspoken question.
"While we've been on a wild goose chase Fritz is raiding our camp."