QUITS
The subaltern decided to go out alone. One man stood a far better
chance of escaping detection than two; so greatly to the dismay of
every Haussa in his platoon he faced the difficult task single handed.
Mounted on a nimble pony and carrying rifle and ammunition, revolver,
binoculars, map and compass Wilmshurst was bent upon conserving his
energies during the ride across the previously reconnoitred ground. On
new terrain he would tether his steed and proceed on foot.
The air was still and sultry. Away to the north great black clouds
piled themselves up in sombre masses, indigo-coloured with edges of
watery green and flaming copper. Against the dark background the
distant horizon stood out clear and distinct, owing to the exaggerated
refractory conditions of the atmosphere.
"A regular deluge before long," decided Dudley.
He viewed the approaching storm with equanimity. The clearness of the
atmosphere rendered his task lighter, while the change of weather would
tend to keep the Askaris within their lines. Even German military
despotism could not conquer the native levies' dread of a thunderstorm.
Finally the darkness and rain on the bursting of the storm would enable
him to get back without so much chance of being spotted, for on
reconnoitring it is on the return journey that casualties to the scouts
happen most frequently.
The subaltern's sole protection from the rain was a waterproof ground
sheet. Originally fawn-coloured it had been liberally camouflaged with
bizarre circles, squares and triangles painted in a medley of
colouring. At five hundred yards the wearer was practically invisible,
the "colour-scheme" blending with the surrounding ground in a most
effective manner. For the present the ground sheet, wrapped into a
small compass, was strapped in front of the pommel of the saddle.
Making his way past the outlying piquets Wilmshurst rode steadily. The
ground was undulating, the general tendency being a gentle rise.
During the last few days the hitherto dry and parched land had been
covered with rapidly growing vegetation, vivid green grasses shooting
up to an average height of eighteen inches and transforming the open
ground into a state strongly resembling the prairies of the New World.
Crowds of _aasvogels_, gathered around the carcass of a mule, rose on
the subaltern's approach, uttering discordant cries as they flew away
from their interrupted meal. It was unfortunate but unavoidable, and
had Wilmshurst been within a couple of miles of a hostile post the
aerial commotion would have "given him away."
Checking his map with various prominent landmarks the subaltern arrived
at the limit of his ride, a clump of sub-tropical trees that crowned a
horseshoe-shaped hill.
"That's all right so far," thought Dudley, comparing the contour of the
hill with the plan. "Now comes the unknown."
His military map showed an absolute desert as far as detail was
concerned. Topographical knowledge was practically at zero judging by
the almost blank portion of paper representing the ground between the
subaltern and the twin spurs of the Karewenda Hills against which
Colonel Quarrier proposed making their actual frontal attack. It was
Wilmshurst's task to cross this unknown ground, finding out the best
route for troops to advance in column of route without being detected,
and a suitable place for extending in open order prior to the final
phases of the assault.
Tethering his pony by means of a long hide-rope--for out of
consideration for the animal he forbore to hobble it, since there was a
possibility that he might not be able to return to it, Wilmshurst
fastened the rolled ground-sheet over his shoulder after the manner of
a bandolier, and holding his rifle ready for instant action began his
seven-mile trek. In order to baffle the enemy scouts should they be
out, Dudley wore a pair of flat-soled boots to the feet of which were
fixed a dummy pair of soles and heels in the reverse way. Any one
picking up the spoor would be under the erroneous belief that the
wearer was walking in the opposite direction to the actual one.
"Judging by my footsteps I must be a pigeon-toed blighter,"
soliloquised Wilmshurst, as he noted the turned-in prints in the soft
ground. "I must look out to that, or I'll give the show away."
On and on he went, making his way from one point of cover to another,
yet without seeing or hearing the faintest sign of the German patrols.
It was not a reassuring business, for scouts might be in the vicinity,
and a scout unseen is a far greater menace than one who incautiously
betrays his presence.
Following the course of a donga he found that the narrow valley formed
an admirable means for a column to advance if protected by flankers,
but after tracing it for the best part of two miles Wilmshurst
discovered that it terminated abruptly, merging into a vast open plain.
Cautiously the subaltern crept up the sloping face of the donga until
his head was just above the edge of the level ground. By the aid of
the glasses he made a prolonged and cautious survey. Eight hundred
yards on his right front were swarms of vultures busily engaged in
their revolting pastime; at a similar distance on the left were four
_springbok_ grazing unconcernedly. Both signs tended to prove that
there were no human beings about, for in the case of the _springbok_
their keen scent enabled them to detect the presence of the hunter to
such an extent that it was a difficult matter to get within easy range
of them.
Having taken a series of compass bearings and entered a few details on
his map Wilmshurst started off for a kopje midway between the
_aasvogels_ and the _springbok_. Although he took the greatest pains
to keep out of sight the nimble quadrupeds suddenly bolted, flying like
the wind. A few seconds later the vultures rose from their interrupted
repast, flying almost immediately over the prone form of the subaltern.
"Fishy--very," mused Wilmshurst. "What made the _aasvogels_ fly this
way? I'll sit tight and await developments."
For the best part of half an hour he remained perfectly quiet, not even
risking to use his binoculars, lest the reflected light might attract
the attention of a hostile scout. By this time the storm was drawing
nearer--slowly but surely. As yet no rain had fallen. There were the
indigo-coloured clouds ahead; behind the sky was one unbroken expanse
of dirty yellow haze. It reminded Wilmshurst of the efforts of an
amateur painter trying to "lay on" a coat of yellow paint with a
tar-stained brush. Far away to the north came the reverberations of a
peal of thunder. It was Nature's signal to the wary to take cover.
Finding at the end of thirty minutes that nothing happened to indicate
the presence of an enemy, for the _aasvogels_ had returned to their
carrion feast, Wilmshurst essayed the remaining portion of his
interrupted advance. The kopje, he decided, was to be the extreme
limit of his reconnoitring expedition. From it he ought to be able to
form a tolerably accurate idea of the nature of the terrain up to the
base of the natural bastions of the Karewenda Hills.
Wilmshurst had taken only half a dozen steps when a rifle shot rang
out. Practically simultaneously with the shrill whistle of the bullet
something seemed to hit the subaltern on the left shoulder like a blow
from a hammer.
"That's done it," was his mental exclamation. "Stopped one this time,
by Jove!"
And spinning round twice he dropped to the ground.
Feeling horribly sick and faint Dudley sat up. He found that he was
lying in a slight hollow, the surrounding ground being sufficiently
high to afford good cover, while ahead and on the right were bushes of
long-spiked thorn.
Satisfied on the point of concealment Dudley next devoted his attention
to his wound. Ripping open the sleeve of his coat he discovered that a
bullet had passed completely through his left arm just below the
shoulder. There was very little loss of blood, showing that the
missile had missed the principal veins and arteries, but whether it had
smashed a bone was still a matter of uncertainty.
Applying a first-aid dressing to the best of his ability, Wilmshurst
prepared to "grin and bear it." He realised that developments would be
mostly a contest of patience. The sniper was anxious to know the
actual result of his shot, but too cautious to close until he felt
certain that he had killed his victim. Wilmshurst, anxious to "get his
own back," also knew that premature action would spell disaster. All
he could do was to sit tight and hope that his enemy would leave his
lair.
Slowly the minutes passed. The numbing sensation of the wound was
giving place to hot, stabbing pain, while in spite of the sultriness of
the air a cold sweat oozed from the young officer's forehead.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "Hope I'm not going to faint or do
something silly."
He bent forward until his head rested on his knees. In a few minutes
the feeling of vertigo passed. A draught from his water-bottle had the
effect of temporarily quenching the burning pain that gripped his
throat.
"That's better," he declared, and straightway set to work to carefully
blacken the foresight of his rifle, adjust the wind-gauge (for the
first of a steady cross-wind had sprung up) and set the sights to six
hundreds yards.
"Not so bad with the use of one arm only," he muttered complaisantly.
"Hullo, here's the rain!"
With the typical fierceness of a tropical storm the rain beat down.
Hailstones as big as a walnut thudded the ground, rebounding a foot or
so in the air until all around was blotted out by the terrific
downpour. Underneath the waterproof sheet Dudley lay, knowing that
there was no chance of the sniper venturing from his lair while this
battery of nature's weapons was in action. It was almost pitch-black,
save for the phosphorescent-like light emanating from the falling rain.
Occasional vivid flashes of lightning o'erspread the sky, followed by
rumbling peals of thunder.
Taking particular pains to keep his rifle dry Wilmshurst lay close
until the initial downpour had passed. Then, acting as promptly as his
crippled condition would allow, he laid the muzzle of the weapon on a
fork of one of the bushes. As he expected he found that he could take
aim without much risk of being spotted, since the bush formed an
efficient screen.
Still no sign of the sniper. Wilmshurst had no definite idea of the
fellow's position. He could only surmise, basing his assumption on the
report of the rifle, that he was either on the kopje ahead or else
concealed behind one of the boulders on its side.
"Fritz knows how to play a waiting game too, I see," muttered
Wilmshurst, as he deliberately wiped off a globule of water that had
dropped upon the backsight of his rifle. "Hope he won't keep me
waiting about till after midnight. I must stick it till he shows up."
The wounded subaltern bore no animosity towards the man who had shot
him. In a true soldierly spirit he realised that the Hun had acted
like a sportsman. It was merely a question of which scout was the
sharper and Wilmshurst had been caught napping. Really he wanted to
congratulate Fritz upon his excellent shot, but before qualifying his
wishes on that score he must get his own back--shot for shot.
A thin haze of bluish smoke rose from a depression in the ground, and,
caught by the wind, eddied into obscurity.
"Silly juggins!" exclaimed Wilmshurst. "Bad habit smoking when you're
supposed to be _en perdu_. Now I know where to look for you."
The Hun was evidently arriving at a conclusion that he had "downed his
man," but with the intention of waiting a little longer he was not able
to resist the inclination of smoking a pipe.
Bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder Wilmshurst lingered over
the sights--not with the idea of firing at a wreath of smoke, but to
test his ability to "pull off" gently. To his surprise he found that
the throbbing pain in his left shoulder had little or no effect upon
his steadiness of aim. Provided Fritz showed himself the subaltern
felt almost certain of scoring an "inner" if not a "bull."
In a quarter of an hour the puffs of smoke ceased. Wilmshurst had a
mental vision of the Hun knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot
and placing the pipe away in his pocket.
"Now he'll be moving," thought Dudley.
His surmise proved correct, for first the upper part of the head and
then the face and shoulders of a man appeared above a ridge of ground.
Wilmshurst stirred neither hand nor foot, lest in spite of the screen
afforded by the bush his movements might be noticed by the alert scout.
Followed a few long-drawn moments of suspense as the scout made a
careful survey by means of his field-glasses. Apparently satisfied he
replaced the binoculars and carrying his rifle at the trail prepared to
descend the knoll.
Deliberately and cautiously Wilmshurst glanced along the sights of his
rifle. He would wait, he decided, until Fritz was some distance from
his lair. It would give him a chance to get in a couple of shots if
the first perchance should miss.
With his body from the waist upwards showing clearly against the
copper-hued clouds the Hun offered a splendid target.
Gently the subaltern's finger crept to the trigger. In his interest in
his foe he forgot the stinging, throbbing pain. The rifle, supported
by the fork of the tree, was as steady as a rock.
Just as Wilmshurst was about to press the trigger a lurid blinding
flash seemed to leap from the ground immediately on his front. With
the echoes of an appalling crash that shook the solid earth ringing in
his ears Dudley found himself gazing blankly ahead but seeing nothing.
Dazzled by the sudden intensity of light, deafened by the concussion,
he was conscious of a vile, sulphurous odour assailing his nostrils.
Gradually the mist decreased until he was able to see with comparative
ease. His first thought was for his rifle; he was agreeably surprised
to find that it was intact, for it seemed marvellous that the lightning
had missed the steel barrel.
Then he looked in the direction of his enemy. The Hun was lying prone,
his head pillowed on his arm. The other, curiously enough, was
projecting obliquely in the air. All around the grass was burning,
while already the luckless man's uniform was smouldering.
Abandoning all thought of concealment in his desire to aid his foe
Wilmshurst sprang to his feet, and supporting his useless left arm by
his right doubled towards the spot where the man had dropped.
As he drew near he saw that the German's rifle had been hurled quite
ten yards. The barrel was partly wrenched from the stock, and for a
distance of about a foot from the muzzle the steel had been split,
revealing the glittering rifling.
Taking in these details at a glance Dudley gained the side of the
prostrate man. One look was sufficient to show that the Hun had been
killed outright.
"Hard lines, Fritz," exclaimed Wilmshurst aloud. "I'm glad I didn't
have to pot you."
Something prompted him to grasp the dead man by his shoulder and turn
him over on his back. As he did so, Dudley gave vent to an involuntary
ejaculation of surprise.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's von Gobendorff."
* * * * *
It was close on sunset when Wilmshurst, racked with pain, returned to
the bivouac. Willing hands assisted him from the saddle, yet, firmly
declining to submit to the attentions of the medical officer until he
completed his task, the wounded subaltern made a lucid report and
submitted his maps for inspection.
Next morning he was sent down to the base hospital, protesting the
while that the wound was not serious enough to keep him away from his
platoon just as the fun was commencing.
* * * * *
A fortnight later, while Wilmshurst was convalescing at Kilwa, he was
surprised by a deputation of officers of his regiment--Spofforth,
Danvers, Laxdale, and three or four more.
"How goes it, old man?" exclaimed Spofforth, the leader of the
deputation. "You've something to show for your little dust-up."
"I have," admitted Dudley. "A clean puncture through the arm. But
what are you fellows doing here? You don't mean to say that the
business is over?"
"By something I mean the M.C.," continued Jock Spofforth, ignoring
Wilmshurst's questions. "It's in to-day's orders, so we're here to
offer congrats. The battalion's doing well--a D.S.O., two M.C.'s and
five D.C.M.'s; not a bad record, eh, what?"
"Yes, the show's over as far as we are concerned," added Laxdale. "We
marched in yesterday. It was a jolly satisfactory piece of work that
final attack on Fritz's position."
"Sorry I hadn't a hand in it," remarked Wilmshurst.
"You did, old man," protested Spofforth. "Those maps of yours--they
were simply it. We just romped home, as it were. But buck up and
don't look so down in the mouth. One would fancy you didn't cotton on
to the Military Cross. And here's news. We are expecting orders for
Mesopotamia, so that ought to cheer you up."
And Wilmshurst, M.C., of the Frontier Force, cheered up accordingly.