_Bertram Invades Africa_
Bertram waded ashore and looked around.
Through a rank jungle of high grass, scrub, palms, trees and creepers, a
narrow mud path wound past the charred remnants of a native village to
where stood the shell-scarred ruins of a whitewashed _adobe_ building
which had probably been a Customs-post, treasury, post-office and
Government Offices in general. . . . He was on the mainland of the
African Continent, and he was on enemy territory in the war area! How
far away was the nearest German force? What should he do if he were
attacked while disembarking? How was he to find the main body of his own
brigade? What should he do if there were an enemy force between him and
them? And what was the good of asking himself conundrums, instead of
concentrating every faculty upon a speedy and orderly disembarkation?
Turning his back upon the unutterably dreary and depressing scene, as
well as upon all doubts and fears and questions, he gave orders that the
Gurkhas should land first. His only object in this was to have what he
considered the best fighting men ashore first, and to form them up as a
covering force, ready for action, in the event of any attack being made
while the main body was still in the confusion, muddle and disadvantage
of the act of disembarkation. And no bad idea either—but the Subedar of
the Sherepur Sikhs saw, or affected to see, in this Gurkha priority of
landing, an intentional and studied insult to himself, his contingent,
and the whole Sikh race. He said as much to his men, and then, standing
up in the bows of the boat, called out:
“Sahib! Would it not be better to let the Sherepur Sikh Contingent land
first, to ensure the safety of—er—those beloved of the Sahib? There
might be an attack. . . .”
Not understanding in the least what the man was saying, Bertram ignored
him altogether, though he disliked the sound of the laughter in the Sikh
boat, and gathered from the face of the Gurkha Subedar that something
which he greatly resented had been said.
“_Khabadar_ . . . _tum_!” {98} the Gurkha hissed, as he stepped ashore,
and, with soldierly skill and promptness, got his men formed up, in and
around the ruined building and native village, in readiness to cover the
disembarkation of the rest. Five minutes after he had landed, Bertram
found it difficult to believe that a hundred Gurkha Sepoys were within a
hundred yards of him, for not one was visible. At the end of a couple of
hours the untowed dhows had arrived, all troops, ammunition, supplies and
baggage were ashore, the boats had all departed, and Bertram again found
himself the only white man and sole authority in this mixed force, and
felt the burden of responsibility heavy upon him.
The men having been formed up in their respective units, with the
rations, ammunition, and kit dump in their rear, Bertram began to
consider the advisability of leaving a strong guard over the latter, and
moving off in search of the brigade camp. Would this be the right thing
to do? Certainly his force was of no earthly use to the main body so
long as it squatted in the mud where it had landed. Perhaps it was
urgently wanted at that very moment, and the General was praying for its
arrival and swearing at its non-arrival—every minute being precious, and
the fate of the campaign hanging upon its immediate appearance. It might
well be that an attack in their rear by four hundred fresh troops would
put to flight an enemy who, up to that moment, had been winning. He
would not know the strength of this new assailant, nor whether it was to
be measured in hundreds or in thousands. Suppose the General was, at
that very moment, listening for his rifles, as Wellington listened for
the guns of his allies at Waterloo! And here he was, doing
nothing—wasting time. . . . Yes, but suppose this dense bush were full
of scouts and spies, as it well might be, and probably was, and supposing
that the ration and ammunition dump was captured as soon as he had
marched off with his main body? A pretty start for his military
career—to lose the ammunition and food supply for the whole force within
an hour or two of getting it ashore! His name would be better known than
admired by the British Expeditionary Force in East Africa. . . . What
would Murray have done in such a case? . . . Suppose he “split the
difference” and neither left the stores behind him nor stuck in the mud
with them? Suppose he moved forward in the direction of the Base Camp,
taking everything with him? But that would mean that every soldier in
the force would be burdened like a coolie-porter—and, moreover, they’d
have to move in single file along the mud path that ran through the
impenetrable jungle. Suppose they were attacked? . . .
Bertram came to the conclusion that it may be a very fine thing to have
an independent command of one’s own, but that personally he would give a
great deal to find himself under the command of somebody else—be he never
so arrogant, unsympathetic and harsh. Had Colonel Frost suddenly
appeared he would (metaphorically) have cast himself upon that cold,
stern man’s hard bosom in transports of relief and joy. . . . He was
going to do his very best, of course, and would never shirk nor evade any
duty that lay before him—but—he felt a very lonely, anxious, undecided
lad, and anxiety was fast becoming nervousness and fear—fear of doing the
wrong thing, or of doing the right thing in the wrong way. . . . Should
he leave a strong guard over the stores and advance? Should he remain
where he was, and protect the stores to the last? Or should he advance
with every man and every article the force possessed? . . .
Could the remainder carry all that stuff if he told off a strong
advance-guard and rear-guard? And, if so, what could a strong
advance-guard or rear-guard do in single file if the column were attacked
in front or rear? How could he avoid an ambush on either flank by
discovering it in time—in country which rendered the use of flank guards
utterly impossible? A man could only make his way through that jungle of
thorn, scrub, trees, creepers and undergrowth by the patient and
strenuous use of a broad axe and a saw. A strong, determined man might
do a mile of it in a day. . . . Probably no human foot had trodden this
soil in a thousand years, save along the little narrow path of black
beaten mud that wound tortuously through it. Should he send on a party
of Gurkhas with a note to the General, asking whether he should leave the
stores or attempt to bring them with him? The Gurkhas were splendid
jungle-fighters and splendidly willing. . . . But that would weaken his
force seriously, in the event of his being attacked. . . . And suppose
the party were ambushed, and he stuck there waiting and waiting, for an
answer that could never come. . . .
With a heavy sigh, he ran his eye over the scene—the sullen, oily water,
the ugly mangrove swamp of muddy, writhing roots and twisted, slimy
trunks, the dense, brooding jungle, the grey, dull sky—all so unfriendly
and uncomfortable, giving one such a homeless, helpless feeling. The
Gurkhas were invisible. The Sherepur Sikhs sat in a tight-packed group
around their piled arms and listened to the words of their Subedar, the
men of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth squatted in a double row along the
front of the _adobe_ building, and the Very Mixed Contingent was just a
mob near the ration-dump, beside which Ali Suleiman stood on guard over
his master’s kit. . . . Suppose there were a sudden attack? But there
couldn’t be? An enemy could only approach down that narrow path in
single file. The impenetrable jungle was his friend until he moved.
Directly he marched off it would be his terrible foe, the host and
concealer of a thousand ambushes.
He felt that he had discovered a military maxim on his own account.
_Impenetrable jungle is the friend of a force in position_, _and the
enemy of a force on the march_. . . . Anyhow, the Gurkhas were out in
front as a line of sentry groups, and nothing could happen to the force
until they had come into action. . . . Should he—
“_Sahib_! _Ek Sahib ata hai_. . . . _Bahut hubshi log ata hain_,” said
a voice, and he sprang round, to see the Gurkha Subedar saluting.
_What_ was that? “_A sahib is coming_. . . . _Many African natives are
coming_!” . . . Then they _were_ attacked after all! A German officer
was leading a force of _askaris_ of the Imperial African Rifles against
them—those terrible Yaos and Swahilis whom the Germans had disciplined
into a splendid army, and whom they permitted to loot and to slaughter
after a successful fight. . . .
His mouth went dry and the backs of his knees felt loose and weak. He
was conscious of a rush of blood to the heart and a painful, sinking
sensation of the stomach. . . . It had come. . . . The hour of his
first battle was upon him. . . .
He swallowed hard.
“_Achcha_, {101a} _Subedar Sahib_,” he said with seeming nonchalance,
“_shaitan-log ko maro_. _Achcha kam karo_,”{101b} and turning to the
Sherepur Sikhs, the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth and the Very Mixed
Contingent bawled: “_Fall in_!” in a voice that made those worthies
perform the order as quickly as ever they had done it in their lives.
“_Dushman nahin hai_, {101c} _Sahib_,” said the Gurkha Subedar—as he
realised that Bertram had ordered him “to kill the devils”—and explained
that the people who approached bore no weapons.
Hurrying forward with the Subedar to a bend in the path beyond the
burnt-out native village, Bertram saw a white man clad in khaki shirt,
shorts and puttees, with a large, thick “pig-sticker” solar-topi of pith
and quilted khaki on his head, and a revolver and hunting-knife in his
belt. Behind him followed an apparently endless column of unarmed
negroes. Evidently these were friends—but there would be no harm in
taking all precautions in case of a ruse.
“Be ready,” he said to the Subedar.
That officer smiled and pointed right and left to where, behind logs,
mounds, bushes, and other cover, both natural and hastily prepared, lay
his men, rifles cuddled lovingly to shoulder, fingers curled
affectionately round triggers, eyes fixed unswervingly upon the
approaching column, and faces grimly expectant. So still and so well
hidden were they, that Bertram had not noticed the fact of their
presence. He wondered whether the Subedar had personally strewn grass,
leaves and brushwood over them after they had taken up their positions.
He thought of the Babes in the Wood, and visualised the fierce little
Gurkha as a novel kind of robin for the work of burying with dead leaves.
. . .
He stopped in the path and awaited the arrival of the white man.
“Good morning, Mr. Greene,” said that individual, as he approached.
“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but I had another job to finish first.”
Bertram stared in amazement at this person who rolled up from the wilds
of the Dark Continent with an unarmed party, addressed him by name, and
apologised for being late! He was a saturnine and pessimistic-looking
individual, wore the South African War ribbons on his breast, and the
letters C.C. on his shoulders, and a lieutenant’s stars.
“Good morning,” replied Bertram, shaking hands. “I’m awfully glad to see
you. I was wondering whether I ought to push off or stay here. . . .”
“No attractions much here,” said the new-comer. “I should bung off.
. . . Straight along this path. Can’t miss the way.”
“Is there much danger of attack?” asked Bertram.
“Insects,” replied the other.
“Why not by Germans?” enquired Bertram.
“River on your left flank,” was the brief answer of the saturnine and
pessimistic one.
“Can’t they cross it by bridges?”
“No; owing to the absence of bridges. I’m the only Bridges here,” sighed
Mr. Bridges, of the Coolie Corps.
“Why not in boats then?”
“Owing to the absence of boats.”
“Might not the Germans open fire on us from the opposite bank then?”
pursued the anxious Bertram, determined not to begin his career in Africa
with a “regrettable incident,” due to his own carelessness.
“No; owing to the absence of Germans,” replied Mr. Bridges. “Where’s
your stuff? I’ve brought a thousand of my blackbirds, so we’ll shift the
lot in one journey. If you like to shove off at once, I’ll see nothing’s
left behind. . . .” And then, suddenly realising that there was not the
least likelihood of attack nor cause for anxiety, and that all he had to
do was to stroll along a path to the camp, where all responsibility for
the safety of men and materials would be taken from him, Bertram relaxed,
and realised that the heat was appalling and that he felt very faint and
ill. His kit had suddenly grown insupportably heavy and unsufferably
tight about his chest; his turban gave no shade to his eyes nor
protection to his temples and neck, and its weight seemed to increase by
pounds per minute. He felt very giddy, blue lights appeared before his
eyes, and there was a surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, to
avoid falling.
“Hullo! Seedy?” ejaculated Bridges, and turned to a big negro who stood
behind him, and appeared to be a person of quality, inasmuch as he wore
the ruins of a helmet, a khaki shooting-jacket much too small for him,
and a whistle on a string. (“Only that and nothing more.”)
“Here, MacGinty-my-lad,” said Bridges to this gentleman, “_m’dafu late
hapa_,” and with a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, the
latter sped another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, the
negro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that clustered beneath
the spreading palm leaves, and flung it down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad
retrieved and, with one skilful blow of a _panga_, a kind of _machete_ or
butchers’ axe, decapitated.
“Have a swig at this,” said Bridges, handing the nut to Bertram, who
discovered it to contain about a quart of deliciously cool, sweet “milk,”
as clear as distilled water.
“Thanks awfully, Bridges,” said he. “I think I had a touch of the sun.
. . .”
“Had a touch of breakfast?” enquired the other.
“No,” replied Bertram.
“Hence the milk in the coco-nut,” said Bridges, and added, “If you want
to live long and die happy in Africa, you _must_ do yourself well. It’s
the secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and often—and it’ll do
the same for you. . . . If you don’t, well, you’ll be no good to
yourself nor anyone else.”
“Thanks,” said the ever-grateful Bertram, and arose feeling much better.
“Fall in, Subedar Sahib,” said he to the Gurkha officer, and the latter
quickly assembled his men as a company in line.
The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. “We want to be
the advance-guard, Sahib,” he said.
“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added innocently, “There is no enemy
between here and the camp.”
The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this an
intentional _riposte_? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked?
Had he meant “The Sikhs may form the advance-guard _because_ there is no
fear of attack,” with the implication that the Gurkhas would again have
held the post of honour and danger if there had been any danger?
“I don’t like the look of that bloke,” observed Bridges, as the Sikh
turned away, and added: “Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if you’ll bung
off,” and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and a
seemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an
unpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant,
indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variously
dressed, some in a _panga_ or _machete_, some in a tin pot, others in a
gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. Every man,
however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, and every man,
without exception, wore it, for modesty’s sake, folded small upon his
head—where it also served the purpose of a porter’s pad, intervening
between his head and the load which it was his life’s work to bear
thereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping
voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or any
less _neapara_ (head man), made a threatening movement towards one of
them, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up one
foot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly
thin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man
six feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaint
creatures had passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had
formed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The
Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, and
the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the “ready,” and
Bertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points.
“_Charge magazhinge_,” shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odd
dozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, chest, face, neck
and back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to be
an “accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fierce
bearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from between
the ranks? . . . No—he would stand his ground and look displeased at
this truly “native” method of charging magazines. It seemed a long time
before the Subedar gave the orders, “Front rank—about turn. . . . Form
fours. . . . Right,” and the company was ready to march off.
“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. “Shall I
lead on?”
“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but why do your men face each
other and point their rifles at each other’s stomachs when they load
them?”
His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedar
understood.
“They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib,” said he, smiling superiorly.
“Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called slovenly, clumsy,
jungly recruits,” replied Bertram—and before the scowling officer could
reply, added: “March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp voice and
peremptory manner.
Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last—as
the trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained—and, after half an hour’s
uneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the
M’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and most
depressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquired
assorted diseases.