_Food and Feeders_
Rightly or wrongly, Bertram gathered the impression, as he strolled about
the Camp, that this was not a confident and high-spirited army, drunk
with the heady fumes of a debauch of victory. The demeanour of the
Indian Sepoys led him to the conclusion, just or unjust, that they had
“got their tails down.” They appeared weary, apprehensive, even
despondent, when not merely apathetic, and seemed to him to be distinctly
what they themselves would call _mugra_—pessimistic and depressed.
The place alone was sufficient to depress anybody, he freely admitted, as
he gazed around at the dreary grey environs of this little British
_pied-à-terre_—grey thorn bush; grey grass; grey baobab trees (like
hideous grey carrots with whiskerish roots, pulled up from the ground and
stood on end); grey shell-strewn mud; grey bushwood; grey mangroves; grey
sky. Yes, an inimical minatory landscape; a brooding, unwholesome,
sinister landscape; the home of fever, dysentery, disease and sudden
death. And over all hung a horrible sickening stench of decay, an evil
smell that seemed to settle at the pit of the stomach as a heavy weight.
No wonder if Indians from the hills, deserts, plains and towns of the
Deccan, the Punjab, Rajputana, and Nepal, found this terrible place of
most terrific heat, foul odour, bad water and worse mud, enervating and
depressing. . . . Poor beggars—it wasn’t _their_ war either. . . . The
faces of the negroes of the King’s African Rifles were inscrutable, and,
being entirely ignorant of their ways, manners, and customs, he could not
tell whether they were exhibiting signs of discouragement and depression,
or whether their bearing and demeanour were entirely normal. Certainly
they seemed a stolid and reserved folk, with a kind of dignity and
self-respecting aloofness that he had somehow not expected. In their
tall tarbooshes, jerseys, shorts and puttees, they looked most
workman-like and competent soldiers. . . . Certainly they did not tally
with his preconceived idea of them as a merry, care-free, irresponsible
folk who grinned all over their faces for sheer light-heartedness, and
spent their leisure time in twanging the banjo, clacking the bones,
singing rag-time songs and doing the cake-walk. On duty, they stood like
ebon statues and opened not their mouths. Off duty they squatted like
ebon statuettes and shut them. Perhaps they did not know that England
expects every nigger to do his duty as a sort of born music-hall, musical
minstrel—or perhaps they _were_ depressed, like the Sepoys, and had laid
aside their banjoes, bones, coon-songs and double-shuffle-flap-dancing
boots until brighter days? . . . Anyhow, decided Bertram, he would much
rather be with these stalwarts than against them, when they charged with
their triangular bayonets on their Martini rifles; and if the German
_askaris_ were of similar type, he cared not how long his first personal
encounter with them might be postponed. . . . Nor did the Englishmen of
the Army Service Corps, the Royal Engineers, the Signallers and other
details, strike him as light-hearted and bubbling with the _joie de
vivre_. Frankly they looked ill, and they looked anxious. . . .
Strolling past the brushwood-and-grass hut which was the R.A.M.C.
Officers’ Mess, he heard the remark:
“They’ve only got to leave us here in peace a little while for us all to
die natural deaths of malaria or dysentery. The wily Hun knows _that_
all right. . . . No fear—we shan’t be attacked here. No such luck.”
“Not unless we make ourselves too much of a nuisance to him,” said
another voice. “’Course, if we go barging about and capturing his
trading posts and ‘factories,’ and raiding his _shambas_, he’ll come down
on us all right. . . .”
“I dunno what we’re doing here at all,” put in a third speaker. “You
can’t invade a blooming _continent_ like German East with a weak brigade
of sick Sepoys. . . . Sort of bloomin’ Jameson’s Raid. . . . Why—they
could come down the railway from Tabora or Kilimanjaro way with enough
European troops alone to eat us alive. What are we here, irritating ’em
at all for, _I_ want to know? . . .”
“Why, to maintain Britain’s glorious traditions—of sending far too weak a
force in the first place,” put in the first speaker. “They’ll send an
adequate army later on, all right, and do the job in style. We’ve got to
demonstrate the necessity for the adequate army first, though. . . .”
“Sort of bait, like,” said another, and yawned. “Well, we’ve all fished,
I expect. . . . Know how the worm feels now. . . .”
“I’ve only fished with flies,” observed a languid and euphuistic voice.
“_What_ an honour for the ’appy fly!” replied the worm-fisherman, and
there was a guffaw of laughter.
Bertram realised that he was loitering to the point of eavesdropping, and
strolled on, pondering many things in his heart. . . .
In one corner of the great square of mud which was the Camp, Bertram came
upon a battery consisting of four tiny guns. Grouped about them stood
their Sepoy gunners, evidently at drill of some kind, for, at a sudden
word from a British officer standing near, they leapt upon them, laboured
frantically for five seconds, stood clear again, and, behold, each gun
lay dismembered and prone upon the ground—the wheels off, the trail
detached, the barrel of the gun itself in two parts, so that the breech
half was separate from the muzzle half. At another word from the officer
the statuesque Sepoys again sprang to life, seized each man a piece of
the dismembered gun, lifted it above his head, raised it up and down,
replaced it on the ground and once more stood at attention. Another
order, and, in five seconds, the guns were reassembled and ready to fire.
“A mountain-battery of screw guns, so called because they screw and
unscrew in the middle of the barrel,” said Bertram to himself, and
concluded that the drill he had just witnessed was that required for
putting the dissected guns on the backs of mules for mountain transport,
and rebuilding them for use. Certainly they were wonderfully nippy,
these Sepoys, and seemed, perhaps, rather more cheery than the others.
One old gentleman who had a chestful of medal-ribbons raised and lowered
a gun-wheel above his head as though it had been of cardboard, in spite
of his long grey beard and pensioner-like appearance.
Bertram envied the subaltern in command of this battery. How splendid it
must be to know exactly what to do and to be able to do it; to be
conscious that you are adequate and competent, equal to any demand that
can be made upon you. Probably this youth was enjoying this campaign in
the mud and stench and heat as much as he had ever enjoyed a picnic or
tramping or boating holiday in England. . . . Lucky dog. . . .
At about seven o’clock that evening, Bertram “dined” in the Officers’
Mess of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. The rickety hut, through the
walls of which the fires of the Camp could be seen, and through the roof
of which the great stars were visible, was lighted, or left in darkness,
by a hurricane-lamp which dangled from the ridge-pole. The officers of
the corps sat on boxes, cane-stools, shooting-seats, or patent
“weight-less” contrivances of aluminium and canvas. The vacant-faced
youth, whose name was Grayne, had a bicycle-saddle which could be raised
and lowered on a metal rod. He was very proud of it and fell over
backwards twice during dinner. Bertram would have had nothing whatever
to sit on had not the excellent and foresighted Ali discovered the fact
in time to nail the two sides of a box in the shape of the letter T by
means of a stone and the nails still adhering to the derelict wood. On
this Bertram balanced himself with less danger and discomfort than might
have been expected, the while he viewed with mixed feelings Ali’s
apologies and promise that he would steal a really nice stool or chair by
the morrow.
On the mosaic of box-sides that formed the undulating, uneven, and
fissured table-top, the Mess servant places tin plates containing a thin
and nasty soup, tasting, Bertram thought, of cooking-pot, dish-cloth,
wood-smoke, tin plate and the thumb of the gentleman who had borne it
from the cook-house, or rather the cook-hole-in-the-ground, to the Mess
hut. The flourish with which Ali placed it before his “beloved ole
marstah” as he ejaculated “Soop, sah, thick an’ clear thank-you please”
went some way to make it interesting, but failed to make it palatable.
Although sick and faint for want of food, Bertram was not hungry or in a
condition to appreciate disgraceful cooking disgustingly served.
As he sat awaiting the next course, after rejecting the thick-an’-clear
“soup,” Bertram took stock of the gentlemen whom, in his heart, he
proudly, if shyly, called his brother-officers.
At the head of the table sat the Colonel, looking gloomy and distrait.
Bertram wondered if he were thinking of the friends and comrades-in-arms
he had left in the vile jungle round Tanga—his second-in-command and half
a dozen more of his officers—and a third of his men. Was he thinking of
his School—and Sandhurst—and life-long friend and trusted colleague,
Major Brett-Boyce, slain by the German _askaris_ as he lay wounded,
propped against a tree by the brave and faithful dresser of the
subordinate medical service, who was murdered with him in the very midst
of his noble work, by those savage and brutal disciples of a more savage
and brutal _kultur_?
Behind him stood his servant, a tall Mussulman in fairly clean white
garments, and a big white turban round which was fastened a broad ribbon
of the regimental colours adorned with the regimental crest in silver.
“Tell the cook that he and I will have a quiet chat in the morning, if
he’ll be good enough to come to my tent after breakfast—and then the
provost-marshal shall show him a new game, perhaps,” said the Colonel to
this man as he finished his soup.
With the ghost of a smile the servant bowed, removed the Colonel’s plate
and departed to gloat over the cook, who, as a Goanese, despised
“natives” heartily and without concealment, albeit himself as black as a
negro.
Returning, the Colonel’s servant bore a huge metal dish on which reposed
a mound of most repulsive-looking meat in lumps, rags, shreds, strings,
tendrils and fibres, surrounded by a brownish clear water. This was a
seven-pound tin of bully-beef heated and turned out in all its native
ugliness, naked and unadorned, on to the dish. Like everyone else,
Bertram took a portion on his plate, and, like everyone else, left it on
his plate, and, like everyone else, left it after tasting a morsel—or
attempting to taste, for bully-beef under such conditions has no taste
whatever. To chew it is merely as though one dipped a ball of rag and
string into dirty water, warmed it, put it in one’s mouth, and attempted
to masticate it. To swallow it is moreover to attain the same
results—nutrient, metabolic and sensational—as would follow upon the
swallowing of the said ball of rags and string.
The morsel of bully-beef that Bertram put in his mouth abode with him.
Though of the West it was like the unchanging East, for it changed not.
He chewed and chewed, rested from his labours, and chewed again, in an
honest and earnest endeavour to take nourishment and work out his own
insalivation, but was at last forced to acknowledge himself defeated by
the stout and tough resistance of the indomitable lump. It did not know
when it was beaten and it did not know when it was eaten; nor, had he
been able to swallow it, would the “juices” of his interior have
succeeded where those of his mouth, aided by his excellent teeth, had
failed. In course of time it became a problem—another of those small but
numerous and worrying problems that were fast bringing wrinkles to his
forehead, hollows to his cheeks, a look of care and anxiety to his eyes,
and nightmares to his sleep. He could not reduce it, he could not
swallow it, he could not publicly reject it. What _could_ he do? . . .
A bright idea. . . . Tactics. . . . He dropped his handkerchief—and
when he arose from stooping to retrieve it, he was a free man again. A
few minutes later a lump of bully-beef undiminished, unaffected and
unfrayed, travelled across the mud floor of the hut in the mandibles of
an army of big black ants, to provide them also with a disappointment and
a problem, and, perchance, with a bombproof shelter for their young in a
subterranean dug-out of the ant-hill. . . .
Bertram again looked around at his fellow-officers. Not one of them
appeared to have reduced the evil-looking mass of fibrous tissue and
gristle that lay upon his plate—nor, indeed, did Bertram, throughout the
campaign, ever see anyone actually eat and swallow the disgusting and
repulsive muck served out to the officers and European units of the
Expeditionary Force—hungry as they often were.
To his foolish civilian mind it seemed that if the money which this foul
filth cost (for even bully-beef costs money—ask the contractors) had been
spent on a half or a quarter or a tithe of the quantity of _edible_
meat—such as tinned ox-tongue—sick and weary soldiers labouring and
suffering for their country in a terrible climate, might have had a
sufficiency of food which they could have eaten with pleasure and
digested with benefit, without costing their grateful country a penny
more. . . . Which is an absurd and ridiculous notion expressed in a long
and involved sentence. . . .
Next, to the Colonel, eyeing his plate of bully-beef through his monocle
and with patent disgust, sat Major Manton, a tall, aristocratic person
who looked extraordinarily smart and dapper. Hair, moustache,
finger-nails and hands showed signs of obvious care, and he wore tunic,
tie and, in fact, complete uniform, in an assembly wherein open shirts,
bare arms, white tennis shoes, slacks, shorts, and even flannel trousers
were not unknown. Evidently the Major put correctness before comfort—or,
perhaps, found his chief comfort in being correct. He spoke to no one,
but replied suavely when addressed. He looked to Bertram like a man who
loathed a rough and rude environment having the honour or pleasure or
satisfaction of knowing that he noticed its existence, much less that he
troubled to loathe it. Bertram imagined that in the rough and tumble of
hand-to-hand fighting, the Major’s weapon would be the revolver, his aim
quick and clean, his demeanour unhurried and unflurried, the expression
of his face cold and unemotional.
Beside him sat a Captain Tollward in strong contrast, a great burly man
with the physiognomy and bull-neck of a prize-fighter, the hands and arms
of a navvy, and the figure of a brewer’s dray-man. Frankly, he looked
rather a brute, and Bertram pictured him in a fight—using a fixed bayonet
or clubbed rifle with tremendous vigour and effect. He would be purple
of face and wild of eye, would grunt like a bull with every blow, roar to
his men like a charging lion, and swear like a bargee between whiles. . . .
“Thank God for all England’s Captain Tollwards this day,” thought
Bertram as he watched the powerful-looking man, and thought of the
gladiators of ancient Rome.
Stanner was keeping him in roars of Homeric laughter with his jests and
stories, no word of any one of which brought the shadow of a smile to the
expressionless strong face of Major Manton, who could hear every one of
the jokes that convulsed Tollward and threatened him with apoplexy. Next
to Stanner sat Hall, who gave Bertram, his left-hand neighbour, such
information and advice as he could, anent his taking of the convoy to
Butindi, should such be his fate.
“You’ll see some fighting up there, if you ever get there,” said he.
“They’re always having little ‘affairs of out-posts’ and patrol scraps.
You may be cut up on the way, of course. . . . If the Germans lay for
you they’re bound to get you, s’ far as I can see. . . . How _can_ you
defend a convoy of a thousand porters going in single file through
impenetrable jungle along a narrow path that it’s practically impossible
to leave? . . . You can have an advance-guard and a rear-guard, of
course, and much good may they do you when your _safari_ covers anything
from a couple of miles to three or four. . . . What are you going to do
if it’s attacked in the middle, a mile or so away from where you are
yourself? . . . What are you going to do if they ambush your
advance-guard and mop the lot up, as they perfectly easily could do, at
any point on the track, if they know you’re coming—as of course they will
do, as soon as we know it ourselves. . . .”
“You fill me with despondency and alarm,” said Bertram, with a lightness
that he was far from feeling, and a sinking sensation that was not wholly
due to emptiness of stomach.
Suddenly he was aware that a new stench was contending with the familiar
one of decaying vegetation, rotting shell-fish, and the slime that was
neither land nor water, but seemed a foul grease formed by the
decomposition of leaves, grasses, trees, fish, molluscs and animals in an
inky, oily fluid that the tides but churned up for the freer exhalation
of poisonous miasma, and had not washed away since the rest of the world
arose out of chaos and darkness, that man might breathe and thrive. . . .
The new smell was akin to the old one but more penetrating, more subtly
vile, more _vulgar_, than that ancient essence of decay and death and
dissolution, and—awaking from a brown study in which he saw visions of
himself writhing beneath the bayonets of a dozen gigantic savages, as he
fell at the head of his convoy—he perceived that the new and conquering
odour proceeded from the cheese. On a piece of tin, that had been the
lid of a box, it lay and defied competition, while, with the unfaltering
step of a strong man doing right, because it is his duty, Ali Suleiman
bore it from _bwana_ to _bwana_ with the booming murmur: “Cheese, please
God, sah, thank you.” To the observant and thoughtful Bertram its
reception by each member of the Mess was interesting and instructive, as
indicative of his character, breeding, and personality.
The Colonel eyed it with a cold smile.
“Yes. Please God it _is_ only cheese,” he remarked, “but take it
away—quick.”
Major Manton glanced at it and heaved a very gentle sigh. “No, thank
you, Boy,” he said.
Captain Tollward sniffed hard, turned to Stanner, and roared with
laughter.
“What ho, the High Explosive!” he shouted, and “What ho, the Forty Rod
Gorgonzola—so called because it put the battery-mules out of action at
that distance. . . . Who unchained it, I say? Boy, where’s its muzzle?”
and he cut himself a generous slice.
Stanner buried his nose in his handkerchief and waved Ali away as he
thrust the nutritious if over-prevalent delicacy upon his notice.
“Take it to Bascombe _Bwana_ and ask him to fire it from his guns,” said
he. “Serve the Germans right for using poison-gas and liquid fire. . . .
Teach ’em a lesson, what, Tollward?”
“Don’t be dev’lish-minded,” replied that officer when laughter permitted
him to speak. “You’re as bad as the bally Huns yourself to suggest such
an atrocity. . . .”
“Seems kinder radio-active,” said Hall, eyeing it with curiosity.
“Menacing . . .” and he also drove it from him.
Bertram, as one who, being at war, faces the horrors of war as they come,
took a piece of the cheese and found that its bite, though it skinned the
roof of his mouth, was not as bad as its bark. Grayne affected to faint
when the cheese reached him, and the others did according to their kind.
Following in the tracks of Ali came another servant, bearing a wooden
box, which he tendered to each diner, but as one who goeth through an
empty ritual, and without hope that his offering will be accepted. In
the box Bertram saw large thick biscuits exceedingly reminiscent of the
dog-biscuit of commerce, but paler in hue and less attractive of
appearance. He took one, and the well-trained servant only dropped the
box in his surprise.
“What are you going to do with _that_?” enquired Hall.
“Why!—eat it, I suppose,” said Bertram.
“People don’t eat _those_,” replied Hall.
“Why not?” asked Bertram.
“Try it and see,” was the response.
Bertram did, and desisted not until his teeth ached and he feared to
break them. There was certainly no fear of breaking the biscuit. Was it
a sort of practical joke biscuit—a rather clever imitation of a biscuit
in concrete, hardwood, or pottery-ware of some kind?
“I understand why people do not eat them,” he admitted.
“Can’t be done,” said Hall. “Why, even the Kavirondo who eat live slugs,
dead snakes, uncooked rice, raw flesh or rotten flesh and any part of any
animal there is, do not regard those things as food. . . . They make
ornaments of them, tools, weapons, missiles, all sorts of things. . . .”
“I suppose if one were really starving one could live on them for a
time,” said the honest and serious-minded Bertram, ever a seeker after
truth.
“Not unless one could get them into one’s stomach, I suppose,” was the
reply; “and I don’t see how one would do it. . . . I was reduced to
trying once, and I tried hard. I put one in a basin and poured boiling
water on it. . . . No result whatever. . . . I left it to soak for an
hour while I chewed and chewed a piece of bully-beef. . . . Result? . . .
It was slightly darker in colour, but I could no more bite into it
than I could into a tile or a book. . . .”
“Suppose you boiled one,” suggested Bertram.
“Precisely what I did,” said Hall, “for my blood was up, apart from the
fact that I was starving. It was a case of Hall _versus_ a Biscuit. I
boiled it—or rather watched the cook boil it in a _chattie_. . . . I
gave it an hour. At the end of the hour it was of a slightly still
darker colour—and showed signs of splitting through the middle. But
never a bit could I get off it. . . . ‘Boil the dam’ thing all day and
all night, and give it me hot for breakfast,’ said I to the cook. . . .
As one who patiently humours the headstrong, wilful White Man, he went
away to carry on the foolish struggle. . . .”
“What was it like in the morning?” enquired Bertram, as Hall paused
reminiscent, and chewed the cud of bitter memory.
“Have you seen a long-sodden boot-sole that is resolving itself into its
original layers and laminæ?” asked Hall. “Where there should be one
solid sole, you see a dozen, and the thing gapes, as it were, showing
serried rows of teeth in the shape of rusty nails and little
protuberances of leather and thread?”
“Yes,” smiled Bertram.
“That was my biscuit,” continued Hall. “At the corners it gasped and
split. Between the layers little lumps and points stood up, where the
original biscuit holes had been made when the dreadful thing was without
form, and void, in the process of evolution from cement-like dough to
brick-like biscuit. . . .”
“Could you eat it?” asked Bertram.
“Could _you_ eat a boiled boot-sole?” was the reply. “The thing had
turned from dry concrete to wet leather. . . . It had exchanged the
extreme of brittle durability for that of pliant toughness. . . . _Eat_
it!” and Hall laughed sardonically.
“What becomes of them all, then, if no one eats them?” asked Bertram.
“Oh—they have their uses, y’ know. Boxes of them make a jolly good
breastwork. . . The Army Service Corps are provided with work—taking
them by the ton from place to place and fetching them back again. . . .
I reveted a trench with biscuits once. . . . Looked very neat. . . .
Lonely soldiers, in lonely outposts, do _GOD BLESS OUR HOME_ and other
devices with them—and you can make really attractive little photo-frames
for ‘midgets’ and miniature with them if you have a centre-bit and
carving tools. . . The handy-men of the R.E. make awf’ly nice boxes of
children’s toy-building-bricks with them, besides carved _plaques_ and
all sorts of little models. . . . I heard of a prisoner who made a
complete steam-engine out of biscuits, but I never saw it myself. . . .
Oh, yes, the Army would miss its biscuits—but I certainly never saw
anybody eat one. . . .”
Nor did Bertram, throughout the campaign. And here again it occurred to
his foolish civilian mind that if the thousands of pounds spent on wholly
and utterly inedible dog-biscuit had been spent on the ordinary biscuits
of civilisation and the grocer’s shop, sick and weary soldiers, working
and suffering for their country in a terrible climate, might have had a
sufficiency of food that they could have eaten with pleasure and digested
with benefit, without costing their grateful country a penny more.
“Which would be the better,” asked Bertram of himself—“to send an army
ten tons of ‘biscuit’ that it cannot eat, or one ton of real biscuit that
it can eat and enjoy?”
But, as an ignorant, simple, and silly civilian, he must be excused. . . .
Dessert followed, in the shape of unripe bananas, and Bertram left the
table with a cupful of thin soup, a small piece of cheese, and half a
crisp, but pithy and acidulous banana beneath his belt. As the Colonel
left the hut he hurried after him.
“If you please, sir,” said he, “may I go out with the force that is to
attack the German post to-morrow?”
Having acted on impulse and uttered the fatal words, he regretted the
fact. Why should he be such a silly fool as to seek sorrow like this?
Wasn’t there danger and risk and hardship enough—without going out to
look for it?
“In what capacity?” asked Colonel Rock, and added: “Hall is in command,
and Stanner is his subaltern.”
“As a spectator, sir,” said Bertram, “and I might—er—be useful
perhaps—er—if—”
“Spectator!” mused the Colonel. “Bright idea! We might _all_ go, of
course. . . . Two hundred men go out on the job, and a couple of
thousand go with ’em to whoop ’em on and clap, what? Excellent notion. . . .
Wonder if we could arrange a ‘gate,’ and give the gate-money to the
Red Cross, or start a Goose Club or something. . .” and he turned to go
into his tent.
Bertram was not certain as to whether this reply was in the nature of a
refusal of his request. He hoped it was.
“May I go, sir?” he said.
“You may not,” replied the Colonel, and Bertram felt very disappointed.