Halfway between the Usambara and the Central Railway, the dusty road to
Morogoro crosses the Turiani River. In the woods beside the river, the
tired infantry are resting at the edge of a big rock pool. Wisps of blue
smoke from dying fires tell of the tea that has washed beef and biscuit
down dry and dusty throats. The last company of bathers are drying in
the sun upon the rocks, necks, arms and knees burnt to a sepia brown,
the rest of their bodies alabaster white in the sunshine. It is three
o'clock, and the drowsy heat of afternoon has hushed the bird and insect
world to sleep. Only in the tree-tops is the sleepy hum of bees, still
busy with the flowers, and the last twitter of soft birds' voices. Soft
river laughter comes up from the rocky stream-bed below, and, softened
by the distance to a poignant sweetness, the sound of church bells from
Mhonda Mission floats up to us upon the west wind.
Yesterday only saw the last of Lettow's army crossing the bridge and
echoed to the noise of the explosion that blew up the concrete pillars
and forced our pioneers to build a wooden substitute. Alas! for the
best-laid schemes of our General. The bird had escaped from the closing
net, and Lettow was free to make his retreat in safety to the Southern
Railway. Here at Turiani for a moment it seemed that the campaign was
over. Up from the big Mission at Mhonda, the mounted troops swept out to
cut off the German retreat. All unsuspected, they had made then-big
flank march to meet the eastern flanking column, and cut the road behind
the German force in a pincer grip. But the blind bush robbed our
troopers of their sense of direction, and the long trek through
waterless bush, the tsetse fly and horse-sickness that took their daily
toll of all our horses reduced the speed of cavalry to little more than
a walk. A mistake in a bush-covered hill in a country that was all hill
and bush, and the elusive Lettow slipped out to run and hide and fight
again on many another day.