CHAPTER IX_Bertram Invades Africa_
Bertram waded ashore and looked around.
Through a rank jungle of high grass, scrub, palms, trees and creepers, anarrow mud path wound past the charred remnants of a native village towhere stood the shell-scarred ruins of a whitewashed _adobe_ buildingwhich had probably been a Customs-post, treasury, post-office andGovernment Offices in general. . . . He was on the mainland of theAfrican Continent, and he was on enemy territory in the war area! Howfar away was the nearest German force? What should he do if he wereattacked while disembarking? How was he to find the main body of his ownbrigade? What should he do if there were an enemy force between him andthem? And what was the good of asking himself conundrums, instead ofconcentrating every faculty upon a speedy and orderly disembarkation?
Turning his back upon the unutterably dreary and depressing scene, aswell as upon all doubts and fears and questions, he gave orders that theGurkhas should land first. His only object in this was to have what heconsidered the best fighting men ashore first, and to form them up as acovering force, ready for action, in the event of any attack being madewhile the main body was still in the confusion, muddle and disadvantageof the act of disembarkation. And no bad idea either—but the Subedar ofthe Sherepur Sikhs saw, or affected to see, in this Gurkha priority oflanding, an intentional and studied insult to himself, his contingent,and the whole Sikh race. He said as much to his men, and then, standingup in the bows of the boat, called out:
“Sahib! Would it not be better to let the Sherepur Sikh Contingent landfirst, to ensure the safety of—er—those beloved of the Sahib? Theremight be an attack. . . .”
Not understanding in the least what the man was saying, Bertram ignoredhim altogether, though he disliked the sound of the laughter in the Sikhboat, and gathered from the face of the Gurkha Subedar that somethingwhich 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 andaround the ruined building and native village, in readiness to cover thedisembarkation of the rest. Five minutes after he had landed, Bertramfound it difficult to believe that a hundred Gurkha Sepoys were within ahundred yards of him, for not one was visible. At the end of a couple ofhours the untowed dhows had arrived, all troops, ammunition, supplies andbaggage were ashore, the boats had all departed, and Bertram again foundhimself the only white man and sole authority in this mixed force, andfelt the burden of responsibility heavy upon him.
The men having been formed up in their respective units, with therations, ammunition, and kit dump in their rear, Bertram began toconsider the advisability of leaving a strong guard over the latter, andmoving off in search of the brigade camp. Would this be the right thingto do? Certainly his force was of no earthly use to the main body solong as it squatted in the mud where it had landed. Perhaps it wasurgently wanted at that very moment, and the General was praying for itsarrival and swearing at its non-arrival—every minute being precious, andthe fate of the campaign hanging upon its immediate appearance. It mightwell be that an attack in their rear by four hundred fresh troops wouldput to flight an enemy who, up to that moment, had been winning. Hewould not know the strength of this new assailant, nor whether it was tobe measured in hundreds or in thousands. Suppose the General was, atthat very moment, listening for his rifles, as Wellington listened forthe guns of his allies at Waterloo! And here he was, doingnothing—wasting time. . . . Yes, but suppose this dense bush were fullof scouts and spies, as it well might be, and probably was, and supposingthat the ration and ammunition dump was captured as soon as he hadmarched off with his main body? A pretty start for his militarycareer—to lose the ammunition and food supply for the whole force withinan hour or two of getting it ashore! His name would be better known thanadmired by the British Expeditionary Force in East Africa. . . . Whatwould Murray have done in such a case? . . . Suppose he “split thedifference” and neither left the stores behind him nor stuck in the mudwith them? Suppose he moved forward in the direction of the Base Camp,taking everything with him? But that would mean that every soldier inthe force would be burdened like a coolie-porter—and, moreover, they’dhave to move in single file along the mud path that ran through theimpenetrable jungle. Suppose they were attacked? . . .
Bertram came to the conclusion that it may be a very fine thing to havean independent command of one’s own, but that personally he would give agreat deal to find himself under the command of somebody else—be he neverso arrogant, unsympathetic and harsh. Had Colonel Frost suddenlyappeared he would (metaphorically) have cast himself upon that cold,stern man’s hard bosom in transports of relief and joy. . . . He wasgoing to do his very best, of course, and would never shirk nor evade anyduty that lay before him—but—he felt a very lonely, anxious, undecidedlad, and anxiety was fast becoming nervousness and fear—fear of doing thewrong thing, or of doing the right thing in the wrong way. . . . Shouldhe leave a strong guard over the stores and advance? Should he remainwhere he was, and protect the stores to the last? Or should he advancewith every man and every article the force possessed? . . .
Could the remainder carry all that stuff if he told off a strongadvance-guard and rear-guard? And, if so, what could a strongadvance-guard or rear-guard do in single file if the column were attackedin front or rear? How could he avoid an ambush on either flank bydiscovering it in time—in country which rendered the use of flank guardsutterly impossible? A man could only make his way through that jungle ofthorn, scrub, trees, creepers and undergrowth by the patient andstrenuous use of a broad axe and a saw. A strong, determined man mightdo a mile of it in a day. . . . Probably no human foot had trodden thissoil in a thousand years, save along the little narrow path of blackbeaten mud that wound tortuously through it. Should he send on a partyof Gurkhas with a note to the General, asking whether he should leave thestores or attempt to bring them with him? The Gurkhas were splendidjungle-fighters and splendidly willing. . . . But that would weaken hisforce seriously, in the event of his being attacked. . . . And supposethe party were ambushed, and he stuck there waiting and waiting, for ananswer 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, slimytrunks, the dense, brooding jungle, the grey, dull sky—all so unfriendlyand uncomfortable, giving one such a homeless, helpless feeling. TheGurkhas were invisible. The Sherepur Sikhs sat in a tight-packed grouparound their piled arms and listened to the words of their Subedar, themen of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth squatted in a double row along thefront of the _adobe_ building, and the Very Mixed Contingent was just amob near the ration-dump, beside which Ali Suleiman stood on guard overhis master’s kit. . . . Suppose there were a sudden attack? But therecouldn’t be? An enemy could only approach down that narrow path insingle file. The impenetrable jungle was his friend until he moved.Directly he marched off it would be his terrible foe, the host andconcealer 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 theenemy of a force on the march_. . . . Anyhow, the Gurkhas were out infront as a line of sentry groups, and nothing could happen to the forceuntil they had come into action. . . . Should he—
“_Sahib_! _Ek Sahib ata hai_. . . . _Bahut hubshi log ata hain_,” saida voice, and he sprang round, to see the Gurkha Subedar saluting.
_What_ was that? “_A sahib is coming_. . . . _Many African natives arecoming_!” . . . Then they _were_ attacked after all! A German officerwas leading a force of _askaris_ of the Imperial African Rifles againstthem—those terrible Yaos and Swahilis whom the Germans had disciplinedinto a splendid army, and whom they permitted to loot and to slaughterafter a successful fight. . . .
His mouth went dry and the backs of his knees felt loose and weak. Hewas conscious of a rush of blood to t
he heart and a painful, sinkingsensation of the stomach. . . . It had come. . . . The hour of hisfirst 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 theSherepur Sikhs, the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth and the Very MixedContingent bawled: “_Fall in_!” in a voice that made those worthiesperform the order as quickly as ever they had done it in their lives.
“_Dushman nahin hai_, {101c} _Sahib_,” said the Gurkha Subedar—as herealised that Bertram had ordered him “to kill the devils”—and explainedthat the people who approached bore no weapons.
Hurrying forward with the Subedar to a bend in the path beyond theburnt-out native village, Bertram saw a white man clad in khaki shirt,shorts and puttees, with a large, thick “pig-sticker” solar-topi of pithand quilted khaki on his head, and a revolver and hunting-knife in hisbelt. Behind him followed an apparently endless column of unarmednegroes. Evidently these were friends—but there would be no harm intaking 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, layhis men, rifles cuddled lovingly to shoulder, fingers curledaffectionately round triggers, eyes fixed unswervingly upon theapproaching column, and faces grimly expectant. So still and so wellhidden were they, that Bertram had not noticed the fact of theirpresence. 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 littleGurkha 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 wildsof the Dark Continent with an unarmed party, addressed him by name, andapologised for being late! He was a saturnine and pessimistic-lookingindividual, wore the South African War ribbons on his breast, and theletters C.C. on his shoulders, and a lieutenant’s stars.
“Good morning,” replied Bertram, shaking hands. “I’m awfully glad to seeyou. 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 andpessimistic one.
“Can’t they cross it by bridges?”
“No; owing to the absence of bridges. I’m the only Bridges here,” sighedMr. 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 Africawith a “regrettable incident,” due to his own carelessness.
“No; owing to the absence of Germans,” replied Mr. Bridges. “Where’syour stuff? I’ve brought a thousand of my blackbirds, so we’ll shift thelot in one journey. If you like to shove off at once, I’ll see nothing’sleft behind. . . .” And then, suddenly realising that there was not theleast likelihood of attack nor cause for anxiety, and that all he had todo was to stroll along a path to the camp, where all responsibility forthe 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 andill. His kit had suddenly grown insupportably heavy and unsufferablytight about his chest; his turban gave no shade to his eyes norprotection to his temples and neck, and its weight seemed to increase bypounds per minute. He felt very giddy, blue lights appeared before hiseyes, and there was a surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, toavoid falling.
“Hullo! Seedy?” ejaculated Bridges, and turned to a big negro who stoodbehind him, and appeared to be a person of quality, inasmuch as he worethe 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 latehapa_,” and with a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, thelatter sped another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, thenegro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that clustered beneaththe spreading palm leaves, and flung it down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-ladretrieved and, with one skilful blow of a _panga_, a kind of _machete_ orbutchers’ axe, decapitated.
“Have a swig at this,” said Bridges, handing the nut to Bertram, whodiscovered 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 wantto live long and die happy in Africa, you _must_ do yourself well. It’sthe secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and often—and it’ll dothe same for you. . . . If you don’t, well, you’ll be no good toyourself 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 latterquickly assembled his men as a company in line.
The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. “We want to bethe advance-guard, Sahib,” he said.
“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added innocently, “There is no enemybetween here and the camp.”
The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this anintentional _riposte_? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked?Had he meant “The Sikhs may form the advance-guard _because_ there is nofear of attack,” with the implication that the Gurkhas would again haveheld 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 Sikhturned away, and added: “Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if you’ll bungoff,” and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and aseemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of anunpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant,indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variouslydressed, some in a _panga_ or _machete_, some in a tin pot, others in agourd, 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 hishead—where it also served the purpose of a porter’s pad, interveningbetween his head and the load which it was his life’s work to bearthereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, pipingvoices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or anyless _neapara_ (head man), made a threatening movement towards one ofthem, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up onefoot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incrediblythin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a mansix feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaintcreatures had passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs hadformed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. TheSubedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, andthe rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the “ready,” andBertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points.
“_Charge magazhinge_,” shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odddozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, che
st, face, neckand back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to bean “accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fiercebearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from betweenthe ranks? . . . No—he would stand his ground and look displeased atthis truly “native” method of charging magazines. It seemed a long timebefore the Subedar gave the orders, “Front rank—about turn. . . . Formfours. . . . Right,” and the company was ready to march off.
“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. “Shall Ilead on?”
“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but why do your men face eachother and point their rifles at each other’s stomachs when they loadthem?”
His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedarunderstood.
“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 couldreply, added: “March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp voice andperemptory manner.
Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last—asthe trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained—and, after half an hour’suneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of theM’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and mostdepressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquiredassorted diseases.
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