Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  ‘Yes, I get your drift.’

  Fonthill looked around him. ‘The problem is going to be to defend the town on all sides with so few men. There is no time to erect barricades, even if we could find the material. Let’s hope the Germans haven’t bought field guns. I suspect that, if we lie very low, the Huns will try a direct frontal attack at first, probably coming fast down the north road and into the main street here.

  ‘If they do,’ he pointed up ahead, ‘we will need two small, concealed trenches, sufficient to hold, say, three men each and back from the road on either side by about two hundred yards each. If they keep their heads down, we might be able to direct enfilading fire and knock a few of them over before your chaps can hare back here.’

  McCarthy nodded. ‘I see. Then what?’

  ‘Depends how many men we can summon up. The town is open on most sides, with the streets just emptying onto the bush. Is that right?’

  ‘Not quite. On that side,’ McCarthy pointed, ‘the bush peters out into our little lake, Lake Chila. The ground is very swampy there. If they try to attack on that side, they could get literally bogged down, so I doubt if they will try it.’

  ‘Well, that’s one small blessing. Now, let’s see. If we put six men out into the trenches there and ten in the prison, that leaves us with twenty-four police, plus us three and whoever we can pick up from the town’s inhabitants. Let’s say …’

  Simon pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. ‘Let’s say something like thirty-five or so defenders left to cover the sides and back of the town.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘And we shall need a small mobile reserve to reinforce any area that is under the greatest attack.’

  A silence fell on the little group. Somewhere in the tiny gardens attached to a few of the houses a group of cicadas began their scratchy chirping.

  ‘With respect, bach sir, for your generalship an’ all that,’ said Jenkins, ‘I don’t see ’ow we can do it, I really don’t.’

  ‘But the alternative is to let the Boche walk straight into the town, ransack it and rampage through into the heart of Northern Rhodesia.’ McCarthy was standing ramrod straight now and his voice was resolute. ‘And I am not having that.’

  Fonthill smiled. ‘You are quite right, McCarthy, and neither am I. But I do have a plan – of sorts. Get all your chaps into the police station as soon as possible, plus the able bodies you can get from the houses. I will brief them there. Do that now, at the double, for we have little time.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ McCarthy was about to salute, then thought better of it and doubled away, calling to his men as he went.

  Jenkins wiped his moustache with a very grimy handkerchief. ‘I ’ope it’s a bloody good plan, bach sir, otherwise I’d say we don’t ’ave much of a chance.’ But he spoke with a grin and Fonthill grinned back.

  He raised his binoculars once again and focussed them along the road. ‘Well, it’s not much of a plan, but I reckon—’ He broke off and concentrated.

  ‘There’s a small cloud of dust beyond McCarthy’s returning chaps,’ he murmured. ‘Must be the Germans. Here, Mzingeli, look and tell me how long we’ve got.’

  The black man took the glasses. ‘They still a good way away. Perhaps we have an hour and a bit. Not much more.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Jenkins shouldered his rifle. ‘Better get going.’ He made to walk back to the station but Simon stopped him. ‘I’ve got a rotten job for you two,’ he said. ‘But it’s important.’

  ‘Ah yes. Do we get extra pay and automatic VCs, then?’

  ‘Guaranteed. Now, listen. We three are the only men with fast-shooting magazine rifles. I shall need mine in leading the mobile reserve. But I want you to grab a couple of shovels and go out into the bush, about two hundred and fifty yards that way,’ he pointed, ‘just in front of those foothills. Dig yourselves a small trench, disguise it with scrub, take as much ammunition as you can find, and settle in there out of sight and wait.’

  ‘What we wait for?’ asked Mzingeli.

  ‘Wait until the Germans have passed you to attack the town from your side. Then, when they have settled, open fire as fast and as accurately as you can, so that they think there is a platoon dug in behind them. When it gets too hot for you, escape into the foothills and make your way back into town under cover of darkness. Is that clear?’

  ‘Oh, it’s clear all right.’ Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘But won’t you need us in the town? At least you know we can shoot, and you don’t really know that about these black coppers. Personally, I never knew a copper of any sort who was any good at anythin’.’

  ‘Come, 352,’ grunted Mzingeli. ‘We don’t have time and we need cartridges and shovels from station.’

  ‘Don’t much fancy diggin’ in this ’eat.’ Jenkins pulled up his belt. ‘But if the pay rise an’ the VCs is guaranteed, we’d better get goin’. Now you be careful, bach sir. If somethin’ ’appens to you, it’ll be me that gets it in the neck from Miss Alice, not you.’

  ‘Oh, get on with it.’

  The two hurried away, and Fonthill took another glance through his field glasses then followed them towards the police station. He passed six policemen trotting towards the northern end of the town.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

  His air of command brooked no argument and a lance corporal replied. ‘We goin’ to dig two trenches either side of road, baas,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I am a British army officer. Lieutenant McCarthy has put me in charge here. Dig your trenches well back from the road, so the Germans don’t overrun you. Disguise your mounds of earth and put stalks of brush in front of you so that the Germans can’t see you there. And, for goodness’ sake, take off those fezes when the Germans are near. Do not, I repeat, do not fire until either we open fire from the prison there, or unless you are discovered and are fired upon. Understood?’

  ‘Ah yes, baas.’

  ‘Double back to the town when you hear the bugle.’

  ‘Yes, baas.’

  The station was crowded when Fonthill regained it, with a handful of weatherbeaten men of the town, bearing hunting rifles, drifting in to mingle with the policemen.

  ‘Right, Mac, are all your chaps here, with the exception of your scouts and the six digging the trenches?’

  ‘Yes. Including those away and with twelve of the townspeople, we have forty-three armed men.’

  ‘Splendid. If I may, I would like to explain the plan, such as it is.’

  ‘Of course, sir, go ahead, but let me introduce you first.’

  The buzz of conversation in the crowded room fell silent as McCarthy, his cheeks glowing, held up his hand.

  ‘As most of you know by now,’ he said, ‘we have about three hundred and fifty Germans and black askaris coming to attack the town from the north. If we let them take our homes without a fight, then we let them march through to ransack Northern Rhodesia, and our names will be mud throughout the Empire.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘So we will fight – and we are lucky to have with us a most distinguished soldier who has great military experience and will lead our defence. This is ex-Brigadier Simon Fonthill, CB and DSO, formerly of the British army, who will explain his plan to us now.’

  The buzz returned as Fonthill stepped forward.

  ‘We have very little time,’ he said, ‘because I believe that we will probably be under fire within the hour. I have already made some dispositions out in the bush to halt the Huns’ stride, at least, but we have much to defend with few men to do it. I shall ask Mr McCarthy to take ten of his policemen and man the prison at the northern end of the town. That will be our fortress.

  ‘Then I shall ask him to deploy five of his men to be under my command in the centre of the town, ready to double to whichever part of the town is under the greatest attack to reinforce that position.’ Simon drew in his breath and a pin could be heard to drop within the station, so intently listening were the members of his audience.

  ‘Now, I want
those of you who are not policemen to listen carefully. I want you to go back to your homes and go to the ends of your streets that open out onto the bush and dig a small trench, deep enough to offer you protection, throwing up the soil to act as firing positions for your rifles. Dig these in a v-shape, with the point of the v pointing out onto the bush. This will enable you to direct enfilading fire onto the enemy on either side of you. I would like each of you to take up a position in a trench – as near as possible to your dwelling – and I shall reinforce you with policemen, as best I can.’

  He looked around carefully at the wide eyes staring back at him. ‘I am confident that we can throw the Germans back across their border.’ He smiled. ‘Let me tell you why. We have the greatest military advantage that any force can have: that of surprise. You will not show yourselves – any of you – until you hear the first shot fired by us, probably from the jail, so the Boche will think that the population has fled the town. We will show them that we have not.

  ‘Now go to your positions, always obey my or Lieutenant McCarthy’s orders when they are given, tell the wives and children to lie low on the floors of the houses – and good luck to you all.’

  He nodded and the white townsmen nodded back and began turning away to leave. But one man, burly, bearded and with a strong South African accent, stepped forward.

  ‘I reckon, Brigadier, or whoever you are, you are leading us into a death trap.’ He glowered and Fonthill recognised a strong vein of Boer truculence in his voice. ‘Ach, these police here,’ he gestured, ‘are not soldiers and neither are we. These Germans will kill us all if we try and resist. Best to negotiate with them and let them march on south without giving resistance, if they agree to by-pass the town.’

  McCarthy shook his head. ‘We can’t do that, Mr de Wet. There is a substantial British force coming up from Kasama; we only need to hold off the Germans for, say, thirty-six hours, and we shall be reinforced. And you’re wrong about my policemen. They have all been trained by the army. We must hold off the Germans until help arrives and stop them spreading out in Northern Rhodesia.’

  ‘Umph!’ The Boer spat on the wooden floor. ‘Your fellers are black and black men don’t make good fighters. And they’ve only got single-shot Metfords, which were no match for our Mausers fourteen years ago. We should think of our women and children.’

  Jenkins snorted. ‘Listen, bach,’ he said. ‘The brigadier and me was at Isandlwana and, although I went down, the brigadier went on and fought at Rorke’s Drift. What we both saw there showed us that black fellers can fight, all right. I got a knobkerrie, or whatever you call it, on me ’ead, which put me out. Oh yes, them Zulus could fight all right, and they’re black fellers.’

  ‘Mr de Wet,’ Fonthill spoke softly but everyone could hear him, for silence had descended on the room and those who were about to leave had paused to hear the outcome. ‘I have great respect for the fighting qualities of South Africans – of whatever colour – but we will not force you to fight. If you wish to leave then do so, at once, and take your family with you. Those who are left will do our best to defend your home.’ He looked at the others. ‘Anyone else who wishes to leave may do so, but go very quickly now. The Germans will be here soon.’

  Everyone’s gaze now was on the Boer. Eventually, he stiffened his back. ‘No, English. We Boers don’t run away. I will stay.’

  ‘Good man. Now, townsmen, back to your homes quickly and start digging. Policemen, stay here. Jenkins and Mzingeli go to your positions.’

  Within moments, McCarthy had allocated his men, when a cry came from outside. ‘Scouts back, baas.’

  The three dust-coated scouts came trotting down the main street without changing their loping stride, then came to a halt and saluted McCarthy.

  ‘Report quickly,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Germans coming all right, baas,’ the tallest of the three spoke, with no sign of the exertion caused by his marathon trot. ‘More than three hundred, I think. And they have big cannon.’

  ‘Oh blast!’ Fonthill stepped forward. ‘Just one big gun? And did they see you?’

  ‘Just one big gun, baas. We keep hidden and then creep away into bush and then run. They don’t see us or fire at us at all.’

  ‘Good man.’ Simon lowered his voice and addressed McCarthy. ‘I had hoped they would have no artillery. If they stand off and just shell us, we could have a difficult time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The young man now spoke softly, too. ‘Would it be best, do you think, to parley with them – white flag and all that? Explain that the town is defended but say that women and children are sheltering in the houses and that they should not shell us.’

  Fonthill wrinkled his nose. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance, I would say. The rules of war, as I remember them, are that the town should lay down its arms and completely surrender if they wish to avoid being fired upon. If there is a Hun in charge, then he will probably be a Prussian and he will know that. We either surrender completely, or we stand and fight. Which do you want, Mac?’

  The young man’s high colour seemed to darken in the sunlight. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We stand and fight, sir.’

  ‘Good. The artillery piece is obviously slowing them down and giving us more time.’ He raised his glasses. ‘Yes, they seem to be moving quite slowly. Send everyone to their positions, Mac, and give me the chaps you promised. You take the Maxim. I told your chaps out in the trenches there that you would recall them with a bugle call after they had fired. We mustn’t leave them to be overrun.’

  ‘Of course not.’ McCarthy barked more orders and the policemen split into groups, the largest standing by Fonthill. He looked out towards the foothills and saw mounds of earth being carefully deposited out where Mzingeli and Jenkins were digging.

  ‘When do we start firing?’ asked McCarthy.

  ‘That is your decision, Mac. Your chaps out in those trenches either side of the road have orders not to fire until you do from the jail. So the first shot will be yours. You will be the nearest. Stay hidden until the Germans are as near as you can let them come without them splitting up to surround the town. Then surprise them – and the rest of us will follow suit. Got it?’

  ‘Got it, sir.’

  ‘Good. Good luck.’

  ‘And to you.’

  The young man doubled away with his ten men and the remainder grouped around Simon. He numbered off five of them. ‘You will stay with me at all times,’ he ordered. ‘We will act as a running reserve to support whichever part of our defences are under most pressure. The rest of you come with me and I will allocate you to your positions. Do you all have full bandoliers?’

  ‘Yes, baas,’ the chorus was supportive, as were the great smiles that now split the black faces surrounding him.

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  The trench digging was well under way – with some small boys helping – as Fonthill toured the town. He left one policeman with each trench, so giving him seven to defend the rear of the town, in addition to his own ‘flying squad’ of five. The seven he placed at strategic points – on roofs, behind walls, in hastily dug foxholes – until he was satisfied that his tiny force had been distributed as strategically as possible. Then, with his five men, he returned to the jail at the northern end of the town, taking care to avoid being seen by German field glasses.

  Inside the jailhouse, the few prisoners had been herded into one cell and McCarthy’s ten men had been posted high up at the now open windows, with the Maxim securely balanced to fire due north, covering the entrance to the town. Fonthill swept the bush with his own binoculars and was relieved to see that that the six men on either side of the road were well hidden, as were Jenkins and Mzingeli.

  ‘Now all we can do is wait,’ he muttered to himself.

  He focussed the glasses again on the advancing Germans. They came into view clearly now. Leading the column on horseback rode three men wearing European pith helmets, followed by a string of black Askari troops wearing khaki uniforms topped by f
ez-like hats. It could have been a unit of the King’s African Rifles. And yes, there, in the centre, was a field gun, being hauled by a team of black porters. The dust-shrouded column came on, slowly but menacingly.

  Fonthill bit his lip. Could his little force of policemen and shopkeepers hold off this advancing corps of professionals? They must try.

  He called, ‘Good luck, Mac. Hold your fire as long as possible. I will be in the centre of the town by the station.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Simon slipped away, dodging with his men from doorway to doorway to avoid detection, until he reached the police station. There the little group waited in the dark room, leaving the door open.

  ‘Don’t fire yet, Mac,’ muttered Fonthill to himself. ‘Don’t fire yet.’

  He stole a glance round the corner of the doorpost and caught a glimpse of what seemed like a solid phalanx of soldiery stretching across the road and edge of the bush about a hundred yards from the entrance of the town. The officers had dismounted and, cautiously, revolvers in hand, were leading the advance.

  Simon turned and was about to cry jubilantly to his men, ‘They’ve taken the bait!’ when the Maxim suddenly chattered into life and rifle shots could be heard from the bush up ahead. He couldn’t resist shouting, ‘Don’t fire yet, 352,’ when the jail up ahead seemed to blaze with flame and gun smoke and he saw the leading ranks of the advancing Germans fold and fall. At the same time, a bugle call rose above the firing from the jailhouse.

  His men behind him in the police station began to push towards the open door, but Fonthill held them back.

  ‘Wait until we see if the enemy manage to avoid the jailhouse and rush down the main street,’ he said. ‘Then, on my command, spill out and fire at will. But wait now.’

  Simon eased the bolt on his Lee Enfield and slipped a cartridge into the breech. He looked out between a gap in the houses opposite and could see the little line of shrub that Jenkins and Mzingeli had erected to conceal their trench but could see no rifles protruding through. Good. That meant that the Germans had not diverted yet to circle the town.