Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  Now, however, as she stood on the deck of Homayun, the largest of the transports that had brought the troops from India, in the late afternoon of 3rd November, she was alone. To the west, she could clearly see the peaks of the Usambara Mountains rising up from the coastal plain to where the lighters carrying the invading troops had disappeared towards that horizon the previous day.

  Alice stamped her foot and swore loudly. Those lighters were also carrying her journalistic colleagues – her competitors – who were being taken ashore to observe the triumphant landing at the German East African port of Tanga and the expected frenzied departure inland of the port’s inhabitants. She had been told she must remain on board, because it was possible that the landing could be opposed and that it could be ‘no place for a woman’.

  She scowled at the memory. The order had been conveyed to her from Major General Arthur Aitken, the commander of the 8,000 troops making up the invading army, by a young subaltern on his staff.

  ‘What do you mean, a woman,’ she had screamed at the young man. ‘I am a fully accredited war correspondent for the Morning Post. If the other correspondents are being allowed ashore, I must be with them. It is my job, dammit.’

  The lieutenant had looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, miss … er … madam, but those are the general’s orders. You may go ashore once the landing has been effected.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, my boy.’ She had taken a step closer to the officer and spoke in tones of suppressed fury. ‘Go back to your bloody general and tell him that, while he was sitting on his arse in India playing bloody polo, I was reporting from the battlefields of the Zulu War, the second Afghan war, General Wolseley’s attack on the bPedi tribe, his invasion of Egypt, his expedition to relieve Gordon at Khartoum, Rhodes’ invasion of Matabeleland, the Pathan uprising of 1897 …’ she paused to draw breath.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat to interrupt, but she had forestalled him. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ she hissed. ‘I was in Peking during the Boxer Rebellion, then I covered the Boer War and went with Younghusband on his pathetic invasion of Tibet. And where was bloody General Aitken while I was in “terrible danger as a poor weak woman” on those campaigns? I’ll tell you, he was in bloody India, that’s where. He never left the place.

  ‘Now you go back and tell him exactly what I have said, otherwise there will be trouble. Go on. Tell him what I have said. Go, go, shoo off.’

  The memory of the young man’s embarrassment gave her momentary satisfaction now but that was fleeting as she remembered how she had attempted to board the lighters that were setting off on the seven-mile journey to the port and had been prevented from doing so by a burly sergeant major. She had been forced to stand on deck and see the smiles on the faces of the Afrikaner reporters as they looked up at her.

  Some of them, she knew, were still fighting the Anglo–Boer war in their hearts. They were atavistically anti-British and had made her aware of this during the wait for the fleet to come into Mombasa.

  Alice sniffed. The smell on board the Homayun remained foul. Like the rest of the transports, she was grossly overcrowded and the convoy’s cruising speed of seven knots had done nothing to alleviate the conditions of the 1,000 men of the Indian ‘coolie corps’ who had been crammed into a ship designed to carry only 800, as the ships had crawled across the hot and humid Indian Ocean, taking a full month to make the passage.

  Alice had reported this from Mombasa on first boarding the ship. She had also not flinched from cabling that the invading army seemed singularly ill-equipped for fighting a major battle, in that it was issued with only fourteen machine guns and virtually no artillery – just six guns of the 28th Mountain Battery. Furthermore, its commander-in-chief had never set foot in Africa before and had not even met his two brigade generals until just before departure.

  All this implied criticism, of course, had not endeared her to Aitken and was probably behind his decision to keep her on board. The facts that had fuelled her story had been gleaned from the middle-aged major who was in charge of the ordnance and supplies and with whom she had flirted outrageously during the brief stopover in Mombasa (despite the presence of dysentery among his troops and carriers, Aitken had insisted on sailing on to Tanga without delay).

  Alice Fonthill, married woman or not, was not above using her undoubted feminine charms to wheedle out the background facts that she needed to write her stories. And she was able to do so, for, although now 59, she remained a handsome woman. Many grey hairs were now mixed with the fair ones, but riding with Simon in Rhodesia and Norfolk had retained her trim figure and her eyes remained a bewitching, cool grey. She could have, perhaps, been called beautiful, with her high cheekbones, long eyelashes and curving, full eyebrows, had it not been for a certain squareness of the jaw, betraying the determination that had earned her her reputation as one of the best war correspondents in Fleet St.

  That determination had surfaced when confronted with Aitken’s order and, last night, with the general asleep (after seeing off the invading troops, he had spent the rest of the day on board his warship reading a novel), she had lied to the Morse code operator on the Homayun and bribed him into sending a personal cable from her to Lord Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War in London, begging him to overrule Aitken’s order. She and the great field marshal had forged a mutual admiration for each other when she was reporting on his campaign against the Boers from South Africa. And, of course, the Morning Post was a pillar of the establishment, of which K was a prominent member. Would both these factors be strong enough to gain his intervention now?

  She bit her lip. Alice had heard no news from the shadowy mainland on the edge of the horizon. Had the invasion been the walkover that had been predicted? Or had it met resistance from the Germans?

  She was still frowning and studying that horizon when the same young subaltern approached her now, a wry grin on his face.

  ‘The pinnace awaits you now, Miss Griffith,’ he announced, with exaggerated courtesy.

  ‘What?’ Alice whirled round. ‘Pinnace? What pinnace?’

  ‘The one, madam, that is going to take you ashore.’ His face now had lapsed into a broad grin and Alice could not help noticing how white his teeth were underneath his full moustache. ‘I must say, you really do have influence. I think the general was impressed.’

  ‘So he bloody well should be,’ but she returned his smile. ‘Give me two minutes to get my things. Oh,’ she turned back to him. ‘How has the landing gone, do you know?’

  The smile disappeared. ‘Not good, I am afraid, madam. I think it has been quite hot. I am anxious to get ashore to do my bit.’

  ‘Very well. I won’t be a minute.’

  Within ten minutes, Alice was back on deck and scrambling down the companionway towards where the little steam pinnace lay gently rolling at its foot. Nodding to the young midshipman in command and to the boatswain, she settled down and took out her pencil and notebook, anxious to capture her first impressions as they neared the enemy coast.

  For the first time since her vicarious confrontation with Aitken, her thoughts turned to Simon. She had heard, of course, of his involvement with the battle at Abercorn and, although his letter to her, penned shortly after the engagement, was typically modest, she had seen the news reports of how he had organised the defence of the little town. Her heart sang a little as she reflected now upon how glad she was that he was not involved in this present invasion. At least he was safe, back on their farm in the north of Rhodesia!

  Then she smiled ruefully. This little matter of landing on an assumed hostile shore would be nothing to her husband, a man lauded throughout the Empire for his daring achievements on its furthest borders. And with the great 352 Jenkins, master shot and horseman, and the elegant and equally fearless Mzingeli, the best tracker in the whole of Africa, to make up the trio, there was nothing that that little band of warriors couldn’t do! The smile turned to a grin as she crossed her arms across her breast, swayed slightly with the motion of
the boat and clutched the thought of Simon to her.

  They had been married now for thirty years. Their only child had been stillborn shortly after their marriage and their attempts to raise a family since had failed. However, during their perilous expedition with Younghusband over the Himalayas deep into Tibet four years ago, they had picked up a young Tibetan, who had joined them and proved to be brave, intelligent – and homeless. They had, therefore, adopted him on their return and taken him back with them to Norfolk, sent him to a crammer and, reluctantly, accepted his strong desire to join the British army.

  Alice frowned now as she recalled Sunil’s smiling face. Despite (or perhaps because of?) his foreign appearance, they had resisted the pressure to enlist him in the Indian Army and the boy had sailed through Sandhurst and pleased them both by being commissioned into the old regiment of Simon’s and both of their parents: the South Wales Borderers, previously known as the 24th Regiment of Foot. Now, as a 26-year-old first lieutenant, he had recently been posted with his battalion to France. His last letter had sung of his excitement at the chance of proving himself in battle. Alice bit her lip at the thought. She could not stand the thought of losing both her children, for Sunil had proved to be a warm, caring son.

  She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of gunfire coming from the shore, which now appeared as a grey-black smudge, lit spasmodically by flashes as they neared it.

  The helmsman called back to the midshipman, ‘Are we goin’ straight in, sir? Could be dangerous.’

  ‘No. Not to the jetty. Steer away from the town, towards where you see that headland. Where we landed the troops yesterday. Aim for the signal tower, it will come up in a minute. We should beach on this side of the headland.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Alice took the opportunity to spread out the rough map of Tanga she had bought in Mombasa. It was little more than a street map but the signal tower was marked as was the nearby beach, called Ras Kasone. She realised that the troops landed yesterday would have had to make their way some 2,000 to 3,000 yards, through what looked like a rubber plantation, to reach the town. Had they been able to do it? Not by the sound of firing that came now from the headland.

  ‘We’re going in now, madam,’ called the midshipman. ‘I’m afraid we can’t beach her so you will have to get out in the surf and then run for it. It looks as though the beach may be under fire. I’ll have a man to help you.’

  ‘Not needed, thank you. I can swim if necessary and wade, if not. But thank you for your thought. As soon as I jump off, go astern and get out of here. I don’t want anyone endangered by me. Thank you all. Tell me when to go.’

  She slung her notebook around her neck with a cord, hitched up her skirt waist high, tucked it into her belt and unsteadily made her way to the bow of the little vessel, now pitching heavily as it caught the surf. In fact, Alice was so preoccupied with the high waves and the crashing of the surf that she had no idea if the beach was under fire, although she could hear gunfire from up ahead.

  ‘Now, madam!’ The burly boatswain, standing waist-deep in the water as the waves surged by him, lifted up his arms, caught her above the waist and swung her high and over into the water. The surf surged forward but he lifted her clear and, head down so that his beard tickled her chin, carried her to the edge of the beach. Depositing her onto the sand he pointed to where a coral cliff face, some twenty feet high, marked the end of the beach. ‘You’ll have to climb that, luv, but there’s a path up there and it doesn’t seem to be under fire. Go now – and good luck to yer. You’ve got guts. Run now!’

  Alice could hardly find breath to thank him but she gathered up her sodden skirt and ran as best she could through the slipping, sliding sand until she could huddle under the protection of the bank. Then she turned and waved her thanks to the pinnace, which was now bucking its way astern through the surf.

  She put her fist to her mouth. Oh, how awful if the little craft was sunk and lives lost as a result of her intransigence! But the boat turned in calmer waters and, with a puff of black smoke, headed out to sea safely enough.

  Now: where to go and what to do? The beach was only about a hundred yards wide and Alice could not help but wonder why it had been chosen to put the first men ashore. It would have been impossible, surely, if the Germans were manning the top of the little escarpment. It would have been like firing at fish in a barrel. The firing now seemed to come from above her and to the left but she could see no sign of troops.

  She did, however, see the little path arching upwards and now well trodden and she began to scramble up it. At the top she glimpsed to her right a brightly painted red house near the signal tower that stood behind it. Turbaned troops seemed to be assembling there – Indians! Thank God for that! – and she became aware that other Indian troops were half-running, half-walking back along the top of the ridge, away from the firing.

  ‘Good God, madam, who are you and what on earth are you doing here?’

  The speaker was a young captain, wearing the uniform of the 13th Rajputs, who had suddenly appeared from a patch of scrub.

  ‘Alice Griffith. War correspondent for the Morning Post, London. I’ve just been put ashore. Who is in command here?’

  ‘Brigadier General Michael Tighe, madam.’ She realised that the young man’s face was smirched with cordite streaks and that he was clearly tired, extremely tired. ‘But I must warn you that the general won’t exactly warm to your presence here. He’s in the middle of fighting and, by the look of it, losing a very bloody battle. I don’t think, madam, that you should be here.’

  ‘Of course I should. I am a war correspondent, Captain. And I have probably covered more wars than you have had hot dinners.’ She relented as she saw the tiredness in the eyes of the officer. ‘But I am sorry it’s been so bloody. Have you sustained many casualties?’

  ‘You’d better ask the general that. He’s over there. His headquarters is the red-painted house there. But I can tell you,’ he ran the back of his hand over his brow, ‘that I have lost many good men. Very good men.’

  ‘Ah, I am so sorry, Captain. Let me get out of your way and try and find the general.’

  He nodded and Alice joined the ragged segments of troops, mainly Rajputs and Indian Pioneers, as far as she could see, who were wearily plodding back towards the red house. She suddenly realised that dark clouds, so close above her that she felt she could almost reach up and touch them, were debouching rain that now came down in torrents, so adding to the discomforts caused by her already wet skirt.

  She became aware that the firing was now coming from behind her and seemed static. Had General Tighe been able to establish a line and stop the general retreat? If he had not, by the look of it, he and his recently landed troops would be thrown back into the sea. She must find Tighe.

  She thrust her way through the retreating troops, earning open-mouthed looks of astonishment from them all, until she had gained the house. ‘General Tighe?’ she asked of a young subaltern.

  ‘There, ma’am.’ The lieutenant pointed to where a group of staff officers were bent over a table. Through the open doorway to another room, she glimpsed medics, wearing bloodstained aprons, bustling to and fro. It was obviously no time to be interrupting the general and, suddenly, she felt cold. She had taken a drenching but the air was warm and humid so it could not be an unseasonable cold – unless she had sweated under her garments and this had chilled. But she began to shudder, so she pulled up a chair and sat down within a discreet distance of the huddled group.

  She realised that she must have dozed off because she was suddenly aware that she was being addressed by an officer bending over her and staring at her with the fiercest blue eyes she had ever seen. ‘I said, who the hell are you, madam, and what are you doing here in my headquarters? Eh?’ The words were spoken in a lilting Irish accent that exactly matched the blue eyes.

  ‘Ah, General.’ Alice gulped and struggled to stand.

  ‘No, no, lady. Sit there. You are shivering
, dammit. You’ll catch yer death.’ Tighe turned and shouted. ‘Smithers. Bring me my whiskey flask, there’s a good chap.’

  Alice realised that her teeth were chattering and she grasped the little screw-on cup with both hands and lifted it to her lips. The liquid coursed through her veins almost immediately and she gulped and coughed.

  ‘Ah, thank you, General,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry to take you from your duties.’

  ‘So you should be, madam. I am in the middle of fighting a battle and I certainly didn’t invite you here. So, to repeat, what the hell—No, no …’ His voice took on a kindly note. ‘No, you’re shaking fit to break. Now, take another sip, won’t yer. It’s the best Irish and will do yer the world of good.’

  Alice nodded her thanks and took a gulp of the fiery liquid. ‘Thank you again,’ she wiped her lips. ‘I’m Alice Griffith of the Morning Post and General Aitken allowed me to land here,’ she gestured with her head, ‘on the beach just below the headland. I presume there must be other correspondents here with you?’

  Tighe raised his eyebrows. ‘Good God, madam. Certainly not. As far as I know, they’re all huddled on one of the lighters in the bay waiting to land when the harbour has been swept of mines. I have to say, the general must have been mad to have let you land here. Not to put too fine a point on it, dear lady, we’re fightin’ for our lives, so we are. Mind you,’ he sniffed and the blue eyes seemed to twinkle, ‘when I get this lot together again and we get some reinforcements we’ll sweep forward and take the town. But we need to … er … get our breath back first, so to speak.’

  He shouted again to one of his aides. ‘Can someone find a blanket for this lady? Quickly, now.’ He turned back to Alice. ‘Excuse me, now. If yer want to know what’s goin’ on, we’ll talk later. But I’ve got to fight me battle now, d’yer see.’ He nodded and joined his staff at the table.