by John Wilcox
‘Why?’ asked Alice. ‘It doesn’t look of great strategic importance.’
‘Ah, but it is. Firstly, it possesses a high-power radio transmitter, which is a precious link to Germany itself; destroying it would completely isolate this north-west corner of the German colony. Secondly, the surrounding country is of some economic importance to the Germans. It is a huge producer of coffee, which the settlers demand, as well as running a trading business with Ruanda and Urundi in hides and skins, both of which are needed by the German askaris.’
‘Is it well defended?’ asked Alice.
‘Well, that’s for us to find out. We are asked to reconnoitre the best way to attack the place, without alerting the Germans, of course, and to assess the strength of the defenders.’
Jenkins’s grin seemed to light up the room. ‘Just our sort of job,’ he said. ‘But we shall need old Jelly to ’elp us find the place.’
Simon smiled. One of the Welshman’s few demerits as a soldier and scout was his complete inability to find his way from A to B, even if the road between was brightly illuminated and ran dead straight. ‘Oh, yes. I shall ask Mzingeli to track for us. The farm can run itself for a while.’
‘Well,’ Alice sat back with a sigh. ‘It sounds all neatly bound with ribbons. You are going and that’s that. I suppose it is no use me arguing any further.’
‘Sorry, darling. But no.’
‘When do you set off?’
‘As soon as we can get ready, say within the week, although, of course, we must wait until Mzingeli gets here. Ah, there is one other interesting point.’
‘Yes?’
‘What with the mauling we received at Tanga and other activities in the north, we are short of good troops on the ground and so this League of Frontiersmen will be given their first baptism of fire in this attack. They will be in the van. It should be interesting to see how they perform.’
‘Well,’ it was Alice’s turn to sniff. ‘I don’t particularly care if the whole Brigade of Guards is in the van, as long as you don’t have to lead the troops in personally. Oh Simon,’ she turned imploring eyes towards her husband. ‘This place is deep inside enemy country. How do you propose to get in?’
‘It depends. We could creep across the lake from the British side but I would favour slipping over the border from Uganda – I doubt if it is all that well policed. And that is the way, I suspect, that most of the troops will have to go in. But we must wait until we can see the lie of the land. We’ve been given non-substantive ranks so that we can hold up our heads with the professionals. I am back to colonel and Jenkins here will be paid as a warrant officer Grade I, a regimental sergeant major, no less.
‘Look, Alice.’ He took her hand. ‘I promise we will be extremely cautious and, when the attack starts, do our best to stay out of the way.’ He grinned. ‘We don’t want three elderly gentlemen – including Mzingeli, that is – being shot out of their wheelchairs when the troops go in.’
Alice shook her hand free. ‘This is no joke, Simon. None of you can do what you used to do in the old days. You must – you really must – be aware of your limitations now. Promise me you will.’
‘Of course, love. Now, if you will excuse me, I must send a telegram to Mzingeli. It will take him some time to get here. Ah –’ he stopped and turned at the door. ‘No news from Sunil, I suppose?’
‘No. But no news is good news now, isn’t it?’
He nodded and was gone.
Mzingeli arrived four days later, stepping ashore, a loose bag slung across his shoulder, and, if it were not for the rifle he carried so nonchalantly, looking like an elegant elder statesman of some African nation. Three days afterwards the three of them set off, dressed as hunters in rough, sun-bleached khaki, and boarded the train at the Mombasa railhead of the Uganda Railway.
It was this line that the Germans had been attempting to disrupt and Fonthill was warned that other raids were expected, particularly as the railway neared the northern border of German East Africa on its long journey to Kisumu on the eastern, British side of Lake Victoria. A small detachment of the King’s African Rifles was posted on the train to provide some protection. The train itself consisted of four open-topped cargo trucks and three coaches for passengers, of whom there were very few. The coaches were without corridors, with only running-boards providing means of passing from coach to coach while the train was in motion. As a result, two soldiers of the Rifles were designated to sit in each coach, with other, less fortunate men consigned to squat on top of the loads in the cargo trucks.
The two Riflemen who joined Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli in their compartment sat incongruously, their rifles between their gleaming black knees, and wearing their distinctive red fez caps with tassles, broad sashes under black leather belts and the sunniest of smiles. They rarely spoke except to express surprised thanks when Simon shared sandwiches with them, but their expressions remained peacefully beatific as the train rattled along through the barren countryside.
As they had all boarded the train at Mombasa, the transport officer there had noted the rifles carried by Simon and his two companions and had suggested that they be ready to use them if called upon. It was therefore no surprise when a blast from the locomotive’s steam whistle midway through the afternoon indicated trouble ahead – quickly confirmed when the brakes were slammed on and the train came to a hissing halt.
Simon hung his head out of the window and noted that the train had stopped just as it approached a defile between two rocky ridges, which rose from the plain on either side. He was just able to catch a glimpse of two boulders that had been rolled down onto the track when his view was blocked by the young lieutenant of the KARs from the first carriage, who jumped down onto the running-board and then onto the track to run ahead.
‘For God’s sake, don’t go down there,’ shouted Simon. ‘It’s obviously an ambush.’ But it was too late. Several shots rang out from the rocks above the track and the officer was hit twice, once in the shoulder and secondly, fatally through the forehead. He fell to the ground and lay inert.
Fonthill flung open the door and jumped down. Turning his head, he shouted loudly, ‘No one must leave the train,’ and, head down, he skipped over the body of the dead man and ran towards the locomotive. As he did so, a rattle of musketry rang out from the rocks above and to either side of the coaches, the bullets pinging away as they ricochetted from the steel tracks and the great wheels of the engine.
Somehow, he managed to reach the footplate unharmed and clambered up into the cabin. The driver and his black stevedore were crouched under the protection of the side plates and regarded him wide-eyed as he squatted beside them. Fonthill suddenly became aware that there were now four in the cab, for Jenkins, sweat trickling down his forehead, had joined them on the footplate.
The Welshman poked the barrel of his rifle over the side plate, aimed quickly and pulled the trigger. ‘I don’t know what you’re doin, bach sir,’ he gasped, ‘but I’ll try and keep the bastards’ heads down while you’re doin’ it.’
‘No, don’t. It’ll just draw their fire.’ He turned to the driver. ‘Can you reverse this bloody great thing?’
The man looked at him with a crooked smile. ‘Aye, laddie,’ he said in tones redolent of the Highlands, ‘where would yer like me to take her?’
‘Get us back out of here as quickly as you can. If I’m not mistaken they will roll down bloody great boulders onto the track right behind us and we will be stuck here. Reverse it now before they do that.’
‘Och aye. But it’ll take me a minute or two to get the pressure up. Just keep yer hair on, sonny, while we do this. Coal in quickly now, Ahmed. Jump to it!’
Fonthill sucked in his breath and realised that he had not brought his rifle with him. ‘Keep your head down, 352,’ he hissed. ‘Charging back out of here is our only hope.’
‘What about the poor chap who took the bullet?’
‘He’s beyond help. Shot through the head.’
Shots were now raining down onto the steel superstructure of the engine housing and the cab, sounding as though the four men inside were trapped under a tin roof in a heavy hailstorm, and it seemed ages before, with a series of hisses and heavy spinning of the wheels, the train slowly began to move backwards.
‘Can you see if the track is clear behind us?’ called Simon to the driver.
‘Aye, it’s clear all right, but I can see some of the varmints tryin’ to roll a few wee rocks down onto us.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘Can you try an’ pick ’em off, d’yer think, Taffy?’
Jenkins swung round and glared at the Scotsman and then immediately levelled his rifle up and to the rear of them and took careful aim. He fired three shots quickly and nodded. ‘Got two of the buggers, look you, Jock,’ he hissed the name with heavy emphasis. ‘But it looks as though some of the rocks have been set rollin. ’Ang onto your ’ats and ’old tight.’
The locomotive, fuelled frantically by the shovelling footplateman, had now gathered speed and was clumping its way backwards at a fair pace when the three rocks came bouncing down the cliff face in a flurry of scree. The first caught the locomotive a glancing blow on the buffers and the others crashed down on the line, settling there in a cloud of dust.
‘Well done, driver, I think we’ve made it,’ cried Fonthill.
Jenkins turned a face drenched in sweat and Simon suddenly realised that the temperature inside the cab must have passed the 100 degrees level. ‘Where are we goin?’ called the Welshman. ‘All the way back to the bleedin’ Indian Ocean, is it?’
‘No.’ Fonthill turned to the driver. ‘Back as fast as you can for about a mile and then stop, but keep steam up, if you can.’
‘Very well, sonny. But what are yer goin’ to do?’
‘Yes, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s features were a rosy-hued picture of consternation. ‘Are we goin’ to try and ram the bloody rocks, then?’
‘No. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let those Germans get away with this. We will unload the KARs and run back and take the bastards in the rear. With all their rock pushing I doubt if they will be prepared for us to do that. Fast as you can, driver, until I tell you to stop.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve always loved steam engines. Pile it on, there’s a good chap.’
Within four minutes, Fonthill had given the signal to stop and like a great leviathan the engine hissed to a halt. Immediately, Simon jumped down.
‘All troops leave the train and assemble on this side of the line,’ he yelled. ‘I am a British army officer. Quickly now. Bring your rifles with you.’
The two riflemen who had shared their compartment were the first to jump down and they called for their comrades to obey Simon’s order. Slowly, the rest of the KAR men assembled along the side of the track. They were led by a black sergeant, who said, ‘Where is Lieutenant Daniels?’
‘I am sorry to have to tell you, Sergeant, that he is dead. He was hit by the first bullets the Germans fired. Now,’ he looked along the row of faces, ‘we are going to get the lieutenant’s body, but first we are going to climb this rise on either side of the track and we’re going to run back to where the ambush took place. Then we are going to take the Germans in the rear and give them the surprise of their lives.
‘Sergeant.’
‘Sah.’
‘I want you to divide the men into two parties. You will take one half to the other side of the track and trot back steadily to the defile. It’s about a mile, I should say. I will take the others on this side and do the same. Keep me in sight all the time, as we go. When we near the Germans, I shall signal and we will all then take cover and crawl up on those men who killed Lieutenant Daniels. Do not – I repeat, do not – fire until I do. Is that all clear?’
‘Very good, sah.’ The sergeant gave Fonthill a smile that revealed a perfect set of glittering teeth -– a smile that was reflected along the line of his men. It was clear that this detachment of the King’s African Rifles was itching for a fight.
Jenkins and Mzingeli were at Simon’s side. ‘Did you say, trot back there, bach sir?’ asked the Welshman, wiping the perspiration from his forehead and squinting up at the sun, which hung in the sky like a blazing cauldron.
‘Yes. But not too fast, I don’t want to get there before the sergeant’s men.’
‘Oh, goodness gracious me, I quite agree. Slow me down when we get near the bleedin’ Germans, then, won’t you, in case I run on and overwhelm ’em singl’andedly, like.’
‘Mzingeli.’
‘Nkosi.’
‘I would be grateful if you would go on ahead and see what the Germans are doing, taking care not to be seen, of course, and come back to me. It might be that they are guessing what we are up to and are coming back here themselves.’
With a nod of the head, the tracker slipped his rifle over his head by its sling and effortlessly climbed the gradient and disappeared from sight.
The sergeant’s party had crept under the couplings to the other side of the train. ‘Are you ready, Sergeant?’ called Fonthill.
‘Ready, sah.’
‘Right. Make sure the men’s magazines are full and that each has put a cartridge up the spout. Then we will go. Keep me in sight, now.’
‘Very good, sah.’
Cautiously, Fonthill led his men up the cutting, his feet slipping back in the loose shale. At the top, he was just able to see the tall figure of Mzingeli disappear between a wizened clump of mimosa thorn trees. The way back to the ambush site seemed clear, from what he could see. Across the track, the sergeant waved to him and he waved back and gestured ahead. The two parties set off at the trot.
Simon soon realised that he had been unwise to suggest that the way back should be taken at the double, or at least a fast trot. It was clear that the pace in no way disconcerted the KAR soldiers, but it was way too fast for two Europeans in late middle age, trying to keep up with the black troopers in this heat. He held up his hand to halt the men.
‘Thank God for that,’ gasped Jenkins. ‘I was about to disappear into a little Welsh puddle.’
Fonthill ignored him and turned to the men bunched behind him. ‘We must be near now,’ he said. ‘Spread out and advance at the walk.’ He looked across the line and could see that the sergeant had stopped his men too. He waved and spread his arms to indicate that they should disperse and saw the sergeant repeat the gesture.
The two parties had advanced at this slower pace for less than a hundred yards when Simon saw the tall figure of Mzingeli loping towards him. The tracker came up, waving his arms to take cover and stood before Fonthill in no sort of discomfort at the pace at which he had been running.
‘Germans comin’ this way, Nkosi.’
‘How far?’
‘About three hundred paces. Comin’ quite quick now. They carryin’ machine gun.’
‘Damn! Did they see you?’
Mzingeli wrinkled his nose, as though offended by the question. ‘Of course not, Nkosi.’
Fonthill forced a grin. ‘Of course not. Sorry to have asked.’
He turned and waved to the sergeant across the track. He pointed ahead and then back again. Then he spread his arms in a spreading, downward motion. The sergeant immediately seemed to understand, nodded and repeated the gesture to his men. Simon thanked his lucky stars that he had some of the best-trained native troops in all Africa under his temporary command. As he watched, the men on the other side of the track seemed to disappear from sight. Good.
He looked around. To his right, there was a low outbreak of rocks, broken by some stunted, leafless bushes and one or two cactus plants. ‘Quickly, take cover behind those rocks,’ he called softly. ‘Move now. Enemy is approaching. Nobody to fire until I do.’
With Jenkins and Mzingeli in close company, he ran to the rocks and spreadeagled himself behind the nearest clump, taking care that his rifle did not protrude at this early stage in the engagement. He looked around. Some of the troops had knelt down and, surely, their red fezes would be seen by the enem
y. ‘Lie flat,’ he hissed. ‘And take off those damned hats.’
He turned his head to where Mzingeli was lying beside him. ‘Are they advancing on both sides of the track?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Nkosi. But biggest party – with machine gun – this side.’
It seemed to Fonthill that an eternity had passed, lying here under the African sun, the rays of which seemed to bounce off the ochre-coloured rocks in an attempt to fry the little party. In fact, of course, it was perhaps only three minutes before, stepping out cautiously from between a group of mimosa thorns, he saw the first of the enemy.
They were black askaris, led by a white man in long shorts and a pith helmet, a revolver in his hand.
Fonthill turned his head to his left, where Jenkins lay. ‘I want you to hold your fire, 352,’ he whispered, ‘until the machine gun crew come into sight, then take them.’ He turned back to his right. ‘And you Mzingeli. Can you pick off the officer leading them? You are both better shots than me. Make sure you don’t miss. Neither of you fire until I give the signal.’
The two men nodded.
Slowly, Simon eased his rifle up alongside him. How long should he wait? He turned his head to look across the line. No sign of the Germans advancing there. Better to ensure that most of the enemy on this side were clear of cover so that they could be brought down in the open. He ran his tongue over lips that were now so dry that they seemed made of sandpaper.
Then, as he watched, a second party of askaris came into sight, leaving the mimosas behind. This party was carrying a machine gun, broken down for transport into two parts: the barrel with its long belt of ammunition swung over the shoulders of the two men carrying it, and the tripod in the hands of just one man.
Simon turned his head fractionally towards Jenkins.
‘I’ve got the bastards,’ whispered the Welshman, almost absent-mindedly as he sighted along the barrel of his Lee Enfield.
