by John Wilcox
‘Hmm.’ Fonthill frowned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t fancy that much and I certainly wouldn’t intend to be captured, anyway. I don’t want us to wear uniform, which would protect us to some extent, but I would appreciate a simple letter from you appointing the three of us as army scouts. That might help if we are caught.’
‘Very well. I will see to it.’ The little man stood and offered his hand across the desk. ‘You will have a day or two to sort yourselves out and buy some provisions. I have already prepared this chit,’ he selected an army form from the mass of papers on his desk and offered it, ‘giving you free choice of whatever you want – weapons, transport etc. – from the quartermaster here.’
The two men shook hands. ‘I don’t have to tell you, of course, that you must tell no one about this mission. Not even Mrs Fonthill,’ he gave his wintry smile, ‘who I understand is one of the most resourceful and intrepid of all the correspondents out here.’
‘I understand, General.’
‘When I have completed my plans, I shall send a highly confidential letter to you at your hotel – and I shall want you to acknowledge its safe receipt – giving you their outline and telling you where and when to report. Good luck, Fonthill, my thoughts will be with you and I know I can rely on you and your fellows.’
‘Thank you. You can be sure of that, sir.’
As Simon stepped out into what seemed like the pleasant cool air of Mombasa, after the stifling humidity of Smuts’s office, his heart sang. Just the sort of job he was after: a free-ranging commission with his two trusted friends and comrades, out in the bush, on their own, with no senior officer breathing down their necks. Like the Königsberg stunt. But without the wet feet. Jenkins would be pleased. Ideal!
Then he paused. What the hell was he going to tell Alice? She would insist on knowing about his mission and if he wasn’t careful she was quite capable of coming after him again. He raised his eyes to the heavens. What a damned awkward, infuriating and wonderful wife!
Alice was waiting for him on his return, sitting in the bar by the doorway, watching for him to arrive. Jenkins was out, obviously drinking, and Mzingeli had gone for one of his ‘long walks’.
She rose and clutched his arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I can see from your eyes that you’ve got some sort of job. Let’s have a whisky to celebrate.’ She pushed him into a chair and summoned the waiter. ‘Two large scotch and sodas,’ she ordered. ‘Now, tell me, darling. How did you get on?’
Simon sighed. It would be no good dissembling. She was as good a cross-examiner as any High Court barrister. He would have to tell her the truth – or, at least, as much as he was allowed to.
‘Well,’ he began, hesitatingly. ‘Smuts was very flattering …’
She interrupted. ‘So he jolly well should be.’
‘Yes, well … He has offered me work – and 352 and Mzingeli too.’
‘Ah,’ she interrupted again. ‘He wants Mzingeli as well, does he? That means tracking work out in the bush. I suppose,’ she sighed heavily, ‘that means behind enemy lines. Just the sort of stuff you three are good at, eh?’
It was Simon’s turn to sigh. ‘Look here, Alice. What we have been asked to do – and, to be honest, I don’t know the details yet – is highly confidential. I have been sworn to secrecy by Smuts, and he particularly ordered me not to tell you anything. Neither he nor I want you trailing after us disguised as a leopard or elephant or something.’
‘Hmm. Well, if I have the choice I would prefer leopard, thank you. Not some great galythumping bloody great elephant, if you please.’
‘Well, he didn’t exactly say that, darling. But he did say you had earned a reputation as one of the most resourceful and intrepid journalists out here. And so you are.’ He sought desperately to change the subject. ‘Have you had any luck in sniffing out who might be the spy who knew you had sailed on the Calipha?’
‘No. But I have my suspicions. I might see if I can set a trap to catch him. But more of that later. Where you’re going is going to be dangerous, isn’t it?’
‘Could be, my love. I don’t know yet.’
‘Of course you know,’ she spluttered. The drinks arrived at just that moment, much to Simon’s relief. He buried his nose in the glass. But Alice was undeterred. ‘Come on, darling. You know I wouldn’t say or do anything that would put you in any sort of danger. Just give me a clue about where you might be heading.’
‘Sorry. Can’t do that. And that, my dear, is the end of the matter.’
Alice took a deep breath but Simon was saved by the arrival of Jenkins, walking suspiciously slowly and erect and heading, of course, straight for the bar. He hailed them.
‘Private converssashion or can anyone join in?’
Simon sighed. ‘It sounds as though you’ve had enough already. What would you like? A beer?’
‘That would be very kind, bach sir. Just one small one, thank you. Where’s old Jelly? I wash goin’ to buy ’im a huge glass of milk.’
‘He’s gone walking,’ said Alice. ‘Sensible man – but not from bar to bar, unlike some people.’
‘As smarrer o’ fact, Miss Alice, very little ’as passed my lips so far today.’ Then he recalled that Simon had had a very important meeting that morning. ‘Ah, bach sir. You’ve been to see—’
Simon fluttered his hand. ‘Come on, 352. Keep your voice down. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
‘Very good indeed, sir.’ Jenkins nodded his head lugubriously. ‘I shall wait in antishipation.’ He raised his glass. ‘’Ere’s to it, whatever it is.’ And he drained the glass in one gulp. Then he got to his feet, a trifle unsteadily. ‘If you’ll both excush me, I think I’ll go and ’ave a bit of a lie down, see. Sun’s got to me a bit, I think.’
Alice and Simon watched him walk away, his gait suspiciously slow and his bearing stiff and artificial.
‘The sooner I can get him out of here, the better,’ said Simon, shaking his head.
‘I know you can’t tell me what you will be up to, darling,’ said Alice, leaning forward and putting her hand on her husband’s knee. ‘But can you tell me when you might be going?’
‘Sorry, love. I just don’t know. Smuts is going to write to me. Within the next couple of days, I should think.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Well thank you for that.’ She drained her glass and gave him a mischievous grin. ‘Shall we go up now, then …?’
The invitation was implicit. ‘Very well, my love. But don’t come all Mata Hari with me.’ He grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t know. You could try, of course.’
Smuts’s letter came two days later, carried by a young subaltern who insisted on having a receipt for it. Luckily, Alice was away on some nefarious expedition of her own, so Simon was able to put it in his pocket and open it in the safety of their room.
The letter was straight to the point. ‘I intend to launch a full-scale attack within the next three weeks to clear our border with German East Africa and to remove once and for all any threat of invasion,’ he wrote. ‘Stewart will advance with the 1st Division across the border, take Longido and then attack Nagasseni Hill, to the west of Kilimanjaro. I shall be attacking on other fronts, too, and Stewart should meet me at Moshi, to the north-west of Taveta. But this need not concern you. I want you to get out in front of Stewart as soon as possible – there are semi-desert conditions, there, with limited water and little cover. So take care. I want you to assess the German positions and report back to Stewart as soon as possible, as he advances. Get as much detail as you can: will he need heavy guns to dislodge the enemy from their positions and so on? Move quickly. Good luck.’
Fonthill read the letter again. Good. Kilimanjaro meant the Taveta Front on the northern edge of German East Africa, near the frontier, only about 200 miles from Mombasa. A comparatively short distance in this vast territory. But if Smuts intended to attack within three weeks then the three of them had to get a move on. Luckily, they were already well equipped, their horses, provisions and ri
fles held at the barracks so as not to attract attention at the hotel. Now, he rose, where the hell were Jenkins and Mzingeli?
The next day they took a train to the north-west bound for the small town of Kio, still some seventy-five miles from the frontier. Alice had seen them off, tears in her eyes, but making no attempt to plead with him again. There was fuss in getting the horses, plus one pack mule, into the freight carrier at the back but all was completed and the three settled down, Fonthill sharing with his two comrades the old copy of a map of northern German East Africa that Smuts’s office had provided for him.
Simon pointed to the large open spaces of the map immediately south and west of Kilimanjaro. ‘You’re going to be key to this operation, Mzingeli,’ he said. ‘This looks like the desert territory Smuts told me about. There’s not much cover there and we probably will be able to be spotted from miles away if the Germans have patrols out. We are going to need you and your sixth sense to warn us of trouble on the way.’
Mzingeli gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I got no sixth sense, Nkosi – whatever that means. Perhaps I should go on ahead of you when we get there. One man less easy to spot in that country than three, particularly if he can merge into background. I good at that.’
‘Good idea. As far as I can see, you’re good at most things.’
‘Trouble is,’ Jenkins intervened. ‘’E’s no bloody good at all at drinkin’. You drink too much milk, Jelly. It’s bad for the constip, consput …’
‘Constitution?’ offered Simon.
‘That’s just what I was goin’ to say. It’s bad for you. Makes you moo like a cow.’
The tracker showed his great white teeth again but did not reply.
They had to ride the seventy-odd miles to the border from the rail station, where they were told that the frontier was comparatively unmarked – the odd signpost or border stone, but little else. But both sides regularly patrolled their own sides of the border, of course, so Fonthill decided to cross at night.
Before doing so, as the sun descended to their left, the three of them stood at a border signpost, which announced in German that the colony began at that point, while Fonthill scanned the territory beyond with his field glasses. The country looked very unwelcoming: sand and gravel, dotted with low cactus and other miserable-looking stunted bushes and a few trees. To the south rose the intimidating peak of Kilimanjaro, but until then the plain seemed to stretch out with few undulations.
‘Nowhere to ’ide, bach sir,’ observed Jenkins, frowning. ‘What do we say if we are nabbed?’
‘I don’t intend to get nabbed,’ said Fonthill, slowly twirling the focus wheel on his binoculars. ‘If we do get spotted – and on this plain we should be able to see trouble coming from some way ahead, dust on the horizon is a dead givaway – we either run for it or fight our way out.’
‘Perhaps we should travel in the dark?’ offered Mzingeli.
‘No. Trouble with that is we could stumble into a German patrol so easily. And, anyway, to do our job I shall need to know exactly where we are going.’ He put down the glasses. ‘We’ll eat now and cross over in two hours’ time.’
They did so without incident, Fonthill setting a course to the south-west by the light of his illuminated compass. They stopped after two hours, lighting no fire but tethering the horses and allowing them to eat the poor yellow grass that poked its head up above the sand. Fonthill set a three hours’ watch, taking the first turn as the other two huddled gratefully into their sleeping bags.
They were up at dawn, watering the horses and setting out. This time, however, Mzingeli rode on ahead with the compass after Fonthill had shown him the bearing until he was a black dot in the distance. ‘Must keep him in sight, otherwise we shall lose him,’ said Simon to Jenkins.
‘Blimey. Let’s not lose ’im. I’ll get lost in this bloody place in no time.’
The sun beat down on them unrelentingly as they plodded on, keeping the tiny figure of the tracker just in sight ahead of them at all times, but with Fonthill regularly scanning the horizons with his field glasses on either side and behind them as he rode.
Even so, it was Jenkins who gave the alarm first. ‘I think old Jelly is riding back to us, bach sir,’ he said shielding his eyes to gaze ahead. ‘Can you put your glasses on ’im?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Fonthill adjusted the focus to look beyond Mzingeli. He could see nothing but – perhaps – a cloud of dust. He put down the glasses and looked around.
‘It looks as though Mzingeli is riding fast. That means he has been seen. I don’t fancy making a run for it and leaving him behind. At the moment, we must be out of sight of his pursuers. So … 352, leave your horse here but take your rifle and take cover behind that low tree over there. It won’t hide you completely, so you’ll have to scrape a depression in the sand. Don’t fire unless I give you the signal. I will just put my hand in the air, like this. Go quickly now, before you get spotted.’
‘An’ what will you do?’
‘Stay here and try and argue my way out of it. But be prepared to shoot to kill if you have to. I will do the same. I’ve got my revolver tucked under my shirt.’
Fonthill walked unhurriedly to his horse – he did not know yet whether he was in binocular sight of the Germans – and casually threw a blanket over the modern British rifle in its saddle holster. Then he sauntered back to a rock protruding from the sand, perched on it and took a drink from his canteen, while raising his field glasses.
Yes, he could see the Germans now, riding fast behind Mzingeli, raising a dust cloud more visibly now. He tucked the glasses into the sand at the base of the rock and pushed them down out of sight, eased the revolver under his shirt and sat and waited.
Mzingeli thundered to a halt and shouted: ‘Germans behind me, Nkosi. Can you not see them?’
‘Yes, old chap. I can see them. How many, three or four?’
‘Four and they see me. I could not … what? … “meld” in time. Sorry Nkosi. Why did you not ride away? And where is Jenkins bach?’
‘I did not want to leave you to fight them alone. And 352 is behind that tree over there. Don’t get between him and our visitors. I shall try and talk my way out, but if that fails, Jenkins will fire when I raise my left arm vertically. That means we must attack, too. So be ready.’
‘Very good, Nkosi. I sit and wait with you.’
Mzingeli dismounted, keeping his rifle with him, but sliding a cartridge into the breech and removing the safety catch. He tethered his steaming horse and sat down, seemingly unconcerned, on the sand beside Fonthill, his rifle at his side, the stock and barrel half-covered with sand.
Within minutes the German patrol had galloped up. There were, indeed, four of them, all black askaris, the most feared troops in East Africa, wearing fezes and pointing their Mausers at the two men on the ground.
The sergeant dismounted warily, not letting the muzzle of his rifle drop for a moment.
He looked at Fonthill angrily, his forehead dripping sweat, and shouted at him in German. Simon stood easily, shrugged his shoulders, held out his hands in supplication and said: ‘Nein spraken ze Duetch. Me Portugesa. Portugesa.’
The sergeant hurled imprecations in German again, stepped forward and slapped Simon hard across the face. At the same time, the other askaris began to dismount. It was just the opportunity that Fonthill had been waiting for. In administering the slap, the sergeant had dropped the muzzle of his rifle and the others were engaged in dismounting.
Simon raised his left hand and immediately looked to the sky. The sergeant could not resist following his gaze, allowing Fonthill a split second to withdraw his revolver and fire it into the broad chest of the soldier less than a foot away from him. At the same time, Jenkins’s rifle fired twice, bringing down two of the askaris and, firing from the hip from where he sat, Mzingeli killed the fourth of the party.
Amazingly it was all over within seconds and, half in awe, Simon gazed at the four bodies sprawled inertly on the sand while
their horses, startled by the shooting, galloped away before idly beginning to crop the yellow grass beneath them.
‘Good shootin’, lads,’ called Jenkins, rising arthritically from behind his tree. ‘I wasn’t sure we could get ’em all before they got you two.’
‘Good shooting yourself, 352,’ called Fonthill. But he felt nausea rise in his throat as he watched the blood ooze and form rapidly draining pools in the sand. ‘Dammit,’ he half-whispered. ‘I wish we hadn’t had to kill all of them. I’m getting a bit fed up with all this killing – and we haven’t even started yet.’
Mzingeli laid a hand on his arm. ‘Nkosi,’ he said softly, ‘I remember how you did not want to kill sleeping lion all those years ago in Matabeleland. You thought, like good hunters do, it was unfair to kill while he sleep. But these askaris are bad men. They would kill us – see how he hit you. Next step would be pointing gun and firing. We did right.’
Jenkins had joined them now. ‘Old Jelly’s right, bach sir,’ he said. ‘It’s war, look you. Kill or be killed. It’s a fair bugger all right and even I am not too ’appy with doin’ ’em in cold blood, so to speak, and I’ve been killin’ people all me life. But it ’ad to be done. Now, what do you want to do with the bodies, like?’
Fonthill sighed and looked at the four horizons. He could see no sign of life anywhere on that arid plain. To the south-west the foothills of the great mountain were wooded but nothing stirred on the desert leading to them. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to bury them,’ he sighed. ‘If their bodies are found then other patrols will know that we are in the territory and come actively looking for us. Trouble is,’ he frowned, ‘that means killing the horse, too, for the same reason.’
‘Ah no, sir!’ Jenkins had been brought up on a farm in North Wales and was a horse-lover as well as a superb horseman. ‘Can’t we just bury the bridle and saddles, slap ’em on the arse and let ’em go?’
