by John Wilcox
Fonthill shot a glance at Mzingeli. The tracker, now a farmer, of course, was looking down but he was nodding in slow agreement. Simon took a deep breath.
‘No. We can’t risk it. There are no wild horses on this plain and they are bound to have cavalry markings on them. We must leave no trace here.’
Jenkins made one last appeal. ‘But, look, bach sir, we ain’t got no shovels. It’ll take us hours to do all that diggin’.’
‘Then we will use our bayonets and hands. Shouldn’t be too difficult in this sand and gravel.’ He gulped. ‘Neither of you need to kill the horses. I will do that. Let’s start.’
It was hard work, for the earth was more gravel than sand and the sun beat down on them relentlessly, causing them to perspire prodigiously, their sweat dropping into the depressions they were scooping out. Fonthill kept scanning the horizons, but it seemed they were alone on that vast plain. Eventually, realising that he could no longer put off the unpleasant task of killing the horses, he left the others to carry on digging and walked over to the askaris’ mounts, whistling to them softly through parched lips. They were, in fact, poor beasts, their ribs beginning to show through their matted sides – a reflection of the difficulty the Germans must be having at finding suitable horses for their cavalry.
He killed the first two quickly, with his revolver, but, before he could turn, the others took fright and galloped away.
‘Damn!’ Their own horses had drifted away a little and he thought about galloping after the German mounts but realised they would be difficult to catch now and, head down, he rejoined the others.
Jenkins looked up, his face streaming with perspiration. ‘Now what are we goin’ to do? Just let ’em go?’
‘No.’ Fonthilll turned to Mzingeli. ‘I hate to ask you, but they are still galloping, so it will probably be a tracking job. Will you please track them down and finish them off? They mustn’t escape. We will finish here.’
Wearily, the black man nodded and retrieved his horse, mounted and cantered away.
It was an hour before he returned. He dismounted and called to Simon: ‘I could not bury them, but I pushed sand on them and found stones to put on top. I think no one find them.’ Then he looked up. ‘Nkosi, I think these give us away.’
Fonthill dashed the sweat from his eyes and followed Mzingeli’s gaze. High above, vultures were circling in ominous spirals. He then remembered, of course, that they could see or at least sense a kill from miles away and would congregate above the corpses within minutes and wait on high to make sure that they were dead before landing to make their pickings. They were a dead giveaway that a killing had been made.
He shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped. Do they uncover corpses when they are buried?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Thank you for doing that miserable job. We are almost finished now. I want to get out of here well before nightfall.’
Jenkins called, ‘Do you want to save the Mausers?’
‘No. I don’t want us to be linked to these chaps in any way, so bury them. And, in any case, our Lee Enfields are just as good, if not better.’
Within the half-hour they were able to smooth the sand, retrieve the horses and ride away. Looking back, Fonthill could see no signs at all that four men and two horses had been slain on the site. He shook his head but the little party rode on, going north and then north-west roughly parallel to the border, until he called a halt and they camped for the night.
They risked a small fire, for darkness prompted a severe drop in temperature and they were not only cold but hungry after all the exertions of the day. By the soft glow of the flames, Simon took out his map and examined it. His orders were to precede General Stewart on his advance to Nagasseni to the west of Kilimanjaro and all day they had been skirting around the mountain that stood ahead of them. The trouble was, Fonthill was not exactly sure of their position now. This damned desert was so featureless. It was some days yet before Stewart could begin his advance, so they had time. But not much of it. They must travel faster the next day to reach the German positions to the west of the mountain in time for them to scout them and report back to Stewart. He crawled into his sleeping bag with a worried frown on his face.
They rose before dawn again and, once more, Mzingeli cantered ahead until he was almost out of sight. They skirted laboriously round the great mass of Kilimanjaro and Fonthill thanked his lucky stars that he had the great mountain towering into the sky as his landmark. Even so, he felt vulnerable on this semi-desert, flat, open plain. He knew that, to prevent being surprised, he and Jenkins should split and spread out but he knew that the Welshman would unintentionally explore every possible way of drifting away from his companion and getting well and truly lost, so that was out of the question.
They rode on during the heat of the day, being careful not to gallop or even canter to prevent raising dust. They were forced to nurse their supplies of water for they passed no wells or oases, but eventually they turned north again towards the hill of Nagasseni and behind it the rise that was the little town of Longido – hardly more than a dot on Fonthill’s map – and, well outside its straggling perimeter, they camped that night on the wooded slopes of its hill.
During the course of the day, although they had seen no seen of any living thing apart from a few snakes and desert rats, they had crossed two sets of horse tracks, obviously German patrols, so Fonthill ordered no fire to be lit.
‘We are well and truly in German territory now,’ he said, ‘and those patrols were most likely based in Longido or Nagasseni, where there is bound to be water.’
‘Ah good,’ beamed Jenkins. ‘Can we nip in and get a drop durin’ the night, d’yer think?’
‘No. Too risky. Take a sip or two of water and a couple of biscuits and turn in. You take first watch, 352, and I’ll do the middle stint. We will need all the sleep we can get.’
The night was uneventful and once again they rose at dawn. Fonthill walked through the trees to look down on Longido, which seemed deserted, so he risked lighting a small fire so that they could make coffee and eat dried biltong.
‘I would like to take a look at Longido,’ said Fonthill, kicking sand to extinguish the embers of their fire, ‘but I daren’t risk the three of us riding in. I want to know if there are any German troops based there. I hate to ask you, Mzingeli, but you are the one who will most easily merge into the populace.’
The tracker nodded his tightly curled white-haired head. ‘I go, Nkosi. Better I walk down than ride on good horse.’
‘Absolutely. I will keep my glasses on you as best I can and if I see you get into trouble we will come and get you out. Just amble, don’t hurry.’
‘I get into no trouble and I happy to amble.’ He grinned, slipped off his shirt, discarded his riding boots and, from his saddlebag, pulled out a pair of old slippers that natives wore.
‘I can see no trenches dug to protect the town from this side,’ said Fonthill, ‘but see if there are any on the other side. And look out, of course, for German barracks. We need to try and assess how many are garrisoned there, if any.’
‘Very good, Nkosi.’ And he shuffled away.
Jenkins watched him go with a faint smile stretching his great moustache. ‘That bloke is worth ’is weight in gold, look you,’ he murmured. ‘We’d be a bit lost without ’im, I think, bach sir.’
Simon nodded. ‘Absolutely. Salt of the earth.’
‘Oh, bugger it!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘We could ’ave asked ’im to bring two or three bottles of beer back with ’im, couldn’t we?’
‘Mzingeli doesn’t drink. He wouldn’t know what to ask for.’
Jenkins lifted his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s ’is only fault. That’s the trouble with bringing with us a tracker who’s completely teetotal. With respect, bach sir, you should ’ave thought of that when we started out.’
‘Oh, do shut up.’
Mzingeli was away for just und
er three hours and Fonthill was beginning to worry, when his glasses picked him out as he suddenly appeared from the end of one of the streets that petered out on the edge of the town. He rejoined them within ten minutes.
‘Any trouble?’ asked Fonthill anxiously.
‘No, Nkosi.’
Jenkins pulled a face. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to bring back a bottle or two of beer, did yer?’
Mzingeli’s features seemed carved out of stone. ‘No, Jenkins bach. I don’t drink beer. Terrible stuff.’
The Welshman turned his melancholy countenance to Fonthill. ‘There you are, you see. What did I say?’
‘Oh, give it a rest. Now, old chap, tell me what you’ve learnt.’
The black man extended a long finger and drew a circle in the dust. ‘Town don’t seem to have any proper defences,’ he said. ‘But some trenches have been dug here, on north side of town, opposite British border. Just recently, by look of it. They not finished. Easy to out … out … what is the word?’
‘Outflank.’
‘Yes outflank. Easy to get round.’
‘Good. What about troops?’
‘Yes, there is big barracks on other side of town. Cavalry, because there are many stables. Nobody there at moment but one of the Masai who work in stables tell me that—’
Fonthill interrupted. ‘You were not suspected, I hope?’
‘No, Nkosi. I said I was interested in getting work there at stables. Man tell me that there are five German companies there. Even told me name of boss man: Major Fischer, spelt with a “c”.’
‘Splendid work, Mzingeli.’ Simon’s smile was all-embracing. ‘Where are Major Fischer with a “c” and his companies now?’
‘Out on patrol. This time to the north. They think big attack is coming from British across the border. They expecting it. That’s why they dig trenches. They patrol all the time.’
Fonthill’s frown replaced his grin. ‘Damn! Our security is as leaky as a bloody sieve. Alice is right. There must be a spy or spies in the British camp in Mombasa. They know what we’re going to do before we do.’
Jenkins pulled at his moustache. ‘’Ow many men in a German cavalry company, then, bach sir?’
‘I don’t know because I suspect that they are nothing like our squadrons. Enough to cause Stewart problems, anyway, when he begins his march across the border, which is wooded and broken up on this part, and then the desert.’ He held out his hand to Mzingeli. ‘You have done splendid work, old chap, and I shall see that the general hears about it.’
‘Ah, it was nothing, Nkosi. Most difficult part was stealing this from bar in town.’ And, with a great smile, he produced a native beer bottle from his tattered knapsack and handed it to Jenkins. ‘Sorry, Nkosi, I felt it dangerous to take more than one. But Jenkins bach’s need is greater than ours, I think.’
Jenkins’s grin was like the moon coming up on a dark night. He solemnly accepted the bottle, wrested the stopper off with his teeth and took a deep swig. Then he carefully wiped the top and handed it back to Mzingeli.
‘You, old Jelly, are a gentleman, my dear old bach. But share and share alike. I’ve taken the first drink to see if it’s all right for you two, now I insist you take a swig. No. Go on. I insist. We share and share alike on this postin’. Go on. Take it.’
Mzingeli looked at Fonthill in despair but Simon kept a perfectly straight face and nodded. ‘Old regimental custom,’ he said. ‘We share and share alike on this posting.’
With a frown that wrinkled his nose as well as his brow, the black man took the bottle, slowly raised it to his mouth and took a tentative sip. Then he gulped, gurgled, spat out the beer and thrust the bottle back at Jenkins. ‘It is terrible, bach mate,’ he coughed. ‘Awful.’
‘Good lord.’ Jenkins was clearly shocked to the core. ‘That was a terrible waste, that was, spittin’ it out, see. I wish I’d never offered now, look you. In fact, it was a court martial offence. Now, bach sir.’ He offered the bottle to Simon. ‘Show old Jelly ’ere what it means to be a real soldier.’
Fonthill took the bottle, refrained from wiping its mouth and took a sip. It was, without doubt, foul. But he maintained his equanimity and swallowed it. ‘That will do for me, thank you, 352.’ He handed the bottle back. ‘Now we have shared and shared alike, but I think your need is greater than ours. So you finish it.’
‘Thank you, bach sir.’ Solemnly he lifted the bottle, tipped it back and emptied its contents in two seconds. Wiping his mouth, he nodded. ‘Thank you both, particularly you, Jelly. Very kind to think of us.’ He looked across at Simon. ‘What now, bach sir? Do we ride down and empty the bar, d’yer think?’
‘No. I think not. I want to ride back to the frontier, the way that Stewart will advance, and see if I can get a glimpse of Major Fischer’s companies without getting caught by him. I also want to spy out the territory between here and the border so that the general will know what to expect. But we must move quickly. I want to put miles between us and this place before we stop for the night. Come on.’
They rode away, breaking cover out of the woods with care, before taking to the desert again, once again heading virtually due north. Once again they could not travel fast for fear of sending up a dust cloud that could be visible for miles with anyone carrying field glasses. But once, far to their right, they saw just such a cloud, travelling as far as Fonthill could see, parallel to them. They dismounted and took whatever cover they could find in the stunted scrub until the danger was past, then they continued riding until dusk when they made camp.
It was still open, desert country and Fonthill felt that they dare not light a fire, for a clear flame could be seen for miles in such territory. So, once again, they bedded down, cold and hungry, taking turns to stand watch until dawn.
For another full day they rode, once more seeing dust clouds, this time behind them, until they had to pick their way through wooded, fissured ground and, at last, had crossed the border, where in the distance they could see what could only be the many campfires of General Stewart’s column, glimmering in the dusk.
‘Thank God,’ croaked Jenkins. ‘I can smell army beer at last.’
‘Do you know, Jenkins bach,’ nodded Mzingeli earnestly, ‘I think I can as well.’
They were challenged by Stewart’s pickets and quickly ushered to the general’s tent. Stewart was sitting at a table finishing his dinner with his ADC at his side, both dressed in the smart, all-green of the Gurkha Regiment, a decanter of wine and two glasses by their plates.
The general rose immediately, threw down his napkin and advanced towards Fonthill, meeting him at the tent opening, his hand outstretched.
‘My dear Fonthill,’ he said, ‘my apologies for not organising a meeting between us before you set out. Now come in – yes, all three of you – and have a glass of wine and tell me what you know. Have you eaten?’
‘No, General, your pickets have brought me straight here. We’ve been riding for two days. These are my chaps, Warrant Officer Jenkins here,’ he indicated the Welshman, who immediately sprang to attention and delivered a guards-like salute, ‘and Mzingeli, formerly my farm manager and the best tracker in all Africa.’ The general shook hands with both men, Mzingeli inclining his head in some confusion. He had never met a general before.
‘Delighted to meet both of you,’ said Stewart, ‘particularly you, 352. You’re almost as famous as Fonthill here.’
‘Thank you, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, grinning broadly.
Stewart turned back to Fonthill. ‘By all means dismiss your chaps and Major McCloud here will see that they get something to eat and organise sleeping for all of you. But, if you are not too tired, I would be grateful if you would give me your report here and now. We have wine and I will summon up something for you to eat.’ He nodded to Jenkins and Mzingeli. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’
Fonthill, delighted at meeting such courtesy from a general directed to a black man, nodded to his comrades who smiled back and left in the company
of the major. Then he remembered that Stewart was a Gurkha, universally popular and famed for handling his native troops with kindness and understanding.
Reheated stew and bread was quickly brought and his glass was filled with excellent claret. ‘When do you advance, General?’ he asked.
‘Shortly after dawn tomorrow, that’s why I am so glad you pushed on to meet us before we set off. Now, tell me, have you any idea if there are any German troops nearby who are likely to contest my advance?’
‘Yes.’ He shovelled a spoonful of stew into his mouth – only lukewarm now but very, very welcome. ‘There are at least five enemy companies – cavalry, almost certainly – who are patrolling the country between here and Nagasseni. The cavalry probably number about five hundred but they will know the terrain like the backs of their hands. They are commanded by an officer of major rank, called Fischer.’
Stewart nodded gravely. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Good soldier by all accounts.’
‘You have some eighty miles of rotten country to traverse between here and Longido,’ Fonthill continued. ‘It’s steppe country with no water and little cover. It’s dusty and dry and you will have to carry your water with you.’
Simon took another mouthful. ‘We believe that Fischer knows you are coming and from which direction. We suspect there is an active spy working in Mombasa sending back privileged information to the Germans.’
‘Humph!’ Stewart wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve been massing here for quite a few days now. It would have been a miracle if the news of our presence hadn’t crossed the border. But pray continue, my dear fellow.’
‘Incidentally, sir, most of this information was picked up by Mzingeli, my tracker. He risked his life to enter Longido and sniff around. He deserves your commendation, if I may say so.’
The general made a note. ‘He shall get it. Now, take me back to the country we must cross.’
‘The desert. It’s pretty terrible to cross: blistering heat, gravel and sand to make soft-going, no cover and absolutely no waterholes that we could see. But I doubt if Fischer will attack you here, because you will have ample warning of his coming. You can see for miles across the desert.’
