by John Wilcox
‘Hmm. Go on.’
‘Longido itself shouldn’t be difficult to take. There are some half-finished trenches on the northern, i.e. the border side, but it should be easy to outflank them. There are no walls to hinder your attack, so you should not need your artillery to besiege the place. I believe the cavalry to be based there.
‘After Longido, you will be in trouble again with the terrain. It’s completely arid, semi-desert, steppe, with no water. Most of the men will be advancing in a thick cloud of dust, marching or riding, and they will be parched. It’s about thirty miles-odd of this sort of travelling to reach Nagasseni Hill. This means that your lines of communication will be exposed.’
‘Quite so. Pray continue.’
‘As I understand it, your orders are to approach the town of Geragua in the foothills of Kilimanjaro and then to march on to Moshi to link up with Smuts. Well, this is rough country of a different sort, wooded and broken with ravines and hills, which will make it difficult to bring up your guns. My guess is that it will be here that Fischer – and maybe others – will attack you.’
‘Anything else?’
‘That’s about it, sir. We weren’t given much notice by General Smuts of your advance, so we had to move quickly and not linger.’ He put down his spoon and drained his glass. ‘I would think that the worst part of your advance will be in the broken country just across the border.’
Stewart leant across and filled his glass from the decanter. ‘You’ve done remarkably well, Fonthill. And I am most grateful. Now, finish your wine and look for McCloud to see where you are to sleep. I would think it will probably have to be a sleeping bag in the officers’ mess – that’s the big tent on the left, just outside. You will probably find him there.’
The general raised his glass to him and Fonthill reciprocated. ‘I benefited from your work at Bukoba and didn’t get a chance to thank you there. I have always heard that you were the best scout the British army ever had in its ranks – as a uniformed scout, that is – and you’ve certainly proved it out here. Now, get you to bed. We march soon after dawn.’
‘Very good, sir. Goodnight.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had been some time since Fonthill had experienced the sounds and smells of an army awakening and limbering into life, preparing to face the enemy: the bugles piercing the predawn, the delicious odour of coffee freshly made, the orders screamed by non-commissioned officers and the snorts of horses and mules and the creaking of harnesses.
‘Ha,’ said Jenkins. ‘Ain’t it great to be back in the army again? What could be better, eh, bach sir? Actually, when I think of it, I could suggest about a thousand things, mind you.’
‘Well, at least we had a good night’s sleep at last. Come on, we need to ride out ahead of the advance and get out of the dust.’
Stewart had pushed his cavalry pickets out ahead of the vanguard of his division, of course, and Fonthill chose to ride out ahead of them. If the Germans were out there, waiting, he argued, three men riding quickly would be far better placed to sniff them out than cavalry troops, raising the dust.
It was back to the desert for them, stiflingly hot, and Simon was surprised to see the leading picket troop riding up to them by mid afternoon. ‘Are we being recalled?’ he asked the subaltern in command.
‘Good lord, no,’ said the lieutenant. ‘We are being pushed on by the general. The old man is setting a blistering pace. I gather he wants to get to this place – what’s it called …?’
‘Longido.’
‘That’s the spot, a day before he is supposed to. To impress our new boss, Smuts, I suppose. Sorry, old boy, but you’d better ride out faster, or the general’s rearguard will overtake both of us.’
‘Good lord.’ Fonthill wiped his brow. ‘He can’t have men advancing in field service marching order in this heat – and with little water. He must be mad.’
‘To be frank, old man, I think all generals are mad. At least, ours are. Better push on or we’ll have to ride through you.’
Simon dug in his spurs and urged the others on, despite their protests. They rode back just before dusk to rejoin the main army for the night – it was the pickets’ jobs to stand guard out in the desert. The next two days and nights were a repetition of the first and, true to Fonthill’s word, Stewart was able to take Longido without any trouble. He immediately pressed on and reached the little town of Geragua in the wooded western foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro by 8th March. It had been a remarkable march, but it had taken its toll in terms of the effects of heat exhaustion and thirst on his men.
And it was here, when his division could hardly put one foot before the other, that he met Fischer. It was, inevitably, Mzingeli, who was letting his horse find its own way as they entered the trees and declivities of the foothills, who first caught the flash of sunlight reflected from brass harness.
‘German cavalry ahead,’ he reported to Fonthill. ‘They waiting to ambush main column, I think.’
‘Right. You go to the left and 352 to the right. Both of you keep me in sight in the middle. I want to get some idea of the size of the enemy. Don’t take risks. See how widely they stretch ahead.’
They returned to him within minutes.
‘They lined up on edge of woods, right across there,’ reported Mzingeli, pointing.
‘About the same to the right,’ said Jenkins.
‘Hmmm. That’s a front of, what, about four hundred yards. This must be Fischer’s cavalry retreating before us and waiting to pounce. All of five hundred men. Better ride back and report to Stewart.’
The general nodded wearily when they found him at the head of his column. His horse’s head was down and perspiration was pouring down his face. Fonthill sighed when he looked at the line of men plodding behind him, none of them looking in a fit condition to fight. Stewart’s effort to impress his commander-in-chief with the speed of his march – if that’s what it was – had sadly misfired.
Stewart turned to his ADC. ‘Jock, ride back quickly and get battalion commanders to deploy their men to receive a cavalry charge. Infantry are to form squares behind whatever cover they can find. Cavalry are to form a screen ahead of the column, between here and those woods half a mile ahead. Artillery are to load with shrapnel. Off you go.’
But he was too late. Before McCloud could dig in his spurs, the leading pickets were riding back across the plain from the edge of the woods. Close behind them thundered two companies of Major Fischer’s command, spreading out in an arc to take the long file of the advancing British column at its head and sides.
Yet they did not charge. Instead, maintaining their arc, they dismounted, knelt and, raising their carbines, delivered a crushing volley into the ranks of the British, who hardly had time to raise their own rifles to respond. Tired men fell all around Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli as the three dismounted and did their best to return the fire that came in from both sides.
A hoarse command in German rose from the enemy and they launched a second volley into the torn ranks before them. More men at the head of the column fell, but some sort of retaliatory fire was now beginning to emerge from their tattered ranks. In addition, men from the middle and rear of the column were jogging forward, firing as they came. It was enough for the Germans. Another command was given and, with impeccable discipline, the black askaris mounted their steeds, turned and rode away, back to the woods ahead of them.
A thunder of hooves from the rear of the column showed that Stewart’s cavalry had belatedly mounted and had summoned up their own charge, joined by the mounted pickets. But their horses were clearly exhausted and the gap between the two sets of cavalry widened quickly, until the British were forced to halt and lead their gasping mounts back to the column. The Germans disappeared out of sight, still galloping, round the southern edge of the wood.
General Stewart mopped his brow, wearily replaced his revolver in its holster, and gave Fonthill a sad smile. ‘What a capital cock-up!’ he exclaimed. ‘We were caught shor
t, I’m afraid. Caught very short.’ He gazed around him at the figures, some twitching and moaning, some lying inert on the sand. He lifted his voice. ‘Bugler. Sound for stretcher-bearers. Bring up the doctors.’
Fonthill turned to his comrades. ‘Are you two all right?’
Jenkins grunted and examined a tear in his sleeve. ‘Just missed me. We was bloody lucky, look you. They were firin’ at what I’d say was point-blank range.’ He raised a puzzled frown to Simon. ‘Why didn’t they charge us, bach sir? Ain’t that what cavalry are supposed to do to infantry?’
Stewart raised his head from where, with his dirk, he was attempting to cut away the sleeve of a wounded man. ‘I would say that they were not proper cavalry,’ he said, ‘more mounted infantry. Not trained to use sabres – and, from what I could see, not even equipped with them. But they could shoot, all right. Here, man, give me a hand with this bandage, will yer.’
Later, camp was set up on the open plain and the column licked its wounds. Only three of the askaris had been brought down by British fire but six times that number had been either killed or wounded at the head of the line.
‘It could have been worse,’ murmured Stewart as, later, he sipped tea with his staff and Fonthill in the semi-darkness round a campfire. ‘They were very well handled. I had heard that this man Fischer was good. Well, I shall be better prepared the next time we meet.’
He turned to Simon. ‘I am mounting extra guards tonight but I intend to let the column rest tomorrow. But first thing in the morning, Fonthill, I want to go out with you and your scouts and a squadron of cavalry to examine the ground ahead.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You warned me that it would be where Fischer would attack, I should have taken more care. But I want to see whether it would be better to continue the advance without the artillery and cavalry. It doesn’t sound the sort of territory for them and I don’t want to be delayed. So we set off at dawn. Now let’s all get some sleep. We deserve it, although I’m not looking forward to the despatch I must send off to Smuts. Goodnight, gentlemen.’
General Stewart’s reconnaissance the next morning showed no sign of the enemy. It did, however, show that the way ahead was difficult in the extreme, with thick woods, ravines and rocky outcrops. Yet if he had to reach Moshi in time to link up with Smuts before the rains came, then there was no way he could detour to find more acceptable country. He decided his cavalry – this was no place for horses – and his artillery would have to be left behind under guard while he pressed on with his infantry.
It was at this point that a message was received from Smuts ordering Fonthill and his two comrades to press on to assist General Tighe’s assault on Latema and Reata Hills: the nek between them was occupied by the enemy who threatened Smuts’s own advance on Moshi.
‘It will be dangerous country you will be riding through,’ said Stewart, gripping Fonthill’s hand. ‘It looks to me as though the Germans will be retreating from the Taveta front and you could well run into them. Not to mention our old friend Fischer, who is out there somewhere. So take great care. I will see you in Moshi – I hope.’
‘No doubt about it, General. Good luck.’
At first, the broken nature of the territory provided excellent cover for the three and they rode as fast as the ground allowed them, without the constant need to scan the horizons. They rode in all for some sixty miles, taking to the plain and giving Moshi a wide berth and meeting no opposition as they turned north towards Taveta. They were eventually met by British outriders at the foot of the nek that connected the two hills.
‘Who is in command?’ called Fonthill.
‘General Malleson,’ came the reply.
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ swore Jenkins. ‘’E’s useless.’
Malleson’s task was difficult. The Germans were known to hold the nek in force and dislodging them meant taking the two hills, which rose some 700 feet above the plain. Easier said than done, for the hills rose steeply and were covered in bush and rocks.
On their arrival at noon, Fonthill found that Malleson had ordered forward 1,500 troops in broad daylight to climb the hills under withering fire. The men were completely pinned down and unable to advance an inch. On enquiring where he could find General Malleson, Fonthill was told that the general had left the field shortly after giving the order to attack suffering from dysentery and that General Tighe had taken command.
‘Glad to have you, Fonthill,’ said the Irishman. ‘Now that Malleson has gone – Smuts’s choice for command, by the way, not mine – I’ve been told to take those two bloody hills by frontal attack. You stay out of it for the moment. I will need you later if I fail.’
‘I don’t want to interfere, General, but getting up there in broad daylight sounds impossible. The men sent up by Malleson have already been wiped out, by the look of it.’
‘Nevertheless, I’ve been ordered to attack. I’m throwing in my reserve of Northern Rhodesians – they’re stout fellers – and I’ve asked Smuts for reinforcements. Now, go and get some rest after your long ride.’
But the three could never rest as they watched as Tighe’s men began to climb the heights under heavy fire in daylight. For five hours the attackers scrambled up from the slopes below and then were forced to relinquish the ground they had gained each time.
Tighe recalled his troops and decided on a bayonet attack on the summits after dark. Fonthill obtained permission for he, Jenkins and Mzingeli to press forward in the van.
‘That’s all very well, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, ‘but I’ve always ’eard you say that night attacks are very dangerous. If we lose dear old Jelly ’ere, we’ll never find our way anywhere, see.’
‘You’re right, but I want to sniff what it’s like up there, even though it’s dark. We’re supposed to be scouts, after all. Come on. Fix those bayonets.’
Amazingly, some of the attackers did reach the ridge and hold it for a while but Jenkins’s predictions proved correct. Half the men who reached the summit were lost and the rest were forced to slither and slide back in the dark the way they had come up. They clashed with men of another battalion and the scramble back became chaotic.
Even so, Tighe was not deterred and he sent in another wave at 1.30 a.m., but they too became enmeshed with the retreating troops and Smuts himself sent in orders for Tighe to withdraw his whole force by dawn.
Simon and his three comrades had found themselves pushed to the periphery of the advance in the dark and, breathless, had sought shelter in a ledge shared by other British troops.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Fonthill.
‘We’re the remnants of the Rhodesian from the first attack this morning,’ shouted back the shadowy figure of a subaltern. ‘We’ve been almost intermingling with the enemy and fighting ’em off all day. I guess we can get back down now, if we can find the way.’
‘How many are you?’
‘We’ve got handfuls of the 3rd King African Rifles hanging on and, round the corner, there are a few more of the Rhodesians and 7th SAI there, too. Lower down, Major Thompson is with 170 of his men.’
‘Pass the word that they are to hold on. I’m going down to get reinforcements for you. We might just turn it yet.’
The three scrambled down the hill as best they could and found Tighe.
‘There are men still there in good positions just below the nek,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘I reckon that one last good push to reach them could well turn the tables.’
‘Good man. I’ll give it a try. To hell with Smuts. Runner, tell Colonel Taylor I want his men to make one last attack. Signaller, send a message to Taveta that I need reinforcements immediately. I am going to take these bloody hills. Are you game to come back up with me, Fonthill?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Permission to ’ave a swig of whisky first, sir?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Very well, er, 267, but make it quick.’
‘I’m not 26 … ah never mind, sir. Thank you, General bach.’
‘Where on earth did you get that
bottle, dammit?’ demanded Fonthill.
‘Jammed in between the rocks up there, bach sir. It seemed a pity to leave it for the Jerries, so I decided to rescue it. Would you like a dram yourself, now?’
‘No, thank you. Throw away the damned thing and pick up that rifle. We’ve a hill to climb.’
There seemed a renewed energy and dash about the men of Colonel Thompson’s South Africans and within minutes they had reached the ledges where the survivors of the first attack sheltered, despite the shot that came down around them. Then with a cheer, those survivors rose as one man, leaving the protection of the ledges and climbing upwards.
In the van were Fonthill and his comrades, presenting their bayonets to the perspiring black men who faced them on the ridge – and no one more fiercely than Mzingeli.
‘Have you ever fired a machine gun?’ shouted Simon to Jenkins.
‘No. But I’ve always wanted to.’
‘Good. Neither have I, but now is your chance. Come on, both of you. Grab that gun over there and turn it round.’
It was a heavy German Maxim, not unlike the British Vickers – mounted on a tripod and with a continuous belt of cartridges fed into the magazine. Its three-man crew lay dead, their sightless eyes glaring at the blue morning.
‘Mzingeli,’ shouted Simon above the din, ‘feed the belt through from the left, while I take it through on the right. Jenkins, just aim the bloody thing and fire it. I think it’s that little round trigger there.’
With a shuddering jolt the machine sprang into life and Jenkins, a demonical grin stretching his moustache, swung it round bringing down askaris who were still manning the ridge. They toppled over, screaming, for they had never faced machine gun fire at such a short range before. In moments, the German troops that were left were running as fast as their unbooted feet could take them down the hillside. Other guns were now seized and turned on them.
