by John Wilcox
‘Stop firing, you Welsh madman,’ shouted Simon, ‘or you’ll kill half of our chaps.’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks, wiped his moustache and the cordite from his cheeks and grinned. ‘If only we ’ad one of these little beauties against the Zulus at Ishiwannee,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave got that bump on me ’ead from that knobkerrie thing.’
Fonthill stood. ‘Come on, let’s leave this disgusting carnage and go and find the general. Perhaps he’ll give us all medals. At least Mzingeli will deserve one. He fought like … a … Zulu.’
The Matabele grinned sheepishly. ‘I don’t like Germans,’ was all he said.
They found General Tighe, his blue eyes dancing, drinking tea from a metal cup and balancing on a tiny, folding stool. ‘Sit down, all of yer.’ There were no more stools so the three crouched, cross-legged on the ground. ‘Another pot o’ tea and three mugs,’ he shouted to his orderly. ‘We’re goin’ to celebrate.’
The tea was brought and, rather self-consciously – particularly Mzingeli – they all saluted the general with their mugs.
‘I’ll tell you somethin’, boys,’ said Tighe, his Irishness clearly more marked now, in his enthusiasm – or was it relief? ‘If I’d have lost this one, I would have lost me command, and all the hard work I’ve done over the last eighteen months would have gone down the drain, so it would.’
He returned their salute with his own mug, then turned and confided in a lower voice to Fonthill. ‘I’ll tell you somethin’ else, too. This bloody commander-in-chief of ours is damned ruthless. I’d have been off before you could have said Spion Kop. I hear poor old Stewart is getting hell for advancing so slowly.’
‘Ah, but that’s unfair, General,’ retorted Simon, frowning. ‘Stewart had to advance over much more difficult ground than either Smuts or you coming from Taveta.’
‘Aye,’ Tighe nodded and absent-mindedly reached up to shake the hands of several of his colonels who came to congratulate him. ‘I agree with you. It seems Smuts thought it mad for Stewart to separate his infantry from the cavalry and artillery and he’s sent him orders to bring ’em up immediately. You know, I don’t think these South African generals – van Deventer is the same, he’s closing the trap now by coming from the north – I sometimes think that they don’t realise just how difficult this terrain is. When it’s not much hotter and more waterless than the veldt of South Africa, then it’s raining and we’re wading through swamps or grass as high as your shoulder, concealing not only snipers but rhinos and buffalo.’
He took another swig of his tea. ‘I’ve got to thank the three of you for really saving the day by telling me that we had troops left up there at the top. Apart from not sacrificing them to the Hun – they’d all been reported missing by that idiot Malleson and we shall be seeing no more of him on this campaign, I’ll wager – apart from not losing them, they helped Thompson to turn the tide. I’ll see that all three of you are mentioned in my despatches.’
‘Thank you, General.’
‘Now, you must excuse me. As Wellington, or somebody said, there’s far more to do after winning a battle than losing it.’
They all stood and turned away. ‘I’ll go and make some proper tea,’ said Jenkins. ‘If this is the bloody stuff they give to generals I don’t want to be promoted, thank you very much.’
The three took their tea gratefully, quickly munched the bacon sandwiches which the ever-resourceful Jenkins mustered from somewhere, and then turned into their sleeping bags, for they were all now completely exhausted.
From a member of Tighe’s staff, Fonthill learnt later that Smuts had cabled London to say that the first phase of his campaign to clear the Germans from the border had been completely successful.
‘Can’t be true,’ he confided to Jenkins. ‘We’ve got rid of this lot on the nek, and it looks as though Stewart has frightened off Fischer, but we haven’t brought the Hun to battle yet, and they are almost certainly massing somewhere south of here. It’s funny, really. This bloody war seems to be a kind of repeat of us fighting the Boers, only the other way around. It’s the Germans who are fighting on the retreat and proving to be as slippery as the Boers were, and it’s the South Africans now who are desperately trying to corner them and bring them to battle. God, it could go on for months and months yet.’
‘Yes.’ Jenkins nodded. ‘An’ I’ve just been talking to one of the English lads who’ve been brought down ’ere from the Western Front. ’E says ’e’d rather be in the mud and blood of the trenches back there than fightin’ ’ere under the blazin’ sun an’ in the swamps, an’ that.’
If the three thought that they might be rested after the battle, they were wrong. Orders came through, from Smuts, via Tighe, that Fonthill and his men must now get back in their saddles immediately and scout to the south before the town of Kahe, where von Lettow-Vorbeck was alleged to be concentrating his troops. If this was true, it was clear that he would be in a position to harry Smuts’s lines of communication when he resumed his attack after the rains had abated.
So the three set out once more, this time huddled in their saddles under inadequate waterproofs, with Mzingeli riding out ahead as their eyes and ears. Twice he galloped back to warn that German patrols were ahead and they had to take cover in gullies, with their horses up to their fetlocks in water that raged down from the hills onto the plain.
Eventually they reached hills surrounding the town and saw plenty of evidence that the German general was, in fact, massing in defensive positions before it, preparing to stand and defy Smuts here.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins, pointing. ‘What’s that bloody great thing down there, look you? It’s bigger than any of the guns that we’ve got, surely?’
‘Get down, for God’s sake!’ ordered Fonthill. ‘If they’ve got field glasses focussed on this hill, then they’ll see you prancing around like some fat rhino. Let me go forward and take a look at that gun.’
He wriggled forward, poked his binoculars carefully under an overhanging bush and focussed them. Still twirling the focussing knob, he hissed back over his shoulder, ‘My God. It’s huge! Bloody great barrel. It must be at least a four-inch gun.’
He crawled back. ‘Where on earth did the Germans get that from? It must be as huge as these “Big Berthas” they’ve got on the Western Front. Yet we were told that the Hun had no heavy artillery in East Africa. How did they get it?’
Mzingeli crawled forward to take a look – his keen eyes needed no magnification. ‘We see that gun before,’ he said on his return.
‘No.’ Fonthill shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything that big in this part of the world before.’
‘Oh yes, Nkosi. On big German ship in delta.’
‘What?’ Simon looked puzzled, then enlightenment dawned. ‘Ah, yes, of course! It’s one of the Königsberg’s guns. We thought they had all been put out of action. My God, the Germans must have some damned good engineers out here. They’ve unbolted it, drained it of water, slapped it on a wheeled gun platform and trundled it out all the way here overland.’
Jenkins nodded. ‘Not to mention divin’ down to salvage the shells from the magazines below water.’ Then his jaw dropped in horror. ‘Amongst all them crocs, too!’
Fonthill shook his head slowly. ‘It shows how desperate they must be getting now for artillery and ammunition. The whole colony must have been put on a hundred per cent war footing. Talk about turning ploughshares into swords … Come on, we’d better hurry back and warn Smuts what he will be up against if he tries a frontal attack here. Keep your eyes peeled for patrols.’
They rode back as fast as the territory would allow to the town of Moshi where, to their delight, they found that Smuts had forged on ahead with his main force to link up there with Tighe, Stewart and the South African General van Deventer, so that his army was now consolidated, ready for the big push against von Lettow-Vorbeck at Kahe, once the rains ceased.
On arrival, Fonthill, dust-stained and weary, was ushered d
irectly into the commander-in-chief’s tent. Smuts, smart and elegant in buttoned-up general’s tunic, his riding boots polished and his beard precisely trimmed, looked up and, without speaking, indicated a stool facing him on the other side of his camp table. For a while he continued writing, his pen scratching across the paper.
Then, without looking up: ‘Why did you let Stewart be caught on that plain in defenceless marching order by Fischer’s cavalry, eh? You were supposed to be scouting out ahead to warn him of the enemy’s presence. And what about the column’s pickets? They must have been right up your bottom.’ The high-pitched accent of the Afrikaner seemed to add to the acerbic tone of the questions.
Fonthill cleared his throat and spoke slowly. ‘It was rough, broken, wooded country, General. We had to halt at a wood that barred our way and nose into it slowly and carefully to see if it was housing the enemy. We caught the flash of a bridle buckle and stayed long enough to assess the strength of the Huns before riding back as quickly as possible to warn General Stewart.
‘The reason that we and the cavalry pickets were not further ahead of the main column was that General Stewart was advancing at such a pace that he kept catching us up when the terrain caused us to walk our horses through it. I understand, sir, that you have been unhappy at the pace of Stewart’s advance. With respect, I can only say that I honestly don’t see how much quicker he could have marched in that heat and through that sand. His infantry were completely exhausted when they were attacked.’
For the first time, Smuts laid down his pen and looked up. ‘I will be the judge of that, Fonthill, thank you. Now, report on the situation at Kahe.’
Inwardly fuming, Simon drew a deep breath and shifted on the narrow stool. He had heard rumours of Smuts’s arrogance but this was the first time he had directly experienced it.
‘The Germans are massed in the hills around the town, sir,’ he said, ‘and they appear to be well dug in. We were able to ascertain that von Lettow-Vorbeck himself is in command and it looked as though he is determined to make a stand there and make you fight to take the town.’
Smuts pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Good. It looks as though I have brought him to heel at last. Please continue with your report.’
‘The Germans have artillery – the usual light field guns – but also they have salvaged one of the Königsberg’s big 4.1-inch naval guns. They’ve put it on wheels, salvaged the shells and it is waiting to greet you at Kahe. It seems to me, sir, that it would be inadvisable, given the rough ground and the nature and sophistication of the German defences, to make a direct assault on the town.’
Smuts looked up sharply. ‘When I want your advice on handling my army I will ask for it, Fonthill.’
The tent was silent for a moment, while Simon pondered. Then he made up his mind. He was not going to take this from some jumped-up lawyer-politician, even one who had proved to be a good horseback guerrilla figher.
‘With respect, General,’ he said, ‘I have always considered it part of my duty, in scouting in various parts of the Empire over the last three decades or so and reporting back to my superiors, to give my view of the situation direct from the front line, so to speak.’
Smuts frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Fonthill hurried on. ‘This I did to General Roberts in Afghanistan, General Wolseley in Mozambique, Egypt and the Sudan, to General Colley in Natal, General Gaselee in Peking and General Kitchener in South Africa. They did not always take my advice, sir, and that was their prerogative. As you well know, being in command is an awesome responsibility and only the soldier in your shoes can make the final judgement. But I still feel it is my duty to give my view – and I do feel you could suffer heavy losses if you make a direct attack at Kahe.’
The general pushed his chair back, wiped the edges of his silver moustache with an elegant finger and a slow smile spread across his face, although it did not reach his eyes. ‘Well, thank you for the lecture, Fonthill. I appreciate that you are a man of great experience – even if some of those generals you advised took a bit of a hiding …’
Simon allowed himself a grin and nodded. ‘Indeed so. Mainly from the Boers, if I remember rightly.’
‘Quite so. But – as you rightly point out – the responsibility is mine and I must make the decision. I can’t afford to hang about and let von Lettow-Vorbeck slip away as – and I have to say this – British generals seem to have done for the last eighteen months or so. I shall march on him quickly and attack him in force before he knows what has hit him.’
‘Very well, sir. I hope you will allow me to scout ahead of you as soon as you begin your march?’
‘Of course. And I have just heard that you saved Tighe’s bacon on the nek, so well done. In fact, I want to appoint you formally as chief scout to my army, Fonthill.’ The smile came back. ‘I don’t dislike the idea of my chief scout having the confidence – and impertinence – to advise his generals and … er … how did you diplomatically put it? Ah yes, report directly back from the front. What do you say?’
Simon thought for a moment. Then: ‘That is most gratifying, sir, and I do appreciate the offer. But I fear I must decline it.’
Smuts smile disappeared. ‘And why would that be, pray?’
‘I presume, sir, that being chief scout would mean having line responsibility, much of it at your headquarters, for other scouts on other fronts across the field?’
‘Yes, it would.’
‘Quite so, sir. You see, both myself and my two comrades would much prefer not to come back into the army, so to speak. I feel we are much better operating as a small unit out in front of – and sometimes between – the two opposing armies, scouting on our own, words I seem to remember you saying to me back in Mombasa. I am sure you have other good men from whom you can choose to do the staff job. We will go anywhere you send us, but let us operate on our own, as … well, as Boer scouts did so well when you were always one jump ahead of us. I remember it well. I learnt a lesson during that long campaign.’
Smuts threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Well, I must say, Fonthill, that you are a good debater, as well as a good scout. Not above using a bit of oleaginous flattery if you have to. Well, have it your own way. From now on I can expect to have my work done for me when you report.’
He leant forward again. ‘I shall indeed send you out as soon as we get a gap in these damned rains. Oh, and by the way, your reference to good Boer scouts is not only pleasing for me to hear but very apt, in the circumstances.’
‘Oh. Why is that, sir?’
‘Because you now have operating against you in the field, as the chief scout for von Lettow-Vorbeck, an Afrikaner – a Boer born in the saddle who fought against you twelve years ago and hates all Britishers to this day. I have just heard from home on the grapevine that he is now working for the Germans.’
It was Fonthill’s turn to lean forward. ‘Hmm. Sounds formidable. What is his name and what does he look like – in case we … er … brush against him in the bush, so to speak?’
‘His name is – and this won’t be easy for an Englishman – Piet Nieuwenhuizen. Tall, thin man, as far as I can remember, with a full beard. A good tracker and knows the ways of the bush backwards. But on one level you and he will be equals.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s an Afrikaner and he knows the veldt. You are an Englishman who is learning about this damned desert-bush country. But the Boer won’t have an advantage here. It’s not his country. You have been here probably longer than him now and … anyway … I have complete faith in you, Fonthill.’
‘Thank you, sir. May I take advantage of your faith in me now, to ask you a question which, I fear, you might find impertinent?’
Smuts sighed. ‘If I do feel it’s impertinent, Field Marshal Fonthill, then I won’t answer it. Ask your question.’
‘You are on record, I seem to remember, when writing about the Anglo–Boer war, for saying that English generals always regarded Boer positions that were well pr
epared defensively as challenges that had to be attacked in a gung-ho, full on, offensive kind of way. The Afrikaners, on the other hand, always believed that the best way to handle such a situation was, to put it simply, to go around it. Leave it isolated, if you will.’
‘Did I write that? How interesting. Do go on.’
‘Well, sir, now you are saying that the situation at Kahe demands a frontal attack. Have you changed your mind?’
Smuts’s icy features once again lapsed into a similarly glacial smile. ‘Hmmm. Good question. No, Fonthill, I have not changed my mind. But the situation here is different. I am not fighting a guerrilla campaign, as I and my colleagues did, not so long ago. We are now the British – in more ways than one, of course – in that we must fight a war of aggression. We are the invaders now. On the whole, we outnumber the enemy when we can corner him, and we have the added problem of this damned weather at the moment, which doesn’t give us time to hang about. So I must attack Lahe full on. Fiercely and with determination. Good enough answer for you?’
‘Good enough, General, thank you.’
‘How kind of you to say so. Now clear out of here. I have much work to do. Oh – and take a few days’ rest with your chaps while you can. Which reminds me: on Tighe’s recommendation, I have put through an order for £50 to be paid to your black feller for his good service. I don’t usually appprove of ex-gratia payments to blacks but Tighe felt it fair, so I have done so. I shall be giving you new orders as soon as I am able. Good day, Fonthill.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good day to you.’
Once outside, Fonthill stretched his back and realised that perspiration was gathering on his brow. And not simply, he reflected, because the day was humid and even hot. He had caught a glimpse of the two sides of General Jan Smuts: the impulsive, arrogant leader; and the thinking, wily lawyer-politician. Impressive, encapsulated in one man, faced across a desk. But were they the qualities needed to command a large army in the field, stretched across alien territory on three or four fronts?
