Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  The general dampness seemed also to stretch a sodden blanket of near silence over the troop lines, muffling the usual noises of troops under canvas: the clink of kettles hanging over fires, the jingle of harness from the cavalry lines, the badinage issuing from within the tent flaps, and the calling of the sentries from the periphery of the camp.

  As she rode in, Alice desperately searched for some sign of Simon. She was not sure what she was looking for: probably a man who must now resemble some kind of bearded, drenched scarecrow if he had been out in the bush for weeks on end, as seemed likely. She herself attracted several interested glances, for despite the rain she held herself erect, smiled and attempted to hold eye contact with everyone she passed.

  She was led to a small bell tent at the edge of what appeared to be the officers’ quarters. The captain handed her down, saluted and said that the commander-in-chief would expect to entertain her for dinner that evening at seven under his own, rather more luxurious, canvas a hundred yards away.

  Her belongings were handed inside to her and she found, propped up on her camp bed, a half-bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. Alongside it was a small card containing the brief message: ‘Welcome. This might help to keep out the damned rain! J. Smuts.’

  Well! She smiled. Things had started well. At least the army was still here, and the bottle was a thoughtful welcome – the sort of thing a man would leave to greet another man; a masculine gesture, ignoring the recipient’s gender and underlining the professional nature of Alice’s visit.

  Alice poked her nose out into the drizzle and looked around. No sign of Simon, of course. She had hoped, remotely, that maybe Smuts might have called him in from the cold and have him waiting for her. But only darkly shrouded figures trudged through the mud on seemingly unmilitary errands. She shrugged and lay back onto the bed, took out her notebook and tried to marshal her thoughts. It looked as though the interview would take place virtually immediately. She must prepare her questions.

  An hour later, she dressed for the dinner with the commander-in-chief, sampling the delicious malt whisky as she did so. She had packed one smart dress – not exactly evening wear but an efficacious mixture of formality and femininity that pleased her. She had no intention of attempting to flirt with this cool and reputedly ruthless Afrikaner, but she knew of no man who would not respond to a touch of elegance and grace in these spartan surroundings. She therefore applied a touch of lip rouge and powder to soften the sun’s ravages and dressed her hair in her favourite light-green silk scarf.

  Promptly at seven, she ignored the drizzle and hurried to the general’s tent. She could see that the interior was lit by candles and coughed at the entrance. ‘General, may I come in?’

  ‘My dear Miss Griffith, please do come in out of this awful rain. You are most welcome.’

  Three men were waiting inside for her. The general himself, unmistakable in his severely cut khaki uniform, his grey beard smartly clipped and his eyes dancing; a huge, darkly bearded man towering over him at his side and wearing the stars and pips of a major general; and a younger, fair-haired man, perhaps in his mid thirties, obviously a member of the general’s staff.

  The general advanced and took her hand. ‘May I introduce to you, Major General Jakobus van Deventer, in command of the second division of our army’ – the tall man bowed – ‘and this is Deneys Reitz, son of the former President of the Free State, my ADC whom I had the honour to command during our so-called and, I fear, short-lived invasion of the Cape, some thirteen years ago now.’

  Alice summoned up a curtsy. ‘Gentlemen, I am honoured,’ she said.

  ‘Now, madam,’ said Smuts, ‘we Afrikaners are not great drinkers, I fear, but to have such a distinguished lady with us on campaign demands champagne.’ He clapped his hands and two black attendants, wearing white jackets over which red sashes had been draped diagonally, appeared carrying opened bottles of champagne.

  The glasses were filled and sipped. ‘Gentlemen,’ continued Smuts, ‘this lady has been responsible for uncovering a quite substantial spy ring in Mombasa and Pretoria, which has been feeding important information to the Germans in the field. I regret to say that it was run by fellow countrymen of ours – I suppose we must call them “Never Say Die Afrikaners” – who are still, it seems, fighting the Anglo–Boer War.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Is there news, General, about the apprehension of Herman de Villiers?’

  ‘I fear not. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. But we shall find him, have no fear.’

  ‘May I ask what news, then, sir, about my husband, Simon Fonthill, and his two companions? Is he still out there somewhere in the bush in this terrible weather?’

  ‘I fear so, madam. As you must know, we are preparing to launch a strong attack on the German forces holding Kahe – I can’t wait for ever for this damned rain to pass – and I have sent back Fonthill and his men to carry out one more reconnoitre of the defences there. This will be a tough nut to crack and I shall need all the intelligence I can get.’

  The general nodded to the two attendants. ‘We mustn’t keep you up too late after your long journey here, Miss Griffith, so may I suggest we begin our meal? Do please feel free to ask me whatever questions you wish during its course. Shall we sit?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I welcome the opportunity.’ Alice took out her notebook and pencil. ‘May I begin?’

  ‘Please do. I shall ask my colleagues to help me if I falter.’

  The champagne glasses were refilled as soup was served. Alice cleared her throat. ‘From what I hear from my colleagues back in London, General,’ she said, ‘it seems that you are happy with the conduct of your campaign up here in the north-east so far?’

  Smuts nodded slowly. ‘That is true. We have been able to administer some very hard knocks to von Lettow-Vorbeck since my offensive began.’

  ‘Quite so. But forgive me if I remind you: you have not been able to bring the German general to a full-scale battle yet. He is always slipping away from you. Isn’t that so, pray?’

  ‘To some extent yes. But we have been able to clear all German troops from British colonial territory at the border and it looks as though I have them cornered at Kahe now and should be able to deliver a decisive blow to them there.’

  Alice scribbled furiously while attempting to drink her soup, quaff her champagne and keep her mind sharp.

  ‘Since taking command, sir, you have carried out some rather drastic reorganisation of your staff here, at the expense of the British senior soldiers who have been fighting here since the war began. General Tighe has been sent back to India to be Inspector of Infantry there and Generals Stewart and Malleson have also left. They have been replaced, as far as one can see, by South Africans who are personally close to you.’ Alice put down her spoon and smiled sweetly. ‘Such as General van Deventer here, who has been given a division, and Manie Botha, the president’s son. Does this not smack, perhaps, of favouritism or, at the least, criticism of the standard of senior British officers? After all, your command is supposed to be a multinational force, is it not?’

  For the first time an embarrassed silence fell on the room. Young Reitz cleared his voice to speak, but Smuts held up his hand.

  ‘Dear lady,’ he said, ‘I am in the middle of an extremely difficult campaign, fought over ground that gives the enemy every advantage. In these circumstances, I must have full confidence in the people I appoint. This comes from knowing the men I can trust.’ The ironic smile returned. ‘In addition, I have to say that the results obtained by my predecessors – Tighe perhaps excepted – have not inspired confidence.’

  ‘Quite so, but perhaps the government back home might have some difficulty in accepting that. It could seem like a criticism of the British army and its commanders.’

  ‘So far, they have accepted it. Now, Miss Griffith, try the lamb. We have to live off the land to some extent here but I am told this is excellent.’

  It was, and Alice was enjoying both the
meal and the encounter, although it seemed that General van Deventer either spoke no English or did not intend to and took no part in the discussion, merely smiling behind his beard and nodding from time to time. Reitz for his part seemed too junior to be allowed to intervene. She was glad, however, that Smuts – and she had never met anyone who appeared so self-confident – seemed happy to answer questions in a straightforward fashion.

  Alice put down her knife and fork. ‘It seems to me, General,’ she said, ‘that, given the huge size of the territory in which you are fighting and the fact that the Germans are fighting over ground with which they are very familiar, plus that their askaris have proved to be formidable warriors who are extremely well led – given these facts, isn’t it likely that this campaign will last for months yet?’

  ‘No, madam, it is not. I am confident that my next offensive, which is now poised to strike, will pin down von Lettow-Vorbeck and I will destroy him.’

  ‘Do you have enough men to do that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I have 18,000 combat troops in place to attack here, with another 9,000 Indian troops manning our lines of communication. In fact, our total ration strength amounts now to about 45,000. I discount the Belgians, fighting at the west and the Portuguese – who are, I confess, an embarrassingly doubtful ally – in the south. Yes, I can defeat a force which is continually in retreat and fighting many thousand miles from home and reliant on “make do” supplies and reinforcements. You will see for yourself, because I have every intention of attacking within the next few days now.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of a young lieutenant, who excused himself and whispered into Smuts’s ear. The general frowned and nodded.

  ‘I am afraid, madam,’ he said, ‘that I must ask you to excuse me and my colleagues now. A message has just come from your indefatigable husband to say that the Germans seem to be moving their large gun forward, preparatory, probably, to shelling our positions and forcing me to make a move. Well, they will succeed in that direction, at least.’

  He stood, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

  ‘A large field gun, General? But I thought the Germans were not particularly well equipped.’

  ‘Not so, I am afraid. In fact, they started this war in Africa much better equipped than the British. And I have to give them credit for being remarkably self-reliant. We thought we had sunk the Königsberg, and indeed we did. We left her a tangled mass of metal, badly holed and up to her funnels in water. No further threat, of course.’

  He gave his wintry smile. ‘But the Germans returned, removed the ship’s heavy shells, then unbolted the least damaged of their 4.1-inch guns, reassembled it on the shore, put wheels on the damned thing and moved it overland to the front here, where, as the largest piece of ordnance for miles around, it poses a considerable threat to us. These people are a remarkable race, Miss Griffith, and it doesn’t do to underestimate them. But, even so, I shall defeat them.

  ‘Now, please do forgive this rudeness in leaving you to finish your meal alone, but we now have much work to do. I intend to attack before that gun can be brought into position. Goodnight, my dear.’

  Alice, now in some confusion, inclined her head from her chair to each of the three and watched as they marched away, barking orders to the servants. She sat for a while, thinking hard, then began scribbling furiously. After a while she looked up, a faint smile on her face, and was glad to see the last of the champagne bottles – mercifully still half-full – just about within her reach. She refilled her glass and then continued writing.

  It seemed as though the attack would begin in the morning. Splendid! She was not being asked to retreat to the rear or even to return to Mombasa. She would have a ringside seat at what, if Smuts was to be believed, would be a decisive encounter with the wily von Lettow-Vorbeck and, with any luck, she would be overlooked and allowed to watch and report on the encounter. Then the half-smile on her lips froze and she looked up, unseeing, at the canvas ahead of her.

  The message had come from Simon. He would be out there somewhere, but undoubtedly caught between the two battle lines, obviously in great danger. Alice bit her lip. How disgraceful of her that only now did she think of her beloved husband and his two companions, undoubtedly in great danger. She laid down her pencil and sighed. Yet there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to help him. Only God could do that. She said a silent prayer.

  The subjects of the prayer, in fact, were crouching in a small wood overlooking the defences of Kahe, kneeling in damp undergrowth, hugging their oilskins around them and, in Simon’s case, desperately trying to focus through his field glasses on the Königsberg gun by the light of a capriciously vanishing moon.

  ‘What are they doin’ with the bloody thing?’ grunted Jenkins. ‘It’s a bit ’eavy to keep pushin’ about, ain’t it? Why are they doin’ that?’

  Fonthill shook the raindrops off the end of his binoculars. ‘It’s a deliberate move by a pretty damned good general, I would say, to provoke Smuts to attack … to draw him within range and to get him to launch a full-scale frontal attack on an enemy who are extremely well entrenched, by the look of it.’

  ‘Didn’t you advise the general not to do just that, look you?’

  ‘I did, indeed, and I was told to mind my own business. I doubt if Smuts is going to resist the urge to go in hell for leather. For a wily lawyer, politician and cagy ex-guerrilla fighter, he’s become a rather impetuous general, I would say.’

  Mzingeli gave a rare grunt. ‘So, Nkosi, when general attacks, do we join in?’

  Fonthill pulled a face. ‘I’d rather not. We are all worn out, living rough, eating poorly and have got very very wet over the last few days. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with a face-to-face fight with damned great askaris in our present miserable state. This is one I would rather sit out.’

  A twisted smile came over his bearded face. ‘And we’ve done our bit. It wouldn’t give me much pleasure to sit and watch Smuts get a bloody nose, because it would be our chaps getting knocked about. But at least we warned him. I can’t see the three of us making much of a difference. Let’s see if we can bunk down here in this wood and let our little general advance around us. They should know by the willows that this bit of wood is housing a swamp, so they should skirt around it – same with the Germans if they leave their lines, which I don’t think they will do. Dig in a bit and put our oilskins over us, covered with leaves. We probably won’t be noticed.’

  ‘What about the ’orses?’

  ‘Well, if they see them and take ’em, we’ll just have to walk back. The best thing we can do now, I think, is to try and get some sleep. You two try and close your eyes. I’ll take first watch. You take second, Mzingeli – keep a close eye on that German front line – and 352, you take the dawn watch. Wake me if there is any sign of movement from either of the front lines.’

  As the damp dusk crept in around them, they settled down to spend an uncomfortable night, their heads on their saddles and their oilskins spread over them.

  ‘Proper little babes in the woods, that’s what we are,’ observed Jenkins, his moustache protruding from the edge of his groundsheet. ‘Get the fairies to cover me with leaves, there’s a good chap, Jelly. Goodnight, children.’

  There was no need for Jenkins to alert Simon at dawn, for the blast of the big gun shook them all awake. It sounded as though it came from the edge of the wood but it was now, by the look of it, stationed among the second line of trenches on the hill below. But it was definitely firing over the wood, towards the British lines.

  ‘Smuts will advance now, that’s for certain,’ said Fonthill. ‘Stay hidden. I want to watch the attack.’

  Simon was right that the wood would be ignored by the British advance and, from the cover of the trees in the early light, they watched as the 29th Punjabis, 129th Baluchis and the 2nd South African Infantry Brigade split and advanced on either side of their hiding place like the waters of a rippling stream surging by a rock protruding from the rive
r bed, and walk, rifles and bayonets extended, down into the broken ground – and into the German fire.

  In fact, the defenders had chosen their ground carefully, for they were embedded on the sides of a series of hills surrounding the town that were immediately given identifying names by the attackers; ‘Masai Kraal’, ‘Store’, ‘Euphorbien Hill’, and so on. The British, Indians and South Africans came under heavy and accurate fire, as Fonthill had predicted. The role of the Königsberg’s great gun became peripheral as the troops attacked and it fell silent, proving to Fonthill that it had been cleverly used by von Lettow-Vorbeck to tweak Smuts’s pride and tempt him forward onto the waiting rifles and machine guns of his entrenched troops.

  The day wore on and it became apparent that the attackers were making no definable impressions on the Germans but were indeed suffering heavy losses as they struggled up the hillsides under heavy fire.

  By dusk, Fonthill had had enough. ‘Get out your first-aid kits,’ he called. ‘We must go down and help those poor bastards who have been wounded. Leave your rifles behind.’

  They laboured through the hours of darkness, giving what help they could to the medics who were crawling between the dead and the wounded.

  Fonthill met one of the colonels he had befriended, who was himself giving aid to the stretcher-bearers and medics. ‘Smuts is going to continue with this crazy attack, is he?’ he demanded.

  ‘Looks like it. He is determined to deliver what he calls a knockout blow, but it looks to me as though it’s us who are being knocked about. I don’t see how he can keep up this frontal assault in daylight. It seems crazy to me.’

  ‘And to me.’

  But the attacks continued throughout the second day, through a third and into a fourth, before Smuts called off the attack, pulling back what were left of his troops to lick his wounds.