by John Wilcox
‘Well, I do mind you saying so, Fonthill. I shall go in at dawn tomorrow and that’s that.’
‘Very well, General. Good luck.’
Rejoining Mzingeli and Jenkins, the Welshman gave Simon an appraising look. ‘Attacking at dawn, eh? Will the three of us go in with them?’
‘To hell with it now, unless ordered to do so – and that won’t happen because we’ve done our job. Beves’s force is going to be terribly mauled as it advances across that open ground. I don’t want to be involved in that, thank you very much. I think this is another one we’ll sit out.’
The three did rise early, however, just as the sun was turning the horizon scarlet to the east. On a slight ridge behind the lines, they settled down – Fonthill with a heavy heart – to watch as Beves opened the attack with a barrage from his artillery. The Germans immediately reciprocated and within minutes the view ahead was shrouded in smoke and then flames as the brush caught fire.
‘Gawd,’ grunted Jenkins, ‘I wouldn’t want to be in that lot.’
As they watched, they saw the Gold Coast Regiment trudge forward into the maelstrom, then a detachment of the 3rd Punjabis and the great black soldiers of the King’s African Rifles, heads down as though their fezes would protect them from the bullets that swept across the track from the German machine guns.
All day the battle raged, with four German counter-attacks on the British flanks being repulsed. The smoke had cleared somewhat now and the extent of the attackers’ losses could be seen from the inert bodies strewn across the track leading into Narungombe. Yet Beves continued to hurl fresh troops into the inferno.
For some time, Fonthill had been scrutinising the German right through his field glasses. Then he struggled to his feet. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘The man must be mad. I’m going to have a word with him. Stay here. I will be back soon.’
‘For God’s sake don’t volunteer to do anything,’ shouted Jenkins as he walked away.
He found the general, surrounded by his staff, a little way back from the front line.
‘What the hell do you want, Fonthill?’ snarled Beves. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘With respect, General, you can’t keep attacking into those machine guns, otherwise you will lose all your men. I have a suggestion to make, if you will listen for a moment.’
‘What?’ Beves’s face was now quite red. ‘I am convinced von Lettow-Vorbeck is near now. I must break through before he reaches us. A suggestion, did you say? What sort of suggestion?’
‘Give me a company of men – preferably from the Punjabis, for they are splendid fighters and light on their feet.’
‘What will you do with them?’
‘I have not properly scouted that swamp on the German right but there’s just a chance that I could lead a small body of them through it, despite the crocs, and emerge from its cover just where the German line ends. Too many men will just draw down the artillery on the swamp, but give me a company, say, and if we can get through and survive the crocodiles I reckon we could then spring a surprise and maybe even turn the line.’
Beves’s jaw dropped. But he turned to one of his colonels. ‘What d’you think?’ he demanded.
The colonel nodded slowly. ‘Worth a try, sir. Let me find some Punjabis.’
‘Oh, very well. But only a company, mind.’
Within minutes some eighty turbaned Punjabis reported for duty, led by a young, English subaltern sporting a ridiculously immature ginger moustache and wearing a white pith helmet that appeared too large for him. To Fonthill, he appeared as though he should still be studying algerbra in some pukka English public school.
He saluted Fonthill, although Simon wore no uniform. ‘What ho, General,’ he said. ‘I hear you’ve deliberately asked for Punjabis. Quite right, too. Best troops in the Indian Army. But,’ he grinned, ‘if anybody asks for Punjabis it usually means dirty work. Is that right?’
Fonthill returned the grin. ‘Oh no, not really. I just want to take you through that swamp on the German right over there, avoiding probably about forty or fifty man-eating crocodiles that live there, and then attack the German line and turn it. Are you up for it?’
‘Er … did you say crocodiles?’
‘Yes. Are you any good with crocodiles? By the way, what’s your name?’
‘John Jones, sir. Distinctive name, eh?’
‘Most distinctive.’
‘Yes, and I am the best crocodile fighter in India. Yes, we’re up for it. Shame, though. I specially cleaned my puttees this morning.’
‘Stand the men down and explain what’s needed. I have a little persuading of my own to do. I will be back to lead you into and through the swamp in five minutes.’
‘Very good, General.’
Jenkins was predictably unenthusiastic at the thought of wading through the swamp.
‘What? With them bloody great crocs in there?’ His face was contorted and sweat immediately sprang out on his brow. ‘It’s not that I’m afraid of them, see, but I might tread on one and ’urt it. Couldn’t I go round the edge a bit?’
‘No. I shall need your marksmanship when we get through. Don’t be such a baby. The crocs will be more afraid of you than you are of them. They will just get out of your way.’
‘Oh yes. If you ask them politely. I didn’t sign up to get eaten by a crocodile, look you. Beyond the call of duty, I’d say.’
‘Come on now. We must try it. I promised the general.’
Fonthill led his two companions back to the Punjabis. He addressed the men. ‘It will be difficult wading through that swamp,’ he said, ‘but at least we will be under cover from the reeds and bushes. Don’t be afraid to shoot at the crocs – a few more shots won’t alert anyone in this battle. But, whatever you do, watch out for their tails. They can knock you down and are potentially more dangerous than the snouts. I shall lead, with Mzingeli and Jenkins here. Once we are through the worst of the swamp, we will form up under cover on the edge. Is that clear?’
Eighty turbans nodded.
‘Right, fix bayonets,’ he grinned, ‘you’ll need them to push the crocs out of the way, then follow me.’ He shot a glance behind him at Jenkins. The little Welshman seemed to have lost all colour from his face, despite its grime and underlying tan. He had sucked his great moustache below his lower lip, so that his features were distorted.
‘Mzingeli,’ hissed Simon. ‘Look after 352. Stay close to him.’
Then he called back to Jones. ‘Right, Lieutenant. Stay close behind me and keep to the right. Tell your men to be careful where they put their feet.’
The smell hit them before they reached the edge of the marsh: a fetid, sour odour, redolent of mud, excrement and of things long decayed and left to die in the mud and foul water. The first thing Fonthill realised as he crept up to the edge of the swamp was that it was far larger than he had thought. He could not see through to the end of the tangled vegetation for there was little light coming through it. He took a deep breath and took a quick compass bearing before, revolver in hand, he lowered himself into the brown water.
It came only up to his hip but immediately his feet seemed to be sucked into some glutinous substance at the bottom, so that he could only extract them after some considerable effort. He strode forward as best he could, and put out a hand to steady himself against a floating log. Immediately, it kicked into life and slithered away.
‘Oh my God!’ Jenkins’s voice was a croak.
Wherever Simon looked now, it seemed that scaly logs were sinuously moving through the water, some coloured a ubiquitous brown, others a glistening green. He shot a glance behind him. Jenkins, his eyes now firmly closed, had his arm around Mzingeli’s shoulder. The tracker, watching the water ahead carefully, was gently urging his comrade forward, his rifle pointing the way down and ahead like a direction finder. Behind them, the Punjabis were wading forward steadily, some with the water up to their chests.
Fonthill felt a nudge to his left leg under the surf
ace and then, with terrifying suddenness, a ghastly head broke the surface ahead of him and giant jaws opened up. Blindly, he fired his revolver into the maw and the crocodile thrashed for a second, its tail sweeping round in great arcs and sending plumes of water high into the air, before it gently subsided into the depths, a pool of blood showing where it had slipped away.
Gulping in air, Simon plodded on, frequently forced to consult his compass in the gloom. It was terribly hard going and there seemed to be more crocodiles about than ever, some seemingly keeping pace with him and regarding him with basilisk eyes. Ahead, he glimpsed what appeared to be a mossy bank to his right. He plunged towards it and found it was a huge plantain root. Strangely coloured snakes were wriggling among the roots but he pulled himself half out of the water, high enough to perch his bottom on the bank and bend down to give Jenkins and Mzingeli a hand and then look behind them to the following Punjabis.
Jones and his men were making slow progress. Another splash of water towards the rear marked another crocodile attack, followed immediately by a rifle shot and huge disturbance in the water as the reptile was despatched. Then a startled cry as a soldier was seized, followed immediately by another rifle shot as he was released from the jaws of the crocodile.
‘Seems as though they are deliberately attacking us,’ gasped Mzingeli.
‘No. The poor devils think we are attacking them. We are disturbing their environment, to say the least. We’ll just have to keep going. Maybe there is firmer ground further ahead. Hang onto 352, there’s a good chap. Here, I’ll help you.’
Jenkins, bravest of warriors, was now almost a wreck. His mouth was open, gasping in air, but his eyes were completely closed. Simon thrust his rifle sling over his shoulder, placed one of the Welshman’s arms round Mzingeli’s neck and the other around his own, and began wading again, his revolver pointing ahead of them at the surface of the brown water.
It was, in fact, as though the crocodiles were retreating before them. The glistening, scaly creatures were now attempting to get out of the way of the men wading behind them, swinging their tails in the water to get leverage and scrambling with their great, long-clawed feet in the mud to get onto higher ground.
Fonthill turned his head. ‘I can see light from the edge of the swamp ahead. But keep your voices down, we must be near the German lines now.’
He gripped Jenkins’s hand tightly and whispered into his ear. ‘Nearly there, old chap. Nearly over. Open your eyes, 352. I will need you to kill half the German army once we break out of this foul-smelling place. Come on. Open up.’
One eye opened. ‘’Ave they gone?’ he asked. ‘One of them touched me, I swear it. Oh, thank God, that’s nearly over.’ He tried to summon a grin. ‘Sorry, bach sir. You probably ’adn’t noticed, like, but I am not very fond of crocodiles, y’see.’
‘Never noticed. Now we have to fight. You going to be all right?’
‘As long as we don’t turn around and back the way we came, I’ll be fine, look you. Can you ’and me me rifle?’
The ground beneath Fonthill’s feet began to rise and became much firmer. Now crawling on hands and knees, he edged his way through the reeds and, gently parting them, found himself looking right down on the German trench. He was facing the snub muzzle of a heavy Maxim-type machine gun, whose crew were idly lying by its mounting. The two lines of the German trenches stretched away beyond them, with askaris still firing steadily down at Beves’s men.
Fonthill turned his head. Behind him, bedraggled Punjabis were emerging from the water and, in response to his waving arms, spreading out on either side of him, lying panting on mossy tussocks.
John Jones, his body covered in mud and his pith helmet hanging down his back by its strap, now crawled up beside him.
‘If you don’t mind, General,’ he whispered, ‘next time you have a difficult job to do could you send for the bloody Grenadier Guards instead of my nice clean Punjabis. Look at ’em, what a mess!’
‘Well done, John. Any casualties?’
‘One rather nasty croc bite, that’s all. Amazing, considering.’
‘Good. Now, listen. Deploy the men along the edge of the swamp. Tell them to stay hidden and make sure that their rifles are free of mud and have bayonets attached. Just there,’ he indicated with his head, ‘there is a heavy German machine gun fixed to fire directly at us. So if we break out too soon we shall be cut down. Obviously, the Hun felt the swamp could be a danger point.’
‘Can we put the gun out?’
‘Yes.’ Fonthill nodded to where Jenkins was now imperturbably wiping his rifle clean. ‘I have the best marksman and strongest lover of crocodiles in the British army there. He will pick off the crew.’
Jones flicked a piece of mud from the end of his nose. ‘Do you want us to attack up the trenches? How many are there?’
‘Two. But we enfilade them so I want a couple of crushing volleys first, when I give the order. Then we can charge. But to the right, up the hill, there are other machine guns dug in. They could be the problem. Can you take half your men and put them out? At least they will be firing down the hill away from you, not expecting an attack from here.’
‘Very well, sir. Consider it done. I will await your order.’ Jones slipped away to supervise the positioning of his men.
Fonthill crawled to join Jenkins and Mzingeli on the edge of the reeds.
‘You all right, 352?’
‘O’ course, bach sir. What do you want me to do?’
Simon gently parted the reeds ahead of them. ‘There are three men manning that gun facing us,’ he whispered. ‘When I give the order I want you to put them all out. Stay positioned, and if others come forward to man the gun, cut them down. Understood?’
Jenkins, now cold-eyed and composed, nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘Mzingeli.’
‘Nkosi.’
‘Please direct your fire on the other machine guns up the hill. I will support you. Once this end of the two trenches is opened I shall send in the Punjabis with the bayonet and we will work our way up them to clear them.’
Jenkins carefully fixed a bayonet to the muzzle of his Lee Enfield. ‘I shall come with you, then, of course,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘Very well. But stay close.’
‘I always do.’
Simon looked along the edge of the swamp and saw that the Punjabis had crawled forward into the reeds fronting the edge of the swamp and were now well positioned. Jones was looking towards him expectantly. He put his finger to his lips and gestured to Jenkins.
‘Right, 352,’ he murmured. ‘Shoot.’
Immediately, the Welshman fired once, worked the bolt, fired again and then a third time. ‘Got ’em,’ he called.
Fonthill rose to his knees and screamed. ‘Punjabis, open fire!’
It seemed as if the reeds on the perimeter had suddenly burst into flame, as the Indian troops sent a succession of volleys into the trenches before them. ‘Right, go for the guns now, John,’ called Simon, and saw the little lieutenant break cover, waving his men forward, as they slipped and slithered out of the reeds and began climbing the gentle slope towards where the other German machine guns were dug in.
Fonthill now rose to his feet and shouted, ‘Punjabis, charge!’
He was dimly aware of the men behind him as he, in turn, broke cover and bounded down the hill towards the end of the first trench. The machine gun lay, its muzzle pointed to the sky, its crew dead around it. Other bodies lay further along in the narrow trench, a testimony to the marksmanship of the Indian troops.
Simon now caught the sleeve of an Indian non-commissioned officer. ‘Havildar, take a troop and work your way up that trench up above us,’ he ordered. ‘I want it cleared. I will do the same down here.’
‘Very good, sahib.’
Realising that they were being attacked from their flank, the Germans were now rallying and askaris were bounding down the trench, firing as they came, to meet the new assailants.
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��We’re with you, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s reassuring voice came from just behind him.
Immediately, the battle became a chaotic affair of hand-to-hand fighting in the restricted space of the trench, with bayonet clashing with bayonet and bullets fired at point-blank range. Both sides were having to cope with finding footholds on the bottom of the trench where bodies were lying – some of them still moving – as a result of the Punjabis’ opening volleys.
Fonthill fired at and brought down a giant black Askari who had thrust at him with his bayonet but had no time to rework the bolt before another was upon him, a smaller man this time, more agile, who sprang from body to body beneath his feet, presenting the tip of his bayonet in parade-ground fashion. Simon hooked the end of his own bayonet around that of his opponent and swung it up and round, and then down and into the man’s breast.
A shout of ‘well done, bach’ showed that his old comrade was still behind him and Fonthill realised that the force of his charge had cleared the trench ahead. Had the Germans retreated? Had the line been turned? The chatter of machine guns from up the hill, however, showed that the engagement was far from over.
Indeed, more German reinforcements were now appearing up ahead and from above the earthworks thrown up on either side. The enemy, however, had made the mistake of not building zigzag buttresses into their trenches, so that Simon, at the head of the Punjabis, had a clean line of fire towards the men running towards him.
He knelt and took careful aim, conscious that Jenkins and Mzingeli were at his side. Immediately, three askaris at the head of the attack fell, and then others, as the Punjabis opened fire from behind.
‘Up the trench,’ shouted Simon. ‘Keep running. Clear the damned thing.’
The enemy were making sporadic attempts to counter-attack and groups of askaris kept appearing to offer bayonet-to-bayonet resistance as the Punjabis worked their way up the trench. Fonthill became aware that he had sustained a bayonet wound in the left shoulder but hardly noticed it in the excitement of the attack before slipping on a bloodstained body and falling at the feet of two black askaris who were fighting defiantly with rifles and bayonets.
