Cupid in Africa Part 37

CHAPTER III _Love and War_

As he marched on, day after day, his thoughts moving to the dogged tramp of feet, the groan of laden bullock-carts, the creak of mule packs, the faint rhythmic tap of tin cup on a bayonet hilt, the clank of a swinging chain end, through mimosa thorn and dwarf scrub, dense forest, mephitic swamp or smitten desert, ever following the river whose waters gave life and sudden death, the river to leave which was to die of thirst, and to stay by which was to die of fever, this march which would have been a nightmare of suffering, was merely a dream-a dream from which he would awake to arise and go to Mombasa. . . .

"I always thought you had guts, Greene," said Augustus coa.r.s.ely, one night, as they laid their weary bones beneath a tarpaulin stretched between two carts. "I always thought you had 'em beneath your gentle-seeming surface, so to speak-but dammy, you're _all_ guts. . . .

You're a blooming whale, to march. . . . Why the devil don't you growl and grumble like a Christian gentleman, eh? . . . I hate you 'strong silent men.' . . . Dammitall-you march along with a smug smile on your silly face! . . . You're a perfect tiger, you know. . . . Don't like it. . . . Colonel will be saying your 'conduct under trying circ.u.mstances is an example and inspiration to all ranks.' . . . Will when you're dead anyhow. . . . Horrid habit. . . . You go setting an example to _me_, and I'll bite you in the stomach, my lad. . . ."

Bertram laughed and looked out at the great stars-blue diamonds sprinkled on black velvet-and was very happy.

Was he tired? Everybody else was, so he supposed he must be.

Was he hungry? Yes-for the sight of a face. . . . Oh, the joy of shutting his eyes and calling it to memory's eye, and of living over again every moment spent in her presence!

He realised, with something like amazement, that Love grows and waxes without the food and sustenance of the loved one's real presence. He loved her more than he had done at Mombasa. Had he really _loved_ her at Mombasa at all? Certainly not as he did now-when he thought of nothing else, and performed all his duties and functions mechanically and was only here present in the mere dull and unfeeling flesh. . . .

As the column halted where, across an open glade, the menacing sinister jungle might at any moment burst into crackling life, as machine-gun and rifle-fire crashed out to mow men down, he felt but mild interest, little curiosity and no vestige of fear. He would do his duty to the utmost, of course, but-how sweet to get a wound that would send him back to where she was!

As the column crossed the baked mud of former floods, and his eye noted the foot-prints, preserved in it, of elephant, lion, large and small antelope, rhinoceros and leopard, these wonders moved him to but faint interest, for he had something a thousand times more interesting to think of. Things that would have thrilled him before this great event, this greatest event, of his life-such as the first complete a.s.sembling of the Brigade in the first sufficient open s.p.a.ce it had yet encountered-by the great spare rock, Njumba-ya-Mawe, the House of Stone, on which General Jan s.m.u.ts himself climbed to see them pa.s.s; the sight of his own Kashmiris cutting a way straight through the bush with their _kukris_; the glimpses of animals he had hitherto only seen in zoological gardens; the faint sound of far-distant explosions where the retiring Germans were blowing up their railway culverts and bridges; the sight of deserted German positions with their trenches littered with coco-nut sh.e.l.ls, husks, and mealie-cobs, their cunning machine-gun positions, and their officers' _bandas_ littered with empty tins and bottles; the infernal hullabaloo when a lion got within the perimeter one night and stampeded the mules; the sudden meeting with a little band of ragged emaciated prisoners, some German patrol captured by the Pathan _sowars_ of the 17th or the Mounted Infantry of the Lancashires; the pa.s.sing, high in air, of a humming yellow aeroplane; the distant rattle of machine-guns, like the crackling of a forest fire, as the advance-guard came in sight of some retiring party of Kraut's force; the hollow far-off boom of some big gun brought from the _Konigsberg_-dismantled and deserted in the Rufigi river-as it fired from Sams upon the frontal feint of the 2nd Brigade's advance down the railway or at the column of King's African Rifles from M'buyini-these things which would have so thrilled him once, now left him cold-mere trifles that impinged but lightly on his outer consciousness. . . .

"You're a blase old bloke, aren't you, Greene?" said the puzzled Augustus. "Hardened old warrior like you can't be expected to take much interest in a dull game like war, unless they let you charge guns and squares with cavalry, what? Sport without danger's no good to you, what?

You wait till you find a dam' great Yao _askari_ looking for your liver with a bayonet, my lad. . . . See you sit up and take notice then, what?

Garn! You patient, grinning Griselda . . ." and so forth.

But, one evening, as the column approached the South Pare Mountains, near Mikocheni, Bertram "sat up and took notice," very considerable notice, as with a rush and a roar and a terrific explosion, a column of black smoke and dust shot up to the sky when a sh.e.l.l burst a few score yards away-the first of a well-placed series of four-point-one high explosive sh.e.l.ls.

The column halted and lay low in the bush. Further progress would be more wholesome in the dark.

"Naval guns: over seven miles away: dam' good shootin'," quoth Augustus coolly, and with the air of a connoisseur, adding, "and we've got nothing that could carry half-way to 'em. I'm goin' 'ome. . . ."

Bertram, everything driven from his mind but the thought that he was under fire, was rejoiced to find himself as cool as Augustus, who suddenly remarked, "I'm not as 'appy as you look, and I don't b'lieve you are either"-as the column hurriedly betook itself from the position-betraying dust of the open to the shelter of the scrub that lay between it and the river, the river so beautiful in the rose-glow and gold of evening, and so deadly to all who could not crawl beneath the sheltering mosquito curtains as the light faded from the sinister-lovely scene.

Next day the column found one of the enemy's prepared positions in the dense bush, and it was not, as. .h.i.therto, a deserted one. The first intimation was, as usual in the blind, fumbling fighting of East Africa, a withering blast of Maxim fire, and terribly heavy casualties for a couple of minutes.

At one moment, nothing at all-just a weary, plodding line of hot, weary and dusty men, crossing a _dambo_, all hypnotised from thought of danger by fatigue, familiarity and normal immunity; at the next moment, slaughter, groans, brief confusion, burst upon burst of withering fire, a line of still or writhing forms.

It is an inevitable concomitant of such warfare, wherein one feels for one's enemy rather than looks for him, and a hundred-mile march is a hundred-mile ambush.

This particular nest of machine-guns and large force of _askaris_ was utterly invisible at a few yards' range, and, at a few yards' range, it blasted the head and flank of the column.

Instinctively the war-hardened Sepoys who survived dropped to earth and opened fire at the section of bush whence came the hail of death-a few scattered rifles against ma.s.sed machine-guns and a battalion of highly trained _askaris_, masters of jungle-craft. As, still firing, they crawled backward to the cover of the scrub on the side of the glade opposite to the German position, the companies who had been marching behind them deployed and painfully skirmished toward the concealed enemy, halting to fire volleys into the dense bush in the probable direction, striving to keep touch with their flanking companies, to keep something like a line, to keep direction, to keep moving forward, and to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy who, having effected their surprise and caught the leading company in the open, had vanished silently, machine-guns and all, from the position which had served their purpose. . . .

A few feet in advance of his men as they skirmished forward, extended to one pace interval, Bertram, followed by the Subedar, crossed the line of dead and wounded caught by the first blast of fire. He saw two men he knew, lieutenants of the 130th Baluchis, who had evidently been made a special target by the concealed riflemen and machine-gunners. He saw another with his leg bent in the middle at right-angles-and realised with horror that it was bent _forward_. Also that the wounded man was Terence Brannigan. . . .

He feared he was going to be sick, and shame himself before his Gurkhas as his eye took in the face of a Baluchi whose lower jaw had been removed as though by a surgeon's knife. He noted subconsciously how raven-blue the long oiled hair of these Pathans and Baluchis shone in the sun, their _puggris_ having fallen off or been shot away. The machine-guns must have over-sighted and then lowered, instead of the reverse, as everybody seemed to be hit in the head, neck or chest except Brannigan, whose knee was so shattered that his leg bent forward until his boot touched his belt-with an effect as of that of a sprawled rag doll. Probably he had been hit by one of the great soft-nosed slugs with which the swine armed their _askaris_. The hot, heavy air reeked with blood. Some of the wounded lay groaning; some sat and smiled patiently as they held up shattered arms or pressed thumbs on bleeding legs; some rose and staggered and fell, rose and staggered and fell, blindly going nowhere.

One big, grey-eyed Pathan l.u.s.tily sang his almost national song, "_Zakhmi Dil_"-"The Wounded Heart," but whether in bravado, delirium, sheer _berserk_ joy of battle, or quiet content at getting a wound that would give him a rest, change and privileges, Bertram did not know.

"_Stretcher-bearer log ainga bhai_," {221a} said Bertram, as he pa.s.sed him sitting there singing in a pool of blood.

"_Beshak Huzoor_," replied the man with a grin, "_ham baitha hai_,"

{221b} and resumed his falsetto nasal dirge. Another, crouching on all fours with his face to the ground, suddenly raised that grey-green, dripping face, and crawled towards him. Bertram saw that he was trailing his entrails as he moved. To avoid halting and being sick at this shocking sight, he rushed forward to the edge of the scrub whence all this havoc had been wrought, his left hand pressed over his mouth, all his will-power concentrated upon conquering the revolt of his stomach.

Thinking he was charging an enemy, his men dashed forward after him, only to find the place deserted. Little piles of empty cartridge-cases marked the places where the machine-guns had stood behind natural and artificial screens. One tripod had been fixed on an ant-hill screened by bushes, and must have had a fine field of fire across the glade. How far back had they gone-and then, in which direction? How long would it be before the column would again expose a few hundred yards of its flank to the sudden blast of the machine-guns of this force and the withering short-range volleys of its rifles? Would they get away now and go on ahead of the column and wait for it again, or, that being the obvious thing, would they move down toward the tail of the column, and attack there? Or was it just a rear-guard holding the Brigade up while Kraut evacuated Mikocheni? . . . Near and distant rifle and machine-gun fire, rising to a fierce crescendo and dying away to a desultory popping, seemed to indicate that this ambush was one of many, or that the Brigade was fighting a regular battle. . . . Probably a delaying action by a strong rear-guard. . . . Anyhow, his business was to see that his men kept direction, kept touch, kept moving forward slowly, and kept a sharp look-out. . . . Firing came nearer on the right flank. That part of the line had seen something-or been fired on, evidently-and suddenly he came to the edge of the patch or belt of jungle and, looking across another gla.s.sy glade, he saw a white man striking, with a whip or stick, at some _askaris_ who were carrying off a machine-gun. Apparently he was hurrying their retirement. Quickly Bertram turned to the grim little Subedar and got a section of his men to fire volleys at the spot, but there was no sign of life where, a minute earlier, he had certainly seen a German machine-gun team. . . .

He felt very cool and very strong, but knew that this great strength might fail him at any moment and leave him shaking and trembling, weak and helpless. . . .

He must line this edge of the jungle and examine every bush and tree of the opposite edge, across the glade, before adventuring out into its naked openness.

Suppose a dozen machine-guns were concealed a few yards within that sinister sullen wall. He bade the Subedar halt the whole line and open rapid fire upon it with a couple of sections. If he watched through his gla.s.ses carefully, he might see some movement in those menacing depths and shadows, movement induced by well-directed fire-possibly he might provoke concealed machine-gunners or _askaris_ to open fire and betray their positions. If so, should he lead his men in one wild charge across the glade, in the hope that enough might survive to reach them? If only the Gurkhas could get there with their _kukris_, the guns would change hands pretty speedily. . . . It would be rather a fine thing to be "the chap who led the charge that got the Maxims." . . .

"_Gya_, _Sahib_," said the Subedar as he stared across the glade. "_Kuch nahin hai_." {222}

Should he move on? And if he led the line out into a deathtrap? . . .

He could see nothing of the companies on the left and right flank, even though this was thin and penetrable bush. How would he feel if he gave the order to advance and, as soon as the line was clear of cover, it was mown down like gra.s.s?

Bidding the Subedar wait, he stepped out and, with beating heart, advanced across the open. . . . He couldn't talk to the Gurkhas, but he could show them that a British officer considered their safety before his own. He entered the opposite scrub, his heart in his mouth, his revolver shaking wildly in his trembling hand, but an exhilarating excitement thrilling him with a kind of wild joy. . . . He rather hoped he would be fired at. He wished to G.o.d they would break the horrible stillness and open fire. . . . He felt that, if they did not soon do so, he would scream and blaspheme or run away. . . .

Nothing there. No trenches. No suspicious broken branches or withering bushes placed _en camouflage_. He wheeled about, re-entered the glade, and gave the signal for his men to advance. They crossed the glade.

Again they felt their way, tore, pushed, writhed, forced their way, through a belt of thin jungle, and again came upon a narrow glade and, as the line of jungle-bred, jungle-trained Gurkhas halted at its edge, a horde of _askaris_ in a rough double line dashed out from the opposite side and, as the Gurkhas instinctively opened independent magazine fire, charged yelling across, with the greatest _elan_ and ferocity. Evidently they thought they were swooping down upon the scattered remnants of the company that had headed the column, or else were in great strength, and didn't care what they "b.u.mped into," knowing that their enemy had no prepared positions and death-traps for them to be caught in. . . .

As he stood behind a tree, steadily firing his revolver at the charging, yelling _askaris_ now some forty yards distant, Bertram was aware of another line, or extended mob, breaking like a second wave from the jungle, and saw a couple of machine-gun teams hastily fling down their boxes and set up their tripods. He knew that a highly trained German gunner would sit behind each one and fire single shots or solid streams of bullets, according to his targets and opportunities. Absolute artists, these German machine-gunners and, ruffianly brutal bullies or not, very cool, brave men.

So was he cool and brave, for the moment-but how soon he would collapse, he did not know. He had emptied his revolver, and he realised that he had sworn violently with every shot. . . . He reloaded with trembling fingers, and, looking up, saw that the fight was about to become a hand-to-hand struggle. Firing rapidly, as the _askaris_ charged, the Gurkhas had thinned their line, and the glade was dotted with dozens of their dead and wounded-but the survivors, far outnumbering the Gurkhas, were upon them-and, with shrill yells, the little men rose and rushed at their big enemies _kukri_ in hand.

The Subedar dashed at a huge non-commissioned officer who raised his fixed bayonet to drive downward in a kind of two-handed spear-thrust at the little man. Bertram thought the Gurkha was killed but, as he raised his revolver, he saw the Subedar duck low and slash with incredible swiftness at the negro's thigh and again at his stomach. In the very act of springing sideways he then struck at the _askari's_ wrist and again at his neck. The little man was using his national weapon (the _kukri_, the Gurkha's terrible carved knife, heavy, broad and razor-edged, wherewith he can decapitate an ox) when it came to fighting-no sword nor revolver for him-and the negro fell, with four horrible wounds, within four seconds of raising his rifle to stab, his head and hand almost severed, his thigh cut to the bone and his abdomen laid open.

"Sha-bas!" {224a} yelled Bertram, seeing red, and going mad with battle l.u.s.t, and shouting "Maro! Maro!" {224b} at the top of his voice, rushed into the hacking, hewing, stabbing throng that, with howls, grunts, and screams, swayed to and fro, but gradually approached the direction whence the Gurkhas had advanced. . . .

And the two artists behind the machine-guns, the two merry manipulators of Death's bra.s.s band, sat cool and calm, playing delicate airs upon their staccato-voiced instruments-here a single note and there a single note, now an arpeggio and now a run as they got their opportunity at a single man or a group, a charging section or a firing-line. Where a whirling knot of clubbing, thrusting, slashing men was seen to be more foe than friend they treated it as foe and gave it a whole _rondo_-these heralds and trumpeters of Death.

And, as Bertram rushed out into the open, each said "Offizier!" and gave him their undivided attention.

"Shah-bas! Subedar Sahib," he yelled; "Maro! Maro!" and the Gurkhas who saw and heard him grinned and grunted, slashing and hacking, and thoroughly enjoying life. . . . (This was worth all the marching and sweating, starving and working. . . . _This_ was something like! A _kukri_ in your hand and an enemy to go for!)

Firing his revolver into the face of an _askari_ who swung up his clubbed rifle, and again into the chest of one who drove at him with his bayonet, he shouted and swore, wondering at himself as he did so.

And then he received a blow on his elbow and his revolver was jerked from his open, powerless hand. Glancing at his arm he saw it was covered with blood, and, at the same moment, a gigantic _askari_ aimed a blow at his skull-a blow that he felt would crush it like an egg . . . and all he could do was to put his left arm across his face . . . and wait . . . for a fraction of a second. . . . He saw the man's knees crumple. . . . Why had he fallen instead of delivering that awful blow?

The nearer machine-gunner cursed the fallen man and played a trill of five notes as he got a clear glimpse of the white man. . . .

Someone had kicked his legs from under Bertram-or had they thrown a stone-or what? He was on the ground. He felt as though a swift cricket-ball had hit his shin, and another his knee, and his right arm dropped and waggled aimlessly-and when it waggled there was a grating feeling (which was partly a grating sound) horrible to be heard. . . .

And he couldn't get up. . . .

He felt very faint and could see nothing, by reason of a blue light which burnt dully, but obscured his vision, destroying the sunlight. Darkness, and a loud booming and rushing sound in his ears. . . .

Then he felt better and, half raising himself on his left hand, saw another line emerge from the scrub and charge. . . . Baluchis and Gurkhas, friends . . . thank G.o.d!! And there was Augustus. He'd pa.s.s him as, just now, he had pa.s.sed Terence Brannigan and the two other Baluchi subalterns. Would Augustus feel sick at the sight of him, as _he_ had done? . . .