Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

  CHAPTER III_Love and War_

  As he marched on, day after day, his thoughts moving to the dogged trampof feet, the groan of laden bullock-carts, the creak of mule packs, thefaint rhythmic tap of tin cup on a bayonet hilt, the clank of a swingingchain end, through mimosa thorn and dwarf scrub, dense forest, mephiticswamp or smitten desert, ever following the river whose waters gave lifeand sudden death, the river to leave which was to die of thirst, and tostay by which was to die of fever, this march which would have been anightmare of suffering, was merely a dream—a dream from which he wouldawake to arise and go to Mombasa. . . .

  “I always thought you had guts, Greene,” said Augustus coarsely, onenight, as they laid their weary bones beneath a tarpaulin stretchedbetween two carts. “I always thought you had ’em beneath yourgentle-seeming surface, so to speak—but dammy, you’re _all_ guts. . . .You’re a blooming whale, to march. . . . Why the devil don’t you growland grumble like a Christian gentleman, eh? . . . I hate you ‘strongsilent men.’ . . . Dammitall—you march along with a smug smile on yoursilly face! . . . You’re a perfect tiger, you know. . . . Don’t likeit. . . . Colonel will be saying your ‘conduct under tryingcircumstances is an example and inspiration to all ranks.’ . . . Willwhen you’re dead anyhow. . . . Horrid habit. . . . You go setting anexample to _me_, and I’ll bite you in the stomach, my lad. . . .”

  Bertram laughed and looked out at the great stars—blue diamonds sprinkledon 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 ofshutting his eyes and calling it to memory’s eye, and of living overagain every moment spent in her presence!

  He realised, with something like amazement, that Love grows and waxeswithout the food and sustenance of the loved one’s real presence. Heloved her more than he had done at Mombasa. Had he really _loved_ her atMombasa at all? Certainly not as he did now—when he thought of nothingelse, and performed all his duties and functions mechanically and wasonly here present in the mere dull and unfeeling flesh. . . .

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

  As the column crossed the baked mud of former floods, and his eye notedthe foot-prints, preserved in it, of elephant, lion, large and smallantelope, rhinoceros and leopard, these wonders moved him to but faintinterest, for he had something a thousand times more interesting to thinkof. Things that would have thrilled him before this great event, thisgreatest event, of his life—such as the first complete assembling of theBrigade in the first sufficient open space it had yet encountered—by thegreat spare rock, Njumba-ya-Mawe, the House of Stone, on which GeneralJan Smuts himself climbed to see them pass; the sight of his ownKashmiris 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 wereblowing up their railway culverts and bridges; the sight of desertedGerman positions with their trenches littered with coco-nut shells,husks, and mealie-cobs, their cunning machine-gun positions, and theirofficers’ _bandas_ littered with empty tins and bottles; the infernalhullabaloo when a lion got within the perimeter one night and stampededthe mules; the sudden meeting with a little band of ragged emaciatedprisoners, some German patrol captured by the Pathan _sowars_ of the 17thor the Mounted Infantry of the Lancashires; the passing, high in air, ofa humming yellow aeroplane; the distant rattle of machine-guns, like thecrackling of a forest fire, as the advance-guard came in sight of someretiring party of Kraut’s force; the hollow far-off boom of some big gunbrought from the _Konigsberg_—dismantled and deserted in the Rufigiriver—as it fired from Sams upon the frontal feint of the 2nd Brigade’sadvance down the railway or at the column of King’s African Rifles fromM’buyini—these things which would have so thrilled him once, now left himcold—mere trifles that impinged but lightly on his outer consciousness. . . .

  “You’re a blasé old bloke, aren’t you, Greene?” said the puzzledAugustus. “Hardened old warrior like you can’t be expected to take muchinterest in a dull game like war, unless they let you charge guns andsquares 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 liverwith 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, nearMikocheni, Bertram “sat up and took notice,” very considerable notice, aswith a rush and a roar and a terrific explosion, a column of black smokeand dust shot up to the sky when a shell burst a few score yards away—thefirst of a well-placed series of four-point-one high explosive shells.

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

  “Naval guns: over seven miles away: dam’ good shootin’,” quoth Augustuscoolly, and with the air of a connoisseur, adding, “and we’ve got nothingthat could carry half-way to ’em. I’m goin’ ’ome. . . .”

  Bertram, everything driven from his mind but the thought that he wasunder fire, was rejoiced to find himself as cool as Augustus, whosuddenly remarked, “I’m not as ’appy as you look, and I don’t b’lieve youare either”—as the column hurriedly betook itself from theposition-betraying dust of the open to the shelter of the scrub that laybetween it and the river, the river so beautiful in the rose-glow andgold of evening, and so deadly to all who could not crawl beneath thesheltering mosquito curtains as the light faded from the sinister-lovelyscene.

  * * * * *

  Next day the column found one of the enemy’s prepared positions in thedense bush, and it was not, as hitherto, a deserted one. The firstintimation was, as usual in the blind, fumbling fighting of East Africa,a withering blast of Maxim fire, and terribly heavy casualties for acouple of minutes.

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

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

  This particular nest of machine-guns and large force of _askaris_ wasutterly invisible at a few yards’ range, and, at a few yards’ range, itblasted the head and flank of the column.

  Instinctively the war-hardened Sepoys who survived dropped to earth andopened fire at the section of bush whence came the hail of death—a fewscattered rifles against massed machine-guns and a battalion of highlytrained _askaris_, masters of jungle-craft. As, still firing, theycrawled backward to the cover of the scrub on the side of the gladeopposite to the German position, the companies who had been marchingbehind 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 somethinglike a line, to keep direction, to keep moving forward, and to keep asharp look-out for the enemy who, having effected their surprise andcaught 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 toone pace interval, Bertram, followed by the Subedar, crossed the line ofdead and wounded caught by the first blast of fire. He saw two men heknew, lieutenants of the 130th Baluchis, who had evidently been made aspecial target by the
concealed riflemen and machine-gunners. He sawanother with his leg bent in the middle at right-angles—and realised withhorror that it was bent _forward_. Also that the wounded man was TerenceBrannigan. . . .

  He feared he was going to be sick, and shame himself before his Gurkhasas his eye took in the face of a Baluchi whose lower jaw had been removedas though by a surgeon’s knife. He noted subconsciously how raven-bluethe long oiled hair of these Pathans and Baluchis shone in the sun, their_puggris_ having fallen off or been shot away. The machine-guns musthave over-sighted and then lowered, instead of the reverse, as everybodyseemed to be hit in the head, neck or chest except Brannigan, whose kneewas so shattered that his leg bent forward until his boot touched hisbelt—with an effect as of that of a sprawled rag doll. Probably he hadbeen hit by one of the great soft-nosed slugs with which the swine armedtheir _askaris_. The hot, heavy air reeked with blood. Some of thewounded lay groaning; some sat and smiled patiently as they held upshattered arms or pressed thumbs on bleeding legs; some rose andstaggered and fell, rose and staggered and fell, blindly going nowhere.One big, grey-eyed Pathan lustily sang his almost national song, “_ZakhmiDil_”—“The Wounded Heart,” but whether in bravado, delirium, sheer_berserk_ joy of battle, or quiet content at getting a wound that wouldgive him a rest, change and privileges, Bertram did not know.

  “_Stretcher-bearer log ainga bhai_,” {221a} said Bertram, as he passedhim sitting there singing in a pool of blood.

  “_Béshak Huzoor_,” replied the man with a grin, “_ham baitha hai_,”{221b} and resumed his falsetto nasal dirge. Another, crouching on allfours with his face to the ground, suddenly raised that grey-green,dripping face, and crawled towards him. Bertram saw that he was trailinghis entrails as he moved. To avoid halting and being sick at thisshocking sight, he rushed forward to the edge of the scrub whence allthis havoc had been wrought, his left hand pressed over his mouth, allhis will-power concentrated upon conquering the revolt of his stomach.

  Thinking he was charging an enemy, his men dashed forward after him, onlyto find the place deserted. Little piles of empty cartridge-cases markedthe places where the machine-guns had stood behind natural and artificialscreens. 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 backhad they gone—and then, in which direction? How long would it be beforethe column would again expose a few hundred yards of its flank to thesudden blast of the machine-guns of this force and the witheringshort-range volleys of its rifles? Would they get away now and go onahead of the column and wait for it again, or, that being the obviousthing, would they move down toward the tail of the column, and attackthere? Or was it just a rear-guard holding the Brigade up while Krautevacuated 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 Brigadewas fighting a regular battle. . . . Probably a delaying action by astrong rear-guard. . . . Anyhow, his business was to see that his menkept direction, kept touch, kept moving forward slowly, and kept a sharplook-out. . . . Firing came nearer on the right flank. That part of theline had seen something—or been fired on, evidently—and suddenly he cameto the edge of the patch or belt of jungle and, looking across anotherglassy glade, he saw a white man striking, with a whip or stick, at some_askaris_ who were carrying off a machine-gun. Apparently he washurrying their retirement. Quickly Bertram turned to the grim littleSubedar and got a section of his men to fire volleys at the spot, butthere was no sign of life where, a minute earlier, he had certainly seena German machine-gun team. . . .

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

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

  Suppose a dozen machine-guns were concealed a few yards within thatsinister sullen wall. He bade the Subedar halt the whole line and openrapid fire upon it with a couple of sections. If he watched through hisglasses carefully, he might see some movement in those menacing depthsand shadows, movement induced by well-directed fire—possibly he mightprovoke concealed machine-gunners or _askaris_ to open fire and betraytheir positions. If so, should he lead his men in one wild charge acrossthe glade, in the hope that enough might survive to reach them? If onlythe Gurkhas could get there with their _kukris_, the guns would changehands pretty speedily. . . . It would be rather a fine thing to be “thechap who led the charge that got the Maxims.” . . .

  “_Gya_, _Sahib_,” said the Subedar as he stared across the glade. “_Kuchnahin 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, eventhough this was thin and penetrable bush. How would he feel if he gavethe order to advance and, as soon as the line was clear of cover, it wasmown down like grass?

  Bidding the Subedar wait, he stepped out and, with beating heart,advanced across the open. . . . He couldn’t talk to the Gurkhas, but hecould show them that a British officer considered their safety before hisown. He entered the opposite scrub, his heart in his mouth, his revolvershaking wildly in his trembling hand, but an exhilarating excitementthrilling him with a kind of wild joy. . . . He rather hoped he would befired at. He wished to God they would break the horrible stillness andopen fire. . . . He felt that, if they did not soon do so, he wouldscream and blaspheme or run away. . . .

  Nothing there. No trenches. No suspicious broken branches or witheringbushes 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, asthe line of jungle-bred, jungle-trained Gurkhas halted at its edge, ahorde of _askaris_ in a rough double line dashed out from the oppositeside and, as the Gurkhas instinctively opened independent magazine fire,charged yelling across, with the greatest _élan_ and ferocity. Evidentlythey thought they were swooping down upon the scattered remnants of thecompany that had headed the column, or else were in great strength, anddidn’t care what they “bumped into,” knowing that their enemy had noprepared 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 ofanother line, or extended mob, breaking like a second wave from thejungle, and saw a couple of machine-gun teams hastily fling down theirboxes and set up their tripods. He knew that a highly trained Germangunner would sit behind each one and fire single shots or solid streamsof bullets, according to his targets and opportunities. Absoluteartists, these German machine-gunners and, ruffianly brutal bullies ornot, 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 hehad sworn violently with every shot. . . . He reloaded with tremblingfingers, and, looking up, saw that the fight was about to become ahand-to-hand struggle. Firing rapidly, as the _askaris_ charged, theGurkhas had thinned their line, and the glade was dotted with dozens oftheir dead and wounded—but the survivors, far outnumbering the Gurkhas,were upon them—and, with shrill yells, the little men rose and rushed attheir big enemies _kukri_ in hand.

  The Subedar dashed at a huge non-commissioned officer who raised hisfixed bayonet to drive downward in a kind of two-handed spear-thrust atthe little man. Bertram thought the Gurkha was killed but, as he raisedhis revolver, he saw the Subedar duck low and slash with incredibleswiftness at the negro’s thigh and again at his stomach. In the very actof springing sideways he then struck at the _askari’s_ wrist and again athis neck. The little man was using his national weapon (the _kukri_, theGurkha’s terri
ble carved knife, heavy, broad and razor-edged, wherewithhe can decapitate an ox) when it came to fighting—no sword nor revolverfor him—and the negro fell, with four horrible wounds, within fourseconds 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 battlelust, and shouting “Maro! Maro!” {224b} at the top of his voice, rushedinto the hacking, hewing, stabbing throng that, with howls, grunts, andscreams, swayed to and fro, but gradually approached the direction whencethe Gurkhas had advanced. . . .

  And the two artists behind the machine-guns, the two merry manipulatorsof Death’s brass band, sat cool and calm, playing delicate airs upontheir staccato-voiced instruments—here a single note and there a singlenote, now an arpeggio and now a run as they got their opportunity at asingle man or a group, a charging section or a firing-line. Where awhirling knot of clubbing, thrusting, slashing men was seen to be morefoe than friend they treated it as foe and gave it a whole _rondo_—theseheralds and trumpeters of Death.

  And, as Bertram rushed out into the open, each said “Offizier!” and gavehim their undivided attention.

  “Shah-bas! Subedar Sahib,” he yelled; “Maro! Maro!” and the Gurkhas whosaw and heard him grinned and grunted, slashing and hacking, andthoroughly enjoying life. . . . (This was worth all the marching andsweating, 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 clubbedrifle, 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 fromhis open, powerless hand. Glancing at his arm he saw it was covered withblood, and, at the same moment, a gigantic _askari_ aimed a blow at hisskull—a blow that he felt would crush it like an egg . . . and all hecould do was to put his left arm across his face . . . and wait . . . fora fraction of a second. . . . He saw the man’s knees crumple. . . . Whyhad he fallen instead of delivering that awful blow?

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

  Someone had kicked his legs from under Bertram—or had they thrown astone—or what? He was on the ground. He felt as though a swiftcricket-ball had hit his shin, and another his knee, and his right armdropped and waggled aimlessly—and when it waggled there was a gratingfeeling (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 whichburnt 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, sawanother line emerge from the scrub and charge. . . . Baluchis andGurkhas, friends . . . thank God!! And there was Augustus. He’d passhim as, just now, he had passed Terence Brannigan and the two otherBaluchi subalterns. Would Augustus feel sick at the sight of him, as_he_ had done? . . .

  With a wild yell, the big Baluchis and little Gurkhas charged, and theline was borne back toward the machine-gunners, who disappeared withwonderful dispatch, in search of a desirable and eligible pitch,preferably on a flank, for their next musical performance.

  “Hullo, Priceless Old Thing, stopped one?” asked Augustus, pausing in hisrush.

  “Bit chipped,” Bertram managed to say.

  “Oh, poignant! Search—” began Augustus . . . and fell across Bertram,causing him horrible agony, a bullet-hole the size of a marble in hisforehead, the back of his head blown completely out.

  Bertram fainted as his friend’s brains oozed and spread across his chest.

  Having dodged and manœuvred to a flank position, one of themachine-gunners played a solo to the wounded while waiting a morefavourable moment and target. His fellow sons of _kultur_ wanted nowounded German _askaris_ on their hands, and of course the wounded Sepoysand British were better dead. Dead men don’t recover and fight again. . . .So he did a little neat spraying of twitching, writhing, crawling,wriggling or staggering individuals and groups. Incidentally he hit thetwo British officers again, riddling the body which was on top of theother, putting one bullet through the left arm of the underneath one. . . .Then he had to scurry off again, as the fighting-line was getting sofar towards his left that he might be cut off. . . . Anyhow he’d had avery good morning and felt sure his “good old German God” must be feelingquite pleased about it.