by John Wilcox
He took another look up the main street. Yes, a group of askaris were running, heads down, past the jailhouse but close to its walls so that the defenders could not fire down on them.
‘Out now!’ he cried, leading the way. ‘At the enemy in front, FIRE!’
The volley rang out and five askaris immediately fell, one of them clutching at his thigh. Somewhere, from one of the houses, a woman screamed. ‘Fix bayonets,’ screamed Simon. ‘Charge!’
It was not exactly a full-scale, regimental charge: just six men, one of them bayonetless (because Simon did not possess this vital accessory), but it was enough for the remaining askaris, who turned and fled to the end of the road, melting away into the bush.
At the jail, Simon shouted up, ‘Mac.’
The lieutenant’s face appeared at the window alongside the barrel of his rifle. ‘Yes?’
‘Get your men to fire at the cannon’s crew,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let them unlimber it to fire. Kill any man who goes near it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
From out towards the foothills, Fonthill now could distinctly hear the sound of quick-firing Lee Enfields. That meant that the Germans had broken up to try and attack the town from the sides and that his two comrades had now been brought into the conflict. A sudden thought struck him. Jenkins was now 63. He could still shoot like a Bisley champion, ride like a jockey and fight like a Dervish when he had to. But could he – would he – run quickly enough when the Germans spread out to surround them? He swallowed hard at the thought of losing his old comrade. But there were other pressing matters now. Firing was coming from one of the streets running off the main road – from the side where the marshland was supposed to stop any attack from that direction.
He waved to his men. ‘We’ll leave the fort to hold the northern entrance. Back this way, now.’
One of the side trenches had been dug facing the lake, ‘just in case’. Now, the policeman and two of the townspeople were firing as fast as they could reload, towards where a group of German askaris were advancing on them, picking their way gingerly through the unfirm ground.
Fonthill touched two of his five on the shoulders. ‘Go down there and help those three in the trench,’ he shouted. His reserve of six was now reduced to four. He looked across to the other side of the road. Firing was coming from ‘the Jenkins side’ of the town, but, as far as he could see, the men in the trenches were holding their own.
‘Back towards the southern end of town,’ he cried. As he ran, puffing beside his three men, who easily fell into their miles-consuming jog, he wondered if his gamble of leaving the bottom of the road comparatively badly defended had failed. Had the enemy been able to avoid the enfilading fire from Jenkins, Mzingeli and the men in the side trenches to circle the town and attack it from the south?
The answer became clear as the rattle of single-shot musketry sounded from where he had positioned the last of his men, scattered among the houses at the southern end of town. He was about to hail one of them, on a rooftop, when the man jerked, groaned and slid towards the guttering, falling over the edge into the street. At that moment, six black askaris appeared from round the end of the last house in a group across the main street. They immediately presented their bayonets to Fonthill and his men and, uttering a shrieking war cry, ran towards them.
Simon quickly glanced to either side. This is where, he thought, we live or die. Would his policemen run?
They did not. Coolly, each took aim and immediately brought down four of the advancing six. Simon himself took aim and missed his man. He worked the bolt of his rifle quickly, fired again and, this time, hit his target squarely in the chest. Amazingly – proving Mzingeli’s point about the fighting qualities of these black askaris – the last man continued to charge towards them until a bullet fired from one of the houses brought him down.
Simon turned and saw Jenkins, with Mzingeli behind him, lower his smoking rifle and wave to him from a side street.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ called Fonthill. ‘Come with us to the bottom of the street. We’re going to need you there.’
The little party, the policemen having reloaded, trotted down warily to where the houses ended. Peering round the last house and scanning the bush, Fonthill could see no sign of the enemy. He called to a policeman who was taking shelter behind a low wall: ‘Any more of them come this way?’
‘No, baas. Only them six. They came round corner before I could shoot.’
‘Well, be quicker next time. There will be more.’ He turned to Jenkins and Mzingeli. ‘What happened to you? How did you manage to get back so quickly?’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘We were able to fire real rapid, like, an’ we brought down about ten of the bastards. That stopped ’em comin’ down that side of the town, so I thought we’d better bolt for the ’ouses, before we was cut off. An’, by the look of it, it was just as well that we did, eh?’
‘Absolutely. Thanks for that shot. Now, can you support this chap behind the wall, because I think they might try and break through at this end before long.’
He sniffed the air and looked up. The sky was a bowl of unbroken blue and the sun blazed down so brazenly that patches of the bush seemed to be cracking open in the heat. He wiped the sweat that was trickling down onto his eyebrows and arched his back so that his sodden shirt parted from it. Wasn’t he just a bit too old for all this now? Probably, but there was nothing to be done about it for the moment. Suddenly he stiffened. Something had changed. Then he realised that the firing had ceased and a strange stillness had settled on the little town.
‘I’ll leave these chaps to help you,’ he called to Jenkins. ‘I’m going to find McCarthy and see what’s happening.’
He turned, ordered his three men to remain and set off back up the street until he reached the jailhouse. He shouted, ‘Mac, I’m coming in,’ darted to the door and wrenched it open. Inside, the heat was intolerable and the stench of gun smoke and cordite filled the air, immediately settling on his lips and making them taste sour. Huddled behind the Maxim, McCarthy turned and shouted.
‘Your plan worked. We’ve beaten them off – at least for the moment. They’ve retreated, by the look of it. Here, come and take a look.’
Fonthill climbed up and peered along the machine gun barrel out into the bush. The field gun sat where it had been abandoned by its crew, several bodies lying around it – a tribute to the firepower of the jailhouse. Further out, however, there was activity.
‘Damn!’ Simon frowned. ‘They’re digging in. It looks as though they are making trenches just out of range of our Metfords – but just in range of their Mausers, or whatever they’ve got.’
He turned his sweating face to the lieutenant. ‘They are going to besiege the town, by the looks of it. They won’t be able to reach that gun while it’s daylight but, after dark, they might be able to pull it back, set it up out of range of our rifles and the machine gun and start shelling us. How long before help comes from Kasama?’
‘God knows.’ The strain was beginning to show on McCarthy’s cordite-streaked face. ‘It’s about a hundred miles from here. We telegraphed, of course, as well as sending a rider. But I can’t see any reinforcements arriving within the next twenty-four hours. So we will have to fight it out. Have they got into the town from the sides and back?’
‘Not so far. And we have already given them a bloody nose.’ He clapped the young man on his back. ‘You’ve done a damned good job. That’s why they are treating us with respect. And it won’t be much fun for them, stuck out on the plain in this heat. Will they risk a night attack? I doubt it. It’s full moon and there’s not much cover out there. They are more likely to stay back and trust to their field gun.’
McCarthy frowned. ‘How can we stop them pulling the gun back?’
‘Well, we could try and cut it out, I suppose … run at it at twilight under covering fire and plant charges. Do we have any explosives?’
‘No … well, wait a moment.’ The young man creas
ed his brow as he pondered. ‘Yes. I think I could find a couple of sticks of dynamite; they’re all that are left from our attempts last year to blast foundations for the new boathouse by the lake.’
Fonthill’s face lightened. ‘Dynamite would be ideal. Can you get them?’
‘Yes. They should be in the station. But who is going to crawl out there in the semi-darkness and try and plant them?’
‘Don’t worry about that. We just need two men – and plenty of covering fire. Jenkins and I can do it.’
McCarthy blew out his cheeks. ‘With great respect, sir, you are not as young as you were when you crept through the Mahdi’s lines at Khartoum. No. I insist. My sergeant and I will do it. Now, let me go and get the sticks.’
Simon grinned ruefully. ‘Good man. I must confess I’m not much of a crawler these days. Get the sticks and we’ll wait until the sun dips and the shadows lengthen. It’s quite a short twilight in these parts now and we must be ready.’
McCarthy was away some time and Fonthill kept watch, swivelling the nose of his Maxim to follow his gaze. The enemy was still there, seemingly just out of range and merrily digging a ring of trenches. He didn’t envy them their task under this sun.
The afternoon had worn on, marked only by desultory sniping, when the lieutenant returned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t find the bloody things.’ He held up the two sticks, looking like candles, but with long fuses instead of wicks. ‘Should do the job, I would think. They’re all we’ve got, anyway.’
Fonthill inspected the dynamite. ‘Don’t know much about these things,’ he muttered, ‘but they look all right. Trick is to make absolutely sure that the fuses are burning all right before you run away. Fuses can go out and then you have to go back to relight the damned things. Best place for them, I would think, would be the barrel of the gun. It’s facing this way, so the gun shield itself should give you a little protection. Pop ’em straight down the muzzle, make sure they’re burning and then hop it.’ He grinned. ‘Easy, really.’
McCarthy returned the grin, but only half-heartedly. ‘Have you … er … done this sort of thing yourself, sir?’
‘Oh yes. During the Boxer Rebellion. Nearly blew my legs off and got knocked unconscious, but I had two bundles of the damned things and you should be all right with just two sticks.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I reckon we’ve got just about an hour before the sun slips away. I will use that time to make sure my men dotted around the town are all right. Then I will be back.’
He nodded and then was gone. He found all his men in place, with the exception of the policeman who had fallen from the roof. He had been shot neatly through the forehead. Some of the women from the houses had brought food and drink to the men in the trenches, who all reported that the only activity in the bush was coming from isolated snipers.
‘Be particularly watchful at dusk,’ warned Fonthill. ‘There just might be an attack when the light fades. And take it in turns to stand watch during the night. They might just come then.’
Standing by Jenkins at the southern end of the town, he looked at his watch. ‘In twenty minutes time,’ he said, ‘I want you and Mzingeli to make a diversion by blazing away at whatever you can see out there that might house a sniper. Try and keep it up for about five minutes if you can. Do you have enough ammunition?’
‘Still got pockets full, bach sir.’
He felt happier at leaving Jenkins in charge of the defences at the rear of the town and, just when the shadows were lengthening, he hurried back to the jailhouse. McCarthy and his sergeant were waiting for him.
‘I suggest you take one stick each,’ he instructed, ‘just in case one of you gets hit. Do you have tapers and matches?’ They nodded.
‘Good.’ Simon looked at his watch. ‘We will give it another quarter of an hour. I have arranged for a diversion to be created at the other end of town, so when you hear that firing you can start crawling. We will not begin firing here, because it could attract attention to you. But, if we see you have been spotted, then we will blaze away. I suggest you slip in the sticks, crawl a few yards away – far enough to be out of range of falling bits of iron and steel from the explosion – then when the gun goes up, stand and run for it. We will cover you.’
The young lieutenant gulped and nodded, but the sergeant gave a flashing white-toothed grin. Fonthill then briefed the men whose firing positions faced to the north. ‘Don’t fire until I give you the order,’ he said, ‘then direct your fire at the trenches you can see now. Mark their positions now, because the light will have faded by the time you come to shoot. The lives of the lieutenant and the sergeant could be in your hands.’
The following fifteen minutes seemed endless for the men crouched together in that airless room. Then Simon nodded. ‘Go to the door. As soon as you hear firing from the southern end of the street, start crawling. I hope the attention of the Germans will be diverted to that end of town and they’ll not see you. Good luck, lads. Move slowly and don’t draw attention to yourselves.’
Dusk was falling when the rapid firing from Jenkins’s and Mzingeli’s magazine rifles suddenly broke the semi-silence. Watching from the Maxim’s post, Fonthill caught a glimpse of two dim forms crawling from the edge of the town, from bush to bush, edging towards the gun, which could now just be seen in the gloomy light.
Simon had a sudden apprehension. What if the Germans had left a guard crouching behind the gun’s metal plate? He shrugged. Too late to worry about that now. McCarthy and his sergeant would have to deal with him when and if the danger occurred.
The two figures had disappeared into the twilight when suddenly a shout rose from the German lines and two rifles began firing. ‘Fire at those flashes,’ shouted Fonthill and he pressed the triggers of the Maxim so that its sound was deafening in the stifling room. He swung the barrel round in an arc, hoping to clip the top of the enemy trenches, or, if they were out of range, at least to spurt dirt and dust into the defenders manning the firing line, so making them keep their heads down.
Most of the riflemen in the jailhouse were now joining in and the noise within the room was deafening. It was now impossible to see if McCarthy and his sergeant had reached the gun but, with an explosion that lit up the landscape, the dynamite thrust down the barrel of the gun detonated and, for a brief moment, exposed in that terrible light, Simon saw the barrel split open, like the petals of a flower opening up at a speed multiplied by a factor of at least a thousand.
He heard himself shout ‘Run for it!’ and opened up his Maxim again, swinging it round in an arc. The noise continued deafeningly until a voice from below shouted, ‘They’re back, baas,’ and two black faces, blacker even, it seemed, than those of the policemen surrounding them, beamed up at him.
‘Thank God for that, boys,’ he shouted. And letting his Maxim swing round on its own impetus he leapt down and pumped the hands of the two men. ‘Well done. I think you have removed the main threat to Abercorn, but we shall have to wait and see.
‘Now,’ he addressed McCarthy, ‘you go and see if you can snatch a little sleep. You have been under great stress.’
The young man wiped a grimy finger across his face. ‘Not necessary, sir,’ he smiled, a trifle wanly. ‘Now that little job is out of the way I can carry on happily, thank you.’
They were interrupted by a cry from above. ‘I think they attack now, baas.’ And once again the fortress-prison resounded to the sound of the defenders all firing at once, until: ‘I think they go back now, baas,’ shouted the lookout. ‘Had enough, p’raps for time being …’
And so it proved. Fonthill quickly doubled back down the main street and inspected his trenches. No movement was recorded from any of them. The attack was, Simon realised, a kind of knee-jerk reaction from the Germans at having their prized gun, their main weapon, destroyed right under their noses. Would they now retreat back to the border?
It seemed not, however, for throughout that night and the following blisteringly hot day, sniper fire rained down up
on the defenders of Abercorn. Dogged tired now, Fonthill suspected that there would be at least one other frontal attack until, at approximately three o’clock in the morning, some thirty hours since the town had been invested, he heard a thin cheer from its southern end. Minutes later, exhausted and hardly able to put one foot now in front of the other, a British major arrived with one hundred troops.
They had marched ninty-nine miles from Kasama in just sixty-six hours and they were quite exhausted. But the Germans were not to know this and, as dawn broke, they could be seen marching back to the north, towards the border with German East Africa.
‘Get after the devils,’ shouted Fonthill to McCarthy. ‘Get the prisoners to carry the Maxim. Harass them all the way back to the border. Dammit man. You have won your first battle. Show ’em that you’re a proper soldier, now, because, by George, you are, Lieutenant.’
McCarthy gave him a weary smile and began organising his men for the pursuit. As they marched out, Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli sat down and drank black coffee.
‘I think it only fair to sit this one out, see, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, putting up his feet. ‘After all, we’re nearly bloody pensioners, all three of us.’
Simon raised his mug in silent salute to his two comrades.
Jenkins took a reflective sip and mused: ‘I wonder what Miss Alice would think of all these bleedin’ antics.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I know what she’d say, o’ course. She’d say we were too old for these capers. And you know what? She’d be right an’ all, look you.’
CHAPTER TWO
Alice Fonthill, known, however, to her employers at the Morning Post, all her competitors in Fleet Street and to a wide range of senior officers in the British army by her maiden (and professional) name of Alice Griffith, was furious.
The fleet which had lumbered across the ocean from India to invade German East Africa had arrived off Mombasa, its jumping-off point, on 31st October. Alice had joined the convoy there with a handful of journalistic colleagues, all of them Afrikaners who had journeyed up from South Africa to cover the invasion, which was confidently expected to meet with little resistance.