Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  Waiting for her in Mombasa was a long letter from Simon, begging her to see if she could earn a little leave and journey up to the farm to spend a few days with him there, during what seemed likely to be a hiatus in preparing the next move of the British army.

  The suggestion had immediately appealed to her, not least because of the mounting animosity revealed towards her – and, indeed, towards the British – by one of the leading Boer journalists with the army, Herman de Villiers of the Afrikaner newspaper Die Burger.

  A tall, thin man with a full, black beard, he greeted her when they met at the quayside: ‘Well, Mrs Fonthill,’ (he resolutely refused to give her the courtesy of referring to her by her maiden name by which she was known professionally). ‘Another Spion Kop for the British, didn’t you think? Didn’t your people learn anything from we poor farmers fourteen years ago, eh?’

  She gave him a mock curtsy. ‘Ah, Mr de Villiers. I looked for you in Tanga but couldn’t find you. Where were you? Painting word pictures of the invasion from way out at sea?’ And she finished with that very Dutch-sounding word ‘eh?’

  De Villiers scowled. ‘None of us caught sight of you, madam. We all wondered where you were. Perhaps comforting your general, eh?’

  Alice smiled sweetly. ‘I was certainly with a general, sir. A fighting general, Brigadier Tighe. And I witnessed a lot of the action – from close up. I agree that there was no delight that anyone who was not a German could take from this so-called invasion, but there were too many good men killed on both sides to take pleasure from it anyway. But now you must forgive me, for I have a follow-up story to file. Good day to you, sir.’

  She swept away, grinning inwardly, for she knew that her last words would immediately set the Boer journalistic camp agog with apprehension, for she had a reputation – recently confirmed – for getting the story that eluded most of them. What, she knew they would be thinking, is she up to now?

  To get away from that uncollegiate group would be a relief – not least because it was clear that there would be a long lull in the fighting on the coast – but awaiting her at her hotel was a cable from Simon: ‘THINK I MIGHT HAVE A JOB AT LAST STOP STAY MOMBASA STOP AM ON MY WAY STOP WILL ARRIVE THURSDAY STOP LOVE YOU STOP’

  Immediately, Alice’s heart sang at the thought of seeing him and just as immediately it sank. A job. What sort of job? Her husband was too old to go fighting again. For God’s sake, hadn’t he done enough at Abercorn to earn him respite from taking up arms in this war at the age of 59? She frowned. She sensed the hand of Kitchener in this. She knew that the great man at the War Office rated her husband highly, first from the early days on Wolseley’s failed mission to rescue Gordon in Khartoum when Kitchener was merely a humble intelligence major, to the Boer War, where, as commander-in-chief, he had employed Simon as a colonel – later brigadier – of cavalry. She had always felt that if the need arose in Africa, the Secretary of State for War would find him a job. Now, it seemed, he had.

  But what kind of job? K would never contemplate offering him some sort of desk work, he knew that Simon would be wasted wielding a pen. It had to be the sword. She drew in her breath. Ah well, all would be revealed on Thursday.

  Alice knew that the journey from Northern Rhodesia to British East Africa’s Mombasa would be tortuous because, of course, the great territory of German East Africa lay between the two colonies. It was not surprising, therefore, that Simon arrived a day later then intended.

  As she waited at the dockside for his ship to put in, she looked around her in the hot sun, taking in once again the distinctive smells of this part of Africa, the shattering brightness of the bandanas worn by the stevedores, and the flash of their teeth as they joked and languidly went about their work. Alice had grown to love Africa and once more she cursed that that arrogant Prussian Emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm, had broken the tranquillity of this part of the vast continent by his venal invasion of Belgium, so throwing together in conflict people in East Africa who had, hitherto, been warm friends and even working colleagues.

  She could not help smiling, however, as she recalled the anecdote that had found its way throughout British-speaking Africa from Lake Nyasa. On the outbreak of the war, a red-haired British skipper called Captain Rhoades enterprisingly steered his ship the Gwendolen into the port of Sphinxhafen at the German end of the lake and, with one shot, disabled the Hermann von Wissmann, so giving the British navy its first victory of the war. Immediately, the German ship’s captain rowed out to the Gwendolen and bellowed up to his old drinking partner, ‘Gott for damn, Rhoades, vos you drunk?’ He and his crew were, somewhat apologetically, taken on board as prisoners of war.

  At last, Alice saw the familiar figures of Simon and Jenkins waving to her from the tender that bounced its way towards the jerry and the greetings exchanged at the dockside were warm and tender – as much for the Welshman as for Fonthill.

  ‘Thank God you are all right,’ whispered Simon as he embraced her. ‘I knew that you would be in the thick of it at Tanga and was terrified that you would take it upon yourself to lead the damned invasion.’

  Jenkins’s great eyebrows shot up. ‘From what I’ve ’eard of that bleedin’ mess up, look you, it would ’ave been better if she ’ad been in command, like.’

  ‘It was, indeed, a disaster,’ mumbled Alice from just underneath Simon’s left ear. ‘But let’s talk about it all back in the hotel. I want to know what this new job of yours is going to be.’

  They settled into the bar of the hotel, bustling with British officers and bronzed farmers, and, over whiskies and sodas, exchanged their experiences of the last month, as the electric fan whirled slowly above their heads. Aware that Mombasa, the leading port of East Africa and the railhead for the British Uganda Railway, was alleged to house many German spies, they spoke in low voices and when Alice had finished recounting her sad litany of Aitken’s mistakes, Simon leant forward and spoke even more quietly.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard on the grapevine, coming here in the ship, that it is highly unlikely that the man is going to get away with it. While British newspapers have been very restrained …’

  ‘Oh damn,’ exploded Alice.

  Simon frowned. ‘… one particular Afrikaner paper in South Africa has openly referred to us having sustained a severe beating. And from what I’ve heard, it seems that the general, while nobly accepting responsibility for the mess, has at the same time been thrashing about blaming almost everybody but the King for it all.’

  Alice sniffed. ‘That sounds typical. What sort of accusations has he made?’

  ‘That the navy was at fault for taking so much time in double-sweeping the bay for mines that Tighe was left exposed and forced to advance on 3rd November with only one and a half battalions; that almost half the force given was in a deplorable state and that he was sorely let down by the 63rd Palamcottahs and 98th Infantry, both of whom he wants to be sent back to India; and that the Germans had far more manpower available to them than he had been led to believe.’

  ‘Probably all true,’ said Alice drawing deeply on her glass. ‘But it doesn’t excuse the fact that he didn’t let his troops disembark at Mombasa for rest and rehabilitation after their long and frightful passage from India and, most of all, for attacking Tanga without reconnoitring the town and its defences before landing his troops. Simon, surely that’s all fairly basic, isn’t it, and just bad generalship?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘So …’ Alice drew out the word. ‘Are they going to make you commander-in-chief now? Is this the new job you are going to be offered?’

  ‘Well, Miss Alice.’ Jenkins tugged at his moustache. ‘They could do a lot worse, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘That’s all very kind of you,’ Simon grinned, ‘but I think it a bit unlikely, don’t you, what with my arthritis and all?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Simon, tell me what they’re offering you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, my love, I don’t actually know. I
understand that I am to see Major General Wapshare tomorrow – he was the chap under Aitken in charge of the landings in the harbour at Tanga and has been newly promoted by the sound of it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Alice’s face brightened. ‘So Aitken has been, or is about to be, sacked. Is that true?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, but I think it likely. Anyway, I will probably know tomorrow.’ He leant forward. ‘Everyone has been saying that the two wars – here and in Europe – will be over within a couple of months. Well, I don’t believe that for a moment. From what I have heard, the Germans here are well equipped with many machine guns and it will take us months to ship in enough decent troops and guns to equal them. The Germans have well trained their black askaris, who are formidable fighters and it seems that they are well led …’

  ‘I can confirm that,’ nodded Alice.

  ‘They can’t possibly win this African war in the long run,’ continued Simon, ‘because they are too far from Germany and I can’t see how the homeland can continue to supply their troops here. But their territory is huge. It’s about twice the size of Germany itself – and from what Mzingeli tells me, there are few roads and only two railways and it’s full of mountains, swamps and waterless deserts. It is ideal country in which and from which to conduct an aggressive guerrilla campaign and I understand that the Germans are already launching raids on our Ugandan railway. This could be the Anglo–Boer War all over again, with us expending lives and millions of pounds chasing the askaris all over the place.’

  Simon drained his whisky and beckoned to the blue-sashed waiter for replacements. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘the Germans don’t really need to win the war in East Africa, anyway, and I suspect this colonel who leads ’em, von Lettow something, realises this and is determined to play the game to the end, so engaging thousands of our troops that could be usefully deployed in France and Flanders. In other words, sort of fighting the War of the Western Front in Africa.’

  Jenkins gratefully raised the new glass of whisky placed before him. ‘But ’aven’t we got plenty of blokes in India,’ he asked, ‘who could be shipped over ’ere to fight?’

  ‘What? Like the chaps who turned and ran in Tanga?’

  ‘Ah. I see what you mean.’

  ‘And the Germans will be doing their best to raise trouble with the natives in India, as it is. If we denude the place of troops, God knows what could happen.’ Simon leant back. ‘This is not going to be easy, you know.’

  ‘Now look, Simon.’ It was Alice’s turn to lean forward in emphasis. ‘Whatever this job is, please don’t take anything that is going to put you in the front line. Frankly, darling, you are just too old.’

  ‘Heh, Miss Alice.’ Jenkins’s eyebrows had risen again in indignation. ‘I quite understand and emphasist … emphisose …’

  ‘Empathise?’ offered Simon.

  ‘That’s just what I was goin’ to say. I … er … understand your feelin’, like, but the colonel is just as good as ’e ever was, as far as I can see. You should ’ave seen ’im in that Aftercorn place. Tearin’ about, ‘e was, see. Nimble as a twenty-year-old.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Well, that’s nice to hear, 352, but, look, he’s all I have – apart from you and Sunil, that is – and I don’t want to lose him just yet.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Simon rose. ‘Stop squabbling over me as if I was a little boy. Come on. Let’s get some lunch.’

  The following afternoon Fonthill returned from his interview with Wapshare and was met by an eager Alice and Jenkins. ‘Well,’ said Alice in some exasperation as Simon slumped into an armchair in their bedroom, ‘what happened?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been offered a job but I have turned it down.’

  ‘Blimey, bach sir.’ Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t expect that, look you.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Alice’s face had lit up. ‘You are showing some sense at last.’

  ‘Hmmm. But I have accepted another one.’

  ‘Oh no! What? Oh, for God’s sake, tell us all.’

  Simon eased himself in the chair and stared at the ceiling. He hated interrogations. ‘I was offered command of a battalion that is on its way out here.’ He smiled, a touch ruefully. ‘They’re a strange lot and I suppose that’s why Wapshare offered them to me. Kitchener’s behind it, of course.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Yes, I thought as much. Go on.’

  ‘They’re called The Legion of Frontiersmen but they’ve been made more of less respectable by coming out as a battalion of the Royal Fusiliers.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jenkins nodded. ‘I’ve ’eard of them. Funny lot, as you say.’

  ‘Yes. They were formed about ten years ago by a strange feller called Pocock, who, it seems, has knocked about the fringes of the Empire and wanted to harness together people who had lived hard in the outback, on prairies, the veldt and so on but who felt themselves patriots. Pocock felt that not enough was being done to oppose the German threat …’

  ‘An’ ’e was probably right there,’ Jenkins interposed.

  ‘… so he formed them into a sort of territorial outfit, but scattered around the world.’ Fonthill frowned. ‘The War Office didn’t fancy ’em much, so they were never formally recognised. I met the type during the Boer War. Good fighters but undisciplined. Anyway, they’ve formed a battalion now and they are on their way out here, the thinking obviously being that this is the sort of war that would suit them.’

  Alice looked puzzled. ‘And you were offered the command?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I am glad you turned it down. But I would have thought the job would have been just the sort you wanted.’

  ‘Well, yes. In a way it was. But I didn’t have to think for long before saying no.’ A silence fell in the room, broken distantly by the rattle of harness as a wagon was driven by and a little burst of Swahili rose from the street below. Simon leant forward. ‘There were two reasons, really, I suppose.

  ‘The first is that the battalion is sailing out with a CO already in place. I know him. Met him in South Africa but only briefly. Great character, named Patrick Driscoll. Got a DSO acting as scout against the Boers and is certainly not a man to be crossed. He has raised the regiment and it would be disastrous, in my view, to replace him once he arrives here. It would also be most unfair.’

  ‘Why did Kitchener and Whipshot want to sack him, then?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Ad ’e blotted ’is copy book already, like?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I think that K wanted to have somebody with experience in command and he remembered me, of course, from the Boer War, as well as, I suppose, the Tibetan business. Also, he had promised not to forget me out here and this would have seemed something right up my street, given my … er … irregular past in the army. So he wasn’t really trying to depose Driscoll. They would have given him another command.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘I can understand that you wouldn’t want to have him on your conscience. But you mentioned a second reason.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fonthill ran a hand across his brow. ‘I just didn’t want to rejoin the army, particularly as a line officer.’

  ‘Absolutely bloody right, bach sir,’ Jenkins nodded vigorously. ‘We left together once and then rejoined and I think that once was enough.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Simon,’ said Alice. ‘But what is this other job, then, that you have volunteered for? Are we joining the navy now, then? Have you become an admiral?’

  ‘No. You know very well I get seasick in a rowing boat. No. What I offered to do, though, is for 352 and I to go back to doing what we are best at.’

  ‘Oh, my God. And what, pray, is that?’

  ‘Acting on our own, more or less. As scouts. Working between the lines or behind the enemy lines. Intelligence workers, if you like, but not spies.’

  Thunder descended on Alice’s face. ‘No, I certainly do not like,’ she hissed. ‘You must be mad, Simon. That’s even more dangerous and, I would have thought, arduous physically and in ever
y other way than commanding a battalion of ruffians. Living out in the bush again and all that.’ Her face softened. ‘You are 59 now, darling, and 352 is even older. Let younger men do that job.’

  Jenkins switched his gaze between the two. ‘But, savin’ your presence and all that, Miss Alice, younger blokes wouldn’t do it as well as us. We can still live rough and, if the colonel can remember to grip with ’is knees, ’e can just about manage now to stay on ’is ’orse, as well.’ He sniffed. ‘I reckon there’s nobody better ’n us at that sort of business, I really do.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Simon. ‘I’m a damned good horseman now. Not perhaps as good as you, but much better than I used to be.’

  ‘Oh, stop arguing like a pair of schoolboys.’ Alice’s voice was beginning to quaver. ‘Did the bloody general accept your crazy offer?’

  ‘Well … er … yes. To be honest, I think he was glad he didn’t have to sack Driscoll as soon as he had landed. And’ – Simon paused for a moment, as though to gather courage – ‘as a matter of fact, there is a job coming up that will suit us down to the ground.’

  Alice shook her head in despair. ‘So the two of you are going to smuggle into Dar es Salaam and blow up the German headquarters, are you?’

  ‘No, my love. Now listen, both of you. The army here is very down, of course, after the Tanga disaster. And the news from the Western Front hasn’t been good, either, after Mons and the Marne. So Wapshare is anxious to strike a blow to restore morale and, indeed, to placate the War Office in London to some extent.’

  He put his hand inside his tunic and pulled out a carefully folded map, opened it and placed it on the table between them. Then he stabbed a finger onto it.

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘This is Bukoba, a largish town on the German side of Lake Victoria, some thirty miles into German East Africa and south of its border with Uganda. Wapshare wants to attack it.’