Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  ‘For God’s sake, bach sir,’ said a weary Jenkins. ‘Can we get out of ’ere now? Apart from anythin’ else, I’ve become bloody deafened by all this bangin’. Don’t you think we should get back and report to the general, wherever ’e is?’

  Fonthill’s face was covered in grime and mud. He shook his head. ‘That’s just what we shouldn’t do,’ he said. ‘It’s our job now – exhausted as we are – to scout and see where the hell the Germans go from here. It’s clear what von Lettow-Vorbeck has been up to. He never intended to put up a grand-stand fight against Smuts’s army here. That’s not what he’s about. He wanted to draw Smuts on into this well-defended trap, knock him about as long as the man kept coming at him and then …’

  Mzingeli nodded slowly. ‘And then, Nkosi?’ he asked.

  ‘And then he is going to slip away while Smuts is tending his wounded and counting his dead and escape back down into the old German colony again. My guess is that he will abandon the whole Ruwu line that he has established here and just melt away down to the south-east into the dense bush that flanks the Northern Railway. That’s the sort of hit-and-run fighter he is – just, in fact, as the Boers were in our battles against them. But it’s no use going back to Smuts with a supposition. We have to track the Germans and then tell the general where the hell they’ve gone.’

  Jenkins shook his head from side to side; the action of a man dead beat.

  ‘So it’s back into the saddle again, is it?’ he asked. ‘With ’ardly any food or water left. Another little jaunt into this fuckin’ desert or swamp, whatever it decides to be? Is that right?’

  Fonthill wiped a filthy hand over his mouth and jaw. ‘Dead right, old chap. Now go and fetch the horses, there’s a good little scout.’

  Slowly, they rode through the detritus of the battleground and marked the deep tracks in the mud where the Königsberg gun had been dragged back. The trenches were deserted and the town itself an empty ghost town. Its German defenders had, indeed, melted away into the interior of their vast colony, much of their ammunition and ordnance preserved, ready to fight another day.

  ‘Well,’ observed Simon, ‘it’s easy enough to track them.’ And so it was for the first two days but, as the terrain became firmer and the bush more extended the retreating army spread out, slipping out on either side of the railway into the semi-desert again, to the point where even Mzingeli could not be sure whether von Lettow-Vorbeck had split his army to confuse pursuers.

  Fonthill reined in his horse. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, running his tongue along his cracked lips. ‘We can’t go on like this. If we do, we shall probably run into a German patrol. It’s time to turn back and report.’

  ‘Thank God for that, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Let’s go an’ find a beer.’

  The country had now become a strange mixture of hard and soft terrain. Uncultivated, arid, dusty and studded with low bush flanking the railway line and offering shelter for lion and rhino – much of it impenetrable – it would sometimes without warning turn into semi-swampland, with head-high reeds flourishing from some underground aquifer and giving home to water buffalo and the occasional crocodile. It became difficult to make any sort of progress through the pools, the mud and the tufty clumps that offered the only firm purchase.

  It was in one such strange patch that Mzingeli gently urged his horse alongside that of Simon’s. ‘We bein’ followed, I think, Nkosi,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Horsemen behind us. I think they follow us a little way back, so must be tracking us.’

  ‘Damn!’ Fonthill wiped his brow and looked around. ‘There’s a patch of higher ground up ahead, by the look of it. Let’s get up there, hide in the bush and wait for them to catch us up. The horses don’t have the strength to pull away, so we will have to wait anyway. Tell Jenkins. Rifles at the ready.’

  The trees on the high land were plentiful enough to offer shelter and they drew back into their friendly cover, levelled their rifles and waited.

  Eventually, a lone horseman rode into sight. He was a black Askari, wearing a tattered German uniform and riding bootless. He rode, his head down, studying the ground ahead of him, obviously a tracker. Then he reined in, turned his head and called softly behind him. Three more men then came into sight: two of them similarly ethnic and poorly uniformed, the third a white man, with a long black beard and swarthy countenance. They all carried Mauser rifles.

  The lead tracker pointed up ahead to where Fonthill and his comrades were hiding among the trees and said something to the white man, who nodded. Slowly, they urged their horses forward and began the climb towards the knoll.

  ‘When I ride forward to confront them,’ hissed Fonthill, ‘stay behind amongst the trees and cover me. I want to talk to them.’

  ‘Steady, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘they’ve got guns too and we’re outnumbered. What’s more, they’re bigger than us and I’m tired.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a ninny. Now, stay quiet.’

  As the quartet approached the brow of the little hill Simon urged his mount forward and approached them, holding his rifle steadily aimed at them from the saddle.

  ‘Forgive me if I get your name wrong, Mr Nieuw …’ he began and paused. ‘There you are, got it wrong already. Do you mind if I call you Piet?’

  The swarthy man’s jaw dropped for a moment, then his face broke into a grin, revealing great white teeth behind his beard. ‘Not at all, English,’ he called back. ‘Real, African name – proper Afrikaans names that is – always were difficult for you. So I shall return the compliment and call you Simon.’ The man spoke with easy English and only a trace of an Afrikaans accent.

  Fonthill returned the grin. ‘Ah yes, you know me. Please do. Much easier. After all, we are plying the same trade, I think.’

  ‘Oh yes. Very much so. But I think you had better put down that English rifle before my black fellows here fire at you. They’ve been tracking you for hours and getting very tired and very impatient.’

  ‘Ah no, Piet. I think not. My men have you covered from the protection of the trees. Tell your men to throw their guns to the ground. We will not fire if you do.’

  The Boer narrowed his eyes and looked into the trees. ‘Very well, if you give me your word. I think we are both far from reinforcements, anyway.’ He turned and gave an order and the three askaris sullenly slipped from their saddles and put their rifles to the ground. They were then joined by General von Lettow-Vorbeck’s chief scout.

  ‘Come on out, boys,’ called Simon. ‘Come and join the party.’

  Slowly and frowning, Jenkins and Mzingeli appeared, rifle butts at their haunches, the muzzles aimed at the four men.

  Fonthill gazed down at his opposite number. ‘May I put forward a proposition, Piet?’ he asked.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I suggest that we stop this bloody ridiculous war for, well, maybe an hour, and share a cup of tea. We are tired, you are tired, and frankly I am weary of killing people and watching them being killed. Now, I understand that your ersatz coffee is pretty foul and we don’t have much tea left. But if you would care to join us, we would be honoured to share what’s left of our tea while we all take a break. What do you say?’

  ‘I say you are right about this bloody awful stuff we are forced to drink and I would welcome a cup of English tea.’ He lifted up his hand. ‘We have a truce, I think, yah?’

  Simon took his hand and shook it. ‘We have a truce. Come on, 352. Put the kettle on.’

  The three askaris had been watching the dialogue and listening to it without understanding it with troubled frowns on their faces. Now those round, black, glistening countenances broke into grins, as a fire was lit and Jenkins’s little black kettle was hung over the flames and a pinch of black tea sprinkled into it. Somehow the Welshman had salvaged a few broken Huntley & Palmer digestive biscuits and these were shared all around as the seven men sprawled on the ground.

  ‘So, Piet,’ asked Simon. ‘How far ahead is your army, then, and where
is it heading?’

  The warm smile broke above the Boer’s beard. ‘Ah now, man, you wouldn’t expect me to tell you that, now, would you?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. But I have to compliment you for the way that you, your German masters and their askaris move so quickly and fluently across this accursed country.’

  ‘Well, it is their land.’

  Simon sniffed. ‘Well, they haven’t done much with it. No real farming that I can see. A complete waste of territory.’

  ‘Probably. Imperial Germany was just beginning to put resources into it when the war broke out.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fonthill gently inserted the last piece of precious biscuit into his mouth. ‘So, tell me, Piet. Why are you fighting for that pompous, conceited emperor thousands of miles away in Europe? What did he ever do for you?’

  The frown returned. ‘He gave us support when we needed it against you Britishers sixteen or seventeen years ago, when you invaded our country.’

  ‘But that war’s been over for years and most of your leaders in that conflict happily support the Empire now: Botha, Smuts and so on.’

  ‘But not the best of them – de Wet, for instance.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Ah well, I have a feeling that this conflict here now, in Germany’s old colony, is going to go on for many months yet and many men are going to lose their life fruitlessly. The Germans can’t continue to fight for ever without the support of their home country, so far away. It can only end one way.’

  The Boer’s black eyes gleamed as he leant forward. ‘Yes but, English, before it does, von Lettow-Vorbeck will have given you so many hidings that you will wish you were never born. He exists purely as a nuisance value to keep your troops occupied here and prevent them from being sent to the Western Front in Europe. And he is by far the best general fighting in this campaign. There is a long way to go yet.’

  A silence fell on the little gathering. Somewhere, down in one of the marshy hollows, something heavy moved and splashed and, much further away, a lion roared. Mosquitoes were gathering and dusk was approaching.

  Simon sat up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess our truce must end. We for our part are riding back north to report to Smuts. May I have your word that you will not follow us?’

  The Boer extended his hand. ‘Yah. You have that. We go south now to find our own men. We picked up your tracks way back and I asked myself who were these three men riding out alone in this wilderness. Then it occurred to me it might be the famous Simon Fonthill and his trackers and I was curious.’

  He smiled. ‘But it was good to meet you – if only for the tea. If we do follow you, it will only be to capture your tea.’

  ‘Alas, sorry old chap. None left now.’

  Within minutes the two little parties had mounted and, with waves of their hands, began to ride their separate ways.

  ‘Well,’ Jenkins urged his mount alongside that of Simon’s. ‘What a bloody funny little tea party. I wish all wars could be conducted like that. Except that we’ve got bugger all to drink now. Unless, that is …?’

  ‘Oh yes. I have about half a bottle left. I’m not sharing good Scotch whisky with these strange, never-say-die Boers.’

  ‘I should bloody ’ope not.’

  Two days later, the battered little trio met the first outriders of Smuts’s army, marching south. Fonthill could see straight away that some of the confidence, the joie de vivre, which had characterised its bearing before the Kahe had disappeared. The battle had taken its toll on the various ethnic elements of the British–Indian–South African force. Simon recalled the words of Nieuwenhuizen: ‘von Lettow-Vorbeck will give you so many hidings …’

  Fonthill was immediately ushered into the presence of Jan Smuts. ‘Where the hell have you been, man?’ queried the general.

  ‘We couldn’t play much part in the battle, because we were caught between the two armies. So we did what we could to help with the wounded, and then,’ Simon paused, ‘when it became apparent that you had taken a bit of a beating with that direct attack, I felt it my duty to follow the Germans and track the way they were retreating. I sent two messages back with natives we met and bribed upon the way. I hope you received them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Smuts nodded – a trifle wearily, Fonthill thought. ‘That was the right thing to do. It enabled me to give chase, although not, I fear, very quickly.’ He looked up and engaged Simon’s eyes. ‘But you were wrong, Fonthill, to say that we took a beating. It is true that we lost more men than I would have liked but we forced the Germans back on the retreat once more. I doubt if they will try and impose themselves on the border again. Now, where do you think they are going?’

  ‘Well frankly, sir, I cannot be sure. They are clearly going into the hinterland, probably towards their Central Railway, but where they will move from there I have no idea. It is obviously important, of course, that they are not allowed to settle in the corridor on either side of the Northern Railway and prepare attacks from there. I would guess that he has already moved supply depots and his hospital southwards to anticipate you pursuing him. But we were dead beat, sir, and had to return to report to you, anyway. Give us a few days’ rest and we will ride off again to track them down.’

  ‘You shall certainly have that, but I intend to continue to pursue my offensive to the south, so I shall need you.’ Then a faint, rather ironic smile came over the general’s impeccably shaven features. ‘But first, I have a surprise for you, Fonthill. Someone has been waiting for you to arrive for quite a few days now.’ He turned his head and barked an order in Afrikaans. The two men sat in silence for a moment or two before the tent flap was disturbed and a flushing Alice came through it.

  ‘Good God, Alice!’ Simon rose and stumbled towards her, arms outstretched. They embraced and then a smiling Smuts stood and said, ‘Let me leave you together for a few minutes. I must talk to van Deventer.’

  Alice pulled back. ‘That is a disgraceful beard, darling. Do you really have to go so native on these expeditions?’

  ‘Only to annoy you, my love. But what on earth are you doing out here in the field? I thought the correspondents were safely housed in their hutches back in Mombasa.’

  ‘So they were.’ Alice pushed him onto a chair and perched on a stool opposite him and told him of her attempts to arrest de Villiers, her request to interview Smut and of his acceptance – as, she felt, a part reward for unmasking the spy ring.

  ‘And the big bonus, darling,’ she continued, ‘is that I was able to stay and report on the Battle for Kahe and then wait here until your return. Now I am to be shipped back to Mombasa to be put back into my kennel. But I saw the battle. Heavy-going, I think – and where were you?’

  ‘In between the armies, lying low. Nothing much we could do, except help the wounded. It was a terrible mistake of Smuts to attack like that. I warned him not to, but he chose to ignore my advice.’ He frowned and lowered his voice. ‘He has his merits as a commander, Alice, but one could not call him a good general.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Ah, but he sent the Germans packing, didn’t he? That’s what I have reported, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, but that was not his intention. He thought he had cornered von Lettow-Vorbeck but, in fact, he had been drawn into a trap and lost far too many men. The askaris waited until they had inflicted the maximum damage and then slipped away again, as they always do.’

  Alice’s frown deepened. ‘Perhaps I have been seduced by Smuts’s briefings but I had gathered the impression that our South African troops are good warriors and probably outfighting the Germans’ askaris.’

  Fonthill pulled a face. ‘Nothing of the kind. The Germans have become masters of concealment and defence and of moving quickly across this difficult country. The terrain here is as unfamiliar to the Boers as it is to our British and Indian troops. The enemy troops are well officered and remarkably brave and resilient – and, it seems, perfectly loyal to the German cause. Strange, given the Germans’ reputation for beating them. But, apart from the ill-treatmen
t, we have much to learn from the Hun here, darling. Don’t be misled.’

  ‘Oh dear. We have much to talk about. How and where are 352 and Mzingeli?’

  ‘Putting up our tents. They are like me – terribly tired but quite fit. Come and meet them. We have only just arrived back, but I could do with getting away from Smuts for a time.’

  That night the four of them sat, ate and drank around the campfire before crawling into their bivouac tents, Alice sharing Simon’s, despite the cramped space. They made tender, scratchy love before falling into a deep sleep in each other’s arms.

  The next morning was illuminated by a letter addressed to Alice and forwarded to her from Mombasa. Sunil always sent his letters to her, as the least mobile of the two. It announced that he had been promoted to Brigade Major and was now stationed somewhere near Ypres, the battered little town on the French–Flemish border, which fringed probably the most fought-over patch of shell holes and mud on the Western Front.

  ‘Oh!’ Alice smothered a gasp. ‘That means he must be in greater danger.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not so. He’s become a staff man at Brigade Headquarters. He will be back from the front line. He’s much safer there.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  Simon, Jenkins and Mzingeli saw Alice off later that morning as she began the long buggy journey back to the railhead. They waved to her until she eventually disappeared over a rise, her green scarf fluttering from her hand.

  Fonthill blew his nose. He could not help but wonder if this would be the last time he would see his wife. Smuts wanted them back, following the railway line to the south to catch up with the phantom German army as it prepared for another gruelling march.

  Jenkins squinted up at the high sun beating down on them. ‘I think this one’s goin’ to be tough, bach sir, ain’t it?’

  ‘Hard slogging, 352. Hard slogging.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  And so it proved.

  The ensuing months produced the most arduous and bitter fighting of the whole campaign. Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli hung onto von Lettow-Vorbeck’s coat-tails and, fed by their information, Smuts’s three columns pressed along behind, advancing down the tracks of the Northern Railway and constantly engaging the German rearguard. They advanced through a hundred miles of dense bush and blistering heat, with the Germans disputing every inch of the territory. The British lines of supply and communication were stretched to twanging point and Smuts’s men were subsisting on two biscuits a day. Sickness became rife.