by John Wilcox
It became clear that one of the main reasons for the Germans’ remarkable resilience lay in the considerable number of doctors in their ranks at the start of the war: sixty-three, far more than the British. Their network of field hospitals established in the north-east had been moved to the south, matching von Lettow-Vorbeck’s retreat. In addition, the improvisation of the German medical staff was ingenious. Home-made quinine was manufactured from the bark of the cinchona tree, bandages were fashioned from soft bark and stocks of all-important typhoid treatment had been taken from towns and cities and distributed round the field hospitals on the line of retreat, ready for immediate use.
The war was now being waged on many fronts, for the German commander had split his force into several columns, scattering throughout the interior and on the periphery of the old German colony. In the south, the British General Northey, attacking from Nyasaland, was having a particularly hard time of it pursuing the Germans across some of the most mountainous and inhospitable territory in all Africa.
As always, it was the native carriers who suffered the most. Some 160,000 were needed to maintain supplies. Bewildered by the conflict – they called it ‘the White Man’s Palaver’ – they were pressed into service, often unwillingly, and suffered great deprivations from the climate. They were also under constant attack from lions in the dry and crocodiles in the wet.
With the vastly outnumbered German columns twisting and turning, fighting and retreating, it had become a will-o’-the-wisp war, with Smuts’s strategy of trapping the ememy by executing sweeping flanking movements across the open country proving completely ineffective. But the Germans were not Smuts’s only antagonists. Large numbers of wounded and exhausted South African troops were now being returned home and he became the centre of mounting criticism in South Africa. The earlier sweeping success of Botha’s invasion of German South West Africa seemed a distant irrelevance compared with the hardship of this gruelling warfare in the north. The political far right in the Cape, Natal and Pretoria was growing more vociferous in its criticism of Smuts’s waging of the war.
Not so in Britain, however. Here the little South African was hailed as one of the few successful Allied generals of the war and Smuts was called to London in 1917 to join the Imperial War Cabinet. On his arrival, he claimed complete victory in German East Africa, pointing out that he had wrested more than a million square miles of German territory from the enemy. But his sudden departure and the return home of almost all of the South African troops caused chaos. The British General Hoskins, who took command, was left with a severely diminished force and in March 1917 he was forced to report to the War Office that although his military establishment exceeded 40,000 on paper, only about 12,000 were fit for combat.
Hoskins pleaded with Botha to send him more South African troops but the South African prime minister refused. He could not trust the Afrikaner nation, he said, to support the sending of more men to the maelstrom of the war in the north. To all intents and purposes the large ‘South African Expeditionary Force’ had melted away and, in particular, Hoskins bewailed the loss of the South African horsemen who constituted virtually his only cavalry in the field. In the circumstances, Hoskins could not see how he could continue to pursue Smuts’s offensive.
In Whitehall, the powerful Smuts maintained that Hoskins was ‘dawdling’. Once again he had his way and in May the British general, highly regarded and even loved by his officers and men, was reassigned to Mesopotamia and van Deventer became commander-in-chief.
The big, burly Afrikaner – his hands were said to cover most of the maps when he gave briefings, so that it was difficult to follow him – could not be termed pro-British, having fought hard against Kitchener in the Anglo–Boer war, but he was fiercely loyal to his superiors; if Botha and Smuts believed it was right to defend the Empire against the Germans, then so did he. He was also a strong leader, if he lacked the complete self-conviction of Smuts.
He had quickly set up a good relationship with Fonthill, as his chief scout. Completely abandoning his habit of not speaking in English unless forced to, he put a great arm around Simon’s shoulder on his appointment. ‘You do good work, man,’ he growled. ‘Keep out there and tell me what the hell is going on. I shall rely on you.’
With Smuts supporting him in London, van Deventer began a systematic campaign of splitting his command and doggedly hunting down the German columns wherever he could find them. Five months of almost continuous fighting ensued across the most difficult country, with every waterhole being defended by the Germans. In many areas, the bush was so thick that large bodies of troops could pass each other within a mile without one being aware of the other. As the heat increased, bush fires sprang up and the ground became blackened and smoking.
‘I know where we are fightin’ now, bach sir,’ observed Jenkins one day, his face smeared with soot so that his eyes stood out like white marbles. ‘We’re fightin’ in ’ell, that’s where we are. We’re fightin’ in bloody ’ell. I always knew what it felt like, because I’d suffered enough terrible ’angovers in me time. But I always wanted to know what it looks like and now I know. It looks like this.’
The three of them had ranged far and wide over the war-torn territory of the old German colony, for van Deventer had given them freedom to pursue the various German columns – some of them now little more than companies – and to report to the local British generals their positions and possible intentions.
Now, the three were just outside Narungombe in the south-east, forty miles from the coast of the Indian Ocean. With the rains – the worst in living memory – just ended, van Deventer was under strict orders to defeat von Lettow-Vorbeck on the firmer ground once and for all. Fonthill sensed that months of fighting in the unhealthiest area of the entire colony lay ahead. As they bivouacked on the plain, on the edge of where a bush fire had roared, he cast a critical eye on his comrades.
They were exhausted, he knew, for their supplies were running low and all of their waking hours were spent in the saddle so that their backs and thighs ached miserably. Now, however, they looked exhausted, too. Although they were no longer young – Jenkins at sixty-six was the oldest, with Mzingeli and Fonthill now in their early sixties – they had led outdoor lives, escaped wounds or serious injury and remained fit throughout their long campaigning. Today, it seemed as though all their narrow escapes and risk-taking over the years had caught up with them. Mzingeli bent over his tin of mealies, his nose almost touching the edge; Jenkins lay on his side, slowly ladling native sausage meat between his blackened lips. Underneath the soot, their faces were cracked and lined. They were three elderly men living young men’s lives and, clearly, nearing their end of their tether.
Fonthill frowned. Was it fair to ask his two comrades to continue this dangerous, demanding life – particularly Mzingeli, who had no vested interest in the outcome of this white man’s war? He cleared his throat.
‘What do you think now boys?’ he asked. ‘Do you think we’ve done enough? Is it time we struggled back to van Deventer – wherever he might be now – and suggested that it was time we called it a day?’ He forced a smile. ‘We’re not as young as we used to be and there are plenty of young scouts in the field now. Perhaps we should pass on the baton. What do you think?’
From somewhere behind the sausages, Jenkins emitted a deep growl. ‘What? Give up, you mean? Pack it all in and go back to growing tea or petunias, while these bloody ’Uns are still maraudin’ all over the place? Not for me, bach sir, but if you’ve ’ad enough, then I’ll do what you say, as I always do.’
Simon turned to his tracker. ‘Mzingeli. This has never been your war, although you have served magnificently through it so far. Would you like to go back to the farm now?’
The black man looked up and gave his life-affirming grin. ‘I do what you want, Nkosi,’ he said. ‘The farm is looking after itself under my cousin. I think, though, like 352 bach, that we ought to finish job. Much more to be done. Get rid of these Germans and
their cruel askaris, I think. But you lead. We follow.’
Fonthill gave a wry smile and nodded slowly. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘We stay and finish the job and I couldn’t wish for better comrades—’
Mzingeli raised a long, thin finger to interrupt him. ‘Men coming,’ he said. ‘We take cover quick.’
Not for the first or last time, Simon thanked his lucky stars for the acute hearing and bush awareness of his tracker. ‘Fire out, Mzingeli,’ he said. ‘352, take the horses behind those smouldering bushes and get them to lie down. We’ll take cover with you.’
Moving with quiet, practised skill, they removed all traces of their stay and crept back into the blackened undergrowth about a hundred yards from their picnic site, their rifles at the ready. Within minutes a small squad of seven or eight black askaris came into view, thrusting back the charred branches and stamping out smouldering patches of grass with their bare feet, all the time looking around them carefully.
‘They’re onto us,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘Must have seen us back there, or followed our tracks.’
‘No shooting yet. I don’t want to draw in any other patrols that may be nearby. These look as though they’ve come scouting from Narungombe. Keep low, they might just pass us by.’
At that moment, one of the horses stirred in the ashes of the bush fire and neighed in pain as he burnt his side. Immediately, the German patrol flung themselves to the ground and the pith-helmeted officer let off a round from his revolver, in the general direction from which the sound had come.
‘Fire,’ bellowed Fonthill. His shot caught the officer as he bent to join his men on the ground, spun him round and felled him. The others, however, had somehow disappeared into the fire-torn bush and couldn’t be seen. Well trained, they embraced the undulations in the ground and lay, obviously waiting for a target to present itself.
‘Can’t see the bastards,’ muttered Jenkins.
‘No. We will have to draw their fire.’
‘No, bach. Don’t do anything silly, now. We’re outnumbered.’
‘Listen. I will run to the right. They will open fire. That will reveal their positions. Rapid fire on them when they do. Tell Mzingeli. I will run in ten seconds from now. Get ready. Begin to count.’
Fonthill lay prone on the earth, his breast heaving. Then, he gradually began to draw up his legs and hunch his back. He took a deep breath, sprang to his feet and ran to his right, dodging between the blackened bush stubble. He was conscious of bullets whipping into the ground beneath his feet and the staccato of Jenkins and Mzingeli’s Lee-Enfields rapid firing in reply. Then he flung himself down.
‘Think we’ve got ’em, bach sir. Are you all right?’ Jenkins’s voice was anxious.
‘Yes, I’m all right, just out of breath. But get the horses up quickly. We need to get out of here, fast as we can. I can hear others coming up!’
Fonthill and his comrades had been following a large and well-armed force of Germans – some 2,000 rifles with 48 machine guns and a battery of captured Portuguese artillery – back from the coast as it approached the town of Narungombe, north of the Mbemkuru River. He suspected that its commander, Captain von Lieberman, had decided to stand and fight there, for it offered a last source of water sufficient to sustain his force. Fonthill was on his way back to contact the three pursuing British columns to lead them onto the enemy when the bush fire had overtaken them. Now it looked as though the Germans were out patrolling in some depth. They must dash through their lines if they were to escape.
There was a squeal as the horses were dragged to their feet and their packs, which had been unloaded to give the beasts some temporary respite, thrust back behind the saddles. There was also shouting in German and then a ragged salvo of shots as a second group of askaris burst from cover, knelt and fired as the three men, heads down, spurred away.
‘Thank God they’d got no cavalry,’ shouted Jenkins as their horses galloped over the hard ground. ‘Where to, now, bach sir?’
‘To the east, towards Kilwa. We must find General Beves and bring him up to attack Narungombe before the bloody Germans decide to turn and run again. This could be a really decisive battle.’
‘’Ow far away is this general, then?’
‘I don’t know. But I know he’s coming in from the coast and if we keep heading east we should meet him. We could be in trouble, though, if the Germans have thrown up a defensive screen this side of the town. Head down and ride hard.’
‘Very well. But don’t fall off, for God’s sake.’
They galloped as far as their panting mounts allowed them, then they slowed to a walk and, as darkness approached, looked for and found some sort of cover where they could spend the night out of sight of German patrols.
They met the first of General Beves’s extended pickets halfway through the next morning: a small troop of cavalry of the 40th Pathans out in extended order, all clearly showing the effects of advancing too quickly from the humid coast into a hinterland wracked by bush fires under a burning sun.
Within the half-hour Fonthill was reporting to General Beves, a red-faced man with an abrupt manner.
‘Where the hell is the enemy, Fonthill?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve lost all touch with him.’
‘They’re waiting at Narungombe for you, General,’ responded Simon. ‘I believe they are going to stand and fight there, so you must be prepared for a battle.’
‘Humph! I’ve heard that before. Get there, bayonets fixed, and the buggers have disappeared into thin air once more. What makes you think this chap is determined to fight?’
Fonthill sighed. ‘Because von Lieberman has managed to put together a strong force by combining about a dozen companies. He has been fighting hard on the retreat for over a week and desperately needs a few days to regroup. This town has water; it’s the last main source able to provide for such a large gathering north of the Mbemkuru River, and he will want to give his troops a break. He also wants glory – at your expense.’
Beves raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you know his dispositions?’
‘Yes – unless he has moved them. The Germans are deployed across the main track approaching the town. It’s a good defensive position he has adopted. His left flank is in thick bush and his right rests in a swamp teeming with crocodiles. His machine guns are placed on high ground on either side of the track and they and his rifles have a good and clear field of fire. I reckon he will be pretty confident in waiting there for you. I would advise caution in making a frontal attack, General.’
‘Ah, you would, would you.’ Beves’s face seemed to have deepened in colour as Fonthill reported and a small tic had appeared under his right eye. ‘Well, let me tell you, scout’ – the word was emphasised as though to emphasise Fonthill’s status – ‘I have orders to attack these bloody Germans as soon as I come up to them. I am under pressure to put them out quickly and I intend to do just that.’
‘Now,’ his voice suddenly softened as his gaze took in the blackened nature of Fonthill’s face and limbs, the tears in his clothing from the thorn bushes through which they had ridden hard over the last few days and the general weariness of his posture. ‘You clearly need a rest. How long before we come to this damned town, d’yer think?’
‘This time tomorrow, I would say.’
‘Very well. Fall back through the lines and get some rest. I shall continue to bring up my three columns and we will attack as soon as I am in position. Oh – and thank you, Fonthill.’
‘Not at all, General. All part of the service.’
Simon raised a leisurely forefinger to his brow and walked away. He had become used to being under-regarded by these commanders in the field and now wasted little time in exchanging courtesies with them. He, Jenkins and Mzingeli certainly needed rest, for Fonthill had decided that they would attack with Beves’s men. This was no time for hanging back, with the opportunity at last of defeating a sizeable German force in the offing. He wanted to be there. But first: sleep.
At dawn,
a messenger arrived to wake Fonthill and order him to ride ahead to be with Beves as the defended town was approached. He reached him just as his three columns had ground to a halt at midday and extended across the plain, in front of the German positions.
‘I see what you mean, Fonthill,’ said the general, studying the enemy lines through his field glasses. ‘He’s dug in pretty well, too. But at least he hasn’t done a runner. He is here waiting for us and looking as though he wants a fight.’
‘Oh, I think he does that, all right.’
‘No easy way round those lines, you say?’
‘Afraid not.’ Fontill pointed. ‘As you can see, the bush thickens considerably where he has rested his left flank and I can’t see how troops could get through there under fire. And the other end of his trenches stop at that damned great swamp there. No real way through there, either. Particularly as it’s home to so many crocs.’
Beves put down his binoculars. The nervous tic was more marked now, Simon noticed. ‘Then I shall launch a frontal attack. Only way. Just knock ’em out of the way. Can’t hang about. I hear that von Lettow-Vorbeck is on his way with fresh troops. Know anything about that? You didn’t tell me.’
The tone was petulant. ‘Didn’t know, General,’ replied Fonthill. ‘He could well be, but I’ve heard nothing about it from the natives we questioned locally. Could well be true, though. He will not want to risk so many of von Lieberman’s men against your three columns without supporting them.’ He paused for a moment, then: ‘This could turn into the biggest battle of the campaign, General. If you don’t mind me saying so, you must be careful you don’t lose your command, attacking across this open ground against these well-defended positions.’