Hunter Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  Yeoman made no reply. The Governor of Warambe, Sir Humphrey Carter, had greeted the Hunter squadron on its arrival and had outwardly shown considerable relief that the RAF jets had been despatched so quickly. Yeoman could now appreciate the reason why, having talked to Hoskins for a while. The man was far from suited to lead troops into action; he had been in a backwater for too long. Anyway, Yeoman told himself, it was no longer a matter for much concern. The promised British troops would soon be arriving, and he would see to it that Hoskins was kept quietly out of the way, where he would not be a nuisance to anyone.

  As though reading the RAF officer’s thoughts, the florid-faced Hoskins suddenly leaned forward and touched Yeoman confidentially on the arm. Hoskins coughed a couple of times, surveyed Yeoman with his shifting, watery eyes that told of a system shot to pieces by gin, then said, ‘Look here, old man, I’ll admit I’m a bit worried. I’ve had things pretty well organized around here, you know. All this is a bit of an upheaval. Came quite out of the blue. First I knew of it was when Sir Humphrey told me yesterday that you were on your way and that you’ve been designated commander of all forces in Warambe. Bit thick, that. Mind you,’ he continued hastily, ‘I’m not saying that you aren’t capable, or anything like that. It’s just that — well, you don’t really know how things are out here, do you? Might make the odd mistake, not knowing the terrain, or the people, if you see what I mean.’

  Yeoman turned on his most disarming smile and lied horribly. ‘But, Henry, I thought you knew. You’ll be absolutely indispensable. An absolute right arm. I’m relying on you entirely to give me a proper briefing on everything.’

  Hoskins, the wind taken right out of his sails, puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s different, of course, old boy. Didn’t mean any offence, or anything like that. Naturally, I’ll give you all the help I can.’

  Yeoman, his smile unaltered, said, ‘Well, thank you, Henry. I was counting on you.’ Then he plunged in the knife up to the hilt. ‘We’ll start with an inspection of your forward defensive positions on the river. At first light tomorrow morning, say. There’ll be no problems, I trust?’

  Hoskins reddened and started to bluster. ‘Oh, I say, old chap, first light’s a bit inconvenient. I mean, there’s a bit of sorting out to be done, and — ’

  ‘First light, Henry,’ Yeoman interrupted firmly. Hoskins glared at him, grunted like someone about to have an apoplectic fit, then mumbled his excuses and left the bar, saying that he had things to do.

  Yeoman watched his retreating back with the air of a man who had just pulled off a bloodless coup, then turned and ordered another beer from the African barman, who was desperately trying to keep a straight face. Hoskins, it appeared, was not very well liked.

  A few moments later several of Yeoman’s pilots, including Norman Bright, came into the bar, and Yeoman stood them a round of drinks. Bright took a drink of beer and looked at his commanding officer quizzically.

  ‘What’s going on, sir?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’ve just seen Colonel What’s-his-name, the Warambe Rifles chap, driving off like a blue-arsed fly in a jeep and bawling orders at anyone in his path. Damn near mowed us down.’

  Yeoman grinned. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that Colonel Hoskins is even now arranging for various key points along the river to be defended, which I’m prepared to bet they are not at this moment in time. In fact, there are a great many things about this set-up which fail to impress me.’

  Bright nodded. ‘Me too. I’m very worried about the fact that we can’t disperse our aircraft properly. The only bit of hard ground apart from the airstrip is the apron in front of the control tower; they’ll be sitting ducks in the event of an air strike.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to us to make sure that they don’t take us by surprise,’ Yeoman told him. He looked at his glass thoughtfully.

  ‘The biggest problem is that we have absolutely no intelligence about what preparations are under way on the other side,’ he said at length. ‘When Nkrombe does start his troop movements, they’ll be covered by the jungle and we won’t know about them until it’s too late.’ He glanced sideways at the barman, frowned, then said, ‘Look, we can’t talk here. Let’s find a quiet corner. There are one or two plans I’d like to discuss with you.’

  They took their drinks over to an alcove, well out of earshot of anyone else in the room, and Yeoman told Bright what was on his mind.

  ‘The Warambe Rifles don’t seem up to much, if Hoskins is anything to go by,’ he said. ‘I’m working on the assumption that they would not be able to stand firm against a determined assault, so I propose to concentrate them along the river. They’ll take the first shock of any attack, and if they are going to break I’d rather it was there than at some key position farther inland.’

  ‘In other words,’ Bright interrupted, ‘you’re planning to use them as a sort of early warning line?’

  Yeoman nodded. ‘Something like that. It’s no use concentrating all our forces along the river, because even when the two battalions arrive from Kenya we won’t have enough to cover the whole of the river line. So we’ll put out the Warambe Rifles in a thin screen, with the task of raising the alarm if and when the attack comes. Once they’ve done that, they can bugger off as fast as they like. Our own forces will be in position astride every conceivable approach route to the airfield and to the enemy’s main objective, the uranium mines.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit risky, letting them get so far?’ Bright asked.

  Yeoman shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. As I’ve already said, we don’t have the manpower to stop them getting across the river. So we’ll let them get across and then suck them in towards our prepared defensive positions, where we shall stop them, cut their lines of communication and finally annihilate them. But we must keep our air power intact, at all costs, and that’s going to be tricky. One point in our favour is that Nkrombe’s Sabres are day fighters, so the chances of a surprise night strike are pretty remote; however, we can’t rule out the possibility of a night attack on the airfield by saboteurs as a preliminary to the main event.’

  ‘Well, perhaps Nkrombe will think twice, now that we’re here,’ Bright pointed out. Yeoman shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps, but I doubt it. He seems to be a pretty determined character, by all accounts. I’m certain that he hasn’t built up a mercenary army — not to mention the beginnings of an air force — just for reasons of self-defence. If you buy the services of mercenaries you tend to do things with them, such as attack your next-door neighbour, and that means Warambe. There’s nothing on the other side of Nkrombe’s territory but jungle and primitive villages. No, Norman, I think he’ll attack all right, and I think it’ll be soon. We have to be on our guard constantly, which is why I’ve given orders for armed patrols in the vicinity of our aircraft and stores, and for four pilots to be at cockpit readiness in two-hour shifts all the time. It will be a bit unkind on our backsides, but it’s better than being caught napping.’

  He glanced at his watch and gave a yawn. ‘I’m going to turn in,’ he announced. ‘It’s been a long day, and there’s a lot to do tomorrow. I suggest you get your head down, too. I want you to come with me and Colonel Hoskins first thing in the morning. Better tell somebody to give us an early call, preferably with a cup of tea.’

  Getting to sleep was not easy. It was raining, and the drops resounded on the hotel’s roof with a noise like a thousand tap-dancers. It was also unbearably hot. Yeoman left the electric fan on at first, but it whirred and clattered so much that in the end he switched it off, preferring to take his chance with the heat. At last, lying naked on top of the bed, he dozed off.

  He awoke suddenly to a deep silence and lay motionless, marshalling his thoughts, unable to recall for a moment where he was. The rain had stopped, and it seemed to be a little cooler. Then, as full consciousness started to return, he knew instinctively that there was something wrong, something out of place.

  There was a strange smell in the room.
A musky smell, hard to identify, compounded of human sweat and something else. There was a sound, too, such as a person makes when he breathes with his mouth open. It came from somewhere between the bed and the window, behind Yeoman’s back.

  Tensing himself, Yeoman rolled off the bed, placing it between himself and whatever unseen menace was in the room. It was pitch black, and he could not remember the exact position of the light switch. Conscious of his nakedness, which made him feel horribly vulnerable, he rose into a crouching position, trying to relax his eyes so that they grew accustomed to the darkness. There was a gentle draught in his face, coming from the window, and he knew that whoever — or whatever — was in the room had come in that way. Goose pimples stood out on his arms, and he felt the hairs of his body starting to prickle in fear of the unknown.

  A black bulk launched itself at him across the bed. A stink of bad breath fanned his face sickeningly, and fingernails raked his shoulder as he jerked his head to one side. An iron-hard head butted into his temple, half stunning him, and he lost his balance, toppling on to his left elbow with his assailant partly on top of him. His attacker’s body was covered with some sort of oil, reeking and pungent, that made it almost impossible for Yeoman to get a grip on him.

  In desperation, the pilot brought up his right hand, index and middle fingers stiff and extended, and jabbed them at the spot where he sensed the intruder’s face ought to be. He was lucky. The index finger made contact with the pulpy softness of an eye.

  His attacker gave a short bark of pain and jerked back his head. Following up his advantage swiftly, sure of his target now, Yeoman slammed the heel of his hand brutally up beneath the other’s chin. He both felt and heard the sinews of the man’s neck crack and the assailant recoiled, falling back across the bed. Yeoman scrambled up and hurled himself towards the door, groping for the light switch, blinking as the solitary bulb flashed on in response to his command.

  The room was empty. Like a cat, the attacker must have flung himself through the open window. Yeoman ran across the room and peered out into the night, but the man had melted away into the shadows.

  Breathing hard, Yeoman pulled a bathrobe round himself just as footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his room. There was a knock at the door, and Bright’s anxious voice. Yeoman opened the door and leaned wearily against the jamb. Several other people, alerted by the rumpus, were looking cautiously out of their rooms.

  ‘What happened?’ Bright wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Somebody just tried to kill me, that’s all.’

  Colonel Hoskins came puffing along the corridor, incongruous in blue silk pyjamas. ‘Spot of bother, old boy? Glad to see you’re all right. Happens all the time, you know. Should have warned you. Those common thieves know better than to try it on with we regular inhabitants. Shot one of ’em stone dead, once.’

  ‘I don’t think this fellow was after my wrist watch,’ Yeoman commented drily. His face smarted where his attacker’s head had struck it, and there were red scratches across his shoulder. He turned to Bright.

  ‘From now on, Norman, everyone is to sleep with his side-arm within easy reach. If there are any more intruders, shoot first and ask questions afterwards.’ He prodded his scratches gingerly. ‘I’m going to have a shower to try and wash that bastard’s stink off me, then I’m going to get some sleep. Don’t forget we’ve got work to do tomorrow. You too, Henry.’

  An expression of annoyance, and what might have been anger, flitted across Hoskins’ face. Yeoman failed to notice it; he was too preoccupied with the recent attack on his person.

  It continued to worry him when, feeling anything but rested, he was awakened before dawn by an African member of the hotel’s small staff, bearing a tin mug full of tea that tasted like sump oil. It had, at least, the effect of banishing any residue of sleep. Yeoman showered again, and felt better; then he went to the dining room to breakfast on fresh fruit and scrambled eggs. In the course of the meal he was joined by Bright and Hoskins, the latter looking surly and crumpled. Aside from a muttered ‘good morning’, his only comment was that he had ‘laid on’ a Land-Rover to take them on their tour of inspection.

  Yeoman insisted on visiting the airfield first, to assure himself that all was well there; then, with one of Hoskins’ African soldiers at the wheel, he set off with the colonel and Norman Bright to see for himself how well the river frontier was defended.

  The road to the main crossing point on the river ran close to several villages, each of which was responsible for the upkeep of its particular section. In some parts the road was good; in others, little more than a dirt track that would have represented heavy going for any vehicle other than the Land-Rover. The track ran between tall grass and brush close to the villages, but farther away it was flanked by primeval jungle, rising dense and dark on either side. The huge trunks seemed grey and leprous, starved of light; through clefts in the jungle roof patches of sky glowed pink, reflecting the rays of the morning sun.

  The African driver kept his headlights on, and their glare startled packs of flying monkeys that hurled through the greenery in search of their first feed of the day. Birds, mostly thornbills, flashed briefly through the lamps’ rays, their harsh cries sounding above the roar of the engine.

  In places, the rains had turned the track into clinging mud that sprayed up from the wheels. The driver seemed to take great delight in hitting the worst patches, like a small boy jumping in a puddle, gleefully shouting poto poto — which, Hoskins informed the two RAF officers, was the local word for something nasty.

  After a two-hour drive, the jungle ended with an abruptness that startled Yeoman, giving way to a grassy plain that swept down in a long slope towards the river and the most important of its crossing points, a sturdy log bridge that was certainly strong enough to carry the weight of an armoured car. Hoskins ordered the driver to halt as the Land-Rover cleared the fringe of trees, clambered out and, panting with the exertion, broke some small branches from a bush. He handed them to Yeoman and Bright with the warning, ‘You’ll need those to keep off the tsetse flies. You’ll always find the little beggars where there’s water. You won’t come to any real harm from them because you’ve had your jabs, but they can give you a painful bite. Gadflies are worse, but we aren’t likely to run into them unless there are buffalo or elephant in the vicinity.’

  After the damp darkness of the jungle, the sun-painted landscape that stretched out before Yeoman’s eyes possessed an almost magical beauty. The placid water of the river was sandy-gold, its banks reddish in colour; on the far side of the bridge, the road shone white as it climbed towards a fringe of trees.

  Close to the bridge, a group of Africans laughed and splashed in the water, their uniforms scattered on the river bank. Angrily, Yeoman turned to Hoskins.

  ‘Are those your men?’ The colonel nodded.

  ‘In that case,’ Yeoman blazed, ‘what the hell do they think they’re doing?’

  Hoskins looked pained. ‘Just having a bit of a swim, old boy. They’ve been hard at it all night, digging weapon pits, and — ’

  He broke off, reddening, suddenly realizing that he had just admitted what Yeoman had already suspected: that the river frontier had been completely undefended.

  Yeoman looked at the foxholes dug by Hoskins’ troops. They were sited haphazardly, and some were only half finished. They would have been quite easily overrun by a determined troop of Boy Scouts, let alone a determined enemy with mortars, heavy machine-guns and armoured cars.

  Hoskins saw the look on Yeoman’s face and strutted off down the bank, shouting orders. Reluctantly, his men broke off their aquatic activities and climbed out of the river, the sun glistening on their dark skin. They donned their uniforms and stood by their positions at some semblance of attention while Hoskins delivered a harangue.

  ‘The sooner our regular units get here, the better,’ Yeoman said to Bright. ‘I don’t give much for this lot’s chances. It’s a pity, in a way; with the right kind
of leadership they would probably measure up. That fellow’s about as much use as a chocolate fireguard.’

  ‘That fellow’ came puffing back up the slope, full of apologies.

  ‘Lazy beggars,’ he grunted. ‘Got to keep your eye on ’em all the time, or they’ll swing the lead. Be all right in a scrap, though. Brave as lions. Runs in the blood.’

  Yeoman remained unconvinced especially when much the same scene was encountered at the next two defensive sites along the river. To all intents and purposes, the men of the Warambe Rifles were on holiday. They were worse than useless, even in the role of early warning, which Yeoman had intended for them. The river line would have to be ‘corseted’ with men from the British force that would soon be arriving, even at the expense of depleting the main sectors.

  Although they were completely unmilitary, the African troops were cheerful, happy-go-lucky souls, and in a way Yeoman’s heart went out to them. By the time the Land-Rover reached the last defensive position, overlooking a ford at a spot where the river ran between high banks, it was noon and the men were cooking their midday meal in a black clay vessel that was covered in green leaves to seal in the flavour of whatever was inside. Hoskins told the others that the men were offering them something to eat: ‘Better not refuse, chaps, or they’ll be offended. Grin and bear it, what?’

  A smiling soldier handed Yeoman a chunk of meat wrapped in leaves, together with some manioc which, he indicated, was to be dipped in some kind of sauce that another soldier was stirring in a large mess tin. Yeoman tried the meat first; it was whitish, like well-cooked pork, and had the flavour of chicken, although it was rather tough and chewy and fragments got stuck in his teeth. He asked Hoskins what it was.

  ‘Python,’ the other replied calmly, and was mildly surprised when Yeoman — veteran of more than one jungle survival exercise — showed no reaction and, instead, bit off another mouthful. The sauce that went with the manioc was a different story; made of peppers, it was a fiery mixture that caught at his throat and brought tears to his eyes.