Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

Thinking he was charging an enemy, his men dashed forward after him, only to find the place deserted. Little piles of empty cartridge-cases marked the places where the machine-guns had stood behind natural and artificial screens. One tripod had been fixed on an ant-hill screened by bushes, and must have had a fine field of fire across the glade. How far back had they gone—and then, in which direction? How long would it be before the column would again expose a few hundred yards of its flank to the sudden blast of the machine-guns of this force and the withering short-range volleys of its rifles? Would they get away now and go on ahead of the column and wait for it again, or, that being the obvious thing, would they move down toward the tail of the column, and attack there? Or was it just a rear-guard holding the Brigade up while Kraut evacuated Mikocheni? . . . Near and distant rifle and machine-gun fire, rising to a fierce crescendo and dying away to a desultory popping, seemed to indicate that this ambush was one of many, or that the Brigade was fighting a regular battle. . . . Probably a delaying action by a strong rear-guard. . . . Anyhow, his business was to see that his men kept direction, kept touch, kept moving forward slowly, and kept a sharp look-out. . . . Firing came nearer on the right flank. That part of the line had seen something—or been fired on, evidently—and suddenly he came to the edge of the patch or belt of jungle and, looking across another glassy glade, he saw a white man striking, with a whip or stick, at some askaris who were carrying off a machine-gun. Apparently he was hurrying their retirement. Quickly Bertram turned to the grim little Subedar and got a section of his men to fire volleys at the spot, but there was no sign of life where, a minute earlier, he had certainly seen a German machine-gun team. . . .

He felt very cool and very strong, but knew that this great strength might fail him at any moment and leave him shaking and trembling, weak and helpless. . . .

He must line this edge of the jungle and examine every bush and tree of the opposite edge, across the glade, before adventuring out into its naked openness.

Suppose a dozen machine-guns were concealed a few yards within that sinister sullen wall. He bade the Subedar halt the whole line and open rapid fire upon it with a couple of sections. If he watched through his glasses carefully, he might see some movement in those menacing depths and shadows, movement induced by well-directed fire—possibly he might provoke concealed machine-gunners or askaris to open fire and betray their positions. If so, should he lead his men in one wild charge across the glade, in the hope that enough might survive to reach them? If only the Gurkhas could get there with their kukris, the guns would change hands pretty speedily. . . . It would be rather a fine thing to be “the chap who led the charge that got the Maxims.” . . .

“Gya, Sahib,” said the Subedar as he stared across the glade. “Kuch nahin hai.” [222]

Should he move on? And if he led the line out into a deathtrap? . . . He could see nothing of the companies on the left and right flank, even though this was thin and penetrable bush. How would he feel if he gave the order to advance and, as soon as the line was clear of cover, it was mown down like grass?

Bidding the Subedar wait, he stepped out and, with beating heart, advanced across the open. . . . He couldn’t talk to the Gurkhas, but he could show them that a British officer considered their safety before his own. He entered the opposite scrub, his heart in his mouth, his revolver shaking wildly in his trembling hand, but an exhilarating excitement thrilling him with a kind of wild joy. . . . He rather hoped he would be fired at. He wished to God they would break the horrible stillness and open fire. . . . He felt that, if they did not soon do so, he would scream and blaspheme or run away. . . .

Nothing there. No trenches. No suspicious broken branches or withering bushes placed en camouflage. He wheeled about, re-entered the glade, and gave the signal for his men to advance. They crossed the glade. Again they felt their way, tore, pushed, writhed, forced their way, through a belt of thin jungle, and again came upon a narrow glade and, as the line of jungle-bred, jungle-trained Gurkhas halted at its edge, a horde of askaris in a rough double line dashed out from the opposite side and, as the Gurkhas instinctively opened independent magazine fire, charged yelling across, with the greatest élan and ferocity. Evidently they thought they were swooping down upon the scattered remnants of the company that had headed the column, or else were in great strength, and didn’t care what they “bumped into,” knowing that their enemy had no prepared positions and death-traps for them to be caught in. . . .

As he stood behind a tree, steadily firing his revolver at the charging, yelling askaris now some forty yards distant, Bertram was aware of another line, or extended mob, breaking like a second wave from the jungle, and saw a couple of machine-gun teams hastily fling down their boxes and set up their tripods. He knew that a highly trained German gunner would sit behind each one and fire single shots or solid streams of bullets, according to his targets and opportunities. Absolute artists, these German machine-gunners and, ruffianly brutal bullies or not, very cool, brave men.

So was he cool and brave, for the moment—but how soon he would collapse, he did not know. He had emptied his revolver, and he realised that he had sworn violently with every shot. . . . He reloaded with trembling fingers, and, looking up, saw that the fight was about to become a hand-to-hand struggle. Firing rapidly, as the askaris charged, the Gurkhas had thinned their line, and the glade was dotted with dozens of their dead and wounded—but the survivors, far outnumbering the Gurkhas, were upon them—and, with shrill yells, the little men rose and rushed at their big enemies kukri in hand.