Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

In a few minutes the barge was run alongside the Kilindini quay, and Bertram was, for the second time, climbing its stone stairs, in search of the Military Landing Officer, the arbiter of his immediate destiny.

As he reached the top of the steps he was, as it were, engulfed and embraced in a smile that he already knew—and he realised that it was with a distinct sense of pleasure and a feeling of lessened loneliness and unshared friendless responsibility that he beheld the beaming face of his “since-long-time-to-come” faithful old retainer Ali Suleiman.

“God bless myself please, thank you, Bwana,” quoth that gentleman, saluting repeatedly. “Bwana will now wanting Military Embarkation Officer by golly. I got him, sah,” and turning about added, “Bwana come along me, sah, I got him all right,” as though he had, with much skill and good luck, tracked down, ensnared, and encaged some wary and wily animal. . . .

At the end of the little stone pier was a rough table or desk, by which stood a burly officer clad in slacks, and a vast spine-pad of quilted khaki. On the tables were writing-materials and a mass of papers.

“Mornin’,” remarked this gentleman, turning a crimson and perspiring face to Bertram. “I’m the M.L.O. You’ll fall your men in here and they’ll stack their kits with the rations and ammunition over there. Then you must tell off working-parties to cart the lot up to the camp. I’ve only got two trucks and your fatigue-parties’ll have to man-handle ’em. You’ll have to ginger ’em up or you’ll be here all day. I don’t want you to march off till all your stuff’s up to the camp. . . . Don’t bung off yourself, y’know. . . . Right O. Carry on. . . .” Bertram saluted.

Another job which he must accomplish without hitch or error. The more jobs he could do, the better. What he dreaded was the job for the successful tackling of which he had not the knowledge, ability or experience.

“Very good, sir,” he replied. “Er—where are the trolleys?” for there was no sign of any vehicle about the quay.

“Oh, they’ll roll up by and by, I expect,” was the reply. Bertram again saluted and returned to the barge. Calling to the Native Officers he told them that the men would fall in on the bunder and await further orders, each detachment furnishing a fatigue-party for the unloading of the impedimenta. Before very long, the men were standing at ease in the shade of a great shed, and their kits, rations and ammunition were piled in a great mound at the wharf edge.

And thus, having nothing to do until the promised trucks arrived, Bertram realised that it was terribly hot; suffocatingly, oppressively, dangerously hot; and that he felt very giddy, shaky and faint.

The sun seemed to beat upward from the stone of the quay and sideways from the iron of the sheds as fiercely and painfully as it did downward from the sky. And there was absolutely nowhere to sit down. He couldn’t very well squat down in the dirt. . . . No—but the men could—so he approached the little knot of Native Officers and told them to allow the men to pile arms, fall out, and sit against the wall of the shed—no man to leave the line without permission.