“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. “Shall I lead on?”
“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but why do your men face each other and point their rifles at each other’s stomachs when they load them?”
His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedar understood.
“They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib,” said he, smiling superiorly.
“Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called slovenly, clumsy, jungly recruits,” replied Bertram—and before the scowling officer could reply, added: “March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp voice and peremptory manner.
Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last—as the trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained—and, after half an hour’s uneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the M’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and most depressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquired assorted diseases.
CHAPTER X
M’paga
Halting his column, closing it up, and calling it to attention, Bertram marched past the guard of King’s African Rifles and entered the Camp. This consisted of a huge square, enclosed by low earthen walls and shallow trenches, in which were the “lines” of the Indian and African infantry, composing the inadequate little force which was invading German East Africa, rather with the idea of protecting British East than achieving conquest. The “lines” of the Sepoys and askaris consisted of rows of tiny low tents, while along the High Street of the Camp stood hospital tents, officers’ messes, the General’s tent, and that of his Brigade Major, and various other tents connected with the mysteries of the field telegraph and telephone, the Army Service Corps’ supply and transport, and various offices of Brigade and Regimental Headquarters. As he passed the General’s tent (indicated by a flagstaff and Union Jack), a tall lean officer, with a white-moustached, keen-eyed face, emerged and held up his hand. Seeing the crossed swords of a General on his shoulder-straps, Bertram endeavoured to rise to the occasion, roared: “Eyes right,” “Eyes front,” and then “Halt,” saluted and stepped forward.
The General shook hands with him, and said: “Glad to see you. Hope you’re ready for plenty of hard work, for there’s plenty for you. . . Glad to see your men looking so businesslike and marching so smartly. . . . All right—carry on. . . .”
Bertram would gladly have died for that General on the spot, and it was positively with a lump (of gratitude, so to speak) in his throat that he gave the order “Quick march,” and proceeded, watched by hundreds of native soldiers, who crawled out of their low tents or rose up from where they lay or squatted to clean accoutrements, gossip, eat, or contemplate Infinity.