Rhodesians and blacks worked together to dig a trench and construct a parapet. It was a strenuous task, for in order to give as much space as possible to the already congested defenders the new defence work had been pushed as far forward as the strength of the flames permitted. The while desultory long-distance firing was indulged in by the discomfited foe, the bullets pinging against the hard ground or flying with a sharp "siss" overhead.
While this work was in progress the corporal hurried up and addressed Wilmshurst.
"Your nigger sergeant's hit, sir," he reported.
The subaltern made his way to the spot where the machine-gun had been placed out of the line of hostile fire, since a single bullet might put it out of action. Lying upon the ground with his head propped against the ammunition box was Bela Moshi.
The Haussa was barely conscious. He recognised his young officer and gave a determined but ineffective attempt to smile. Already one of the men had cut away Bela Moshi's tunic, revealing a bullet wound on the right side of the chest. Even as Dudley placed his water-bottle to the sergeant's lips the Haussa's eyes closed and he lost consciousness.
"What do you make of it?" asked Dudley, addressing the man attending to the patient.
"He's as like to snuff it, sir," he replied. "Can't tell exactly—and it's a tough job to tackle with only a field-service dressing."
"When was he hit?" continued the subaltern.
"That's a mystery, sir," was the answer. "We'd brought the gun under cover—there wasn't a chance of being hit by direct fire, you'll understand—and the black seemed to crumple up suddenly. Never said a word, but just pitched on his face. I'll do my level best for him, sir."
Leaving his water-bottle—and water was a scarce commodity, as the supply within the kraal had been overrun by the fire—Dudley made his way to the gap in the palisade, where other units were hard at work digging a ditch across the exposed opening. Here he came face to face with his brother, whose left arm was bandaged and in a sling.