Part 1 (1/2)
Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force.
by Percy F. Westerman.
CHAPTER I
ON ACTIVE SERVICE
”Four o'clock mornin', sah; bugle him go for revally.”
Dudley Wilmshurst, Second Lieutenant of the Nth West African Regiment, threw off the light coverings, pulled aside the mosquito curtains, and sat upon the edge of his cot, hardly able to realise that Tari Barl, his Haussa servant, had announced the momentous news. Doubtful whether his senses were not playing him false Wilmshurst glanced round the room. On a metal table, the legs of which stood in metal jars filled with water and paraffin to counteract the ravages of the white ants, lay his field-equipment--a neatly-rolled green canvas valise with his name and regiment stamped in bold block letters; his Sam Browne belt with automatic pistol holster attached; his sword--a mere token of authority but otherwise little better than a useless enc.u.mbrance--and a pair of binoculars in a leather case that bore signs of the excessive dampness of the climate on The Coast, as the littoral of the African sh.o.r.e 'twixt the Niger and the Senegal Rivers is invariably referred to by the case-hardened white men who have fought against the pestilential climate and won.
A short distance from the oil stove on which a kettle was boiling, thanks to the energy and thoughtfulness of Private Tari Barl, stood an a.s.sortment of camp equipment: canvas _tent d'abri_, ground sheets, aluminium mess traps, a folding canvas bath, and last but not least an indispensable Doulton pump filter.
When a man's head is buzzing from the effects of strong doses of quinine, and his limbs feel limp and almost devoid of strength, it is not to be wondered at that he is decidedly ”off colour.” It was only Wilmshurst's indomitable will that had pulled him through a bout of malaria in time to be pa.s.sed fit for active service with the ”Waffs,”
as the West African Field Force is commonly known from the initial letters of the official designation.
And here was Tari Barl--”Tarry Barrel,” his master invariably dubbed him--smiling all over his ebony features as he stood, clad in active service kit and holding a cup of fragrant tea.
Tari Barl was a typical specimen of the West African native from whom the ranks of the Coast regiments are recruited. In height about five feet ten, he was well built from his thighs upwards. Even his loosely-fitting khaki tunic did not conceal the ma.s.sive chest with its supple muscles and the long, sinewy arms that knew how to swing to the rhythm of bayonet exercise. His legs, however, were thin and spindly.
To any one not accustomed to the native build it would seem strange that the apparently puny lower limbs could support such a heavy frame.
He was wearing khaki shorts and puttees; even the latter, tightly fitting, did little to disguise the meagreness of his calves. He was barefooted, for the West African soldier has a rooted dislike to boots, although issued as part of his equipment. On ceremonial parades he will wear them, outwardly uncomplainingly, but at the first opportunity he will discard them, slinging the unnecessary footgear round his neck.
Thorns, that in the ”bush” will rip the best pair of British-made marching-boots to shreds in a very short time, trouble him hardly at all, for the soles of his feet, which with the palms of his hands are the only white parts of his epidermis, are as hard as iron.
”All my kit ready, Tarry Barrel?” enquired Wilmshurst as he sipped his tea.
”All ready, sah; Sergeant Bela Mos.h.i.+ him lib for tell fatigue party mighty quick. No need worry, sah.”
Dismissing his servant the subaltern ”tubbed” and dressed. They start the day early on the Coast, getting through most of the routine before nine, since the intense heat of the tropical sun makes strenuous exertion not only unpleasant but highly dangerous.
But to-day was of a different order. The regiment was to embark at eight o'clock on board the transport _Zungeru_ for active service in the vast stretch of country known as ”German East,” where the Huns with their well-trained Askaris, or native levies, were putting up a stiff resistance against the Imperial and Colonial troops of the British Empire.
On his way to the mess Wilmshurst ran up against Barkley, the P.M.O. of the garrison.
”Hullo there!” exclaimed the doctor. ”How goes it? Fit?”
”Absolutely,” replied the subaltern.
The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He knew perfectly well that no officer warned for active service would reply otherwise.
”Buzzing all gone?”
”Practically,” replied Wilmshurst.
”All right; stick to five grains of quinine during the whole of the voyage--and don't be afraid to let me know if you aren't up to the mark. Suppose you've heard nothing further of your brother?”
Wilmshurst shook his head.
”Not since the letter written just before the war, and that took nearly twelve months before it reached me. It's just possible that Rupert is in the thick of it with the Rhodesian crush.”
Barkley made no comment. He was an old college chum of Rupert Wilmshurst, who was fifteen years older than his brother Dudley. The elder Wilmshurst was a proverbial rolling stone. Almost as soon as he left Oxford he went abroad and, after long wanderings in the interior of China, Siberia, and Manchuria, where his adventures merely stimulated the craving for wandering on the desolate parts of the earth, he went to the Cape, working his way up country until he made a temporary settlement on the northern Rhodesian sh.o.r.es of Lake Tanganyika.