CHAPTER SEVEN

“Nice cushy way to fight a war.”

Glendon Scayles glanced around the crowded Officers Mess. Many of the lunchtime crowd were subalterns awaiting assignment to units in the field, at a loose end meanwhile. They were boisterous young men, barking varsity enthusiasms like “Top hole!”, “Good egg!”, and “Ripping!”, as they chatted about sports or prospects of a spot of leave in Cape Town. Politics, women, or soldiering were never mentioned, being taboo subjects in the Mess.

Harry shrugged, more interested in enjoying the first decent meal he’d had for months. “They’ll get to chance their arm out there soon enough.”

Meeting Scayles again was made all the more awkward by the raw gash on the policeman’s nose. It was badly swollen, yellow-painted with iodine, and Lanyard avoided looking at it. He noticed Scayles already wore the badges of the Military Mounted Police in anticipation of his transfer going through, so he was probably even more disappointed at being assigned to Lanyard’s little patrol instead.

“Lost no time putting your second pip up, I see.” Scayles was calling on all the stiff-upper-lip manner he could muster to mask his resentment. “Bit of a stumer, being ordered to serve with you of all people, Lanyard.”

“Same here, but we’ll have to make the best of things.”

“Oh, I will. For now.” Scayles glanced around to be sure he was not overheard. His tight words came out like venom from a spitting-cobra. “But one day, you little shit, we’ll meet behind a building for round two and ranks be damned!”

“Fair enough. After this is done with.” At least it seemed their difference would be settled fairly with fists, rather than with a bullet in the back. “Did Colonel Faulkner fill you in?”

“The big picture, anyway.” Scayles spoke coolly, as if his outburst had never happened. “You could certainly use a copper along, from the sound of it.”

“Only if we find the you-know-what.” He spoke guardedly, aware of senior officers seated nearby. The mutton with applesauce tasted very good. He waved over a Malay waiter to bring some rice pudding for dessert.

Scayles blew out his pink cheeks irritably, “Dash it all, having to go with you misses me off a big case. Our men are pulling all the stops out to collar this spy feller. He even turned up in our front lines during battle once, bold as brass, and issued false orders for retreat.”

“Lax security?” Harry couldn’t resist the dig.

“Our people actually did catch him red-handed, stealing some documents from H.Q. Killed a couple of MPs, though, and got clean away. Looks, behaves, and sounds like an officer, so he could be a turncoat.” Scayles squinted around the room. “Might even be one of these chaps, for all we know.”

“You’ll have enough excitement, helping run our patrol. Just don’t sweat the small stuff. I prefer the minimum of petty discip.”

“Obviously.” Scayles fingered his sore nose. “But we won’t find so much as a farthing if the men are allowed to act like rabble.”

“We’re taking only well-experienced men.” He kept his face straight, “Colonials, mostly.”

“Oh, bloody marvelous.”

A tight-faced major loomed over Scayles. “I’m Mess Sec’try. You know talking shop is not permitted in the dining room.” He took in Harry’s private’s tunic. “And you are improperly dressed. Cut along, the pair of you!”

They signed chits to pay for their meal and went into the main bar next door. Harry lit a cigarette and asked the white-coated barman for a Bass Pale Ale. Scayles settled himself with a double whiskey and sparklet, then mused, “Have you any idea exactly what we’re in for up there?”

“Well, I have met the occasional commando before.”

“They’ll be the least of our problems, where we’re headed. Far worse, the whole area around the Lydenberg goldfield’s swarming with bandits. Mixed bag of armed riff-raff, foreigners, Boojers, British deserters. Sort who’d kill you for your shoes, much less a lorry-load of bullion.”

“Lucky we’ll have a cop along to deal with them.”

“I need to watch our own men too, considering the temptation. You picked all of them yet?”

“Intelligence has arranged most, but I’ve a couple of other guys in mind.” Harry drained the warm ale. “I’ll arrange weapons for you to issue. Look after the nominal roll and pay-parade, too, would you? We don’t know how long we’re away for, so indent to pay them three weeks in advance.”

Scayles jotted down his list of duties.”I have to pick up the slush-fund to pay informers, as well. A thousand quid, I’m told.”

Harry pulled the corners of his mouth down, impressed. Notoriously tight-fisted Army Intelligence must be really feeling the heat from upstairs, to provide five thousand dollars in bribes for information received. “Well, that should loosen somebody’s tongue.”

Scayles shrugged, “Assuming those farmers actually know anything. Still, that’s another reason I’m coming, to guard the funds.”

“You’ll be less conspicuous doing it if you get rid of that red cap.”

Scayles just nodded without another word and strode away quickly. An abrasive man, but the sort who got things done.

Harry reported to the Army Pay Corps office and drew thirteen pounds sterling, two months’ back pay owed to him, after deductions for kit and mess dues. At the officers’ Tuck Shop, he bought some slabs of Rowntree dark chocolate, 400 Player’s Capstan Full Strength Navy Cut, and a handful of souvenir ostrich feathers.

With his letter of authorization from Col. Faulkner, Lanyard was able to indent for equipment quickly, without the usual form-filling delays. Over at Central Stores, a disapproving clerk issued Harry with two new private’s uniforms. As an officer, Harry was really supposed to pay for clothing out of his own pocket, but the rules were bent for bushveld service, so long as items were signed for. He also drew a haversack, underwear, socks, and calf-high black boots. He topped things off with one of those new-style bush hats that had the brim rolled up on one side. He shoved his belongings into the pack and went looking for weapons.

The armoury sergeant was more cheerful, promising to have 20 rifles ready by dusk, along with 500 rounds per man. He proudly held up one with gleamingly polished woodwork. “Look at this, sir. Brand new Lee-Enfields for your lot.”

“Be a lot better if they loaded with clips like Mausers.”

“That’ll be coming with the Mark Two model.” He cranked the bolt open and shut with almost personal pride. “Just listen, sir. Smooth as greased owl-shit.”

“I generally use gun-oil, myself.”

“But there is one thing, sir. This first batch have a problem with the sights set over five-hundred yards. Beyond that, best aim off right to compensate.”

“Swell, so any Boers in the distance are safe as houses.”

The armourer was puzzled when Harry turned down the offer of a standard bayonet to go with it. Harry hated the things now. He did take a big .455 Webley revolver, secure in its closed leather holster.

The Field Intelligence Department had not been able to locate the n.c.o. he had in mind, but it took just one quick question to a passing Kiwi to find who he was looking for. Ned Coveyduck was mooching about the stables, critically watching some horse-handlers.

“Well, stone the crows -- look what the cat’s dragged in! I thought they were going to scrag you for sure, like Breaker. Nice to see you’ve gone up in the world, instead.” The Aussie nodded at Lanyard’s new insignia, and punched his friend on the bicep. They were not demonstrative men, but the wide grins they swapped told more than any amount of fuss.

“Feel like working for a living again, Ned?”

“Too right! I’m going barmy, stuck here. Cheap Pommies decided it was too expensive to fork over a sergeant’s pay to every man in the Canadian Scouts. So they booted us out on paper, with the option to re-enlist as privates or take release. ‘Til now, I couldn’t make up my mind whether to quit.”

He jumped at Harry’s offer of sergeant’s rank again, even though he could only offer corporal’s pay. “Cut-rate special for you, cobber! What’s the game we’re on this time?”

Lanyard told Ned about their patrol’s assignment, not needing to mention the need for secrecy. “Our own special train’s heading east at dawn, so we have to get weaving. There’s parades for you to handle, so put your tapes back up right away.”

Harry stopped by his room at Officers Quarters to get into a fresh uniform. He came out feeling the new clothes were as stiff as the holster riding high on his belt. Ned just raised an eyebrow at the plume Harry had stuck in his rolled hat-brim.

They went to join Lt. Scayles, who was on the parade-ground checking off the nominal roll of the men ready for patrol. Harry knew most of them, trail-mates from Howard’s Scouts; Bramah, Cameron, Fletcher, Fontaine, McKay, Parkin, Rimmer, van Praage, and Wignall. He tried to weigh up the unfamiliar seven new men as they responded. When called, each shouted his name and the last three of his regimental number.

“Abbott, eight-three-nine.”

“Baxter . . . iss hardt to rememper.”

“Haywood, eight-one-five”.

“deKrieger, seeks-seeks-sivvin.”

“Lascelles, neyn-debble-too.”

“O’Malley, tree-tree-foive.” Harry had met the man before, and knew him to be a hard-case Regular.

“Schammerhorn, yo! Foah-wuun-foah.”

When the muster was completed, Sergeant Coveyduck bawled, “Senior officer on parade! Atten-shun!” The troops jerked erect smartly, for Harry’s benefit, and to further make their point. Before, they had deliberately acted slovenly to irritate Scayles, who they detested at first sight as an MP.

“Riiiight-dress!” They snapped heads sideways to face right, pushed fists against the shoulder of each next man, extended arms for even spacing, and shuffled their feet into straight lines.

Ned gave Lanyard an elbow-vibrating salute, then called, “Pah-rade, stand at, ease!” They stamped their boots apart and clasped hands behind backs.

Right away, van Praage, Fontaine, and other ex-Scouts called good-naturedly ribald greetings to Lanyard. Bramah’s fat face creased in a big grin. “Great to see you again, Harry. Maybe now we can get on with this war!”

Scayles scowled at their Colonial unruliness, and looked Ned over critically. He took in the replaced stripes held by safety-pins, but just drawled the standard officer’s comment, “Carry on Sergeant.” He handed the duties-list clipboard towards Coveyduck.

Harry shook his head, “I need him to help pick horses.”

He raised his voice to order, “Stand easy.” The men’s slouch barely changed. “I’m glad a lot of us know each other, because this isn’t going to be any ordinary patrol. For once, we’re not going out on a simple search-and-destroy. We have a different job to do that’s even more important. I’ll fill in the details once we’re on the veld, but for now, get it into your heads our mission is to go find something, without picking any fights.”

Lanyard walked slowly along the two ranks, looking into each man’s face. “So, tough as you are, I don’t want any showing off. If you come across any commandos, just keep your heads down and high-tail it out of there.”

“Hey, come on, Harry!” Wignall called, “You really want us t’skedaddle anytime we see one lousy Boer?”

“I mean exactly that, Barney! You will not fire unless fired upon or directly ordered to shoot. Understood?”

Some nodded, but most looked puzzled at the unusual mission of a non-aggressive patrol. They showed even more surprise when Harry produced the ostrich feathers. “Half the commandos’re wearing khaki now, but all wear beards so they can identify each other from a distance. We’ll do the same thing, with these in your hats.” He handed the plumes to van Praage. “Pass them out afterwards.”

“Okay, men, it’s payday, so raise all the hell you want tonight, but be damned sure to keep your lips buttoned about the patrol. I expect you here at six o’clock tomorrow morning, fully saddled up and equipped for a long trek, ready to take the train. God help anybody who isn’t. Carry on, Lieutenant Scayles.”

On the way back to the stables, Ned said, “You got anybody picked for signaler?” He looked sideways. “Maybe you could see to springing Jiggy for the job. They slapped the horny little bugger on Number One.”

“Ah, Christ, what next?”

Even after Coveyduck told the full story, Harry took his time over choosing the horses. The stable-sergeant saw a fellow expert in Ned, an ex-stockman, and was apologetic about the poor selection on offer. “Fair disgrace, the rate this army’s killing off the poor beasts. I hear tell Kitchener’s knackered over four hundred thousand horses up to now.”

The Veterinary Corps n.c.o. hawked and spat to show his disgust. “No wonder, the way they gives some London shop-boy five minutes training with the first horse he’s ever seen in his life, then turn him loose to ride it to death.”

He led out what was available, from tall English thoroughbreds to Hungarian cobs and shaggy Cape ponies. The British army sent purchasing agents all over the world, buying up any horseflesh available for service in South Africa. The attrition rate from harsh field service killed them off as fast as they were being bought, so their breeds and condition were a mish-mash at every garrison stable.

When Ned opted to take Basuto Cape ponies, the farrier nodded his approval. “No poncy cavalryman looks twice at ‘em. None much over fourteen hands high, but those little nags keep going forever, and never catch a sickness.” There were not enough ponies to supply ten re-mounts as well, so Harry made do with Argentine horses. For pack-animals, Ned insisted they go with five Missouri mules, as he did not want the sickly Italian donkeys they were offered.

The farrier asked, “Can I make a suggestion, sir? All these remounts and mules’ll be a handful. A couple of Griquas along could help no end.”

“Not armed Auxiliaries are they?” Harry was thinking of how blacks with rifles had drawn the attention of the Boers who killed Gat.

“No, sir. Strictly horse-handlers, and the best there is, I reckon. Two good un’s are hanging around here looking for jobs.”

“Okay, have them report to Lieutenant Scayles. If he approves, they’re hired.”

Harry was reluctant to take time away from readying the patrol, but he could not ignore this side-errand. He signed out two ponies for immediate use, while Ned went to scrounge a snack to eat on the way.

They clattered down the main road from Belfast, past tall stacks of the coal-mines fuming thick smoke, then took a short-cut between shanties of the ‘Location’, as the native township was called. Sight of the Tommies brought out swarms of picaninnies, black infants with remnants of their umbilical cords waggling from swollen bellies as they scampered alongside, begging for food. The soldiers hurriedly threw their jam sandwiches among the urchins and cantered away along the north track.

As Ned had ridden by the concentration camp before, he took the lead. “Easy to find, sport.” He grinned crookedly, “Might say, just follow your nose.”

The trail had deep ruts in it from heavy wagon traffic, and turned muddy when it reached the wetlands just beyond town. Otters splashed, blue herons croaked, caracals called, and bright puff-tails, barbets, and louries sang everywhere. Harry felt good to be outdoors after so many weeks of confinement, a horse between his knees and the pure scent of pine trees wafting down the slope.

Coveyduck was enjoying the same feeling. “This is the life, eh? After the shooting’s over, it’ll take civilian life a bit of getting used to. Don’t much fancy myself going back to catching wild brumbies in Queensland. Hard to imagine you behind a bank counter again, either.”

“I try not to think about it. I’m all for peace breaking out, but my prospects in civvie-street are best described as piss-poor.”

Harry handed a chunk of Rowntree bar to Ned, and they chewed the sweet chocolate in contented silence. After a half-hour’s riding up-hill through woodlands, the wind turned cooler, a hint of the bitter cold that would arrive on the Eastern Highlands within a couple of months. They rode out of the trees, and the Steencampsberg rose ahead in a sudden wall of rugged crags poking high into misty rain-clouds.

Harry took in the alpine beauty and said, “Looks a lot like back home in B.C.”

Ned jerked his head angrily, “Except for that!”

Rows of grubby white bell-tents, hundreds of them, were set in straight lines up the sloping hillside. The camp had no barbed-wire fence or walls, but a separate clump of tents showed a big sign, “Armed Guard Post. All Visitors Must Report Here”. Considering Harry’s unauthorized intention, it seemed a good place to avoid, so the newcomers took a short-cut off the track.

The steady mountain wind fluttered thousands of bits of soiled paper and menstrual-stained cloth that littered the ground ringing the camp. Then the breeze shifted, wafting a stink so bad it made Harry gag. The nauseating stench of human waste was fouler than anything Harry had ever smelled. Ned dead-panned, “‘Wouldn’t dismount if I was you, sport.”

Excrement lay everywhere on the open ground. People had used the entire area as an outdoors latrine, and left an unbelievable stinking mess that fed swarms of buzzing flies. “Strewth, nothing but shit and jam-rags!” The Australian hawked and spat a gobful. “I bet old Kitchener never visited this particular hell-hole!”

The horses snorted and shied at the odour, and the men reined back onto the track. A young lance-corporal in a blue uniform hurried out of the guard post. He was what the Afrikaners called a Cape Coloured, part Hindoo, part Malay. He saluted smartly. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I ask your business, sirs?”

Harry identified himself, and bluffed that he was here to take back a man from the camp for urgent duty. “Oh, dear. Completely impossible, sir. No soldier is allowed inside the women’s camp without express written permission.” The Guard Service n.c.o. hitched his old Martini rifle proudly. “Even I, myself, the perimeter commander, must ask permission to enter, sir.”

Ned shouted and galloped ahead to the man drooping against a fence. Luckily, the Provost squad who put him there had given Mendip a Wolseley sun-helmet to protect against the glaring afternoon sun. Harry was shocked to see the state Jiggy was in otherwise. His whole body shook, and big patches of sweat and dried salt on his tunic showed how much he was suffering from heat-stroke.

The trooper somehow managed a grin, cracked lips and all. “Sorry I can’t salute, sir.” Field Punishment Number One had him pinioned with both arms strung sideways, roped by the wrists to the fence-rails, two hours on, two hours off, for three days.

“Hope she was worth it, Jiggy.”

Harry had been told by Ned the charge was ‘Publicly performing an indecent act in a posted OOB area.’ There was no officer around to plead for the prisoner to be released into his custody, so Harry just nodded for Coveyduck to start sawing with his clasp-knife at the ropes.

“Ta, Ned. Who’d’ve expected fookin’ Redcaps to come up here at night and nab me shaggin’ under a wagon?”

Trying to sound stern, Harry said, “Careful you don’t put it quite that way to my new second-in-command. Now, how’d you like to go off in the blue with us tomorrow?”

“Oh, sir, this man was put here as an example to obey Refugee Camp rules. He is not to be released, please!” The lance-corporal’s six Coloured guards had turned out as well, looking nervous in case they had to back him up against a white officer.

“Regulations are very strict about keeping troops away from the refugee women, sir.”

“This man is required for special duties, Corporal”.

Harry showed his stores priority letter, though it had no relevance to this situation. The HQ letterhead seemed to impress the lance-jack well enough, and he led his men away.

Mendip was groggy on his feet, grey tongue sticking out. Ned said, “We should get him to sick-bay, soon as poss.”

“Best not, Harry.” Jiggy panted. “I wouldn’t pass the short-arm exam, and the M.O.’ll put me on a fizzer. It’d mean thirty days in the glasshouse, not to mention the medics reaming me out with that umbrella tool every morning.”

Harry sighed loudly, “Christ, what else?”

The British army punished the contacting of venereal disease as a similar offence to getting drunk. ‘Placing himself in such a condition as to be unable to carry out his duties’. If the MO put Jiggy on a charge, the painful medical treatment would be far worse than the month spent in detention cells. More important, there was nowhere else Harry could find another signaler who was also able to translate with Bantus.

“If you’ve caught a dose, think you could cope with being in the saddle?”

“Only a bit of clap, sir, not syph. Just give me a chance to flash t’old mirror again for you, and I’ll ride anywhere, right as rain.”

A horse and cart rattled out the camp’s entrance and headed along a side trail. Two blanket-rolled adult bodies lay in the wagon, beside five tiny shapes wrapped in baby shawls. A dozen gaunt women held the cart sides, and tried to shush the noisy infants who skipped behind unaware. The soldiers pulled their hats off as the funeral cart went past, but women shook their fists in reply. A mourner limped over to Harry’s stirrup and cursed, “Enteric seize you!”

Lanyard sat watching the procession until Ned said, “These hands of his look in a bad way.”

“Yeah, maybe they’ll dole out some first-aid at the field-hospital.” He had spotted the black “H” on a marquee inside the camp.