CHAPTER XII

_Reflections_

That night Bertram was again unable to sleep. Lying awake on his hard and narrow bed, faint for want of food, and sick with the horrible stench of the swamp, his mind revolved continually round the problem of how to “personally conduct” a convoy of a thousand porters through twenty miles of enemy country in such a way that it might have a chance if attacked. After tossing and turning for hours and vainly wooing sleep, he lay considering the details of a scheme by which the armed escort should, as it were, circulate round and round from head to tail of the convoy by a process which left ten of the advance-guard to occupy every tributary turning that joined the path and to wait at the junction of the two paths until the whole convoy had passed and the rear-guard had arrived. The ten would then join the rear-guard and march on with them. By the time this had been repeated sufficiently often to deplete the advance-guard, the convoy should halt while the bulk of the rear-guard marched up to the head of the column again and so _da capo_. It would want a lot of explaining to whoever was in command of the rear-guard, for it would be impossible for him, himself, to struggle up and down a line miles long—a line to which anything might happen, at any point, at any moment. . . . He could make it clear that at any turning he would detail ten men from the advance-guard, and then, when fifty had been withdrawn for this flanking work, he would halt the column so that the officer commanding the rear-guard could send fifty back. . . . Ten to one the fool would bungle it, and he might sit and await the return of the fifty until the crack of doom, or until he went back and fetched them up himself. And as soon as he had quitted the head of the column there would be an attack on it! . . . Yes—or perhaps the ass in command of the ten placed to guard the side-turnings would omit to join the rear-guard as it passed—and he’d roll up at his destination, with a few score men short. . . . What would be done to him if he—

_Bang_! . . .

Bertram’s heart seemed to leap out of his body and then to stand still. His bones seemed to turn to water, and his tongue to leather. Had a shell burst beneath his bed? . . . Was he soaring in the air? . . . Had a great mine exploded beneath the Camp, and was the M’paga Field Force annihilated? . . . Captain Hall sat up, yawned, put his hand out from beneath the mosquito curtain of his camp-bed and flashed his electric torch at a small alarm-clock that stood on a box within reach.

“What was that explosion?” said Bertram as soon as he could speak.

“Three-thirty,” yawned Hall. “Might as well get up, I s’pose. . . . Wha’? . . . ’Splosion? . . . Some fool popped his rifle off at nothing, I sh’d say. . . . Blast him! Woke me up. . .”

“It’s not an attack, then?” said Bertram, mightily relieved. “It sounded as though it were right close outside the hut. . . .”

“Well—you don’t attack with _one_ rifle shot—nor beat off an attack with _none_. I don’t, at least,” replied Hall. . . “Just outside, was it?” he added as he arose. “Funny! There’s no picket or sentry there. You must have been dreaming, my lad.”

“I was wide awake before it happened,” said Bertram. “I’ve been awake all night. . . . It was so close, I—I thought I was blown to bits. . . .”

“’Oo wouldn’ sell ’is liddle farm an’ go ter War,” remarked Hall in Tommy vein. “It’s a wearin’ life, being blowed outer yer bed at ar’ pars free of a mornin’, ain’t it, guv’nor?”

A deep and hollow groan, apparently from beneath Bertram’s bed, almost froze that young gentleman’s blood.

Pulling on his slippers and turning on his electric torch, Hall dashed out of the hut. Bertram heard him exclaim, swear, and ask questions in Hindustani. He was joined by others, and the group moved away. . . .

“Bright lad nearly blown his hand off,” said Hall, re-entering the hut and lighting a candle-lamp. “Says he was cleaning his rifle. . . .”

“Do you clean a rifle while it is loaded, and also put one hand over the muzzle and the other on the trigger while you do it?” asked Bertram.

“_I_ don’t, personally,” replied Captain Hall, shortly. He was loath to admit that this disgrace to the regiment had intentionally incapacitated himself from active service, though it was fairly obvious.

“I wish he’d gone somewhere else to clean his rifle,” said Bertram. “I believe the thing was pointed straight at my ear. I tell you—I felt as though a shell had burst in the hut.”

“Bullet probably came through here,” observed Hall nonchalantly as he laced his boots. (Later Bertram discovered that it had actually cut one of the four sticks that supported his mosquito curtain, and had torn the muslin thereof.)

Sleep being out of the question, Bertram decided that he might as well arise and watch the setting-forth of the little expedition.

“Going to get up and see you off the premises,” said he.

“Stout fella,” replied Hall. “I love enthusiasm—but it’ll wear off. . . . The day’ll come, and before long, when you wouldn’t get out of bed to see your father shot at dawn. . . . Not unless you were in orders to command the firing-party, of course,” he added. . .

Bertram dressed, feeling weak, ill and unhappy. . . .

“Am I coming in, sah, thank you?” said a well-known voice at the doorless doorway of the hut.

“Hope so,” replied Bertram, “if that’s tea you’ve got.”

It was. In a large enamel “tumbler” was a pint of glorious hot tea, strong, sweet and scalding.

“Useful bird, that,” observed Hall, after declining to share the tea, as he was having breakfast at four o’clock over in the Mess. “I s’pose you hadn’t ordered tea at three forty-five, had you?”

Bertram admitted that he had not, and concealed the horrid doubt that arose in his mind—born of memories of Sergeant Jones’s tea at Kilindini—as to whether he was not drinking, under Hall’s very nose, the tea that should have graced Hall’s breakfast, due to be on the table in the Mess at that moment. . . .

If Captain Hall found his tea unduly dilute he did not mention the fact when Bertram came over to the Mess _banda_, and sat yawning and watching him—the man who could nonchalantly sit and shovel horrid-looking porridge into his mouth at four a.m., and talk idly on indifferent subjects, a few minutes before setting out to make a march in the darkness to an attack at dawn. . . .

Ill and miserable as he felt, Bertram forgot everything in the thrilling interest of watching the assembly and departure of the little force. Out of the black darkness little detachments appeared, sometimes silhouetted against the red background of cooking fires, and marched along the main thoroughfare of the Camp to the place of assembly at the quarter-guard. Punctual to the minute, the column was ready to march off, as Captain Hall strolled up, apparently as unconcerned as if he were in some boring peace manœuvres, or about to ride to a meet, instead of to make a cross-country night march, by compass, through an African jungle-swamp to an attack at dawn, with the responsibility of the lives of a couple of hundred men upon his shoulders, as well as that of making a successful move on the chess-board of the campaign. . . .

At the head of the column were a hundred Sepoys of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, under Stanner. In the light of the candle-lantern which he had brought from the _banda_, Bertram scrutinised their faces. They were Mussulmans, and looked determined, hardy men and fine soldiers. Some few looked happily excited, some ferocious, but the prevailing expression was one of weary depression and patient misery. Very many looked ill, and here and there he saw a sullen and resentful face. On the whole, he gathered the impression of a force that would march where it was led and would fight bravely, venting on the foe its anger and resentment at his being the cause of their sojourning in a stinking swamp to rot of malaria and dysentery.

How was Stanner feeling, Bertram wondered. He was evidently feeling extremely nervous, and made no secret of it when Bertram approached and addressed him. He was anything but afraid, but he was highly excited. His teeth chattered as he spoke, and his hand shook when he lit a cigarette.

“Gad! I should hate to get one of their beastly expanding bullets in my stomach,” said he. “They fire a brute of a big-bore slug with a flat nose. Bad as an explosive bullet, the swine,” and he shuddered violently. “Stomach’s the only part I worry about, and I don’t give a damn for bayonets. . . . But a bullet through your stomach! You live for weeks. . . .”

Bertram felt distinctly glad to discover that a trained regular officer, like Stanner, could entertain these sensations of nervous excitement, and that he himself had no monopoly of them. He even thought, with a thrill of hope and confidence, that when his turn came he would be less nervous than Stanner. He knew that Stanner was not frightened, and that he did not wish he was snug in bed as his brother-officers were, but he also knew that Bertram Greene would not be frightened, and hoped and believed he would not be so palpably excited and nervous. . . .

Behind the detachment of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth came a machine-gun team of _askaris_ of the King’s African Rifles, in charge of a gigantic Sergeant. The dismounted gun and the ammunition-boxes were on the heads of Swahili porters.

Bertram liked the look of the Sergeant. He was a picture of quiet competence, reliability and determination. Although a full-blooded Swahili, his face was not unhandsome in a fierce, bold, and vigorously purposeful way, and though he had the flattened, wide-nostrilled nose of the negro, his mouth was Arab, thin-lipped and clear cut as Bertram’s own. There was nothing bovine, childish nor wandering in his regard, but a look of frowning thoughtfulness, intentness and concentration.

And Sergeant Simba was what he looked, every inch a soldier, and a fine honourable fighting-man, brave as the lion he was named after; a subordinate who would obey and follow his white officer to certain death, without question or wavering; a leader who would carry his men with him by force of his personality, courage and leadership, while he could move and they could follow. . . . Beside Sergeant Simba, the average German soldier is a cur, a barbarian, and a filthy brute, for never in all the twenty years of his “savage” warfare has Sergeant Simba butchered a child, tortured a woman, murdered wounded enemies, abused (nor used) the white flag, fired on the Red Cross, turned captured dwelling-places into pig-styes and latrines in demonstration of his _kultur_—nor, when caught and cornered, has he waggled dirty hands about cunning, cowardly head with squeal of _Kamerad_! _Kamerad_! . . . Could William the Kultured but have officered his armies with a hundred thousand of Sergeant Simba, instead of with his high-well-born Junkers, the Great War might have been a gentleman’s war, a clean war, and the word _German_ might not have become an epithet for all time, nor the “noble and knightly” sons of ancient houses have received commissions as Second Nozzle-Holder in the Poison-Gas Grenadiers, Sub Tap-Turner in a Fire-Squirting Squadron, or Ober Left-behind to Poison Wells in the Prussic (Acid) Guard. . . .

As Bertram watched this sturdy-looking Maxim-gun section, with their imperturbable, inscrutable faces, an officer of the King’s African Rifles emerged from the circumambient gloom and spoke with Sergeant Simba in Swahili. As he departed, after giving his orders and a few words of advice to Sergeant Simba, he raised his lantern to the face of the man in charge of the porters who carried the gun and ammunition. The man’s face was instantly wreathed in smiles, and he giggled like a little girl. The officer dug him affectionately in the ribs, as one smacks a horse on dismounting after a long run and a clean kill, and the giggle became a cackle of elfin laughter most incongruous. Evidently the man was the officer’s pet butt and prize fool.

“_Cartouchie n’gapi_?” asked the officer.

“Hundrem millium, _Bwana_,” replied the man, and as the officer turned away with a laugh, Bertram correctly surmised that on being asked how many cartridges he had got, the man had replied that he possessed a hundred million.

Probably he spoke in round numbers, and used the only English words he knew. . . . The African does not deal in larger quantities than ten-at-a-time, and his estimates are vague, and still more vague is his expression of them. He will tell you that a place is “several nights distant,” or perhaps that it is “a few rivers away.” It is only just, however, to state that he will cheerfully accept an equal vagueness in return, and will go to your tent with the alacrity of clear understanding and definite purpose, if you say to him: “Run quickly to my tent and bring me the thing I want. You will easily distinguish it, as it is of about the colour of a flower, the size of a piece of wood, the shape of elephant’s breath, and the weight of water. _You_ know—it’s as long as some string and exactly the height of some stones. You’ll find it about as heavy as a dead bird or a load on the conscience. That thing that looks like a smell and feels like a sound. . . .” He may bring your gun, your tobacco-pouch, your pyjamas, your toothbrush, or one slipper, but he will bring _something_, and that without hesitation or delay, for he immediately and clearly grasped that that particular thing, and none other, was what you wanted. He recognised it from your clear and careful description. It was not as though you had idly and carelessly said: “Bring me my hat” (or my knife or the matches or some other article that he handled daily), and left him to make up his mind, unaided, as to whether you did not really mean trousers, a book, washhand-stand, or the pens, ink, and paper of the gardener’s aunt. . . .

Behind the Swahili was a half-company of Gurkhas of the Kashmir Imperial Service Troops. As they stood at ease and chatted to each other, they reminded Bertram of a class of schoolboys waiting to be taken upon some highly pleasurable outing. There was an air of cheerful excitement and joyous expectancy.

“_Salaam_, _Subedar Sahib_,” said Bertram, as the fierce hard face of his little friend came within the radius of the beams of his lantern.

“_Salaam_, _Sahib_,” replied the Gurkha officer, “_Sahib ata hai_?” he asked.

“_Nahin_,” replied Bertram. “_Hamara Colonel Sahib hamko hookum dea ki_ ‘_Mut jao_,’” and the Subedar gathered that Bertram’s Colonel had forbidden him to go. He commiserated with the young Sahib, said it was bad luck, but doubtless the Colonel Sahib in his wisdom had reserved him for far greater things.

As he strolled along their flank, Bertram received many a cheery grin of recognition and many a “Salaam, Sahib,” from the friendly and lovable little hill-men.

In their rear, Bertram saw, with a momentary feeling that was something like the touch of a chill hand upon his heart, a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers, under an Indian of the Subordinate Medical Department, who bore, slung by a crossbelt across his body, a large satchel of dressings and simple surgical appliances. . . . Would these stretcher-bearers come back laden—sodden and dripping with the life-blood of men now standing near them in full health and strength and vigour of lusty life? Perhaps this fine Sergeant, perhaps the Subedar-Major of the Gurkhas? Stanner? Hall? . . .

Suddenly the column was in motion and passing through the entrance by which Bertram had come into the Camp—was it a month ago or only yesterday?

Without disobeying the Colonel, he might perhaps go with the column as far as the river? There was a water-picket there permanently. If he did not go beyond the picket-line, it could not be held that he had “gone out” with the force in face of the C.O.’s prohibition.

Along the narrow lane or tunnel which wound through the impenetrable jungle of elephant-grass, acacia scrub, live oak, baobab, palm, thorn, creeper, and undergrowth, the column marched to the torrential little river, thirty or forty yards wide, that swirled brown, oily, and ugly, between its reed-beds of sucking mud. Here the column halted while Hall and Stanner, lantern in hand, felt their slow and stumbling way from log to log of the rough and unrailed bridge that spanned the stream. On the far side Hall waited with raised lantern, and in the middle stayed Stanner and bade the men cross in single file, the while he vainly endeavoured to illuminate each log and the treacherous gap beside it. Before long the little force had crossed without loss—(and to fall through into that deep, swift stream in the darkness with accoutrements and a hundred rounds of ammunition was to be lost for ever)—and in a minute had disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up and lost to sight and hearing, as though it had never passed that way. . . .

Bertram turned back to Camp and came face to face with Major Manton.

“Morning, Greene,” said he. “Been to see ’em off? Stout fella.” And Bertram felt as pleased and proud as if he had won a decoration. . . .

The day dawned grey, cheerless and threatening over a landscape as grey, cheerless and threatening as the day. The silent, menacing jungle, the loathsome stench of the surrounding swamp, the heavy, louring sky, the moist, suffocating heat; the sense of lurking, threatening danger from savage man, beast and reptile, insect and microbe; the feeling of utter homelessness and rough discomfort, combined to oppress, discourage and disturb. . . .

Breakfast, eaten in silence in the Mess _banda_, consisted of porridge that required long and careful mastication by any who valued his digestion; pieces of meat of dull black surface and bright pink interior, also requiring long and careful mastication by all who were not too wearied by the porridge drill; and bread.

The bread was of interest—equally to the geologist, the zoologist, the physiologist, the chemist, and the merely curious. To the dispassionate eye, viewing it without prejudice or partiality, the loaf looked like an oblate spheroid of sandstone—say the Old Red Sandstone in which the curious may pick up a mammoth, aurochs, sabre-toothed tiger, or similar ornament of their little world and fleeting day—and to the passionate hand hacking _with_ prejudice and partiality (for crumb, perhaps), it also felt like it. It was Army Bread, and quite probably made since the outbreak of the war. The geologist, wise in Eras—_Paleolithic_, _Pliocene_, _Eocene_, _May-have-been_—felt its challenge at once. To the zoologist there was immediate appeal when, by means of some sharp or heavy tool, the outer crust had been broken. For that interior was honey-combed with large, shiny-walled cells, and every cell was filled with a strange web-like kind of cocoon of finest filaments, now grey, now green, to which adhered tiny black specks. Were these, asked the zoologist, the eggs of insects, and, if so, of what insects? Were they laid before the loaf petrified, or after? If before, had the burning process in the kiln affected them? If after, how did the insect get inside? Or were they possibly of vegetable origin—something of a fungoid nature—or even on that strange borderland ’twixt animal and vegetable where roam the yeasty microbe and boisterous bacillus? Perhaps, after all, it was neither animal nor vegetable, but mineral? . . . So ponders the geologist who incurs Army Bread in the wilds of the earth.

The physiologist merely wonders once again at the marvels of the human organism, that man can swallow such things and live; while the chemist secretes a splinter or two, that he may make a qualitative and quantitative analysis of this new, compound, if haply he survive to return to his laboratory.

To the merely curious it is merely curious—until he essays to eat it—and then his utterance may not be merely precious. . . .

After this merry meal, Bertram approached the Colonel, saluted, and said:

“Colonel Frost, of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, ordered me to be sure to request you to return his nine cooking-pots at your very earliest convenience, sir, if you please.”

Colonel Rock smiled brightly upon Bertram.

“He always was a man who liked his little joke,” said he. . . . “Remind me to send him—”

“Yes, sir,” interrupted Bertram, involuntarily, so pleased was he to think that the Pots of Contention were to be returned after all.

“. . . A Christmas-card—will you?” finished Colonel Rock.

Bertram’s face fell. He thought he could hear, afar off, the ominous sound of the grinding of the mill-stones, between the upper and the nether of which he would be ground exceeding small. . . . Would Colonel Frost send him a telegram? What would Colonel Rock say if he took it to him? Could he pretend that he had never received it. Base thought! If he received one every day? . . .

Suppose he were wounded. Could he pretend that his mind and memory were affected—loss of memory, loss of identity, loss of cooking-pots? . . .

“By the way,” said the Colonel, as Bertram saluted to depart, “you’ll leave here to-morrow morning with a thousand porters, taking rations and ammunition to Butindi. You will take the draft from the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth as escort, and report to Major Mallery there. Don’t go and get scuppered, or it’ll be bad for them up at Butindi. . . . Start about five. Lieutenant Bridges, of the Coolie Corps, will give you a guide. He’s been up there. . . . Better see Captain Brent about it to-night. He’ll hand over the thousand porters in good condition in the morning. . . . The A.S.C. people will make a separate dump of the stuff you are to take. . . . Make sure about it, so that you don’t pinch the wrong stuff, and turn up at Butindi with ten tons of Number Nine pills and other medical comforts. . . .”

Bertram’s heart sank within him, but he strove to achieve a look that blent pleasure, firmness, comprehension, and wide experience of convoy-work into one attractive whole. Wending his way to his _banda_, Bertram found Ali Suleiman making work for himself and doing it.

“I am going to Butindi at five to-morrow morning,” he announced. “Have you ever been that way?”

“Oh, yes, sah, please God, thank you,” replied Ali. “I was gun-bearer to a _bwana_, one ’Mericani gentlyman wanting to shoot sable antelope—very rare inseck—but a lion running up and bite him instead, and shocking climate cause him great loss of life.”

“Then you could be guide,” interrupted Bertram, “and show me the way to Butindi?”

“Yes, sah,” replied Ali, “can show _Bwana_ everythings. . . . _Bwana_ taking much quinine and other _n’dawa_ {133a} there though. Shocking climate causing _Bwana_ bad _homa_, bad fever, and perhaps great loss of life also. . . .”

“D’you get fever ever?” asked Bertram.

“Sometimes, sah, but have never had loss of life,” was the reassuring answer. . . .

That morning and afternoon Bertram spent in watching the work of the Camp, as he had no duties of his own, and towards evening learnt of the approach of the expedition of the morning. . . .

The column marched along with a swing, evidently pleased with itself, particularly the Swahili detachment, who chanted a song consisting of one verse which contained but one line. “_Macouba Simba na piga mazungo_,” {133b} they sang with wearying but unwearied regularity and monotony. At their head marched Sergeant Simba, looking as fresh as when he started, and more like a blackened European than a negro.

The Subedar and his Gurkhas had been left to garrison the outpost, but a few had returned on the stretchers of the medical detachment.

Bertram, with sinking heart and sick feelings of horror, watched these blood-stained biers, with their apparently lifeless burdens, file over the bridge, and held his breath whenever a stretcher-bearer stumbled on the greasy logs.

As the last couple safely crossed the bridge and laid their dripping stretcher down for a moment, the occupant, a Gurkha rifleman, suddenly sat up and looked round. His face was corpse-like, and his uniform looked as though it had just been dipped in a bath of blood. Painfully he rose to his feet, while the Swahili bearers gaped in amazement, and tottered slowly forward. Reeling like a drunken man, he followed in the wake of the disappearing procession, until he fell. Picking up the empty stretcher, the bearers hurried to where he lay—only to be waved away by the wounded man, who again arose and reeled, staggering, along the path.

Bertram met him and caught his arm as he collapsed once more.

“_Subr karo_,” said Bertram, summoning up some Hindustani of a sort. “_Stretcher men baitho_.” {134a}

“_Nahin_, _Sahib_,” whispered the Gurkha; “_kuch nahin hai_.” {134b} He evidently understood and spoke a little of the same kind. No. It was nothing. Only seven holes from Maxim-gun fire, that had riddled him as the German N.C.O. sprayed the charging line until a _kukri_ halved his skull. . . . It was nothing. . . . No—it would take more than a _Germani_ and his woolly-haired _askaris_ to put Rifleman Thappa Sannu on a stretcher. . . .

Bertram’s hand seemed as though it were holding a wet sponge. He felt sick, and dreaded the moment when he must look at it and see it reeking red.

“_Mirhbani_, _Sahib_,” whispered the man again. “_Kuch nahin hai_. _Hamko mut pukkaro_.” {134c}

He lurched free, stumbled forward a dozen yards, and fell again.

There was no difficulty about placing him upon the stretcher this time, and he made no remonstrance, as he was dead.

Bertram went to his _banda_, sat on the edge of his bed, and wrestled manfully with himself.

By the time Hall had made his report to the Colonel and come to the hut for a wash and rest, Bertram had conquered his desire to be very sick, swallowed the lump in his throat, relieved the stinging in his eyes, and contrived to look and behave as though he had not just had one of the most poignant and disturbing experiences of his life. . . .

“Ripping little show,” said Captain Hall, as he prepared for a bath and change. “The Gurkhas did in their pickets without a sound. Gad! They can handle those _kukris_ of theirs to some purpose. Sentry on a mound in the outpost pooped off for some reason. They must just have been doing their morning Stand-to. . . . All four sides of the post opened fire, and we were only attacking on one. . . . They’d got a Maxim at each corner. . . . Too late, though. One hurroosh of a rush before they knew anything, and we were in the _boma_ with the bayonet. Most of them bunked over the other side. . . . Got three white men, though. A Gurkha laid one out—on the Maxim, he was—and the Sergeant of the Swahilis fairly spitted another with his bayonet. . . . Third one got in the way of my revolver. . . I don’t s’pose the whole thing lasted five minutes from the time their sentry fired. . . . The Hundred and Ninety-Eighth were fine. Lost our best Havildar, though. He’d have been Jemadar if he’d lived. He was leading a rush of his section in fine style, when he ‘copped a packet.’ Stopped one badly. Clean through the neck. One o’ those beastly soft-nosed slugs the swine give their _askaris_ for ‘savage’ warfare. . . . As if a German knew of any other kind. . . .”

“Many casualties?” asked Bertram, trying to speak lightly.

“No—very few. Only eleven killed and seven wounded. Wasn’t time for more. Shouldn’t have had that much, only the blighter with the Maxim was nippy enough to get going with it while we charged over about forty yards from cover. The Gurkhas jumped the ditch like greyhounds and over the parapet of the inner trench like birds. . . . You _should_ ha’ been there. . . . They never had a chance. . . .”

“Yes,” said Bertram, and tried to visualise that rush at the belching Maxim.

“Didn’t think much of their _bundobust_,” continued Hall. “Their pickets were pretty well asleep and the place hadn’t got a yard of barbed wire nor even a row of stakes. They hadn’t a field of fire of more than fifty yards anywhere. . . . Bit provincial, what? . . .”

While Hall bathed, Bertram went in search of Captain Brent of the Coolie Corps.

Dinner that night was a vain repetition of yesterday’s, save that there was more soup and cold bully-beef gravy available, owing to the rain.

The roof of the _banda_ consisting of lightly thatched grass, reeds, twigs, and leaves, was as a sieve beneath the tropical downpour. There was nothing to do but to bear it, with or without grinning. Heavy drops in rapid succession pattered on bare heads, resounded on the tin plates, splashed into food, and, by constant dropping, wore away tempers. By comparison with the great heat of the weather, the rain seemed cold, and the little streams that cascaded down from pendent twig or reed were unwelcome as they invaded the back of the neck of some depressed diner below.

A most unpleasant looking snake, dislodged or disturbed by the rain, fell with sudden thud upon the table from his lodging in the roof. Barely had it done so when it was skewered to the boards by the fork of Captain Tollward. “Good man,” said Major Manton, and decapitated the reptile with his knife.

“Just as well to put him out of pain,” said he coolly; “it’s a _mamba_. Beastly poisonous,” and the still-writhing snake was removed with the knife and fork that had carved him. “Lucky I got him in the neck,” observed Tollward, and the matter dropped.

Bertram wondered what he would have done had a small and highly poisonous serpent suddenly flopped down with a thump in front of his plate. Squealed like a girl perhaps?

Before long he was sitting huddled up beneath a perfect shower-bath of cold drops, with his feet in an oozy bog which soon became a pool and then a stream, and by the end of “dinner” was a torrent that gurgled in at one end of the Mess _banda_, and foamed out at the other. In this filthy water the Mess servants paddled to and fro, becoming more and more suggestive of drowned birds, while the yellowish khaki-drill of their masters turned almost black as it grew more sodden. One by one the lamps used by the cook and servants went out. That in the _banda_ went out too, and the Colonel, who owned a tent, followed its example. Those officers who had only huts saw no advantage in retiring to them, and sat on in stolid misery, endeavouring to keep cigarettes alight by holding them under the table between hasty puffs.

Having sat—as usual—eagerly listening to the conversation of his seniors—until the damp and depressed party broke up, Bertram splashed across to his _banda_ to find that the excellent Ali had completely covered his bed with his water-proof ground-sheet, had put his pyjamas and a change of underclothing into the bed and the rest of his kit under it. He had also dug a small trench and drain round the hut, so that the interior was merely a bog instead of a pool. . . .

Bertram then faced the problem of how to undress while standing in mud beneath a shower-bath, in such a manner as to be able to get into bed reasonably dry and with the minimum of mud upon the feet. . . .

As he lay sick and hungry, cold and miserable, with apparently high promise of fever and colic, listening to the pattering of heavy drops of water within the hut, and the beating of rain upon the sea of mud and water without, and realised that on the morrow he was to undertake his first really dangerous and responsible military duty, his heart sank. . . . Who was _he_ to be in sole charge of a convoy upon whose safe arrival the existence of an outpost depended? What a _fool_ he had been to come! Why should _he_ be lying there half starving in that bestial swamp, shivering with fever, and feeling as though he had a very dead cat and a very live one in his stomach? . . . Raising his head from the pillow, he said aloud: “I would not be elsewhere for anything in the world. . . .”