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Updated: June 11, 2025
The prisoners had been collected and were about to be sent under escort to Kilwa. Fully under the impression that he was to be detailed for this monotonous but necessary duty Wilmshurst had reported himself to his colonel, but to his intense satisfaction he soon found that such was not the C.O.'s intention. "Concerning this MacGregor-Gobendorff fellow," continued Colonel Quarrier.
"In any case," remarked Wilmshurst, "the two spoors lead the same way, so we'll carry on." Half a mile further the tracks separated, the older ones continuing straight on, those of the boots breaking away to the left. After a brief debate the pursuers decided to follow the latter spoor. This they followed for another four miles until it vanished on an expanse of hard, sun-baked ground.
Half a dozen times he pulled himself together, only to realise that the overpowering desire for sleep had him firmly in its grip. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the cautious challenge of one of the sentries. Tari Barl and his companion were returning. "Well?" exclaimed Wilmshurst interrogatively, as the stalwart blacks stood stiffly to attention.
"German machine-guns, sir," replied Wilmshurst promptly. "Yes, worse luck," resumed the major. "We've been running after the shadow and the substance butts in during our absence." An orderly came dashing up with a written message. The major's face fell as he read it. "We're out of it again, Wilmshurst," he remarked, after the runner had been sent back with a confirmatory report.
Ten minutes later Second-Lieutenant Dudley Wilmshurst "jumped." The subaltern decided to go out alone. One man stood a far better chance of escaping detection than two; so greatly to the dismay of every Haussa in his platoon he faced the difficult task single handed.
The patrol hurried back to the spot where they had left their horses, Bela Moshi settling the question of how the physically weakened Rupert Wilmshurst was to be moved by lifting him in his strong arms. "Nothing ob him, sah," confided the Haussa. "Him weight of one-time porter load."
Momentarily Wilmshurst expected to see the blinding flash of the rifle. The fellow was a long time lingering over the sights, he thought. The young officer moved a couple of paces to the right. The sinister muzzle seemed to be following him, tantalisingly menacing. Acting upon a sudden impulse Wilmshurst flung himself flat on the ground.
From it he ought to be able to form a tolerably accurate idea of the nature of the terrain up to the base of the natural bastions of the Karewenda Hills. Wilmshurst had taken only half a dozen steps when a rifle shot rang out. Practically simultaneously with the shrill whistle of the bullet something seemed to hit the subaltern on the left shoulder like a blow from a hammer.
"I am anxious to find a certain individual known as von Gobendorff," continued the British subaltern. "Can you give me any information concerning him?" The oberst seemed considerably taken aback. "I do not know any person so called," he replied after a slight hesitation. "Think again, Herr von Lindenfelt," prompted Wilmshurst.
With rifle, bayonet and bomb the plucky sons of the Empire manned the frail defences, until the enemy, unable to achieve their objective, retired before the returning battalion could bring them to action. "Hullo, Wilmshurst!" exclaimed Laxdale, as the three subalterns of "A" company met just before a belated breakfast. "What happened to you?" "A wash-out," replied Dudley.
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