supplies.

The road beside the hospital was the old caravan route that ran from the
Congo through Central Africa and by the Great Lakes to Bagamoyo by the
sea. For centuries the Arab slaver had brought his slave caravans along
this path: it may have been fever or the phantasies of disordered
subconscious minds half awake in sleep, or the empty night thrilling to
the music of crickets, that filled our minds with fancies in the
darkness. But this road seemed alive again. For this smooth surface that
now trembles to the thunder of motor lorries seemed to echo to the soft
padding of millions of slave feet limping to the coast to fill the
harems or to work the clove plantations of his most Oriental Majesty the
Sultan of Zanzibar.

THE WATERS OF TURIANI

Halfway between the Usambara and the Central Railway, the dusty road to
Morogoro crosses the Turiani River. In the woods beside the river, the
tired infantry are resting at the edge of a big rock pool. Wisps of blue
smoke from dying fires tell of the tea that has washed beef and biscuit
down dry and dusty throats. The last company of bathers are drying in
the sun upon the rocks, necks, arms and knees burnt to a sepia brown,
the rest of their bodies alabaster white in the sunshine. It is three
o'clock, and the drowsy heat of afternoon has hushed the bird and insect
world to sleep. Only in the tree-tops is the sleepy hum of bees, still
busy with the flowers, and the last twitter of soft birds' voices. Soft
river laughter comes up from the rocky stream-bed below, and, softened
by the distance to a poignant sweetness, the sound of church bells from
Mhonda Mission floats up to us upon the west wind.

Yesterday only saw the last of Lettow's army crossing the bridge and
echoed to the noise of the explosion that blew up the concrete pillars
and forced our pioneers to build a wooden substitute. Alas! for the
best-laid schemes of our General. The bird had escaped from the closing
net, and Lettow was free to make his retreat in safety to the Southern
Railway. Here at Turiani for a moment it seemed that the campaign was
over. Up from the big Mission at Mhonda, the mounted troops swept out to
cut off the German retreat. All unsuspected, they had made then-big
flank march to meet the eastern flanking column, and cut the road behind
the German force in a pincer grip. But the blind bush robbed our
troopers of their sense of direction, and the long trek through
waterless bush, the