often elapsing without their seeing a white face, and then it is the
kind of white man that they do not want to see; every man's hand against
them, native as well as German, unable to light fires at night for fear
of discovery, sleeping on the ground, creeping up close, for in this
bush one can only get information at close quarters; always out of food,
forced to smoke pungent native tobacco. They have to live on the game
they shoot, and it is a hundred chances to one that the shot that gives
them dinner will bring a Hun patrol to disturb the feast. Theirs is
without doubt the riskiest job in such a war as this.

Here is the story of a night surprise, as it was told me. The long trek
had lasted all day, to be followed by the fireless supper (how one longs
for the hot tea at night!), and the deep sleep that comes to exhausted
man as soon as he gets into his blankets. Drowsy sentries failed to hear
the rustling in the thicket until almost too late; the alarm is given,
pickets run in to wake their sleeping "bwona," all mixed up with
Germans. The intelligence party scattered to all points of the compass,
leaving their camp kit behind them. There was no time to do aught but
pick up their rifles (that is second nature) and fly for safety to the
bush. Now this actual surprise party was led by one Laudr, an
Oberleutnant who had lived for years in South Africa, and had married an
English wife. Laudr had the reputation of being the best shot in German
East, but he missed that night, and my friend escaped, unharmed, the
five shots from his revolver. Next morning, cautiously approaching the
scene of last night's encounter, he found a note pinned to a tree. In it
Laudr thanked him for much good food and a pair of excellent blankets,
and regretted that the light had been so bad for shooting. But he left a
young goat tied up to the tree and my friend's own knife and fork and
plate upon the ground.