Excerpts from

Perfect Gentle Knight

by Tove Foss

copyright 1997


He woke sometime in the night, hearing something, and sat up. Joseph was asleep in the tent, and
Johnny could just dimly see his earrings glinting from the remains of the fire. Samuel was sleeping too, but Uncle Mac wasn't in the tent.
Johnny sat up, and wondered where Uncle Mac was. His bedroll had been slept in, it was rumpled,
but Uncle Mac wasn't there. His hair would catch the light from the fire, just like Joseph's gold earrings did. Then he heard him talking softly outside the tent, and Johnny crawled to the tent flap, lifting it and peeking out.
Uncle Mac was standing there all alone, facing the area where Joseph had put the pots and pans,
speaking quietly in Swahili. Johnny could hear something clinking the pots and plates together, and wondered with a thrill of fear if someone had come up to the camp. Uncle Mac didn't have anything on but his shorts, he was standing there in the firelight nearly naked, and without his gun! Why was he talking so softly?
Johnny crawled through the tent flap and listened closely.
"Go ahead and have a look," Uncle Mac was saying in Swahili. To Johnny's surprise, he sounded
amused, and he put his hands on his hips. He was even barefoot, and he was just standing there while somebody went through the pots and pans! "There's really nothing there that you'd like to eat. I'm sorry about that, you might want to go back to your friends."
"Uncle Mac?" Johnny squeaked, unable to bear the suspense any longer. He'd heard something
shuffling around in the darkness by the kitchen'. It was very big.
"Come here, Johnny," Uncle Mac said softly, in the same language, and Johnny, having
heard and spoken it since he was tiny, went right to him. Uncle Mac went down on one knee, and set Johnny on the other one.
"It's an elephant, looking through our dinner things," Uncle Mac explained, and now Johnny could
see the grey hide and big legs, just barely illuminated by the firelight.
"Why were you talking to it?" he asked. Without thinking, he'd shifted over to Swahili.
"Just keeping it company. It's an old female. I've seen her before. She's friendly, don't shake so.
She's a greedy old woman, she's hoping she'll find something to eat. There's a herd of them right nearby, if you listen close you can hear them."
Johnny did listen, and became aware of faint snufflings and movements all around them.
"She's the only one who comes close, but this isn't the first time she's decided to have a look
through my kitchen," Uncle Mac smiled.
"Can the elephant understand Swahili?" Johnny asked.
"The elephant understands my intentions, and that's what's important," Uncle Mac answered. "She
can hear from the tone of my voice that I won't harm her. So she stays gentle and minds her own business."
The elephant shifted, and looked toward them, and Johnny could see the little intelligent eye as it
caught the fire's glow.
"Why are you out here so late?" Johnny asked.
"I haven't slept a night through since I was shot," Uncle Mac answered, his eyes on
the elephant. "I usually get up and prowl around, and then I heard my old friend out here, so I thought I'd have a word with her."
"If she's your friend, why would you hunt elephant?" Johnny asked, his arm tight around
Uncle Mac's neck, watching as the elephant finished with the pots and looked toward them. "How could you kill one, if they're your friends?"
Uncle Mac sighed, and looked at him.
"It isn't easy," he answered. "Perhaps one day there'll be an answer for that question.
Maybe people will hunt with cameras instead of guns."
Johnny watched, his eyes growing huge as the elephant stepped a little closer, her bristly head and
fan like ears clearly visible in the firelight. She extended her rubbery trunk in their direction for a moment.
"Good night then, Old Mother," Uncle Mac said softly, shifting from English to Swahili. Johnny liked
the way he spoke it, his big voice moved around the words easily, and he knew many more than Johnny did. The elephant watched them for another moment, and then blew air through her trunk and turned, walking away into the darkness.
Johnny looked up at the stars and felt his uncle's arm around his skinny little chest. I will remember
this night even when I'm an old man, he thought, dizzied by the breeze, the burning stars and the sounds of the elephant herd as they slowly moved away from the camp.



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The sun went down in silence, and Arthur found himself missing the usual singing of the Africans as
dusk set in. They had been very still since Johnny was hurt, though he sometimes heard them chanting beneath their breath, prayers for the dying.
But Johnny wasn't dying, he was hovering somewhere between life and death, and didn't seem
to have the power to push through the barrier that was between them.
He began talking again, reminded Johnny of the time when he had hit a target from horseback for the
first time, riding in front of Reg on Victor. And he told him about cherishing and loving him when he was a baby, how he would hold him and tell him African stories, so that the first thing Johnny would know would be the legends of the land he lived in.
"You were so tiny, mannie, I couldn't believe how small your fingers were," he whispered, using
a wet cloth to sponge Johnny's forehead. "I always told you that funny one you like so much, about the giant being killed by the hen. I used to tell it so you would laugh, even before you knew enough words to understand it."
Oh God he could feel it, Johnny was slipping away, he was losing him. He'd tried to convince himself
that he'd sensed healing in this mangled body, but it was the opposite.
"I wish I'd made you hate Africa!" he burst out in a whisper, looking furiously around at the
darkness, hearing the terrible silence. "I wish I'd made you call England Home, even if you'd never been there. I wish I'd never claimed you as my own that day when I first saw you, but I was only thirteen, Johnny, I had no idea what I was doing! I'm sorry, son."
Johnny was still, unresponsive. Arthur sponged his forehead again. Yes, he was feverish,
the medicinewasn't working. The infection was deep inside the wounds and the vultures would be back tomorrow in earnest, to claim this body. Arthur felt the tears searing his throat, but continued to speak.
"I'm sorry, Johnny. I love you, more than anyone else in the world, more than my father, or
Delia or even Annie and Cathy. I'd do anything to have it to live over again, knowing what I know now. You'd have never thought hunting was wonderful, or wanted to do it, and you would have never seen this place and loved it . . ."
He was babbling, and he'd already said the important thing. He loved Johnny, he always had,
from the first moment he'd seen those deep blue eyes in the baby face. Now, to send him to sleep with something familiar, something he loved.
Arthur's mind raced, trying to find something that would do, something that Johnny could die hearing.
"I will tell of a giant who was killed by a hen," he said shakily, dipping the cloth
and wringing it out, holding it on Johnny's forehead again. His voice failed him for a moment, and then he could speak, and haltingly began the tale, which had made Johnny laugh so many times.
"And then," he whispered, halfway through now, fighting the pain in his throat and nose, trying
to remember the story, which he had been sure he could recite backwards. He couldn't, he'd lost the thread entirely, failing his nephew even in this.
"And then, Uncle Mac?" The voice was so soft that Arthur could have dismissed it as a breeze
rustling the drying grasses. He looked down and saw that Johnny's eyes were open, that they were watching him, and filling with tears from the pain.
"It hurts, Uncle Mac," Johnny whispered, swallowing spasmodically.
"I know. But you can fight now that you're awake, son," Arthur whispered back, joyfully,
putting his hands on Johnny so the boy wouldn't see how they trembled, like aspen leaves.



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He could see Spencer's face. The eyes were open, staring back at him, and Arthur was sure
he was dead. Then he winked, making Arthur blink. A hand went up, bloodied, and signaled for silence. Arthur nodded, and suddenly smiled when Spencer smiled at him.
Arthur watched, as the Germans walked away, avoiding the minefield. They weren't about to check
the men there and take the risk of being blown to pieces themselves. He waited, anxious to get out there and pull Spencer back to the trench, but he couldn't move now, they might see him.
Another fifteen minutes, and he heard transports starting and pulling away. Then there was silence.
He pulled himself over the edge of the dugout, and crawled on his belly toward Spencer, slowly, agonizingly. The area wouldn't have been left unwatched, they wouldn't be that lucky, but the Germans probably thought none of them were left alive. Spencer whispered the moment he got near.
"It's too soon to come out, MacKenzie!"
"Where are you hit?" Arthur asked, ignoring the implied order.
"Legs, and my ass. I can't move one leg at all," Spencer said through gritted teeth.
Arthur got him under the arms and began to haul him backwards, leaving a trail of blood across the
ground. At the trench, Steve stood up and helped Spencer down, and Arthur slid down right after him, stretched him out on the ground and tried to assess his damage. It didn't look good. Spencer had missed the mined area, but there were several bullet wounds in his legs, hips and buttocks, some on the low back as well, near the spine. The spinal cord might be cut.
He didn't know how to begin with this, and bandaged the leg wounds as well as he could, while
Spencer tried to be chipper, his breath hissing through his teeth when Arthur inadvertently hurt him. Just as he was finished and helping Spencer drink, he heard a voice.
"Mac! Mac!" came the weak, quavering wails. Arthur stood, looking warily over the edge of
the trench.
"My God, it's Corky," he said in a tone of disbelief.
"Don't go out to him," Spencer said from the ground. "They'll have left the snipers here, at
least, to hold the area. They'll see you for sure."
But Arthur could see Corky, wriggling toward him, his face ghastly pale beneath the freckles.
The green eyes were desperate, and his leg . . .
"Christ, his leg's off," Arthur groaned, getting ready to boost himself over to go
to his friend.
"MacKenzie! I gave you an order not to go," Spencer moaned. Arthur crouched beside the man,
and gave him another drink of water.
"I'm pulling rank on you," he said quietly, while Steve stared.
"What?" Spencer asked, looking puzzled.
"How old are you?" Arthur asked, recapping the bottle and handing it to Steve.
"Twenty-eight," Spencer answered weakly.
"Then I'm bigger than you, I'm older than you, and I have legs that work. It's the law
of the jungle now, lieutenant. Corky's out there trying to crawl through a minefield with one of his legs missing. I can't stay here snug and safe."
"You have to obey orders," Spencer said, somehow smiling.
"I'll get you some paper when I get back, so you can start writing out the orders for my
court martial," Arthur answered, springing up out of the trench.
Again, the long, agonizing crawl across the ground, trying not to see the body pieces and chunks of
bleeding flesh all around. Corky had seen him coming, and stopped calling, to Arthur's relief. He'd been in dread that Corky's cries would draw attention to them.
The minefield scared him, but he crawled slowly from one exploded area to the next, praying there
was nothing buried between them. He made sure he left a trail, so he could get out safely with Corky.
Just a few more feet. Only a few more, and he could catch hold of Corky's extended hand.
Their fingers met, and held, and Arthur hauled the smaller man toward him, backed up along the safe
path he'd made, and hauled him along again, keeping flat on the ground lest they be seen. Finally they were clear of the minefield, and Arthur could move faster, which he did.
He could see that Corky had thought fast, putting his belt around what remained of his leg to stop
the bleeding, but the stump was charred, and the bone was showing at the end. Corky was moaning softly in pain, and said nothing as Arthur lowered him into the trench as Steve supported him.
Spencer struggled to sit up, looking at Corky's injuries. "The charring probably stopped most of
the bleeding," he said shakily. "That tourniquet he put on will have to be loosened every half hour or so."
"I know, lie down," Arthur responded, wetting a shirt from a kitbag with a little of the
precious water in the trench and wrapping the stump, trying not to look at the mutilation.
"Mac," Corky groaned in a whisper. "Mac, there's others out there still alive. They're
further out than I was, but they know you came for me."
"You can't keep moving around out there, MacKenzie, you'll bring those Germans down on us,"
Spencer said, regret in his voice.
"Who are they, Cork?" Arthur asked softly, loosening the tourniquet now that the stump of Corky's
thigh was bandaged. Corky bit his lips until they bled, trying to hold back cries of pain, and clenched Arthur's shoulder.
"Ralph, e's out there. E's scared to move like I did, e's further out. E's all blown to hell below
the waist, Mac, at least my balls are still there . . ." Corky's voice was going up, his eyes were wild, and Arthur put his hands on either side of his face.
"Corky, you can't do this now," he said intensely, looking into his friend's eyes. "Keep quiet,
or you'll give us away. The Germans think we're all dead here." He held a bottle of water to Corky's lips, and the kid managed a couple of swallows, and calmed down.
"Sorry Mac, it's them mines," he shuddered. "Then there's another bloke, I don't know is name,
but e's lost an eye for sure, and is other one--well, e can't see out of it, so e's scared to move too."
Arthur looked up at the sky. It would be a couple of hours before it began to get dark, and then
he would be taking a risk that he wouldn't be able to see well enough to follow his own safe trail and avoid the remaining live mines.
"Wait until dark, MacKenzie," Spencer groaned, shifting his position slightly as the pain
began to set in. He'd been so shocked that it hadn't seemed bad at first, but Arthur could tell it was building.
"Ralph won't make it that long, sir, e's bleedin' bad," Corky whispered. "An' they ain't all, Mac.
Andy's out there too. I think e just got knocked out, e was breathin' when I went past im, and e didn't look really urt, but e was sleepin' sound. If e comes to and jumps up, e'll be blown to pieces."
Spencer paled, and Arthur motioned to Corky to be silent. Corky closed his eyes, leaning his head back
against the wall of the trench, swallowing.
"Well?" he asked Spencer. The lieutenant's eyes were closed, his face distorted with pain and emotion.
"No, I can't order you to go into more danger yourself to save Andy," he whispered, so only Arthur
could hear him. "It could lead to all of us being killed."
"No, they'll think I'm a survivor just waking up, if they see me at all," Arthur answered. "I'm
not taking orders from you now, I'm taking them from something else. I can't leave them there, sir. I'm bringing them back."



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