Chapter 389: A Change of Hands
Forced by the Boers, large numbers of Black conscripts ("niggers" in the text) charged the East African positions, wielding "many nations" firearms and running directly toward the 111th Division.
"Fire!" came the order from the 111th Division's front-line commanders. The East African soldiers took aim and pulled their triggers. "Bang… bang… bang…" A rapid, rhythmic hail of gunfire tore through the Blacks, knocking many down at once.
Because the 111th was already a strong unit, bolstered by extensive training, their marksmanship was generally quite good—disastrous for those forced to run at them. Five hundred meters wasn't a long distance, but for the charging Black troops it became a desperate, one-way path. Even so, the rifle fire wasn't as terrifying to them as the machine-gun demonstration Wiggins had shown earlier.
Before the fight, Wiggins had chosen over twenty slaves, lining them up in front of a machine gun so that the rest of the captives could witness the carnage. The blood and gore that followed became a haunting nightmare. Compared to being shredded by gunfire at such a close range, an ordinary bullet wound at least preserved some part of the corpse—perhaps offering the faint hope that their souls wouldn't suffer as much after death.
Brave or not, none of them could break through the 111th Division's rifle formation. Inevitably, all those who charged fell. Some may have dropped and feigned death, but it was impossible to tell.
"Engineers, keep going! Never mind the rest!" the front-line commanders of the 111th ordered once they had repelled the attack.
Wiggins watched the outcome from atop the city wall and remarked, "They're useless."
He didn't bother with any more fruitless assaults. That single foray had already cost him hundreds of Black troopers. If anyone should have been getting shredded on the battlefield, he felt, it ought to be the East Africans, while he held the defensive.
Still, he couldn't just do nothing. Some intimidation was in order. So he ordered, "Battery Three, aim a cannon at the Germans and give them one shot!"
An 8-pounder, already loaded, fired toward the East African lines. Soldiers from the 111th Division's front, who had been watching the Boers adjusting their barrel, realized trouble was brewing and scrambled into their partially dug trenches for cover.
"Boom… kaboom…"
A huge crater erupted behind the lines of the 111th, raining dirt onto soldiers huddled in the trench, leaving them coated with soil.
"The Boers are using artillery—let's give them a taste of our own!" Chris growled through gritted teeth. "Gunners, get ready!"
The 111th had a total of sixty-seven 3-pounder cannons, a type once common in European armies but no longer widely used in countries like Prussia. East Africa still used them for easier transport—they only required two horses to move them around.
Once the 111th's artillery was in place, they set up a battery about three kilometers from the city. Chris, the division commander, gave the order: "Fire!"
"Boom…"
In an instant, Wiggins saw dozens of flashes streaking toward his position. "Take cover!"
"Crash…"
Shells exploded against the city walls, in Pretoria's streets, on buildings—more than a dozen places were hit, some of them the walls themselves.
"Dammit! When did the East African Kingdom get so many cannons?" Wiggins cursed, shaken but alive.
In fact, the 123rd Cavalry also had artillery, but Ernst hadn't deployed it yet. For now, the East African offensive was almost like a cat playing with a mouse, holding back part of its true strength.
"Commander, should we fire back at the Germans?"
Scowling, Wiggins replied, "Yes, aim at the German artillery positions!"
So Pretoria's artillery—only five guns—went into a duel against the East African gunners. Wiggins and the other Boers hid in shelters prepared before the fight.
Although the Boer guns had greater caliber, the East Africans' artillery skills were better. Their gunners trained regularly, whereas the Boers rarely fired their cannons. It was expensive, and they'd had no real need—nobody else had ever seriously invaded the Transvaal heartlands. Perhaps it had been years since these guns were last used; meanwhile, the East Africans carefully fine-tuned their aim. A shell exploded near one Boer cannon, and with a deafening crash, the gun and its mount tumbled down from the wall, carving a hole in the ground below.
It wasn't that East African shells were so powerful, but Pretoria's makeshift fortifications collapsed under the impact, taking the gun with them. Wiggins seethed, even more so when he realized they'd already exhausted their limited ammo—whereas not a single enemy gun had been destroyed. That was the real kick in the teeth.
"Commander, what do we do now?"
Wiggins sighed. "What can we do? Fight to the death. Have everyone ready. Don't waste a single bullet from now on. Load the rifles, fix bayonets, set up the machine guns—once the East Africans get close, we'll stake it all!"
The East African bombardment continued, shredding Pretoria's defenses. Soon, the so-called walls were full of cracks and craters. Yet Wiggins, refusing to budge, insisted on fighting to the end.
Finally, the shelling stopped. Delighted, Wiggins called out, "Boys, they must be out of ammo!"
But before he could celebrate, he discovered that while East Africa had been busy shelling Pretoria, their engineers had silently dug trenches to within a hundred meters of the Boers' outer defenses.
"Get those machine guns on the walls—everyone keep an eye on the enemy trench. Combine fire with our own trenches. The moment the East Africans show themselves, blast them!" Wiggins ordered.
All eyes watched as the East African engineers got closer—one hundred meters, ninety, eighty… then forty. The Boers expected the Germans to keep digging right up to their position, but the East African sappers suddenly stopped, no more dirt flying out.
Nobody could guess what the East Africans were planning. In reality, the sappers were simply exhausted. They returned along their trench to report.
"Commander, the passage is dug!" a soldier told Chris.
"Excellent. Grenadiers, stand by! Gunners, be ready to suppress the enemy's fire from the walls," the 111th Division's leader ordered.
So the Boers, seeing no further movement and thinking the Germans were done, started to relax. Suddenly objects came hurtling out of the East African trench and into the Boers' positions—hand grenades.
One African conscript noticed something smoking land in his trench. Before he could react—"Bang!"—he was gone instantly. Others were torn apart. The ones not immediately killed lost limbs and lay moaning in despair.
Chaos erupted in the trench after that hail of grenades. Many of the African recruits completely panicked, streaming out of the works in all directions, ignoring Boer officers. Even their bullets couldn't force the men back. Meanwhile, the East African artillery ramped up again, and their frontline units pressed forward. Thousands of panicked Africans scrambled into Pretoria's streets, unstoppable even though Wiggins himself tried firing a machine gun into their crowd. It was useless.
"This is finished! Everything's finished…" Wiggins slumped to the ground. Without those Africans as cannon fodder, the Boers alone had no hope of fighting off the East Africans.
Soon, East African troops scaled the walls—barely two meters high—and planted the Lion of East Africa banner on top.
"Commander, they've reached the wall. What do we do?"
Glancing at the young men around him, Wiggins said, "We lost. It's all my fault—I led you down this path. You must hurry out of here!"
"What about you, Commander?"
"Don't worry about me. Go!" Wiggins shoved them. "I was destined to fail. Just let me stay here…"
Once the others fled, Wiggins pulled a pistol from his pocket, gave it a look, pressed the muzzle under his chin, and murmured, "Farewell, Transvaal."
Bang…
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