grey boulders scattered about in some thick bush. Each boulder had two white knobs at one end. As the plane swooped
lower the lines of the spinal cords and the huge flapping ears became visible. The Hawk’s shadow glided silently over the backs of the herd, but they noticed nothing. The plane went on past them, losing height, until it was skimming over the tops of twisted acacias and the dark fleshy arms of euphorbias. One wing-tip missed a tall ant-heap by inches, and then the engine roared. The plane gave a jump like a startled horse and leapt
forward, climbing sharply.
“I didn’t want to scare them,” the pilot
56
explained into the speaking-tube attached to Vachell’s helmet. “They were feeding. They’ll stay where they are now all day, unless anything disturbs them.”
“That’s swell,” Vachell said with feeling. “We don’t want to risk disturbing them again.”
The country looked like a grey-green rug
thickly dotted with dark knots. They flew on at about two thousand feet, swooping down at intervals to inspect a family party of giraffe and two
rhino; herds of Grevy’s zebra, kongoni, and
Grant’s gazelle; a group of animals resting in the shade that Chris identified as oryx beisa and eland; and some black objects in a ravine which caused her to exclaim: “Look, buff.” There seemed to be no end of it, Vachell thought; it was like a lesson in zoology.
Half an hour later Chris turned and headed for home, setting a course to pass over the elephants.
She located the right patch of bush and flew low, but the herd was no longer there. She circled widely, using the glasses, but they were nowhere in sight.
“Something must have alarmed them,” she said
into the tube. “They looked settled in for the day.
I’m going to have a look.”
The Hawk turned eastwards, towards the hills, and flew low in big circles. Five minutes later Chris spotted something, pulled back the throttle, and swooped down to have a look.
“There they go,” she said. “They’re moving in 57
towards the hills. Something must have scared them all right.”
This time they looked like grey lice crawling over a flat surface. An aerial view, Vachell
thought, robbed elephants of all their majesty.
They looked undignified and insignificant.
“They’re doing eight or nine miles an hour, I should think,” Chris added. “They’ve travelled five or six miles and it’s now nearly half past eleven. That means they must have started moving about a quarter to. So it wasn’t us that disturbed them, thank goodness. We flew over them about half an hour before that.”
Chris swung the plane back on to a northern
course and in a short time the dark band that marked the Kiboko river came into sight. The
heat-haze below gave it the illusion of wriggling slightly, like a snake. Each of the countless specks of bush seemed to waver like black stars in an inverted dust-white sky.
They crossed the river and turned, and Chris
switched off the engine. They floated down
towards the camp, crossing the river again above a pool that lay about a mile downstream and shone beneath them in the sunlight like a new shilling. It was said to be the haunt of hippos. Vachell lent out as far as he could and gazed down at the fat, sleek back of one of the huge beasts standing, oblivious of inspection, by the pool’s edge. It raised its head and gave him a clear view of its round pink nostrils. They reminded him ofphoto-58
graphs of craters on the moon. As the plane flew over the water the engine started up again with a roar, spat two backfires in rapid succession that smacked against the air like rifle reports, and settled into its steady drone. The hippo plunged wildly into the water with a splash and a snort and disappeared from sight. The Hawk rose to clear the trees around the camp, skimmed over the neat symmetrical rows of tents, and drifted gently to earth on the bumpy airfield beyond.
It was noon when they landed, but they did not
lower the lines of the spinal cords and the huge flapping ears became visible. The Hawk’s shadow glided silently over the backs of the herd, but they noticed nothing. The plane went on past them, losing height, until it was skimming over the tops of twisted acacias and the dark fleshy arms of euphorbias. One wing-tip missed a tall ant-heap by inches, and then the engine roared. The plane gave a jump like a startled horse and leapt
forward, climbing sharply.
“I didn’t want to scare them,” the pilot
56
explained into the speaking-tube attached to Vachell’s helmet. “They were feeding. They’ll stay where they are now all day, unless anything disturbs them.”
“That’s swell,” Vachell said with feeling. “We don’t want to risk disturbing them again.”
The country looked like a grey-green rug
thickly dotted with dark knots. They flew on at about two thousand feet, swooping down at intervals to inspect a family party of giraffe and two
rhino; herds of Grevy’s zebra, kongoni, and
Grant’s gazelle; a group of animals resting in the shade that Chris identified as oryx beisa and eland; and some black objects in a ravine which caused her to exclaim: “Look, buff.” There seemed to be no end of it, Vachell thought; it was like a lesson in zoology.
Half an hour later Chris turned and headed for home, setting a course to pass over the elephants.
She located the right patch of bush and flew low, but the herd was no longer there. She circled widely, using the glasses, but they were nowhere in sight.
“Something must have alarmed them,” she said
into the tube. “They looked settled in for the day.
I’m going to have a look.”
The Hawk turned eastwards, towards the hills, and flew low in big circles. Five minutes later Chris spotted something, pulled back the throttle, and swooped down to have a look.
“There they go,” she said. “They’re moving in 57
towards the hills. Something must have scared them all right.”
This time they looked like grey lice crawling over a flat surface. An aerial view, Vachell
thought, robbed elephants of all their majesty.
They looked undignified and insignificant.
“They’re doing eight or nine miles an hour, I should think,” Chris added. “They’ve travelled five or six miles and it’s now nearly half past eleven. That means they must have started moving about a quarter to. So it wasn’t us that disturbed them, thank goodness. We flew over them about half an hour before that.”
Chris swung the plane back on to a northern
course and in a short time the dark band that marked the Kiboko river came into sight. The
heat-haze below gave it the illusion of wriggling slightly, like a snake. Each of the countless specks of bush seemed to waver like black stars in an inverted dust-white sky.
They crossed the river and turned, and Chris
switched off the engine. They floated down
towards the camp, crossing the river again above a pool that lay about a mile downstream and shone beneath them in the sunlight like a new shilling. It was said to be the haunt of hippos. Vachell lent out as far as he could and gazed down at the fat, sleek back of one of the huge beasts standing, oblivious of inspection, by the pool’s edge. It raised its head and gave him a clear view of its round pink nostrils. They reminded him ofphoto-58
graphs of craters on the moon. As the plane flew over the water the engine started up again with a roar, spat two backfires in rapid succession that smacked against the air like rifle reports, and settled into its steady drone. The hippo plunged wildly into the water with a splash and a snort and disappeared from sight. The Hawk rose to clear the trees around the camp, skimmed over the neat symmetrical rows of tents, and drifted gently to earth on the bumpy airfield beyond.
It was noon when they landed, but they did not
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