Four o'clock
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE `` Four o'clock mornin ' , sah ; bugle him go for revally . '' Dudley Wilmshurst , Second Lieutenant of the Nth West African Regiment , threw off the light coverings , pulled aside the mosquito curtains , and sat upon the edge of his cot , hardly able to realise that Tari Barl , his Haussa servant , had announced the momentous news . Doubtful whether his senses were not playing him false Wilmshurst glanced round the room . On a metal table , the legs of which stood in metal jars filled with water and paraffin to counteract the ravages of the white ants , lay his field-equipment -- a neatly-rolled green canvas valise with his name and regiment stamped in bold block letters ; his Sam Browne belt with automatic pistol holster attached ; his sword -- a mere token of authority but otherwise little better than a useless encumbrance -- and a pair of binoculars in a leather case that bore signs of the excessive dampness of the climate on The Coast , as the littoral of the African shore ` twixt the Niger and the Senegal Rivers is invariably referred to by the case-hardened white men who have fought against the pestilential climate and won .