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Subject: {ASSM} Ostafrika (Part 7) By Katzmarek (MF,Rom,Hist,War,slow)
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<1st attachment, "Ostafrika 7.txt" begin>
OSTAFRIKA 07
BY KATZMAREK
-------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note.
This is a work of fiction. It cannot be used for gain without the
Author's express permission in writing.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Ostafrika (Part 7) Defeat!
Shona Kabentinde likes her new name. It is the same name as her
new husband Khawja and, like the whites, she decided to take his
name as her own. It is the white custom and she thinks it's a
good one. Some of the white customs are strange and harder for
her to understand. For instance, the white men take only one
wife. How is one wife to cope with the work and the children? How
can one wife bring honour to her husband?
Her husband Khawja had a senior wife, but now she has given
herself to another. Shona was a little puzzled as to why Khawja
did not beat this man. She reasons it's because the man is a
chief and beating him would cause big problems within the white
people's village. Khawja shows her that he is a man of wisdom
when acts like that.
When her husband came to her father and uncles to ask for her, he
had offered them a big bride-price. Her family had been very
honoured. Khawja said that she must keep knowledge of their
marriage from the whites because they will be very angry. He
therefore claimed her well away from them, among the rushes that
grow down by the banks of the great river Rukwa.
He claimed her while Khawja's senior wife was still living in his
house. He told her that she could not come to his house because
his senior wife would be very jealous. Shona was angry that she
couldn't live with her husband. She would sit by the white's big
house for hours and look across at her husband's home. She felt
bad thoughts
towards this Kherda and was happy when she left for the White
chief.
Before that happened, Khawja found them an old disused hut beyond
the western stream. There were holes in the walls and the roof
leaked but Khawja and two of her brothers fixed it up for them.
It was lonely out there when Khawja was away so he used to invite
her sister and some of the other girls to go out and keep her
company. Sometimes they were there when Khawja came and, every so
often, he'd have them stay when they made love together. He said
the whites do this occasionally to show the girls what a husband
and wife do together. She thinks it is a good idea.
She even let them help him get ready for her. He would tell them
to take off their clothes and touch him with their mouth and
hands. Shona would lie on their cot and display herself for him.
The girls were very curious about white men's bodies. He will,
though, only make a baby with Shona.
She had been terrified when the 'Hairy chins' came to make war on
them. The German-whites' spirits had been the stronger, however,
and the 'hairy chins' had run back to their village as fast as
they could go. She wishes the 'hairy chins' would now move their
village somewhere else, for it is too close to them. Khawja told
her that the 'Hairy chins' are waiting for more of their people
to come, and that we must be very polite to them. He said the
Askaris will go with the German-white chiefs and leave them to
make peace. He told her not to worry because the white chiefs of
the 'Hairy chins' will make sure they will not be harmed.
She has heard from her husband that his senior wife, the one who
left him for another, the one called 'Kherda' has been taken by
the 'Hairy Chins.' It has wounded his heart because he still
loves her. One day, she knows, Khawja will cherish her in the
same way. After all she has his child growing inside her.
The white 'Missionary man' tells the African that their spirits
are false. Shona doesn't understand this, because she can hear
them chatting to each other in the streams and on the wind. The
`Sisulu' spirit, she knows, has touched her husband, because he
has the gift of knowledge and wisdom. The 'Sisulu' is very
powerful and Shona knows she is lucky to have her husband.
One day, he has told her, they will walk as man and wife through
the great village of the whites and their women will talk to her
and treat her as an equal among them. How could they not do that?
After all, her husband teaches their children.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Gerda Carpentier feels nauseous and dizzy from the
blow to her head. She lies on a cot in the headquarters tent of
the British camp amid the flies and stifling heat. The British
medic, who bandaged her poor abused head, pronounced that she had
suffered concussion. He has told her she'd had a blow on the back
of her
head and she was very lucky. Gerda doesn't feel lucky, however:
just sick.
She is tired of the British Officer's questions. Tired of his
grilling her about her husband Klaus Spangenburg. She wishes he
would go away but he keeps coming back, sometimes alone and
sometimes with that huge Indian. They speak in French, because
the Britisher can't understand German. Sometimes he would
translate from French to
English for the Indian to understand. It is very tedious. There
is one thing the English do not know, though. Gerda can
understand English quite well, however she finds it difficult to
converse in that language. Hence she can understand things she
wasn't meant to know.
The English call them 'Huns'. She doesn't like the reference to
the Asiatic barbarians who raided the glory of Rome. But, she
supposes, she wasn't meant to.
"Are the Germans so short of men that they get their wives to fly
their aeroplanes?" the Captain asks.
"And your English women? They do your laundry and polish your
buttons?" Gerda replies, petulantly
"Damned right they do!" the Britisher tells her, "they leave
fighting to the men. Never heard of such a thing among Europeans.
Your husband mustn't have much regard for you to let you fly into
a battle."
"Klaus doesn't tell me what to do, pigs!" Gerda angrily tells
him.
The English Captain laughs and, after translating for the Indian,
he too roars with laughter. Gerda boils with rage.
"A frisky mare isn't she, Daffadar?" he tells him in English, "I
wouldn't mind training her in a bit of 'dressage'? What do you
think, what?"
"If she was an Indian wife, she would not be talking so!" replies
the Sikh, shaking his head.
Gerda understands what they are saying clearly. She sees a red
flash before her eyes, senses the bitter taste of absolute hate
rising in her mouth and nose.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Leutnant Spangenburg returns with the Wachtmeister to Rungwa
beside himself with guilt and rage. I have rarely seen him so het
up. I too am angry, angry with the pair of them. Gerda, because
she has lost our aeroplane, which I have come to regard as a
valuable asset, and above all, I'm angry with Spangenburg.
Thanking the Wachtmeister
for his loyalty and bravery for ensuring the Leutnant's return, I
invite Spangenburg into a spare room at the Fleischer's, my
command post.
"That was irresponsible and unbecoming an Officer," I tell him.
Ignoring my criticism, he begs me to send an expedition to
retrieve Gerda.
"She may be alive, and injured!" he says. "Those Indians, who
knows what they might do to her?"
"And no thanks to you, Leutnant..."
"Damn you sailor!" He snarls angrily at me. "All your polite
rules mean nothing here. This is a fight to the death and there
is no room for gentlemen. The English know this, and so do I!"
"That is regrettable, Leutnant," I snap back, "but you think I
don't understand the bitterness of war? I'm speaking of pointless
little feuds that endanger the men you have a responsibility for.
The Wachtmeister may have been killed. It would be on your
conscience if..."
Before I finish my sentence, he storms from the room. I ask one
of my staff to watch him in case he embarks on another foolhardy
venture.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Musarewa, stationed on top of the Junker's barn, calls urgently
that troops are advancing towards his position. We expected this;
in fact, we believed this would be the enemy's first move. For
us, the position is indefensible for it is too far away to hold
with the troops at our disposal. To the enemy, however, it closes
the road north and puts his artillery within range of 'flat top.'
Our Krupp gun emplaced on 'Flat Top' is old and worn. Although it
has the range to bombard the Estate, we can't guarantee its
accuracy at that distance. The worn barrel lining causes the
shell to wobble in flight and doesn't form a perfect 'gas seal'
for the projectile. Hence the shell will deviate and this, of
course, becomes greater the farther the shell is fired.
Not so the Naval gun, however. This is one reason we have not
ordered it into battle as yet. It is our reserve 'anti-artillery'
weapon.
I order Musarewa over to our reserve Observation Post on the
opposite side of the Rukwa. We have provided two canoes for the
man and his equipment. From this position and 'Flat Top,' we are
able to observe the enemy's placement of his guns. They have
brought two up, one they position in the Junker's piggery, the
other behind the wall of the kitchen garden. As to the Junker's
porkers, I assume they died on active service. Their only hope
would have been if their captors were Mohammedans, for they do
not eat pork. Accompanying their guns is a squadron of cavalry.
These take up various positions around the buildings and
environs.
The estate has been well charted for the range takers of our
guns. They only need the name of the target and the order to
fire. As dusk begins to gather, our guns and theirs sit and watch
each other in a tense stand off. Who is going to fire the first
shot?
----------------------------------------------------------------
After dinner a runner arrives with the news that the main enemy
army is closing on Uwimbi. The town militia has fled south for
Lettow and Uwimbi is going to be left to the British. Where is
their relief column for Rungwa? Not for the first time today, I
am puzzled by the tactics of the English.
----------------------------------------------------------------
A messenger arrives at Captain Harris's tent to advise him that
'A' squadron and the half-battery of guns have taken up position
without incident. 'E' squadron is detailed to protect
communications between that position and headquarters. That
leaves the remaining half- battery and the regiment reserve of
two squadrons to defend the
camp against attack. It is impossibly few for such an area of
operations and the Captain knows it. He still, however, has not
forwarded a request for more troops.
Why is this? Can anyone really know what is going on in the mind
of the British officer? Vanity? Blind self-delusion? Perhaps a
refusal to see he is wrong and a misguided faith in his 'special
operations.'
He believes he now holds the 'trump' card in his bizarre game of
'cribbage.' Holding the wife of the 'heart' of Rungwa's defence
will surely bring the Leutnant to him. Maybe, by way of a
'treat', an exchange of prisoners, or some secret raid on his
headquarters. One way or another, he must come for her, and the
Captain will be ready.
An exchange is just what I have in mind as Kommandant. We have,
after all, a British General in our care and surely he must be at
least equal to the freedom of one woman. Consequently, I send a
Feldwebel over to the British under a white flag to request a
conference.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Preparatory to the exchange, should it be agreed, I invite the
General back from the civilian camp to the hotel for
consultation. Over supper, I acquaint him with the day's
operation and he seems incredulous. He cannot believe, he says,
that an experienced officer such as Colonel Rogers would
countenance such an attack. Regretfully, I have to tell him we
believe this Colonel was killed and expressed sorrow. As it
turned out, they were close friends. We, of course, are forced to
converse in French, at which neither of us are particularly
fluent.
"I believe, Captain, that your protagonist is one Captain
Harris," he informs me, "a top fellow but a bit prone to a rush
of the blood, don't you know!"
I explain that he is not the only one with that flaw. Indeed it
can be found in my second in command.
"Quite!" he says, "I had the pleasure of his acquaintance from
Uwimbi to Rungwa. Bit of a firebrand, what?"
"Yes, Herr General. If we don't obtain the release of his woman
friend, it may become rather like the Wild West, I think. A
personal duel on Main Street."
Oh," he chuckles and eyeing my long barrel Colt revolver, he
declares, "I see you've come admirably equipped for such a
contest."
I cannot do anything but laugh at the General's jesting. He is, I
believe, a fine fellow.
Just before dark, our Feldwebel returns, the enemy will talk but
cannot guarantee an exchange. I sense some duplicity is afoot.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Nighttime, sees a dozen members of 'A' Squadron, 2/7 Bengal
Lancers, creep through the reeds along the bank of the Rukwa
river. Their high cavalry boots regularly sink into the soft mud;
it is slow going. The objective, this time, is not the head of a
German Officer, but the 10.5cm Naval gun from the Konigsburg.
The problem, however, is that the gun sits on a promontory on the
other side of Rungwa. To reach it they have to sneak past the
whole town and it's defenders. Perhaps subterfuge will achieve
what a full frontal assault cannot?
It is a manifestation of 'cutting off the head' that so obsesses
the British commander. The Askaris, he believes, are no more than
a group of unruly children. Removal of the props that maintain
their courage, in his mind, will see them fleeing like so many
frightened geese. Perhaps, this man sees himself as a General
Kitchener sending the
Sudanese hordes of the Mahdi scrambling away in panic before the
guns of his professional soldiers?
Around midnight, they encounter the first sentry post. It is a
trench dug across the road with logs and brush piled in front.
Pressing forward on their hands and knees, two men approach this
post carrying their vicious butcher knives between their teeth.
The trickling sound of the nearby water obscures all other sounds
and they do their work,
silently and efficiently.
The next obstacle is the town itself, and to negotiate this they
slink along between buildings and water's edge.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
--
Meanwhile, I have requested the presence of George Carpentier. He
is an able linguist In French, English, Italian and Swahili. It
took some time to locate the man; he seems to be living in some
common law arrangement with a native girl well away from the
other Whites. To my surprise, the sad man agrees to my request
and journeys back over the river late at night.
He arrives with a shivering Black girl called Shona. She looks to
be with child. Perhaps in hindsight his estrangement from his
wife Gerda was understandable. She clings to the man's side like
a frightened puppy, unfamiliar maybe to the society of White
people.
I bring the man to the hotel for a briefing. He insists on
bringing Shona with him. The Hotel concierge demands she be taken
out, there being a policy of not having Blacks as guests. I
insist she stays; after all I want the co-operation of this man
tomorrow, not a man disgruntled over the treatment of his woman.
The outraged Hotel manager then fetches Inspektor Palmier but to
the man's credit, he doesn't intervene.
I am a sailor, not a great thinker. Things I've learnt in life
have been the skills I needed to accomplish the task in hand. I'm
not a great reader of books unless they concern themselves with
military or marine theory and practice.
Romantics at home may believe that war is a great adventure
filled with daring escapades, heroic deeds and such like. In
reality it is mostly utter boredom interspersed with tiny pieces
of sheer terror. That boredom is often associated with a crushing
discomfiture born of disease, unsanitary conditions, fierce heat
and chilling cold. The
terror: a realisation that someone at an impossibly short
distance away wants to end your life. Despite all that there is
perhaps too much time where one is left with nothing but the
thoughts inside your head.
I have listened to the rambling conversations from the White
citizens. Listened to their theories on 'Social Darwinism' and
the evolution of the species. Dr. Otto swears that the African
has longer arms because not so long ago he was swinging from the
trees like a chimpanzee. I have no idea if that's true. All I
know is that we are all God's children and if we expect the
Africans to take up arms in the service of the German Empire, the
least we can do is treat them with compassion and respect.
----------------------------------------------------------------
N'wimbi Zuni of Spangenburg's 'Uhlan' cavalry was one of the
volunteers who exploded the mines at the skirmish of the ford.
Regarded as a fierce and brave warrior, he has the reputation of
having the eyesight of a leopard and the hearing of a native dog.
This night, he is standing on Rungwa's steamboat landing as the
British raiders creep past the hotel along the riverbank.
Zuni likes to listen to the river at night. He believes the river
spirits talk to him in a far more eloquent fashion at that time.
The river 'messengers' convey advice from all the Zuni warriors
who lived before him. This time, his keen hearing hears something
else, something out of place in the darkness.
Stepping back into the shadow of the rushes, he crouches, and
listens.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I have just achieved some blessed rest when I'm awoken by a
flurry of rifle fire. This time it seems to be coming from the
middle of town so I leap from my cot, revolver in hand. One
learns to sleep in one's clothes so instantly I hit the ground
running. From the police post, I see flashes from behind the
customs shed by the steamboat landing.
The guard has spilled out onto the street and they, too, are
sprinting for the river. The firing appears to me to be moving in
a southerly direction along the bank so I order the guard to
split up. One group I order to go to the landing, the other to
follow down the street. It's clear another attack is in progress
and the enemy is by the water's edge. I make for the landing to
size up the situation for myself.
Zuni is there when I arrive, grinning like cheetah. By the
moonlight I can see a body among the reeds.
"'Hairy Chins'," cries Zuni, "two hands plus two... that way."
The sound of rapid firing along the bank indicates that our
guards have the enemy pinned down. Two bullets whiz past my head
so I duck for cover by the customs shed. The guards with me also
take cover and commence firing back. I point the big colt in the
direction of the flashes and add my own cannonade.
A hatless Askari runs to me saying the enemy have entered a
cottage along the way and are holed up there. I follow his
direction and shortly arrive at the scene.
At the cottage a Feldwebel has taken control. The enemy soldiers
are firing from the windows. The cottage ripples with the
blue/white flashes of their rifles.
"Herr Hauptmann," the breathless Feldwebel says, "I have ordered
a Maxim gun to be brought here. I suggest we set it up next to
the police station. It is too dangerous to rush the building; we
would take too many casualties."
"I agree," I reply, "we must shoot them out of there."
Meanwhile, their shooting is starting to have an effect. An
Askari runs past clutching a bloody shoulder. A second man
carries a badly wounded man on his back. The man's head is
rolling around and I fear he will not survive.
"Get me that damned machine gun!" I yell at no one in particular.
After a few bursts of fire from the Maxim, I hear shouting from
the cottage. The enemy plainly want to give themselves up. No
sooner do we have them march out when I hear the booming of
artillery to the north. Obviously we are to have no rest this
night.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The attacking force did well to advance undetected to within 100
metres of the first line of trenches on 'Flat Top'. Quietly they
wait for the brief bombardment from their two guns before rushing
the position. Presently, to their rear, the flash and report of
the 18-pounders signals the start of the battle. The ground
heaves as the shells land upon the second line of our defences.
Uttering their blood curdling war cries, the enemy leap onto our
defenders and a heavy struggle ensues. While this proceeds, the
enemy shellfire creeps up towards our single Krupp gun.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Harris waits until the fight is in progress before
leading the remaining squadrons of the Lancers down the river
road towards Rungwa town. The Cavalrymen are mounted and ride
quickly behind 'Flat Top'. Because the ground is relatively
restricted for mounted troops, his soldiers are strung out behind
to avoid bunching up and present us with a solid mass to shoot
at.
Taking the inner line of trenches by surprise, they swarm over
this obstacle while the Askaris are still wondering what's
happening. Now they are less than 5 kilometres from the middle of
the town and, so far, nothing has seriously held up their
progress.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Messengers arrive, breathless and panicky. It is hard to assess
the situation because all is confusion with men running to and
fro with little apparent purpose. Some Askaris I recognise as
part of our northern defences come running past. Clearly the
enemy is breaking through.
I feel a sharp stab of indecision in my breast. This is the time
for quick action but, if I make an incorrect choice, all will be
lost. I run headlong down the road, waving my pistol, determined
to vanquish the foe single handed if need be. I see movement down
the road in the dark; horses and many of them. Just then a shout
to my rear,
"Alarm... Uhlans, to me!"
There's Spangenburg and about half a dozen cavalry. Around him I
see more men scrambling for mounts. Riding up to me he shouts,
"The gun Hauptmann! Silence their artillery... leave these to
me!"
So doing, the East-African Cavalry detachment clatter past waving
their sabres in the air and screaming defiance at the enemy. I'm
driven to tears at their heroism.
Running back to the headquarters I scream at the telephone
operator to call our gun position. Winding furiously, I see he
cannot get through, so I sprint towards the gun myself yelling
for the crew to assemble. Arriving breathless and hatless, I see
that there are less than half the men present. However this is my
craft, this is what I have been trained to do.
Allotting the men present tasks to do, I call the range myself.
Two men work feverishly at the hand wheels to align the weapon
while others carry the shell to the breech. By torchlight I
quickly check that everything is correct. In the remarkable time
of 4 minutes, the gun is ready to fire. Drawing on the lanyard
myself, I do the honours.
"BOOM"
Our ears are deafened. We rub our eyes, dazzled by the blinding
flash. A few seconds later the phone rings, the bells sound like
a call to supper in some great house. I pick it up, it is
Musarewa from the OP across the river.
"500 metres over," he says, matter-of-factly.
Such remarkable things happen in war. In the midst of chaos a
lone man sits at his post calmly doing his job. I feel a wave of
confidence roll over me. Perhaps things are going to be ok after
all.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Shona Kabentinde's husband Khawja was between her legs when the
firing started. As the booming and rattling began, he stopped his
rolling movement, listened for a second, and then continued
quickly and furiously. It's as if he'd just heard the drumbeat of
hell approaching and he wants to finish his mortal life in
exquisite pleasure.
For her Khawja is not a warrior but a teacher. Now they find
themselves in the company of warriors and they're deathly afraid.
Shona clings to her man lest he leave for the white man's heaven
without her.
She had loved this man ever since her first day in class. He
spoke to them in their own language, taught them words in the
white man's tongue. Told them of the white's homelands where
giant metal structures crawl up into the sky. She had listened in
rapt attention and dreamt of those wonders at night. Dreamt of
ships that float in the sky and villages upon the ocean belching
black smoke.
Khawja would pick a girl after class to remain behind. He told
them they were to receive special tuition. Shona was puzzled at
first until the rumours started circulating. She started sneaking
back later to watch the girls when they left the school. She saw
some come grinning through the Gothic-style double doors of the
old building. On other occasions, the girl was crying and holding
herself between her legs. A smart girl, Shona didn't need much
imagination to figure out what was going on.
However her mother and older sisters had taught her well what to
expect when a man wants to claim her. They said sometimes it
would hurt a little but the pain would soon go away. They had
described to her what she must do to keep her man from straying
to the arms of another. Before the time came when she would be
picked to remain
after class, she was ready.
"Shona," he had said, "I have chosen you today for special
tuition, please remain after class."
She had remained, head down as the others left the class. Some of
the girls grinned at her, some looked on her with pity. Opening
the door at the back of the class to his office, he told her to
stand in there and wait.
His cluttered desk dominated the room. Wicker screens hung down
over the windows filtering the sunlight into fitful rays. Along
one wall was a couch; it's floral cover threadbare and stained.
When he followed her into the room, he explained that this was a
very important lesson, he had, he said, to prepare young women
for their future husbands.
"First you must take down your pants and show me what you have to
offer your husband," he'd said.
Shyly she complied, whereupon he told her to sit on the couch and
open up her legs. He'd stared at her kitty for a while before
feeling and poking her with his fingers. Rubbing the front of his
pants, he'd told her she seemed admirably equipped for the task
of wife.
At 13 Shona had undergone the women's ceremony at their special
place by Lyjolas stream. There they had invited the spirits to
share the campfire and welcome the flowering of another young
woman. She'd winced when the witch-woman had pierced her hymen
and brushed her with the leaves from the Tukana tree. The woman
of her village had hummed to calm the spirits as her blood
dripped onto the sacred soil of the women's ring.
Now, barely two years later when many of her friends wer
contemplating marriage, she'd taken her future husband inside of
her and welcomed his seed into her being. As he'd entered her,
she'd wriggled in the way she'd been taught the men like. She'd
caressed his root with her muscles as he worked it in and out.
Khawja had grown very excited when she did this. He'd pulled
aside her shirt and suckled her like a baby.
The following day Khawja had requested her to stay later again.
No one in the class could remember him doing that before.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The enemy troops stand their ground as Spangenburg's cavalry
rides full tilt into the middle of them. Amid the rearing and
plunging of the horses the sabres slash and thrust the air, cries
and oaths and screams of pain. Perhaps lasting but a few minutes,
to the participants it seems like half an hour. More and more of
the following enemy lancers are piling into the fray behind,
until Spangenburg at last leads his tiring troopers west through
the
native village. The English frantically call in their straying
soldiers for the main objective, the town of Rungwa.
Meanwhile, Rungwa's main street is swelling with soldiers as more
and more arrive from the front lines. The German professional NCO
is well trained. He uses his initiative, sees what must be done
and takes control. He doesn't mill around waiting for orders or
try to muster out his men. He finds a group of soldiers and gives
them tasks to do, irrespective of whether they are cooks or
cavalrymen. That has always been the strength of the German armed
forces, this adaptability.
Tonight is no exception as Feldwebels and Obergefreiters cajole
and encourage men into firing positions along the main street.
Instead of waiting for a senior officer to take control, they
quickly stabilise the situation. The Maxim gun used in the
shootout with the raiders earlier is fully manned and waits
expectantly by my headquarters for the onset of the enemy.
By accident or design, I am no longer in control of this battle.
In my absence the Hydra has sprouted many heads. Spangenburg
wisely doesn't return the way he went. It would invite an
all-German battle, as the anxious waiting infantry would pour
forth rifle fire at anything trotting up the street. Such is the
danger of night operations. Instead of our most experienced
Officer, the infantry is under the control of Sergeants.
Following the steady advice coming from Musarewa in the OP, I
send shell after shell in the direction of the Junker's estate.
Our observer tells us the enemy has ceased firing and is
attempting to move his guns into other positions. Clearly they
are trying to upset our aim. The result, though, means the
enemy's advancing troops on
'Flat Top' are doing so without artillery support.
Meanwhile the galloping enemy stumble headlong down the main
street to be greeted by the massed rifles, and one machine gun,
of our infantry. The Officer leading, Captain Harris, has his
horse shot out from under him and drops to the ground rolling
over and over. The huge Daffadar pulls up and waves frantically
to the following riders
to retreat. He falls, however, over his saddle and is taken back
the way he came by his panicky horse. As the enemy cavalrymen
become aware of what is happening, they, too, turn and try to
ride back. Spangenburg waits, however, with his cavalry and they
pour volleys from their carbines along the enemy escape route.
On 'Flat Top', the Krupp gun is able to fire over open sights
straight at the scrambling enemy in the lower trenches. When they
see, though, the remains of their cavalry returning in disarray,
the enemy take to their heels in headlong flight back to the
estate. From the town and the trenches, our troops
enthusiastically chase the stragglers until finally giving up
from exhaustion. By midnight, almost by mutual consent, the
battle is concluded and everything
becomes quiet once more. Our tired troops lie down where they
stop, straggled over 10 kilometres of the river road.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Harris, meanwhile, finds himself lying on Main Street
while bullets whiz all about him. He lies still as Askaris run
past him, chasing the remains of his command out of town. When
the furore has died down, he crawls and runs for the river.
Undetected he steals a canoe from the riverbank and takes to the
water. Paddling down
opposite the mudflats, he makes shore and begins his long walk
back to camp. What is going through his mind we can only guess.
George Carpentier waits by the window of the saloon, his carbine
in hand. Shona crouches next to him with the boxes of cartridges.
He peers nervously out at the bodies strewn liberally up the
street, glowing blue in the moonlight. He will, he's told Shona,
sell their lives dearly.
However, the enemy doesn't come bursting through the door.
Instead, the hotel staff is busy clearing tables for use as an
emergency aid station. The Feldardzt prepares his instruments in
the corner. He believes they are going to be very busy this
night.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Gerda Carpentier, now Spangenburg, peers curiously past the guard
by the flap of the headquarters tent. She can hear the pounding
of horse's hooves, the shouting and swearing of the British and
Indians. Through the cacophony of sounds she makes out one voice,
an NCO bellowing for order.
"Over there... get him down of his horse. Where's Johnson, is he
here? Hey, you! get a fresh horse and go to Brigade... Not yet
you bloody fool! Wait till I've given you a message..."
"Sergeant, there's no-one behind us!" Gerda hears another say.
"Good, grab some fresh legs and go down there a ways and keep a
look out. Move you lazy bastard!"
Gerda hears the urgency, the desperation in the shouts and the
oaths. Obviously things haven't gone well for them, she is
pleased. Peering through the night, she tries to make out the
English Captain, but can't see him. It seems the British have
lost their Officers, for it is the NCOs who are taking control.
Presently, the Sergeant gathers the remaining men together in a
line. Stalking up and down, he calls them to order, assigns the
wounded to the medics, details tasks to the unwounded.
"Right, now listen! We can't stay here; they'll be on us
tomorrow. Grab your kit and horses. We'll go north across country
till we pick up the road. Then we'll head for Brigade. Any
questions?
"Shall we take the guns Sarge?" someone asks.
"Dismount the breechs and heave them into the stream. They'll
slow us down. Anything else?"
"What about the tents and supplies?"
"Burn everything we can't take with us. Now if you've nothing
else, we need to move, now!"
The men scatter and begin dismantling everything and grabbing
what they can. The Sergeant heads to the aid station, probably to
make some provision for the many wounded still filtering in.
Two men run towards the headquarters tent. Seeing Gerda, one
turns around and yells for the Sergeant.
"Hey, Sarge, what do we do about the Hun woman?"
"Send her over to the aid station... she can bloody well bandage
up a bit of the work her fucking hubby did."
"Hey, you!" the man in front of Gerda says, "get your sweet arse
over there. Macht de schnell, fraulein!"
Roughly he pushes her towards the aid tent, the wounded now
spilling out onto the ground.
"Au feu'" she tells them in French.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Some hours later, towards dawn, the little hospital is still
busy. Men lie in improvised stretchers in rows outside the tent
or just on the ground. Gerda works among them, changing dressings
and trying to ease the discomfort of the groaning men. She feels
the brooding looks of the soldiers and their attendants. Some of
the wounded push her
away; they'd rather die, they say, than be touched by a German.
Exhausted, she's barely aware of the lightening sky.
In the camp, a straggler resolves in the dawn. Hatless and
sweating, he approaches the tent, wide-eyed and desperate. It's
Captain Harris.
"Where's the men?" he asks the startled medics, "is this all
that's left?"
"Gone sir," the medic answers, "retreating upon the Brigade,
sir!"
"Oh are they just!" he replies, "and how many?"
"40, 50... maybe a hundred, sir. Couldn't say."
"As few as that?" he says, downcast, "and what are you going to
do with the wounded?"
"Wait for them," the Medic says nodding towards Rungwa, "can't
move many of them, sir!"
"Quite Corporal. So you are to sacrifice yourself into
captivity?"
"Yes sir... can't be helped sir!"
"Then the least I can do is wait with you, Corporal," the Captain
says.
Stepping out into the middle of the camp, he pulls his revolver
from its holster and checks the rounds in the cylinder. Standing
still as the rising sun silhouettes him, he faces Rungwa, a look
of calm serenity on his face.
Gerda stares at the figure. She thinks he looks pathetic.
(C)Katzmarek
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