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Subject: {ASSM} Ostafrika (Part 8 Final) By Katzmarek (MF,Hist,War,Rom,Slow)
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<1st attachment, "OSTAFRIKA 08.txt" begin>
OSTAFRIKA 08
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 8) Retreat.
Gerda and the first aid party try an erect some canvas shelters
over the wounded lying on the ground. In the middle of the camp,
the Captain remains standing, as the sun gets higher in the sky.
A man takes him some water; he doesn't acknowledge or attempt to
take the bottle. The man leaves it on the ground next to him.
It is about mid-morning before they see movement along the road
from Rungwa, a party of riders and some wagons. The first-aiders
watch nervously as the distant procession makes it's way towards
them.
They see the Captain check his revolver again and then hold it in
two hands across the front of his body.
Presently, the party of riders approach. Gerda's heart leaps as
she spots her Leutnant beside me. Leaps with delight and
apprehension as she eyes the bitter English Captain.
I also have George Carpentier beside me as interpreter. Tucked in
behind him in the saddle is his native companion Shona. She
refuses to leave his side.
I have tried to achieve some respectability, a bath and my full
white Naval uniform. The Leutnant is in the same Khaki with which
he went to battle last night. As usual his battered wide-brimmed
hat with one side pinned to the crown, graces his head. Attached
to the East African badge is the black and white hackle of the
Uhlans.
Seeing the Captain standing there all alone, I trot my horse to
him and ask for his firearm. There is no response, therefore I
ask George Carpentier to translate for me.
"The Hauptmann asks for your weapon," George tells him in
English.
Still the man does not look up. He seems completely broken, so I
search around for someone else to whom I may communicate.
Presently a Corporal with the red cross of the Medical Corps on
his arm approaches. Through Carpentier, I ask him what his needs
are.
He begs assistance with the wounded for they are overwhelmed. I
have brought some wagons so I suggest we take all those able to
travel back to Rungwa. The Corporal gratefully accepts our offer.
"Corporal, would you be so kind as to prevail upon your Captain
to give up his weapon? I cannot permit him to go armed," I ask
the man.
"I'll try sir," he replies, "but the Captain... he's not himself
sir."
Before he reaches the Officer, Harris spins on his heels and
comes over to me. He hands the revolver, butt first to me and
stiffly bows.
"I am Captain Harris, sir, senior Officer."
"Hauptmann Ritter," I tell the Britisher, "Kommandant of Rungwa."
"Ah and Leutnant Spangenburg is..."
I look around to find Spangenburg in the arms of Gerda
Carpentier.
"The Leutnant is busy," I tell the Captain.
Having overseen the situation at the British camp, I ride with
the British Captain back to Rungwa. He speaks little, but is
polite and civil. Upon his face is an expression similar to
euphoria. I fear the Britisher has quite lost his wits.
Leutnant Spangenburg has elected to remain behind with Gerda, who
has chosen to care for a number of the British wounded.
Carpentier, therefore, accompanies me as interpreter, his Black
woman tucked behind his back.
Back at Rungwa, I take the Captain to the hotel to meet his
General. I give them a few moments alone. I presume they have
much to talk about.
"Sorry business, old boy!" the General tells the Captain. "Damn
it man, didn't you get my dispatch? Bloody French! Never should
have relied on the bounder."
"I received your letter, sir," the Captain replies.
"Well!" the General blusters, "why the deuce didn't you act on
it?"
"I... I don't know sir," the Captain says miserably.
"Don't know? What the devil an answer is that. Don't know? You're
a commissioned Officer in His Majesty's Imperial Armed Forces,
what the hell do you mean by 'you don't know.' You're supposed to
know, God damn it!"
"Sir, I believed I could carry out my orders. I didn't want to
distract Brigade from it's objective."
"What? That, my boy, is not your business. You've taken far too
much upon yourself. What General Aitken chooses to do with the
army is HIS business. Your duty was to inform him, Captain, and
allow HIM to assess what to do. You've behaved like a damned
amateur! Allowed yourself to be embarrassed by a rag-tag bunch of
Hun part-timers and a crowd of milling Africans. This will just
not do, Captain, not do at all!"
"Sorry sir..."
"Damned right you're sorry, Captain. And I'll make sure you stay
sorry. You shall never, sir, command soldiers again, if I have
anything to do with it. Frightful mess!"
Sullen and dispirited following his audience with the General,
Harris stumps off under guard to his lodgings in another room at
the hotel.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
-
By the end of a day's hard riding, the Lancers' messenger comes
into contact with the patrols of the British Expeditionary Force.
It takes him another 2 hours to find Major General Aitken, the
Force Commander. Exhausted and barely able to utter a sound, he
brings the first word of the disaster at Rungwa. The General
promptly calls a
conference of his senior Officers and orders the Messenger to
attend on them.
Now with the British army, as with all armies, a private is
reduced to a quivering wreck in the presence of Generals. The
poor Lancer is mercilessly grilled by these Officers as they try
to gain a picture of the strategic situation.
Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck has led these Generals a merry dance
throughout the colony of East-Africa. Consistently out-foxed,
they are beginning to believe the German commander is a magician,
able to know their decisions the instant they make them.
Receiving little by way of intelligence from Mozambique, and then
only from some panicky
Portuguese, they begin to form the belief that our General has
done it again. Perhaps, they believe, Lettow has outflanked them
and is heading north as they head south. It would, after all, be
typical of the man. This has been the only concrete sign of
German arms for weeks and not from Portuguese Mozambique, but
square on their flank.
They must, therefore, conform to Lettow's movements, as they
understand them. Turn towards Rungwa, secure the town, then
pursue Lettow North. Consequently orders are sent throughout the
entire 55000-man army. They are to head for Rungwa by way of the
headwaters of the river Rukwa.
The British and Indian refugees come straggling in towards the
main army. Each has a tale to tell, one of courage and tenacity
in the face of overwhelming might. None of these men, however, is
party to the full picture. The only ones who know the reality of
what went on there, are enjoying the hospitality of the Rungwa
hotel.
Consequently, the British Generals hear of ambushes by superior
numbers, each brilliantly executed by von Lettow himself. Indeed,
some remember the General on a tall white charger... or black,
directing proceedings personally. Few of these men would argue
that they haven't been in a fight with the entire German defence
force. Surely Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck is the only one capable of
defeating the Bengal Lancers. All this confirms to the Generals
that they are correct. Von Lettow is heading north and has just
smashed the Rungwa scouting force. So the pattern here continues.
Such faulty military intelligence is not unknown throughout
history and certainly not the preserve of the British Army. It is
exacerbated, however, with the remoteness and vastness of Africa
and the long lines of communications. It doesn't help, though,
having the brooding hostility or indifference of the population
to contend
with. If only the British paid more attention to the natives, for
they have an excellent communication network of their own, then
perhaps their fortunes may have been better.
Within a day, we know the enemy is moving upon us with his full
force.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Now is the time of anxious waiting. We must confirm the enemy's
line of march before choosing the route for our withdrawal. Then
we must ensure they have put as much distance between themselves
and the river Pangali as possible. Thus we will give ourselves
the best chance of meeting our waiting steamer unmolested.
At the average speed of a marching army, consisting mostly of
walking infantry, it should take them five days to reach Rungwa
at their best speed. That is presupposing they are not held up
somewhere by unseasonal rains, broken bridges and such like. I
intend to wait until they are but one day's march away before
effecting the
withdrawal.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The saloon of the Rungwa Hotel is now cluttered with wounded men
of both sides. There are perhaps close to 100 souls with various
wounds ranging from the life threatening to broken bones and such
like. Through the day, more men are found and brought in, some
suffering terribly from dehydration having been left under the
hot sun all
morning.
Some of the more grievously injured, those not expected to live,
still lie in the tiny British hospital tent some 20 kilometres
away. Gerda, however, and the Leutnant return accompanying the
wagons containing the less seriously wounded British and Indians.
This is an emergency that recognises no National boundaries.
British and German medics tend each other's soldiers sharing the
common denominator of humanity. In the middle of such bitterness
this is a miracle and a sight that gives us hope for the future.
The civilians over the river have all returned to their homes. Dr
Otto and Frau Otto have immediately taken charge of our hospital.
Other of the citizens are busy patching up any damage their
houses suffered last night. The erstwhile owner of the cottage
that houses Spangenburg, a trader, berates me as to its
condition. He tells me it's full of bullet holes and demands it
be repaired to his satisfaction. I have, I tell him, rather more
pressing matters than the repair of a cottage.
Some of the white residents of Rungwa pitch in and help with the
wounded. Others however seem more interested in their own
comfort. This is often the way. George Carpentier, and indeed all
the English speakers, are performing translation duties. His
Shona wanders around after him somewhat at a lost.
The Brigadier comes down from his rooms upstairs and offers
comfort to his soldiers. The Captain, though, chooses to remain
in a sulk, ensconced in his apartments. He's playing cards, I'm
told, with his Askari guard. Such strange behaviour! How can he
remain unconcerned when some hundred of his men lie suffering
below?
Such of the men that are able to stand unaided are encouraged to
sit outside on the lawn, allowing more room for the more serious
cases. The hotel staff have erected the brightly coloured awnings
to offer some protection from the sun. The hotel concierge is
quite beside himself, for most of his 'guests' now are coloured.
He complains that
his staff now have to thoroughly scrub down the whole hotel with
carbolic soap. I can't stand the man!
----------------------------------------------------------------
Leutnant Spangenburg returns to his lodgings with Gerda. They are
exhausted and fall asleep in each other's arms. Before he slumps
into unconsciousness, Gerda elicits a promise that they will in
future fight side by side. Fearless of the foe and contemptuous
of the rigours of campaigning, he is forced to submit before the
flickering
eyelashes and soft skin of a beautiful woman.
George Carpentier takes Shona back to his house that evening.
They too are tired after the day's activities. Shona is delighted
to be at last lodged in her 'proper' place, in her husband's
home.
Such remarkable things are happening here in the midst of war and
suffering. Perhaps, George and Shona will eventually become the
way of things out in Africa. Maybe, though, it's just an
aberration in the midst of chaos. In generations to come it maybe
that whole communities will consist of tan-coloured people living
in a society that is a blend of the African and the European. It
is for men like George Carpentier to say; he will not send his
inter-racial issue to native villages to be raised apart from
white society. Only then will we see any shifting of attitudes
from that displayed by the concierge. And, indeed, the crackpot,
intellectual bigotry of Dr. Otto.
Yes, I have learned many things out in Africa. We come as
teachers to leave as students. Africa does that to you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
George Carpentier learnt Swahili from books written by German
scholars who'd studied East Africa in the years following its
inclusion in the Empire. He is grateful he lives in such a
scientific and intellectual age. He is not pleased, however, that
he lives at a time of the most savage war in human history. This
is the true end of the Victorian era in world affairs. The
diplomatic system that had deterred the great powers from
slaughtering each other since the time of Napoleon has
degenerated into this time of secret alliances and self-interest.
George is a thinker; an intellectual, humanist, scientist and a
closet Fabian. For all his idealism he had found an Africa, not
waiting to be brought to civilisation, but a civilisation waiting
to be brought to the world. It had disturbed him how little his
fellow Europeans understood what was under their very noses.
Although married to a rich daughter of an adventurous family, he
did not really believe in the institution of marriage. It was,
after all, merely a way the capitalist sorts out property issues
and, at it's worst, another form of slavery. In Gerda he felt
he'd had a spiritual union welding his missionary zeal to her
thirst for adventure and foreign parts. They both, though, had
changed. Africa does that.
Instead of adventure, she'd found isolation, hard work and
drudgery. Rather than a culture thirsting for his guidance, he'd
found a people steeped in their own mores and customs. And these
customs had been perfectly adapted over many thousands of years
to the land in which they lived.
Above all, he'd found a relaxed attitude to sex and marriage.
He'd supposed girls were forced into marriages unwillingly, but
this is not so. Girls can and do choose freely although formal
arrangements are organised by the families concerned. They
differ, however, in having the freedom to experiment well before
their wedding day. By
that time, the bride has often had a number of lovers. He'd also
discovered a carefree interest among them in the European man's
body.
One day his students invited him down to their water hole. There
he'd found a dozen teenagers of both sexes laughing and cavorting
in the water, totally naked. What's more, he discovered, these
teens were quite happy to touch each other. He stood transfixed
while a girl with large breasts invited the boys to suckle her
like babies.
There was more hilarity when one of the boys waved his large
penis in her face. This sex play, though, did not seem to include
intercourse. Apparently these African teenagers are encouraged to
exercise some discipline in that regard.
Laughing, he was encouraged to shed his own clothes. He was then
subjected to 'examination' by these delightful young teenagers as
both girls and boys poked, prodded and eventually fondled him.
The afternoon came to a conclusion when he discovered two girls
servicing two boys with their mouths. They said they were having
a contest. A third teenager then volunteered to perform the same
act upon him. He discovered she was the same teenager with the
large breasts he'd seen earlier. His voyage into what some might
term depravity had begun
when her mouth closed over his member.
Africa had awoken in him a taste for the young, black female
body. As hard as he tried to resist, it was there waiting for him
the next day, and the next.
George shows Shona around her new home. She stares in wide-eyed
wonder at the fine European things and piles of books that are
strewn liberally around. She promises George she will ensure the
house is kept far tidier. Shona tells him that such a large house
needs to be filled with many children.
Entering the bedroom, she smiles at the large canopied bed. To
her it seems large enough for all her friends as well. George
smiles as she bounces up and down delighting in the springs.
She'd never slept on a sprung bed before. As she does so, George
watches the movement of her breasts inside her loose top. He
thinks he might have just enough energy to christen the bed
properly.
----------------------------------------------------------------
A 55,000-man army requires a lot of organisation to move from
place to place. A five-day march through the heat and dangers of
the country to be ready to fight on the sixth is worthy of praise
in itself. Throw into this equation the presence of several
squadrons of armoured cars, much artillery and a 'train'
consisting of motor lorries and horse-drawn wagons, then some may
consider it a miracle they can arrive anywhere at all. Africa's
heat and dust is anathema to the internal combustion engine. A
good part of the Expeditionary Force's motor transport is now
being hauled by bullocks. Most of the armoured cars will not
drive into battle.
This unnecessary detour on the part of the British/Indian army,
therefore, is a far larger inconvenience than it appears at
first. Often a five-day journey for such an army requires at
least that amount of time to prepare themselves for the actual
march.
To an extent, the army of von Lettow overcame that problem by
taking the least baggage with them on the move. Ammunition was
concealed in secret depots; we lived off the land and abundant
wildlife. We asked ourselves constantly, 'is this necessary to
take?' if an insufficient answer was found, the item got left
behind.
In the British army, it is said, each senior officer has a whole
lorry set aside for his personal belongings. Indeed it is
believed the British officers' champagne requires a convoy of
it's own.
Spangenburg and I agree to keep his cavalry at Rungwa. They are
too cut up after the battle to embark on any holding action on
the British force. Indeed, one wonders what they could accomplish
against such a vast steamroller. Instead, we set the fitter
troopers off in small groups south for the Pangali. They are
under orders to seek out von Lettow and rejoin our main forces.
So too the infantry. It is with a heavy heart I say goodbye to
these men, they who stood by Rungwa's defence uncomplaining.
These men on foot sing as they run kilometre after kilometre,
stopping only to quench their thirst when they come to a stream.
Many of these men are bootless and wear only tatters. They are,
though, tough and well used to the conditions of their homeland.
There is not an outside army in the world that could run these
men to earth.
The rest of us will leave when the enemy is one day away carrying
the essential supplies and the civilians who wish to leave. We
will move rather slower, slipping south of the enemy, and going
not for Lettow but for the SS Goethe on the Pangali.
The enemy's change of direction leaves Uwimbi free for us. From
there, Spangenburg is going to take the remaining part of his
cavalry south for Mozambique. I will attempt to navigate the
steamer into the Rufiji and on to the coast. My intention is then
to make south for the port of Lindi and wait for one of our
blockade-runners that use
that port. Should everything come to pass, my companions and
myself will be celebrating Christmas in Germany. There is, of
course, much that can go wrong with these plans.
Lindi, although technically still in our hands, is much visited
by the Royal Navy who frequently bombard the port. It is the only
remaining outlet left to the outside world. It is but a hundred
kilometres from the river Rowuna, the border of Portuguese
Mozambique, now allied, of course, with the British and French.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Our captives and the wounded will not be leaving with us. Neither
is the traitor Guy Martin, now ensconced at the police station.
The British will be bringing far better medical facilities than
we can provide. I see little point in hauling along prisoners of
war on such a journey.
Preparations are made to roll our guns into the River. So too the
ammunition and such military equipment that may be of use to the
enemy. I had toyed with the idea of taking one of the Krupps and
mounting it on the steamer, but the problems with that seemed
insurmountable. You cannot just put a field gun on the wooden
deck of a passenger steamer and expect it to be of use. The deck
would need to be strengthened, masts cut down to provide a field
of fire and the gun serviced somehow without the blast causing
more damage to us than the enemy. It would require far more time
to accomplish than we have at our disposal. No, we must go to sea
virtually unarmed except for rifles and machine guns.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Rungwa is beginning to empty out. We call ourselves the 'bitter
enders', we who will stay until the last moment. The German Naval
Ensign still flaps proudly from the flagpole. It will be replaced
by one of Hildegard's fine white satin sheets when we leave. I
have allowed Brigadier Maitland-Evans the freedom to walk around
the town.
Although an enemy, I trust his word he will not run away. The
Captain, though, is sullen and uncommunicative and fearing his
state of mind, I keep a guard in place near him at all times.
Gerda Spangenburg, as she prefers to be called, wears khaki like
her 'husband'. She has slung bandoliers over her shoulders and
carries a cavalry carbine. Upon her head is a service cap with
the plume of the Uhlans. Surely, I think, the enemy has much to
fear from such a determined woman. The devotion displayed by the
couple reminds me of my love Trudi, two day's ride away, and
perhaps my other female 'companions.'
George Carpentier walks hand in hand, quite brazenly, with his
black woman. Gerda and he have arrived at a kind of understanding
and there is little rancour. Each have reached the crossroads and
have set off in new directions. The same could be said of all of
us in this tiny colonial town. Nothing is ever going to be the
same again.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The days drag by and we are all in a high state of tension.
Runners bring in the latest news from the enemy. The Native
network is working most efficiently. We have ceremonies for the
dead of both sides during the day. These are sad little affairs,
as the Africans in particular don't hold back their grief.
The British prisoners usually attend these funerals, regardless
of whose man the deceased was; such is the graciousness of our
enemies. Even the Captain comes out to salute the dead soldiers.
At the funeral of the Daffadar he gave over to emotion and wept
bitterly.
All preparations have been made; we will depart tomorrow at dawn.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A little before sunrise, I'm awoken by the sound of gunfire.
Believing at first that we have been attacked by an advanced
patrol of the enemy, I draw my Colt and prepare to give battle
from the window.
I see up the street that there is some commotion going on at the
hotel. Some men are shouting and running around outside. Upstairs
on the balcony are more figures, all appearing to be in a high
state of excitement. I run out to the street to be greeted by a
sweating Askari.
"The Hotel, Hauptmann... the Captain has escaped... killed the
guard. He has a rifle Herr Hauptmann!"
"Where is he?" I ask him.
"Gone, don't know!" he replies.
Upon reaching the hotel, I see the British General on the balcony
and a number of Askaris.
"Ritter? Is that you?" he calls.
"Jawohl, Herr General."
I ask him in my schoolboy French what has just occurred. He tells
me that the Captain had cut the throat of his guard with a steak
knife, stole his firearm and shot the concierge in the belly.
"The blighter's run off somewhere. Damn it man, the Concierge?
It's not on!"
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"Not sure. But I'd tell that fellow Spangenburg to be careful!"
"Yes, of course!" I reply, "he wants to settle the score, no?"
"Quite... hurry man! We don't murder men in cold blood! Quite
vile, sir."
Next door I pound on Spangenburg's cottage. He opens the door,
gun in hand. Behind him is Gerda carrying her carbine. Down the
passage the Wachtmeister lies wounded and groaning on the floor.
Clearly the Captain has already visited.
"Climbed in the window... Britisher shot Nyrere in his bed. He
struggled with him - shouted a warning. He saved my
life, Hauptmann."
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"Back the way he came - I got him in the leg, I think."
"Get a medic here!" I call towards the hotel. "You must stay here
in case he returns. I will assign a few men to the windows...."
"No!" he demands, "this is personal. I will go after him myself."
"And I will go with you!" states Gerda.
"I forbid it!" replies Spangenburg.
"You have no say!" she tells him. "I'm a civilian, you cannot
order me."
Gerda works the bolt of the carbine and snaps a round into the
breech.
"We fight together, Klaus," she says softly, "have you
forgotten?"
With that she pushes past us and out onto the street.
"Shit!" Spangenburg mutters as he hurries after her.
I follow after them. On the way past the hotel we collect the
General. He says that the Captain has 'snapped' and that he may
be able to reason with him.
"Sir," I tell him, "you must take a weapon. He may not recognise
friend from foe."
I volunteer my Colt, however he demurs.
"Keep your cannon," he tells me and accepts a Luger from
Spangenburg who has picked up the Wachtmeister's carbine.
So off we go through the town. Two German officers, a woman and a
British General in search of one madman.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Harris lies in the reeds by the riverbank. His legs
lie in the water, the coolness soothes the wound in his calf.
Fortunately the bullet has not hit any arteries or a bone but
nevertheless it is bleeding profusely. Tearing his shirt, he
binds himself up as best as he can.
He can hear the voices of the searchers close by. There are not
many soldiers left in Rungwa, perhaps only thirty or so. He can
feel confident about not being discovered.
Having stemmed the bleeding, he pulls himself from the river and
crawls towards the buildings. Someone has made themselves a
pleasant little garden for he can smell the sweet perfume of
tropical flowers. Carefully Harris makes his way along a beaten
earth path to a trellis fence. From behind this cover, he can
make out men in the street calling his name.
"Captain Harris!" he hears the General's voice command, "come out
and give up your weapon. That is an order!"
'So,' he thinks, 'the General is now a traitor, working with the
Huns!'
Harris makes out four figures in front of him on the street. One,
he identifies as the General, his round figure a little past it's
prime. Obviously one of the other three is Spangenburg. He just
needs him to identify himself and he has a clear shot.
A woman speaks quietly, her voice carrying to him in the dark.
'Spangenburg's woman, no doubt.' He regrets not having the chance
to teach the bitch some manners. Perhaps with her husband lying
dead at her feet she will not be so haughty!'
"Harris! Can you hear me? Come out man!"
He can see the General has a gun. He stops and cocks the weapon
right opposite Harris's hiding place. 'There is only one sentence
for a traitor. Death by firing squad!'
The Captain slides his Mauser rifle through a gap in the fence,
takes aim, and squeezes the trigger.
"CRACK!"
The General stumbles sideways with the impact of the bullet, then
falls flat on his face. Quickly the others drop to the ground and
fire in his direction. Harris hears the splintering of wood, the
whip of bullets passing to the left and right. He watches
mesmerised as one of the Germans lies prone blazing away with a
handgun while his comrades dash for cover across the street.
A bullet shatters a window of the building next door. The
tinkling of the glass sounds amusing amid the crackle of gunfire.
The German on the ground gets up and sprints for his comrades as
they begin to fire at the Captain from across the street. In the
dark he no longer has a target, as his antagonists are sheltering
among the buildings opposite. Like a hunter, he quietly waits for
his quarry to reveal himself before making the kill. To increase
his field of fire, he crawls from his position and moves nearer
the street.
"WHACK!"
A bullet hits the fence about two feet away. Obviously his
movements were seen. He scans the buildings opposite for muzzle
flashes. Clearly his enemies are firing then ducking down, firing
then ducking down again. He must note carefully where a flash is
seen, then anticipate when the shooter is going to fire next.
That is, when their head is up. He sees movements, a man is
running crouched down and firing from the hip. He runs very fast
and dodges and ducks. 'Ah, there is my fighter, there is
Spangenburg!' the Captain concludes. He watches as the man
sprints across the street and takes a garden fence in one leap.
'So now he stalks me!'
The man with the handgun runs to his left, emptying the cylinder
of his revolver as he goes. 'There is the Hauptmann with his
Colt,' the Captain decides. Two more men move up in the shelter
of the buildings across the street. The Hauptmann shouts to them
in German and they take cover. They begin firing in his
direction. 'Askaris'. He fires and a flurry of bullets come back
in response.
"WHACK, WHACK, POCK, ZING!"
Something plucks at his hair. 'This is becoming too hot,' he must
move. Crawling back the way he came, he once again passes through
the garden back to the river's edge. Once more concealed, he
listens carefully for the sound of footfalls that might indicate
his stalkers. Presently he sees movement back at his old
position. He senses men creeping towards him, keeping low by the
trellis. Across the other side of the garden he senses more
movement. There's a whispered exchange in German, one is a
woman's voice. 'Ah, the Hun bitch.' Rising quickly from the reeds
he snaps off a shot in her direction. 'That should spring
Spangenburg from cover if nothing will.'
"GERDA!" comes a shout to his right.
Swinging around towards the sound he pulls the trigger.
"Click," his magazine is empty.
A man rises up in front of him and levels a carbine at his head.
--------------------------------------------------------------
"Tell him to drop his rifle, Leutnant," I order Spangenburg, "he
is helpless."
Spangenburg squints down the sight of his carbine, he does not
make a move.
"Gerda?" he asks.
"She is fine, she is beside me. Don't shoot him, Leutnant, he
cannot harm her."
"Klaus, let him live!" says Gerda, "the Englander cannot shoot
straight!"
Together they stare at each other along the barrels of their
rifles. The Captain, wide-eyed and desperate, his wounded leg
caught in the soft mud of the river. The Leutnant, filled with
rage and ready to kill; upon him the power of life and death over
this disturbed English Officer.
"Englander, why do you want to murder me?" the Leutnant asks.
Slowly the Captain answers,
"Because, Hun... you are... here!"
With that his leg gives way and he sinks slowly among the reeds,
his rifle digging into the bank and propping his upper body
upright like a ship careened on a beach. The Leutnant moves to
him and kicks the rifle away, allowing him to fall onto his
front. Two Askaris arrive so I order them to pull the Captain
free and carry him back to the hotel. As we emerge back onto the
street, the British General stands, blood soaking the side of his
uniform.
"Is he alive?" he asks.
"Yes," Spangenburg tells him.
At that the General lifts the Luger he is carrying, puts it to
the head of the Captain, and pulls the trigger. Looking around at
the astonished faces of the witnesses, he calmly hands his weapon
back to Spangenburg.
"Best for everyone, don't you think?" he calmly says.
Whereupon he hands himself over to the care of the first-aiders.
---------------------------------------------------------------
So we must take our leave of Rungwa. As if the curtain is lowered
at some famous opera house, we watch the Konigsburg's gun roll
serenely into the river Rukwa. We stand stiffly to attention at
this fitting end to the drama that occurred here.
The siege of Rungwa will no doubt go down in history as a British
victory, for it is they who will ultimately occupy this place.
Indeed as battles go, it was nothing but a skirmish and time will
tell whether it affected the strategic situation or not. The
British will learn there is nothing here worth keeping. They'll
garrison the place to protect their flank, then go on towards
Uwimbi. Their march on von Lettow was perhaps held up for two
weeks, nothing more.
But we who held our country's flag high against a brave and
resourceful enemy, found love in a remote fly-spot on the map of
German East Africa. In so doing we affected the lives of others,
some for the good and others, not so good. Such is often the case
in wartime, this strange mixing of emotions, the good and the
bad.
Ceremonially, we lower Konigsburg's Battle Ensign. As Hildegard's
bed sheet replaces it on the flagpole, the actors leave the
stage. Swimming the Rukwa on our horses, I have one last look.
Across the river by the landing lies the barge, sunk at its
moorings. There is a scar on the promontory where the great gun
of the Konigsburg rolled into the river. 'Flat top' is blotched
with the craters of British shells. Otherwise, the town looks no
different from when we arrived there.
Lining the bank, the residents wave goodbye, a splash of colour
amid the gay awnings and clinking champagne glasses. For all the
shortages and deprivations of wartime, I've noticed the citizens
of Rungwa always seem to be well supplied with luxuries. The
bounty of British Rhodesia, of course, is just a long day's ride
away.
The British Captain will be remembered as a hero, dying with his
men when they were 'ambushed' by a cunning and ruthless enemy.
His Brigadier ensured he will not suffer the ignominy of a court
marshal, to be dismissed from the service and possibly confined
to an insane asylum. His family will never be told the truth,
probably, and they
can be proud of their son and brother. Strange, out of
compassion, Spangenburg ultimately chose to let the man live.
With the same compassion, the Brigadier caused his death.
Two day's ride away is the steamer SS Goethe. A twin funnelled
stern-wheeler, it's a hotel on water. Sitting inside this
floating elegance is a 600hp twin cylinder double-expansion steam
engine said to have a prodigious appetite for coal. On then to
our next adventure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
As the red dust of the departing column gradually dissipates in
the westerly wind, a lone figure trots into town along the river
road. Newly released from jail, Guy Martin runs out to welcome
his old friend and partner.
"Helmut!" he yells, "they have gone!"
It is the villainous thief and traitor Helmut Fleischer. Heaven
help us if the future of Africa is left to such people.
THE END
Katzmarek(C)
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