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Subject: {ASSM} Ostafrika (Part 5) By Katzmarek (MF, Hist, Rom, Slow,War)
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<1st attachment, "Ostafrika5.txt" begin>
OSTAFRIKA 05
BY KATZMAREK(C)
------------------------------------------------------------ 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 5) The Battle begins.
The Etrich Taube bumps down after it's second reconnaissance flight.
Gerda Carpentier bounds down from the cockpit, her cheeks flushed with
excitement. Striding purposefully over to the shed she asks where Leutnant
Spangenburg is.
"Gone with his men," I tell her.
She shivers with concern for her absent lover, perhaps even now fighting
for his life somewhere out there. Collecting herself, she gives her
breathless report to me.
"Still in column... near that village by the twin bridges."
"I know it," I tell her, "go on."
"They shot at me. More of them this time..."
"Sir?" interrupts the Feldwebel. "There's a bullet hole in the wing.
We have some spare fabric, we can repair it and.... "
"Do it quickly," I tell him. "Then move over to the other side of the
river. I've had some Askaris prepare a strip for you. Put your gear in
the lorry and take it down to the barge. You're too exposed here."
"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann." He snaps a salute.
"Frau Carpentier, your flying is temporarily halted. It's becoming too
dangerous," I tell Gerda.
"It is nothing," she replies. "They are poor shots..."
"They're not," I reply firmly. "True, it's difficult shooting at an
aeroplane, but these are professional soldiers. One mustn't underestimate
them." I soften my voice. " Besides, they should be in contact with our
patrols soon. You will not be needed."
Frau Carpentier flinches at the thought. I upbraid myself for my
callous reference.
"The Leutnant knows what he's doing," I add kindly. "He will not let
himself get caught."
Fetching her carbine, the brave woman announces that she is prepared to
fight alongside the soldiers. Never one to argue with a woman, I suggest
she goes with the aeroplane across the river. I tell her that, as Rungwa's
only pilot, she is too important to risk in the rifle pits. Reluctantly,
she sees the good sense in my argument.
-------------------------------------------------------------
It is about midday when the enemy makes first contact with our patrols.
Staffel 'C' of Spangenburg's light cavalry have the honour of firing the
first shots, apart, of course, from Gerda Carpentier's optimistic popping
from the cockpit of the Etrich.
Six troopers lie in wait some half a kilometre from the road; six men
with rifles against some 500 of the enemy. Their horses wait patiently in
a nearby sunken streambed. This country is criss-crossed with them.
Silently they wait until the column has passed halfway by, then, kneeling,
they fire a volley into the mass of the trotting enemy troopers.
The enemy mass dissolves into nearby fields amid much shouting from
their commanders. As Spangenburg's 6 troopers fire another volley, the
Lancers take up positions across the road and begin to return a sporadic
fire. As one, the Staffel drops back down into cover and runs at a crouch
back to the horses. They mount up quickly and ride at the gallop back down
the creek bed while bullets part the air above them.
The British Colonel has seen this style of fighting before. Back during
the Boer rebellion in South Africa, he had watched the steady erosion of
his troops by Boer Kommandos sharp-shooting from nearby hills. He detested
it and much preferred warfare where the enemy stood their ground and
fought, not this skulking around in the underbrush. It was not an
honourable way to fight. Calling his Captain forward, he consults him on
how best to deal with the situation.
"I suggest we put patrols out, sir, and force these fellows as far away
from the main body as possible," he says. "The problem is these blasted
water races. Some of them are deep enough to conceal a whole regiment."
"Quite, Captain Harris, but I don't wish our men to be picked off in the
underbrush. I think we will keep an open order, two abreast, and retain
formation. Keep the men vigilant, Captain."
"Yes sir," Harris replies.
He fears, however, that the Colonel is wrong. They will be ambushed, of
that he has no doubt.
---------------------------------------------------------------
At the head of 100 troopers, the bulk of the light cavalry or 'Uhlans,'
as Spangenburg styles them, the cavalry leader is being informed quickly as
to the disposition of the enemy. Riders come in regularly, giving the
latest news.
The balance of Spangenburg's cavalry is split into small parties,
detailed to shadow the enemy and to attack targets of opportunity. Each
party has a designated 'runner' whose task it is to keep the Leutnant
informed of developments.
The ground has been well surveyed during the weeks leading up to this
battle. The Leutnant's men have carefully mapped out all the creeks,
races, hollows, hills and other possible ambush sites. Spangenburg,
however, is cantering to just one place. The perfect site, he thinks, to
spring a trap.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Back at Rungwa, the evacuation of the town is going well. Most of the
town's civilians have been transported across the river for their own
safety. A number of the whites have taken up arms, and the more capable of
them have been assigned positions in the line.
The small convoy for the Pangali and our waiting steamer, the SS Goethe,
has been assembled and placed in the charge of Hildegard von
Masurien-Linksdorff. The army detachment will follow as soon as conditions
permit. Going with them is my bride to be, Trudi Fleischer and her mother
Gertrude.
I haven't time to dwell on this fact, for there is plenty to do before
the enemy arrive. Our guns are re-sited to cover the British line of
approach. Our landing strip has been moved across the river and petrol and
maintenance supplies barged over. Gerda Carpentier waits impatiently for
orders to take to the air once again.
I miss the experience of Leutnant Spangenburg as I tour our defences.
Never before have I had to depend on my own resources as Kommandant of a
land battle. I simply can't rely on my ability to cover all contingencies.
Nervously I study the ground, trying to second-guess a professional army.
Me, a lowly Leutnant-zur-See in the Kaiser's Navy, elevated to command a
land battle. I desperately want Spangenburg to return soon.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Across the river, Gerda Carpentier desperately awaits the return of the
Leutnant. However, she misses him for an altogether different reason. She
has fallen completely in love with him. A frantic and passionate love for
a man she has only just met. Her life has been turned completely over.
She has left her husband, fallen in love with another man and become an
aviator, all in the space of a few days.
She occupies herself by walking with the ground crew along the new
runway, looking for rocks and other obstructions that could break the
fragile undercarriage of the aeroplane. Once a rock is discovered, it gets
passed from hand to hand to the edge of the strip. A telephone line is
being rigged across the river straight to my headquarters in the police
station. Once battle has been joined, I have told her, I may need to
assess the dispositions of the forces against me - an overall view of the
battle that only an aeroplane can give me.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Brigadier General Maitland-Evans has been moved, complaining, from his
prison at the Rungwa hotel. His very fine Vauxhall Prince Henry has been
left on the other side, there being no particular use for it. The
Thornycroft lorry, however, has been barged across and is now loaded with
supplies for the journey to the Pangali.
The General's conspirators, the Frenchman Guy Martin and that miserable
little man, Helmut Fleischer, have disappeared. The Brigadier hopes they
will display more skill at evasion than they demonstrated as spies. Each
man bears a copy of Rungwa's defences as near as the General can estimate
them. Additionally, they carry his assessment of the character of the
defenders and the approximate numbers.
He was surprised at the strength of the soldiers present in this town.
Lying on the flank of the main army, it was always necessary to take and
hold this place. It was an unpleasant shock to find so many of the enemy
dug-in and apparently prepared to fight. Unpleasant too, was the sight of
their artillery, especially the large naval gun, now pointing towards his
oncoming troops. They need to be told about that monster and quickly.
The General can see an aeroplane across the fields from his prison
marquee. Old and obsolete to be sure, it nevertheless provides a dimension
to the battle none at his headquarters had taken into account. 'Oh for the
Navy,' he thinks to himself, 'or even the RFC. Just one of our fighters
would be all that is necessary to knock that blasted thing out of the air.'
--------------------------------------------------------------
All through the afternoon, I order the Askaris to pile up brushwood
around our positions. I particularly have in mind to conceal the artillery
as best as possible. I have some dummy trenches dug to confuse the enemy.
Although shallow, they still look quite convincing from a distance. Our
rifle pits, by contrast, are not so elaborate. They are designed to permit
the men to move easily from place to place under cover. The idea is to
shift our riflemen into crossfire positions in accordance with the
deployment of the opposing forces.
By early evening all is ready. The only factor missing is the presence
of the enemy. Clearly they have been held up somewhere by Spangenburg.
Obviously there will be no battle today so I return to my quarters and try
to rest.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Spangenburg has been busy; extremely busy. Some 10
kilometres or so from the area known as the 'twin bridges,' a sunken stream
bisects the road at right angles. Along the banks is a line of low brush,
as is usual in the area. The road slopes down to a ford and up the other
side. During the rainy season it becomes a raging torrent and completely
impassable. During this dry season, however, there is barely a trickle.
The stream conveys floodwater to the Rukwa river, many kilometres away.
The course is very deep - perhaps two men in height - and wide enough to
completely conceal several regiments of cavalry. The bank itself has many
rock outcrops that make excellent footholds. The horses can be waiting
below for a rapid withdrawal along the streambed.
The Leutnant spends half an hour preparing the position. Several
howitzer shells are fused and buried below the stream. Crude electrical
detonators have been fabricated and connected by means of spare telephone
cable to a hand generator. In the nick of time, everything is ready before
the head of the enemy column is sighted in the distance. The men take up
their firing positions completely hidden.
Everybody in the column of Lancers is in a high state of tension. They
have been subjected to little pinprick assaults by Askari guerrillas for
several hours now. Never more than a dozen in strength, these irritating
attacks have caused a number of wounded and have thoroughly exasperated the
officers.
Colonel Rogers and Captain Harris of the Indian army's 2nd Division see
the low brush and the stream in front of them with apprehension. The
Captain suggests they deploy a squadron in line abreast across the opposite
field, as this seems a perfect place to spring an ambush.
"Damned popping fellows!" The Colonel grumbles, "we're wasting time,
Captain. I need to be in Rungwa before dusk."
"Allow me then, sir," the Captain replies, "to send a couple of men
forward to the ford."
"I can't see the point, Captain. If there are a couple of those fellows
concealed there, we'll take the ford at the gallop and shoot the blighters
down along the stream. If we are to worry about every damned brook, we
won't be in that blasted town till next week."
With a bow of the head, the Captain defers to his superior. Harris,
though, asks his Colonel whether he might consult down the line with the
Daffadar.
"Do what you damned like, Captain," he growls, "just lets keep going!"
The Captain turns down the line, looking for his senior NCO. When he
reaches a point some twenty ranks back, there is a sound of furious gunfire
from the stream.
Spangenburg waits until the head of the column is at point blank range
before opening fire. 50 rifles pour a volley straight into the enemy
column followed by 50 more. A technique he'd learned in Kenya from the
British themselves. The rolling fire dissolves the front ranks of the
enemy practically instantaneously. Riderless horses rear and plunge among
khaki figures falling and being flung into heaps. In a few seconds, the
enemy becomes a swirling mass of horses and running figures as they
desperately search for some cover among the low growth.
The second volley is almost as devastating, catching groups of men
running into the fields to take up positions. Spangenburg watches an
officer trying to rally the men and orders a rifleman nearest him to shoot
him down. The man is agile, however, and dodges and ducks as he pushes his
men into cover. After a couple of shots, Spangenburg orders the rifleman
to give up.
The enemy begins to return a sporadic fire. As it grows in volume, the
Leutnant orders the first party back to the horses. A little later
Spangenburg can see a number of the enemy advancing at the crouch, firing
from the hip, before kneeling to work the bolts of their rifles. He waits
until the last party has regained their mounts before leaping down on top
of his own horse. Riding down the stream he pulls up at the two men
waiting with the hand generator.
"Wait until there's a good number down the bank, Zuni. I shall wait
with your horses around the bend."
They acknowledge their leader with a tip of the head. Both these men
are volunteers, proud to perform this most dangerous of duties. They
watch, concealed, as the enemy appear over the bank and charge down into
the stream. The enemy soldiers bunch together in the confines of the
streambed and Zuni waits until some begin to creep down towards their
position. Grinning to his companion, Zuni winds the handle of the
generator.
At once there's a blinding flash, an ear shattering noise and, if their
ears could still hear it, a roar as the shrapnel and stone fragments blast
the banks of the stream in a deadly shower. Blue smoke and thick dust
bring a shroud down over the scene of carnage as the two men sprint for
their waiting horses.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Harris watches the object slowly turning over and over before
landing back to earth just yards from where he was blown onto his back.
The unrecognisable corpse lies smoking amid the scattered debris. Stunned
by the sudden explosion, he looks around as his men pick themselves up from
the ground and kiss their good fortune. The smoke and dust begins to clear
from the little valley in front of him. Some of the Lancers are moving
towards the scene, perhaps in hope of giving assistance to any survivors.
Maybe just out of curiosity.
"Good God!" He hears the voice of the Daffadar. "What was that, Sahib?"
The Captain shakes his head in disbelief. He staggers towards the
stream, the Daffadar at his side.
"Are you wounded Sahib?" he asks.
Harris shakes his head again. Upon arriving at the scene, he is shocked
at the dreadful carnage. The artillery shells blew several large craters
in the bed of the stream. In that confined space, the explosions instantly
extinguished the lives of most of the attacking squad. Shattered and
dismembered bodies, blackened and burning, lay in heaps up the stream.
Clicking his tongue, the Daffadar mutters:
"A very bad business, very bad..."
Seeing the shock written on the face of his officer, he asks:
"What are your orders, Sahib?"
The Captain shakes his head slowly.
"I don't know," he replies, "where's the Colonel?"
"Back there, Sahib, he was caught in the first volley."
"Dead?"
"Very much so, Sahib. You are the senior officer now. You must give
some orders."
"Yes... I must," the Captain agrees.
Waving his arm in the direction of the stream, he says,
"Take care of the wounded, Daffadar, and, uh, bring up the guns and send
out patrols. We'll stay here until we can plan a course of action."
"You are no longer going to this Rungwa?" the Daffadar asks.
"Yes, damn it, of course we are! I want the Hun who did this,
Daffadar."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Spangenburg notices the new tactics of the enemy almost immediately.
Patrols begin to range out, hunting down his little parties. Over the next
hour, before the enemy begins to move out again, there are a number of
little contests in the races and streams between his troopers and enemy
patrols. These skirmishes grow increasingly savage and after a while the
Leutnant decides to withdraw.
He has, anyway, fulfilled his orders in slowing the enemy down. They
will not now arrive at Rungwa till after dark. Calling in his men, he sets
his horse in a trot towards his Kommandant.
Back in Rungwa, the Cavalry begin to drift into town in dribs and drabs.
I send the tired and hungry troops to the hotel for a meal and to rest.
Rungwa has now become a military camp as there are no longer any bystanders
left on this side of the river.
Gerda Carpentier has made her way back across the river to welcome her
lover home. Spangenburg looks gloomy and I fear he is about to suffer one
of his lapses into melancholy. His eyes are sunken with exhaustion as he
makes his report. He describes the skirmish at the ford to me and I
congratulate him on his success.
"There's someone there who knows what he's doing," he explains.
"Matheus had him in his sights, but missed."
"You think another officer has taken command?"
"Positive," he replies. "I'm sure their Kommandant was killed in our
first volley. They marched as if on parade before that. Then they became
most aggressive. I think we may have lost up to a dozen men."
"I'm sorry, Leutnant," I attempt to console him. "You've done very
well. It is still very few considering..."
"N'krumah says they cut his patrol to pieces, even as a couple were
trying to give themselves up. He saw the whole thing from where he was
hiding." The Leutnant looks grim. "They rode them down in a race and used
their sabres from horseback."
"Should you be surprised, Leutnant, after blowing up their comrades?"
Spangenburg raises his eyebrows and gives a little tip of the head.
"I suppose not, Herr Hauptmann."
----------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Harris decides to encamp his troops some 20 kilometres north of
Rungwa. Using the Lyjolas stream to protect one flank, he draws the guns
into the middle in case of sabotage. He orders the Daffadar to send out
patrols around the perimeter and to shoot anybody at all who comes within a
mile of the British camp.
"But the men need rest," the Daffadar tells the Captain.
"Be assured, Daffadar, they'll get more rest than they bargained for if
the Huns get within rifle range."
The Captain is nervous about a night attack. For that reason he decided
to proceed no closer to Rungwa. Coupled with mounted vedettes, he has sent
out foot patrols to comb the little rills and valleys for enemy snipers.
Additionally, he has ordered that there are to be no campfires, lest they
attract the enemy. Consequently his men eat a cold meal and lie
uncomfortably bundled up against the night.
Meanwhile, I have decided against some nighttime foray. The troopers
are in need of rest and I don't want to disperse our forces too much.
There would be a problem, too, with identification in the dark. I shudder
at the thought of Askari shooting Askari by mistake. I therefore order the
soldiers to get as much rest as possible, apart from a few foot patrols.
Later that night, at the British camp, Captain Harris is woken from his
fitful sleep by a commotion outside his tent. Presently, an NCO
respectfully begs the Captain's attention to an urgent matter. Outside,
two men kneel between two burly Indian guards. Battered and bruised, one
looks like he has a nasty bayonet wound to the shoulder.
"Caught these men," the NCO explains, "skulking just beyond the
perimeter... in a drain, Sahib."
"No uniforms, Sergeant?" the Captain asks.
"No sir."
"Shoot them!" Harris orders and turns to go.
"Wait a minute," cries one of the prisoners in English, "I have a
dispatch... from Brigadier Maitland-Evans."
"What?" the Captain turns back, "who the hell are you?"
"Guy... Guy Martin... from Rungwa, your honour!"
Harris orders the prisoners to be brought inside the tent. He lights an
oil lamp and shines it in their faces. One man, Martin, is bleeding from
the mouth and looks to have lost a tooth. The other man, a shifty looking
individual, is bleeding profusely from an arm wound. The Captain orders
the man's arm to be bound up, as he doesn't look too good. They both
appear haggard and desperate.
"So, who are you two?" the Captain ask them.
"Agents, sir, in the service of the British forces."
"That so?" the Captain says doubtfully, "and what the hell are you doing
here?"
"Come to see Colonel Rogers, sir. Is he about?"
"Dead. What did you have to tell him?"
The man seems nervous and looks around the tent.
"The Colonel, sir... was supposed to give us, ah, certain compensation
and..."
"Go talk to the Colonel, then. Tell us what you know... now!"
"I have a letter," the man says, "from the General!"
"Well give me the damned thing and stop wasting my time," the Captain
tells them irritably.
"You must give us our payment... and certain concessions and..."
"Damn you to hell!" Harris curses. "Daffadar! Strip these men down to
their underwear."
As the guards approach the prisoners, the wounded man shouts in German.
"A Hun!" the Captain exclaims. "What is he?" he asks Martin, "a blasted
traitor?"
"Ah yes, Captain, and he is my partner. I am French you see... Mr.
Fleischer is... flexible with his allegiances."
"Ask him if he knows a Lieutenant Spangenburg?" the Captain asks.
"Ah, but of course," the Frenchman says, "we both know the Leutnant very
well."
"Good! Then tell me about him..."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Much later, Captain Harris is talking with the Daffadar in his tent.
The huge turbaned Sikh cavalry leader sports a long, thick black beard,
like most of his fellows.
"This Hun," the Daffadar asks the Captain, "was responsible for the
mining of the ford?"
"Yes, Daffadar. I obtained his name from one of those Askaris we
brought in yesterday. Those men your guards captured... they confirm he
commands those mounted snipers."
"Ah," replies the Daffadar, "you wish to visit some unpleasantness upon
this Hun?"
"Now Daffadar! We can't get personal about this sort of thing.
However... it would please me I think, if we didn't have too many
prisoners to deal with tomorrow."
"Of course, Captain. I'm sure the Lancers will be most vigorous in
pressing home the attack."
"You know," the Captain says sadly, "it's all a dirty business, isn't
it?"
"Our men were fighting the Afghans not so long a time ago," the Daffadar
tells him. "They know how to deal with enemy such as these."
"I have confidence in you, Daffadar." the Captain replies "You know
something? The natives here call you people 'hairy chins,' can you think
why?"
"No idea, Sahib." The big Sikh grinning.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Once the Daffadar has gone Harris again pulls the dispatch sent by the
Brigadier-General from his battledress. He has not, as would normally be
required, shared the information with his second in command. He knows,
however, just what the Daffadar would advise.
Rungwa is better defended than the British had supposed. Relying on
some intelligence from the Navy's aeroplanes, they had assumed they would
face only a token force. Indeed, it was believed likely the Germans would
withdraw in the face of the Lancers. The Indian 18-pounder field guns were
intended to be part of the defence once they had possession of the place.
They were not intended to take part in a siege.
The despondent Captain knows he must call on more reinforcements from
Brigade. The task is beyond the Lancers and his field pieces will be badly
outranged by the big enemy Naval gun. The dispatch was unable to say just
how the enemy is positioned in their lines. The Brigadier says, though,
that the enemy has been very busy digging earthworks; enough, he says, for
a whole division. Clearly the Germans intend to confuse and deceive. The
General did say, however, that there are some thousand defending infantry.
An attack with a disadvantage of two to one is suicide; against concealed
artillery pieces, close to treason.
There is one factor, morale, that the General has not taken into
account. Morale, that nebulous collective opinion of a body of troops that
is often hard to predict. These people out there, the Captain thinks, are
mainly Africans. There are few professional soldiers among them. 'Good
grief, they are led by a mere Naval Lieutenant for God's sake.'
'This Spangenburg is clearly the brains,' the Captain decides, 'perhaps
the only real professional army officer among them. Maybe, just maybe, if
we cut off the head...'
"Boy!" he shouts through the tent flap, "get me the Daffadar... and
that bloody Frenchman!"
-------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, Gerda Carpentier lies in the arms of her lover. Klaus
Spangenburg's hard penis lies buried deep inside her. They are as close as
it is physically possible to be. Their arms are wrapped tightly around
each other, their legs intertwined. The Leutnant's cheek presses tightly
to hers, they lie still for a while before resuming their love making.
"Like this, my darling," Gerda whispers, "always like this..."
"But we will starve," Klaus rumbles back.
"We cannot, you feed me, I feed you. it will always be so."
Klaus kisses her on the cheek, touches noses together, then nibbles on
her lip.
"A good thing," he says, "that I have found you. You are my heart,
precious one, and I shall always be here."
Klaus presses his lips to Gerda's breast, right over her heart. She
smiles and ruffles his hair.
"I thought you said you had no strength left in your bones?" she says,
teasing.
"My bones no," he replies, "but other parts... they have not had the
same exercise."
"Ah, beautiful! And it feels so nice... so nice. You think," she
adds, "that you might be ready for some more exercise?"
Moving slowly within her, the Leutnant smiles his cheeky grin before
sucking one of Gerda's nipples into his mouth.
"Maybe so," he breathes, before sawing his cock in and out of Gerda's
ready vagina.
"Oh yes..." she gasps, "like this... oh... always like this..."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Some way to the west of Rungwa, a party of soldiers is creeping down an
old dry creek bed. Up ahead they note a crude log barrier erected across
the way. The leader signals silently for his men to press themselves
against the gully's walls. Taking sight along their long Mauser rifles,
they watch carefully for any sign of movement.
From behind the log parapet comes a voice.
"Hey! Who's there? That you Schenker? Give the bloody password you
silly fucker!"
The leader grabs a man behind him and pushes him out in front.
"Show and identify yourself, you bloody fool," he whispers, in English.
"Don't shoot!" the man yells, "it's me, Guy... Guy Martin."
"Martin!" comes the voice, "what the hell are you doing out here? The
Hauptmann's been looking for you."
"Got lost," Guy replies, "your patrol found me!"
"They did?" the voice answers. "Who? Schenker? Where is he?"
Behind Guy, the English Sergeant nervously fingers the trigger of his
rifle. His tall Askari shako is an uncomfortable fit and the peak keeps
slipping down over his brow. He turns to the man behind him and whispers:
"Any idea what that Frenchie is telling them, corporal?"
"None, Sarge, could be the latest football results."
"Fuck this! Let's rush them!"
"Ok lads!" the Corporal yells, "let's go!"
Crouching low and keeping to the sides of the gully, the English run
quickly towards the position. Guy is thrown unceremoniously aside and
falls heavily face down on the stones. Two shots ring out from the barrier
before the Englishmen storm over the top and kill the two sentries with
their bayonets.
Not far off, in the outer defences of Rungwa, Askaris hear the shots and
call it in on their telephone. A Feldwebel comes down to the them to see
for himself. Listening for a while, he decides it must be the jumpy
sentries shooting at shadows.
"Tell those idiots I want a report when they come off duty," he tells
them.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The stream the English are following, known to the citizens of Rungwa as
the Westfluss, meanders towards the south of the town before disappearing
among the mudflats bordering the Rukwa river. Lightly defended because it
is not a suitable place to attack from, it is perfect for infiltration.
The English creep down the stream until the presence of sticky mud
indicates they can go no further. The Sergeant calls the men together for
a final briefing.
"Now look lads," he tells them, "we're the Kaiser's men now, ain't we?"
The men nod.
"Right, so we're going over there and we're going to make the Kaiser
proud, y'hear back there?"
"Yessir Sergeant!"
"Now... we're a staffel, right? Six man patrol and we've captured this
here Frenchie, right? He's been a naughty boy and been fiddling with the
Kommandant's missus, ain't he?"
"Hey!" Guy objects, to stifled laughter from the British troops.
"Right... now, no talking, single file and we make like we own the pub
on the corner, got that?"
The men acknowledge the Sergeant and together they walk into the open.
"Right now... links, recht... hop to it!"
With shouldered arms they march straight in the direction of Rungwa,
pushing Guy Martin before them.
At the back, Private Ramesh Singh whispers to the man in front.
"These English... they're completely mad!"
"KWATCH! you black bastards!" yells the Sergeant.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The sentry on duty at the south of the town watches the little parade
come up the road. Marching smartly, they appear to be pushing a civilian
in front of them. The newcomers wave to him as they come closer. As they
near, he can see it is Guy Martin in front. The sentry smiles as they
march past. 'The Hauptmann will be pleased,' he thinks to himself.
Marching up the middle of the main road of Rungwa, they notice few
people about. No doubt the civilians have left and all the soldiers are
manning the line or having a rest. The Corporal whispers to the Sergeant,
"Which one, Sarge?"
"Hotel on the right, there... next to the riverbank... little cottage
next to it, see?"
"I see it Sarge."
"Take two and go around the back... I'm going in the front door."
As they arrive before the house, three men split off and head to the
back. The Sergeant, holding Guy by the arm mounts the steps of the front
porch and taps firmly on the door. Presently a voice sounds from behind
the closed door,
"Who is it?"
The Sergeant whispers to Guy,
"Your turn, make it good!"
"Feldwebel Schenker for Leutnant Spangenburg," Guy says in a gruff
voice.
"He's in bed," the voice says, "what the hell is it?"
"Brought in a prisoner... Guy Martin."
"So?" the voice says, "lock him up, take him to the Hauptmann, shoot
him, what the fuck do I care?"
"Who is this?" Guy demands.
"Who do you think, Schenker? Stop fucking around."
Guy looks at the Sergeant and shrugs, 'what do I say?' he mouths.
"Tell him you have important information... urgent information," he
whispers to the Frenchman.
Relaying the message the 'voice' agrees to let them in.
"It better be good!" the voice says before a hand is clamped over his
mouth.
The Sergeant signals one of the men to go down the passage to the back
door. Turning to Guy he whispers,
"Which one?"
"I don't know," Guy tells him.
"Ok, we search every room," he tells the other man.
Just then a door opens down the hall and a beautiful woman in a
nightdress comes out. Momentarily stunned at the sight, the British
soldiers stare from her to each other.
"Who are you?" she asks, before seeing Guy. "Martin, what are you doing
here?"
Her eyes grow wide in alarm as she takes in the sight of the intruders.
In a split second she sizes them up; notices the man's shako is too big for
him, sees that he is white though his face is blackened, wears an Askari
uniform...
She turns and runs back into the room.
"KLAUS WAKE UP!" she yells.
Behind her she hears voices, English voices.
"SHUT THE BITCH UP!" one yells.
Spangenburg rolls out of bed as the men crash into the room behind
Gerda. The first man's long barrelled rifle gets caught in the doorway.
Angrily he wrenches it free and points it towards the bed.
"NO!" Gerda yells and flings herself at the man.
Knocking the rifle aside, it discharges into the mirror on the wall.
The intruder slams the trigger guard of the rifle fully into Gerda's face
and she is flung to the floor on her back. Spangenburg, behind the bed,
hears more feet running in the hall outside. Horrified, he watches Gerda
go down and grabs his Luger pistol on the nightstand. Firing hastily, the
bullet grazes the Englishman's shoulder, who then backs to the door.
Dropping to his knee, the intruder levels his rifle again, carefully aiming
at Spangenburg.
Meanwhile, at the back of Spangenburg's cottage, Wachtmeister Nyrere is
woken by the sound of firing. Outside he can hear men shoulder-barging the
back door in an effort to get in. Poking his head out the window, he sees
they are dressed as Askaris but are swearing in English. Oskar has heard
the language before in Kenya. Seizing his revolver, he points it at the
Englishmen and opens fire as rapidly as he can. When the smoke clears, one
Britisher lies still on the ground, while the rest have run off. His
magazine is empty.
He opens the door to the back bedroom he uses as his quarters and peeks
out down the hall. By the front door, the Leutnant's aide is slumped in
the corner. Towards him, he sees Guy Martin kneeling down with his hands
above his head. Outside he can hear shouting and more shots. Clearly an
attack is in progress. Walking carefully forward down the hall, he checks
the rooms for intruders. The Leutnant's door is open and he looks inside.
The naked cavalry commander is kneeling beside the limp body of his
girlfriend Gerda Carpentier. Her face is covered in blood, her head is
rolling around.
"Wachtmeister!" the Leutnant calls, frantically, "fetch a medic, quick!"
--------------------------------------------------------------
Out in the street, the British retreat southwards, keeping as near as
possible to the buildings. Rungwa has suddenly become alive with soldiers
spilling out onto the road. There's nothing more terrifying in war than a
night attack. In the confusion, one is never sure the figure you are
firing at is your enemy.
Back at Spangenburg's cottage, some order is being restored outside.
Wachtmeister Nyrere and a bellowing Feldwebel join in to organise men for a
search of the town. A Feldardzt, or military first aid specialist (not an
exact parallel in English) has sprinted from the hotel next door to attend
to Gerda.
By the time I run the distance from the Police Station/Headquarters to
the scene, the men have already been sent off to look for the British
raiders. I find Spangenburg in a bedroom, a blanket thrown over his
shoulders, sitting on the bed. Gerda Carpentier's head is being bandaged
by the Ardzt, who kneels on the floor in front of him. Seeing me, the
Ardzt says,
"Can you take him out," indicating the Leutnant.
I take Spangenburg gently by the arm and guide him from the room.
Taking him next door, I fetch a stiff brandy from the cabinet and put it in
his hand.
"What happened?" I ask. "Talk me through it."
"English," he says, "sent to kill me... hit my Gerda... assassins,
why?"
"I don't know," I tell him. "Perhaps you've annoyed them?"
The Leutnant gives a wry smile.
"That British officer," he says, "the one we missed at the ford, perhaps
it is him?"
"Could be," I suggest.
"Then I shall send my own assassins!"
"No," I firmly tell him. "I forbid it! I will not have a personal war,
Leutnant."
The Ardzt interrupts: "Leutnant, she is awake. She wants to see you."
Spangenburg rises quickly and hurries to the door.
"You hear me, Leutnant?" I call after him. "You leave this Britisher
alone."
Spangenburg waves at me with his hand as he speeds out of the room.
(C)Katzmarek
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