OSTAFRIKA 08


BY KATZMAREK


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction. It cannot be used for gain without the
Author's express permission in writing.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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! 


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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"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.


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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.


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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) 


