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.


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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




