OSTAFRIKA 06


BY KATZMAREK


--------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note.


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


----------------------------------------------------------------


Ostafrika (Part 06) The Battle Continues.


The crackle of gunfire can still be heard in the night. The British
raiders lie concealed in the undergrowth on the edge of the
mudflats. Occasionally they can see the torches carried
by the searchers as they fan out beyond the trenches surrounding 
Rungwa.


"Count?" the Sergeant whispers.


He listens for the names of his little squad. Four, they've lost two
men somewhere, and of course the Frenchman.


"Did you get him Sarge?" the Corporal asks.


"Nah. Bloody missed him, didn't I?" he replies. "Where the hell did
you get to?"


"Couldn't get in the bloody door, Sarge," he answers, "then that
blackie lets loose with the pistol and hits Ramesh."


"Is he gone, Corp?"


"For certain! Then those blighters started shooting at us from next
door."


"Fucking cock up!" the Sergeant spits. "Too much bloody racket. If
it weren't for that dumb bitch yelling her head off..."


"Did you get a load of her!!!" a Private says, "I tell you, we're on
the wrong side, Sarge."


"Old Spangy's toy, no doubt," the Sergeant tells him. "she'll be
there tomorrow, Fallon. All packaged up and ready for you!"


"Yeah, about that, Sarge," the Corporal says, thinking, There seems
a hell of a lot of them, don't you think? I thought there was only a 
company of them."


"Maybe they was running round and round in circles, Corp. C'mon,
it's gone quiet, lets find a way home."


The men emerge from their hiding place and trudge south, skirting
the Westfluss.


"Are we going back for the horses?" asks the Corporal.


"Nope! Hun is all over the place. We'll have to walk."


-----------------------------------------------------------------




Around midnight, I decide to call off the pursuit. It is becoming
clear that the raiders have fled Rungwa. We would be tiring
ourselves out chasing after them. The traitor, Guy Martin,
I have removed from Spangenburg's cottage and locked up in the Police
Station. In the Leutnant's present mood, he may kill him with his 
bare hands.


Gerda Carpentier has a fracture of the cheekbone and lacerations to
her face. The Englishman gave her a savage blow. Spangenburg's aide 
is dead. One of the raiders was shot by the Wachtmeister behind the 
cottage. It appears, at least, to be an even trade. Some time later, 
some Askaris bring in a prisoner, an Indian caught hiding behind a 
building. They assure me there are no others.


Before turning in once again, I go and check on Gerda and the
Leutnant. She is groggy and speaks in a whisper. Her lover sits in a 
chair beside her, dozing, but still holding on to her hand.


"Don't let him go after the Englander," she begs, "not for me,
please?"


"His duty is to his men," I tell her, "and to you, not personal
vendettas. And Gerda, your man has always done his duty."


I take another look at the dozing Spangenburg as I leave. I just
hope I am right.


Outside all is quiet once more. Somewhere in the night a rifle
cracks. The sound carries far on the night breeze. I hear a far off 
call from someone to someone else. Horses neighing, animals calling 
to their friends: the sounds of the African night.


I feel the loneliness of command this night. No Trudi or Hildegard,
nor even Gertrude to whom I can share my thoughts. This raid has 
shaken my confidence, it just didn't occur to me the enemy would 
carry out such an attack. I guess to some extent, we are the ones 
that wrote the rule-book out here. Should we be surprised when the 
rules are thrown back at us?


---------------------------------------------------------------


20 kilometres away at the British camp, Captain Harris has not
slept. The Daffadar has not slept much either, partly because the 
Captain has been constantly waking him up. They stand together just 
out of the camp looking south, looking towards Rungwa.


"They're late," the Captain tells the Daffadar.


"They may be walking, Sahib. They might not have got back to the
horses."


"That shooting earlier, perhaps they ran into trouble?"


"Lets hope that it was on the way back!"


"Daffadar, you are a hard man!"


"A realist, Captain Sahib, a realist."


"Very well," the Captain says. "Let's go and plan tomorrow, shall 
we?"


"As you wish, Sahib."


---------------------------------------------------------------


As the defenders or Rungwa attempt to get some rest and the British
and Indians curl up shivering in their blankets, four men stumble on 
in the dark. Having finally left the last of the searchers behind, 
the raiding party resign themselves to a 15 km hike over the rough 
ground. In front, the Sergeant hurls his ill-fitting Askari shako off 
into the blackness.


"The Captain's going to be bloody enchanted, ain't he?" he grumbles.


"Wasn't our fault, Sarge. Just one of those things..." replies his
Corporal.


"Still, we march straight into the place, bold as you like. Knock on
the door - there's Spangy all bundled up with the missus, and what 
happens? I bloody miss. We go there to get a General and we kill the 
cook, a right fine business."


"He weren't no cook, Sarge."


"Or at least I think I missed him." The Sergeant looks back, 
thinking.


"What do you mean? I thought you said..."


"Well thinkin' about it, maybe I ain't so sure," he says. "I mean,
that second pot at him, I didn't really see what I hit, did I? That 
guy at the back starts blazing away - distracted me, didn't he?"


"You mean that guy out the window, the one who got old Ramesh?"


"Yeah, that one! Sounded like the whole of the Hun army was coming
up the hall. Me and Avinda, we took to our heels, didn't we? Didn't 
see what happened to old Spangy."


"Did you see him get hit?" the Corporal asks the man behind.


"I was by the front door, Corporal. The Huns started shooting at me
from across the street. I heard the Sergeant's gun fire, I couldn't 
see anything."


"But," the Sergeant asks, "you didn't exactly see him not hit
either, right?"


"Absolutely!"


"So I might have got him, Right?"


"Could have, yes."


"There you go, Corporal, possibly hit him!"


"Wouldn't 'probably' sound a bit better, Sarge?"


"Alright, Corporal, 'probably' hit him, it is!"


-----------------------------------------------------------------


Before the first red ray of the African sun peeps nervously from the
distant horizon, the sky becomes a blue-grey. Forms, previously 
indistinguishable from the black, gradually take shape. Faces become 
recognisable, ant-like figures move slowly and deliberately around 
the British camp. They seek a breakfast, gather their packs and 
equipment, or tend their horses waiting nervously at the tether-lines.


At Rungwa, there is growing an air of expectation. Some men have
lain in there rifle pits all night, some a short distance away in the
waiting areas. The gun crews are carefully assembling the shells and 
sliding them into the caissons, nose first. Breeches and working 
parts get a last minute polish, nothing must be left to chance.


Gefreiter Robert Musarewa takes up his powerful Zeiss Optik Militar
binoculars and peers out towards the far away British/Indian camp. 
From the shed roof of the Junker's estate, our former aerodrome, he 
can see nothing as yet except a grey haze. Beside him is a telephone,
it's cable drapes over the roof and hangs down to the ground, 
trembling in the light breeze.


A 77cm Krupp field gun crouches 5 kilometres away on top of the flat
top hill Gertrude Fleischer used to spy on the lake. Nestling snugly 
behind a native kraal brushwood fence, from the front it appears part
of the landscape. From behind, its crew line up behind the fence 
peering curiously through the branches.


To the Southwest of the town, on an eroded low hill christened
'round top,' the other Krupp lies dug-in on the reverse slope. As 
with its brother, a mantle of brushwood has been piled around it and 
lashed into place with hemp rope and baling wire. The forward slope 
of 'round top' is criss-crossed with earth works, the red earth piled
up in front. Upon a spur of the slope there is a small hollow piled 
up with branches. In the middle of this perches a grey cylinder-like 
7.92mm Maxim machine gun; its three crew propped unconcerned against 
the bank peacefully chatting.


On a promontory on the river, where the Rukwa makes a slight kink
before the mudflats of the Westfluss, the 10.5cm Naval gun from the 
Konigsburg lies dug in and concealed. Aimed to fire over the top of 
the town, this gun forms the apex of our three artillery pieces.


Between the town and the estate, and rather nearer the British, our
little artificial lake lies forgotten. Its bright changing sheds 
still sit awaiting customers; however the blue water lies undisturbed
this day.


Spangenburg and myself stand by the big bay window in Gertrude
Fleischer's bedroom. Strangely, this ornate little oasis is the best 
vantage point in the whole town. Downstairs, our little headquarters 
staff finish assembling our telephone system. Helmut Fleischer's card
table now serves, spread with maps.


"What do you think they are doing, Leutnant?" I ask.


"They will have sent for reinforcements," he tells me. "They might
probe us a bit but nothing serious!"


"I will hang on as long as prudent," I decide. "We should hear
quickly if their relief comes down on the far side of the river."


"I have swum most of the horses over. We would need only half an
hour to get the men across."


"Good! Let us hope nothing comes unstuck."


-----------------------------------------------------------------


Over at the British camp, the four survivors of the raiding party
stand at attention before Captain Harris and the Daffadar. They look 
exhausted after the night's activities. Their borrowed Askari 
uniforms are filthy and dishevelled.


"So what are you telling me, Sergeant?" the Captain asks them
angrily. "Did you get the blighter or not?"


"He was behind his bed, sir. I levelled my firearm and shot at him.
The range was no more than 10 feet. I couldn't have missed him, sir."


"But did you see him go down, you fool?" Harris demands, exasperated.


"We got into a fight, sir. The whole of the Hun army was..."


"I don't give a monkey's, Sergeant. Tell me if you got the target?"


"Yes sir," the Sergeant replies, "probably, sir."


"Probably, maybe, perhaps. Dammit man, I need to know!"


"Perhaps, Captain, if the Sergeant is unsure..." interrupts the
Daffadar.


Captain Harris looks skyward in frustration. He dismisses the men
and stumps back into the tent. The Daffadar follows him in.


"Well?" Harris asks the Daffadar. "What did your surveyors find?"


"Everything quiet, Captain. Many earthworks, but they didn't see
much movement. Perhaps they have withdrawn during the night?"


"And left us a few of their mines, eh Daffadar?"


"Probably Captain. It would be foolish to try and defend that place
with nothing but a Company of infantry – suicide! I think it likely 
they have gone."


"The Sergeant reported quite a few last night?"


"Rearguard perhaps? It is difficult to tell numbers in the dark. I
have encountered this many times... men get excited... see things 
that are not there! There is only one way to be sure: kick the tiger 
and see if it roars."


"Yes, let's wake them up," the Captain decides, "test their resolve.
These Africans, they're not used to a stand up fight, are they?"


"No Sahib. Shall I take the guns?"


"I don't think so," Harris says turning his back. "They'll get in
the way... slow you down, don't you think?"


'And out of range of that Naval gun,' the Captain thinks to himself,
'just in case.'


"Probably," the Daffadar agrees, "we just need to keep a watch for
more of those bombs."


When the Daffadar goes to assemble the men, a messenger arrives
before the tent and snaps a salute.


"Dispatches for Brigade, sir," the man says.


"Valise on the table, Corporal."


The messenger picks up the bag and slings it over his shoulder. As
he turns to go, he asks,


"Anything further, sir?"


The Captain thinks for a long second. The letter feels warm in his
pocket. The letter containing Brigadier General Maitland-Evans 
revelations about Rungwa, the same letter that admits the assault is 
beyond the Lancers. The letter that carries the request for 
reinforcements.


"Sir, anything else?"


"No... there's nothing further."


The Captain watches the messenger mount up and ride off in the
direction of Brigade headquarters many miles away on the way to 
Uwimbi. 'A request for several battalions of infantry, a senior 
officer to take command, an experienced man in storming a defended 
town. I will not be thanked if it is merely a wild goose chase. No, I
can take care of things here.'


Striding purposefully towards the horse lines, the Captain looks far
off towards the morning haze that conceals the objective.


-----------------------------------------------------------------




Across the river Rukwa, the citizens of Rungwa stir from their
makeshift shelters. Most of the Africans have slept in the open. They
are, in the main, servants and employees of the whites, wives and 
children of Askaris and the favourites of some of the white men. Most
of the others have remained in the village across the river.


This is not their fight, many of them think. To them, a white master
is just like any other. They differ only in the language they speak. 
It was only 30 years ago, and still fresh in the memory of some, when
the whites arrived. First as soldiers and explorers, then came their 
messengers of God. Since then, life has not been any easier for 
them. Sure, they cured some of the sick, but then they brought new
diseases with them. They gave them the gift of God, the one who tells
them not to take another who is not your wife. Who explains it is 
sinful to display a woman's breasts to any but her husband. Then 
immediately they let it be known these rules do not apply to the 
white man.


Above all, they say it is wrong to kill another. Yet they bring
their great engines of war and slaughter whole villages. Now they 
kill each other, but they don't bring enough soldiers. Therefore they
pay the African to perform this duty for them. The British, they 
bring their own dark people to kill and die for them. They bring men 
from India, far away across the sea. Why is this? If the whites have 
an argument with each other, why can't they keep it among 
themselves?


The white citizens have their own encampment. Now less then a dozen
of them, they spent the night in some tents borrowed from the 
military stores. Dr. Otto conducted the community in a prayer service
last night; Frau Otto mustered some nurses from among the African 
refugees to set up an aid station. 


George Carpentier spent the night with his chief favourite, a girl
of 15 called Shona. Away from the campfires, they crept down to the 
water's edge and made a reed bivouac. Shona held him all night, 
terrified the turbaned 'hairy chins' will come and snatch her away. 
She begged her white man not to let her be taken.


For many of the Africans have confused the turbaned Sikh cavalry
with the Arab slavers of recent legend. Many were not born when they 
used to come with their black 'catchers'. But they listened to their 
elders talk of them as European children learn of the 'thief in the 
night,' and the 'bogeyman.'


This dawn, everyone is staring out across the river as the morning
mist lifts its veil from around the town of Rungwa.


----------------------------------------------------------------


Some 5 kilometres north of Rungwa, the Lancers halt and deploy in
line abreast. At the order, they dismount and hand the reins of the 
horses to the boys to be tethered. The Daffadar scans the defences of
Rungwa with his binoculars; he sees no movement.


In front of them is open ground, broken only by the low sagebrush.
He sees the line of buildings of the main street with the single 
double-story house of the Fleischers in the middle. To his right in 
the distance, he can make out the wandering Westfluss, a dark line in
the red earth. To his left, there's a patch of greenery surrounding 
the reservoir, beyond that a flattop hill crowned with native 
enclosures. Immediately in front, he scans the banks of earth, which 
wander in a zigzag up to a low eroded hill covered in brush.
Everything looks ominously quiet, like a ghost town. He fears, 
however, not what is above ground, but what might lie below: 
Spangenburg's explosive mines.


The Daffadar tries to spot any tell-tail wires, or lines in the
earth that might have been hastily covered up. If the mines were laid
at night, he reasons, they might not have ensured that all signs had 
been removed.


He strides down the line of waiting soldiers giving his last minute
instructions.


"First squadron, UP!" he shouts. "Listen lads, keep one chain apart,
crouch low, take your time. If anyone sees ANYTHING suspicious, ANY 
freshly dug earth, put up your hand and get your black arse out of 
it, y'hear me?"


There's a murmuring of acknowledgement.


"I don't want to hand you back to your mothers in an envelope, 
RIGHT?"


More murmuring.


"RIGHT, Sowars?"


"YES SIR!" they shout as one.


"FORWARD!"


The first wave of attackers moves slowly forward. From the Fleischers
I can see them clearly, a long string of soldiers right in front of 
the very centre of our defence lines. They are looking at the ground 
as they come, bent over and walking slowly. They appear to be looking
for mines. It's funny, I think, for it never occurred to me to plant 
any.


I am a Naval officer and have never had to conduct this kind of
warfare. Leutnant Spangenburg has been absent on his cavalry 
escapades. I have planned the defence to the best of my ability, 
using my common sense. Artillery shells are used for shooting out of 
a gun. Until Spangenburg told me of the ambush at the ford, I didn't 
think there was any other use for them. I leave my post and shout 
down from the landing to the staff below.


"Call the observation post. Ask Musarewa if he has sighted their
artillery."


Shortly the answer comes back. There are no guns, only three
squadrons of Cavalry on foot. I find this very puzzling.


The 'B' squadron of the 2/7 Bengal Lancers reaches the first line of
earthworks. They look carefully into the first of our 'dummy' lines 
and see it is too shallow for any use, merely a low bank of earth. 
They carefully negotiate the obstacle, no doubt fearing that it is 
mined, and advance another 20 metres then halt. They are now a little
less than 200 metres from the first of our 'proper' lines. 370 rifles
and two machine guns lay within point blank range of these 
80 soldiers. Behind them, another 80 men of the next squadron close
to within metres of the first line, then they halt too. Through my 
binoculars, I see a third squadron line up to follow the other two. I
cannot believe the carelessness of these Englanders.


"Daffadar?" a man near him says, "I see a movement... that two story
building in the middle, someone is watching us through the window."


Waiting back at the 'jump-off' point, the Daffadar puts his
binoculars to his eyes and follows the man's direction. Still 
watching, he says,


"Can you make the shot?"


"Yes, Daffadar!"


"Then do it!"


The man lifts his Lee-Enfield rifle to his shoulder and sights
carefully. After, perhaps a minute, the man eases the trigger back. 
The rifle cracks, the man lowers the rifle and works the bolt to 
eject the spent cartridge.


"Well?"


The man shrugs.


I have just turned to give the order for combat when the bullet
comes through the window. The window shatters and I hear a sound like
a mosquito right by my left ear. The English can have no idea how 
close they came to ending the life of the Kommandant.


Still trembling, I rush to the landing rail once more and utter the
word, 'now.' The man winds frantically on the telephone and conveys 
the order.


At the Police Station the flagpole has been extended to twice its
height. At my signal, two men pull vigorously on the ropes to haul 
the German colours to the top of the mast. The flag is huge, designed
to be seen at sea from great distances. For it is a Naval ensign, the
Battle-flag of His Majesty the Kaiser's Cruiser, SMS Konigsberg.


In co-ordination with the raising of the flag, like a military
salute, the 370 rifles of our defence line fire as one. From 
above and behind, two of our machine guns rattle into life. When the
smoke clears there is nothing left to shoot, for the enemy lies still
in two neat rows as if waiting for inspection.


Well back, the Daffadar is shocked at the sudden explosion of noise.
Fearing at first that one of his men has set off a mine, he is 
tempted to send his third line forward to render assistance. Hearing,
though, the spluttering of the Maxims, he realises what is happening 
and calls his men back. He orders them to take up positions and give 
counter-fire.


Two flashes, one from either end of the front, followed by the
whining of shells, convinces him it is prudent to pull his survivors 
back. The ground trembles, and two columns of earth erupt behind his 
back. The singing fragments of shell strike a number of the horses. 
Frantically, he waves his troops back and to take all the, now 
riderless, mounts with them. It has taken a little under four minutes
to lose nearly one half of his regiment.


----------------------------------------------------------------


The Askaris watch the Indians leave and start singing. Linking arms
they bounce together in a traditional victory dance, the origin of 
which is lost in time. The news flashes via our telephone network 
across the river and eventually reaches the citizens anxiously 
listening to the abating gunfire.


Brigadier General Maitland-Evans listens to the commotion from
inside his marquee. His experienced ear picks out the sounds of the 
individual types of weapon to try to form an impression of what's 
happening.


"Ah," he tells his batman, "the Lee-Enfield see? It has an angry
bark, like a Spaniel. There, the Mauser, deeper, a hollow sounding 
noise... like a Bull-Mastiff perhaps? Hear it? 'Whoomph' there goes a
Krupp."


"That knocking sound Sahib?" the batman asks.


"Ah, That, my boy, is the Maxim gun. There's another, see?"


"Where are OUR machine guns, Sahib?" the batman asks.


"None. Can't hear any... No artillery either, strange!"


"It's stopping, Sahib. Do you suppose we have won?"


Outside his Askari guard suddenly leaps in the air, hollering. On
the other side of the campfire, the General sees some German 
residents hugging each other and talking excitedly. He turns to his 
batman and says sadly,


"I think not, boy. I think not!"


---------------------------------------------------------------


I watch the enemy withdraw with mixed feelings. Although I feel
relieved that we have come through the enemy attack unscathed, I am 
appalled at the foolishness of the foe. One expects casualties, but 
to throw good men away like that with so little reward - it simply 
doesn't make sense! Coming down the stairs towards the jubilant 
little command centre, I see Gerda Carpentier stagger uncertainly 
towards me. She carries her husband's carbine and looks most fragile 
with her face bandaged.


"Where's Klaus?" she asks.


"With the infantry," I tell her.


"I have just come from the trenches, he is not there!"


I look into her face, see the look of realisation and fear.


"Feldwebel!" I shout, "Where's Nyrere, the Wachtmeister?"


"With the Leutnant, Herr Hauptmann."


"And which way did they go?"


"South, out of the town."


"Damn," I curse, "they're going after the British officer."


"No!" Gerda cries.


--------------------------------------------------------------


The Daffadar leads the remaining squadron and the horses back
towards the camp. On the way, he meets Captain Harris coming up with 
the reserve. Seeing the distressed troops and their distraught 
leader, the Captain knows instantly what must have happened.


"Daffadar!" he calls.


"A disaster!" the big Sikh cries. "This is very bad, very bad!
Captain Sahib, that place is a fortress... my troops... such a waste.
They were good boys, all. I knew all of them..."


The Daffadar sobs bitterly and slaps his forehead. The Captain looks
through his binoculars at the town in the distance. The colour has 
drained from his face, his jaw falls open.


"Good God!" he cries. "What's that flag? It looks like the German
Navy. What a damned cheek!"


"Flags, Sahib? What do I care of flags... this is terrible..."


Within earshot, an English Sergeant looks at his comrade and shakes
his head.


"I think the Captain's lost it, Noddy. What do you think?" he
whispers.


"Yeah, and woe is us, eh Johnny?"


"Bleeding right, there, Noddy."


---------------------------------------------------------------


Out of sight, to the west of the British camp, Leutnant Spangenburg
watches the distant horsemen with interest. He turns to his 
Wachtmeister and indicates.


"Nyrere, they're pulling back to lick their wounds. That Britisher
will be with them."


"Leutnant, they have suffered a severe check. Their chief will not
be too popular I believe. To send his men in like that, it was very 
foolish," the Wachtmeister replies.


"Still, now they wait for reinforcements. This will be our best
chance, don't you think?"


"Yes, Herr Leutnant. They will be thinking of their dead now. By
tomorrow they will be very angry, but today they grieve. It always 
happens that way."


"Right, lets move a bit closer and wait till nightfall."


---------------------------------------------------------------


As the jubilant Askaris pick through the dead for rifles and
ammunition and, it has to be said, a few souvenirs, a little 
denouement to this drama takes place. A sad little party arrives in 
front of us carrying a white flag. Behind them follow three wagons. 
It is a burial party.


Together with my aide, I go out to meet them, and to offer any
assistance. They are led by a giant Sikh cavalryman with a long bushy
black beard. With his tall black horse, he makes quite an impressive 
figure. As he dismounts, I snap a salute in honour of his brave men. 
He looks very sad and my heart feels heavy in his presence.


Lacking an interpreter, our conversation is brief. What words could
possibly pass between us? Nevertheless I express my sorrow for his 
men and leave him to it. Our assistance, I gather, will not be 
needed.


---------------------------------------------------------------


Some time later, I become aware of the rattling, droning sound of
the little Etrich Taube. Presently I see it pass over the rooftops of
Rungwa and head north towards the enemy camp. Anxiously, I ask my 
staff if they have any knowledge of this and they shake their heads.


What's going on here? I wonder. Spangenburg's gone off on some
little war of his own and now Gerda Carpentier, injured and weak, is 
flying off on her own for what purpose? It feels as if I no longer 
have any control over my subordinates. I telephone the aerodrome to 
be told Gerda is going to look for Spangenburg and the Wachtmeister. 
Helpless, I wait exasperated for the outcome of all this foolishness.


----------------------------------------------------------------


Gerda passes low to the west of the British camp. She reasons that
Klaus must be hiding somewhere in the little streams or rock outcrops
in that broken part of the country. The Leutnant, however, knows how 
to hide and she sees nothing. Lower and lower she goes until the 
airscrew is kicking up the red dust from the land.


Watching, Klaus Spangenburg yells at her, pleads for her to turn 
back.


"She will crash!" he tells the Wachtmeister, "she is too low, the
British can't miss!"


Indeed, it seems that every rifle in the British camp is firing
furiously in her direction. Gerda is aware of the whizzing and 
whining around her, but desperately, she searches for her lover. The 
bullets make a 'zit' noise when they tear through the thin fabric of 
the fuselage and wings. A 'ding' when they glance off the metal of 
the motor. Surely a bullet must hit her, or one of the many control 
wires, and send her plummeting into the earth.


At the end of one pass she turns the machine. Banked over, the
Etrich presents it's greatest area to the British riflemen. Suddenly,
all the watchers hear the motor suddenly stop,the Taube staggers in 
flight, then slowly, like a falling sheet, crumples into the ground.


Spangenburg leaps from his hiding place and runs headlong in the
direction of the wreckage. It lies splintered not more than a 
kilometre away. At the same time, the British, too, leap from their 
firing positions and swarm out towards the heap of canvas and wood.


I watch the aeroplane go down from my command post. Below me, the
Askaris leap from their trenches and run out onto the open ground in 
front. A horrified Feldwebel from my staff runs up to ask what we 
should do. I can't do a thing, I have to tell him. She is too near 
the British.


----------------------------------------------------------------


The British arrive at the wreckage first. Roughly, they pull the
limp Gerda from the entangling heap and drag her clear. An officer 
and an NCO gallop up to take control and order the unconscious 
prisoner to be searched. Gerda's face is completely covered in a 
scarf and goggles. At first the men assume the pilot is a man. It 
doesn't take long for them, however, to be disabused of this fact.


"Captain sir, she's girl!" one cries. "Look here, sir, tits!"


The man pats the pilot on the chest in a most lascivious way. The
Sergeant orders the men away from her and to find a litter to take 
her back to the camp.


Too late, Leutnant Spangenburg sees the British soldiers around the
wrecked aeroplane. Bareheaded and desperate, he stands still in full 
view of them until his faithful NCO runs up behind and pulls him 
down.


"Leutnant," the Wachtmeister tells him, "you cannot do anything.
They have her."


Very reluctantly and despondent, Klaus Spangenburg agrees and allows
himself to be guided back into hiding. Beside himself, he buries his 
head in his hands. The Wachtmeister suggests they return to their 
horses. Silently and gently he escorts the officer back in the 
direction of Rungwa.


----------------------------------------------------------------


Captain Harris watches as his men carry the woman pilot back to the
camp. She is out cold and her body rolls around in the litter like a 
sack of potatoes. The hospital tent is very busy, so the Captain 
orders that she brought to the Headquarters tent. A first aid man is 
fetched to attend to her.


It is not long before she displays signs of life. She groans in pain
and mumbles in German. Like most grammar school boys, the Captain has
a passable command of French. It is in this language with which they 
try to communicate.


Despite her heavily bandaged face, the Captain sees she is very
pretty. She looks to be in her twenties, has a fine slim body, long 
eyelashes and lovely blue eyes. With the Daffadar in attendance, he 
asks the pilot her name.


"Gerda," she whispers, "Gerda Spangenburg."


It is this name with which Gerda now calls herself.


"Spangenburg?" the Captain exclaims, "did you say, Spangenburg?"


The woman nods, confused at the English officer's response. Harris
stares at the Daffadar who mutters:


"Perhaps, all Germans are called Spangenburg, Sahib!"


(C)Katzmarek
