1982 - An Ice-Cream War

by William Boyd

  Temple didn’t commit himself as he had no intention of getting involved in the fighting, though he wasn’t averse to being bought drinks as an inducement to join up. The fact was that the initial enthusiasm and war-fever had died away. The military had as yet no use for these volunteer forces and they were being encouraged to return to their farms and jobs. The group in the Norfolk Hotel that night represented a hard core, but one whose resolution was fast on the wane, considering that they’d been idling in Nairobi for two weeks and it was clear that it was unlikely they’d ever be deployed. Learning of the departure of the Indian Expeditionary Force ‘C’ had been the most depressing news and had fully doused their ardour.

  For his part Temple spent the next few days in an increasingly frustrating attempt to find someone who would admit he was a ‘problem’. He was, he soon discovered, the only person in the whole of British East Africa who had had his land overrun and occupied. He tried to see the Governor of the colony, the national commander-in-chief, but got no further than the hall of Government House where he was politely but firmly turned away and told to go and see the Land Officer. The Land Officer informed him that it was not a civil but a military matter and that he ought to take up any complaints with the officer commanding the KAR.

  “And where is he?” Temple asked.

  “Somewhere in Uganda.”

  As for the question of reparations, that would have to wait until the war was over, but in the meantime he could file a claim with the Registrar of Documents, Mr Pailthorpe. Mr Pailthorpe, in his turn, said he had received absolutely no official instructions about reparations (“for God’s sake, man, the war’s only been on for a fortnight”) and suggested he consult the Attorney General. Until Mr Pailthorpe had received official notification from the Attorney General’s office nothing further could be done.

  Temple decided to let the question of reparations rest for a while. All the government offices he had visited were housed in a terrace of corrugated iron shacks. Over the past three days Temple had been passed from one to another and he had no desire to wait out the duration of the war in a succession of sweltering ante-rooms. In the meantime he planned to visit his insurers and see if he could extract some interim payment for his burnt sisal, his smouldering linseed fields and uprooted trolley lines.

  His insurers, the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co., occupied a small office above a butcher’s shop on Sixth Avenue. Temple pushed past several sheep and antelope carcases and entered the dark interior. The close heat, the subdued murmur of sated flies and the rich gamey smell of offal made his stomach heave and saliva squirt into his mouth. He was breathing heavily—inhaling the musty but fresher air on the first floor—when an Indian clerk ushered him into the office of Gulam Hoosam Essanjee Esquire, General Manager of the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co.

  Mr Essanjee stood at a single window looking down at the traffic on Sixth Avenue. He was a dapper plump Indian of about Temple’s age with black, well-oiled hair and the straightest, most clearly defined parting Temple had ever seen. He wore a washable rubber collar with his tie and coarse linen suit and was perspiring heavily. He had a very thin, neatly clipped pencil moustache. The room was oppressively hot and unusually dark. So dark that Mr Essanjee had a lit hurricane lamp fizzing quietly on his totally bare desk. The darkness was explained by the fact that the other window in the room was obscured by a thick hand-woven blanket, which was soaking wet and dripping steadily onto a mushy copy of the East African Standard placed beneath it.

  Temple sat down heavily, still nauseous from negotiating the charnel house below. “Can’t we open the curtains?” he asked weakly. The stifling atmosphere was worse than the government offices.

  “Not a curtain, my dear sir. Mr…?”

  “Smith.”

  “Mr Smith. Not, I repeat, a curtain.”

  Mr Essanjee strode forward and lifted the bottom of the blanket to reveal what looked to Temple like a miniature copy of the paddle wheel of a Mississippi river boat, placed on the ledge of the open window.

  Mr Essanjee let the blanket drop.

  “A thermantidote. Very popular in my own country. The wind blows the rotating fan, which in turn casts a stronger breeze onto the tattie—which you will have observed has been soaked in cold water—ergo a cool moist breeze penetrates the intolerably dry and hot room. Most efficient.” Mr Essanjee wiped his damp hands on his linen jacket. “The Essanjee Thermantidote. This is my own improved version. Patent pending.” He smiled broadly at Temple. “The S. and G. Thermantidote.” He sketched an ‘S’ and a ‘G’ in the air with his finger. “You follow? I am Gulam Hoosan Essanjee. My machine is the S and G—”

  “Yes, yes,” Temple said, feeling faint. “I see.”

  “My brother controls the agency in Mombasa. If you’re interested?”

  “But what happens if there’s no breeze to rotate the fan? Like today.”

  “Ah yes. I regret an exterior breeze is essential. But the drip of the water from the tattie has, I find, a cooling effect of its own. No?” He sat down at his empty desk. “Now, my dear Mr Smith, what can I do for you?”

  Temple explained about the loss of his farm, while Mr Essanjee sat nodding his oiled head. He presented von Bishop’s affidavit and said he was claiming for the loss of various goods. Mr Essanjee went to a wooden filing cabinet and extracted a copy of Temple’s policy. He hummed and hawed, tapping his fingernails on the desk.

  “Yes,” Mr Essanjee said. “There seems to be no problem. We shall regard it as theft.”

  Temple couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh. Well, that’s excellent.”

  “‘We aim to please.’ Is this not what they say in your country? I see here it says you are a citizen of the USA.”

  “Indeed it is, and indeed I am.” Temple felt full of irrational affection for this plump little man.

  “Reimbursement shall be effected as soon as we receive our assessor’s report.”

  “Oh,” Temple said. “An assessor’s report.” He stroked his moustache.

  “Of course,” said Mr Essanjee, touching his own with the little fingers of each hand. “Simply procedure. It’s not a question of doubting you, Mr Smith. But you can hardly expect us to take the word,” he held up von Bishop’s affidavit, “of our sworn enemy.”

  “You’re right, I suppose,” Temple said. “But my farm is now occupied by this same enemy. It is, as you might say, behind enemy lines.”

  “Alas,” Mr Essanjee spread his damp palms. “This war; it causes endless inconveniences.”

  Temple had a mad idea. “At least I think it’s behind enemy lines. Von Bishop might just have taken what he wanted and left. Supposing the enemy have withdrawn. Would your assessor be prepared to come with me? Who is your assessor, by the way?”

  Mr Essanjee bowed his head. “It is I. We are very short-staffed at the moment. The international situation, you understand.”

  “Would you come?” Temple asked.

  “Naturally,” Mr Essanjee said suavely. “At the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. we aim to please.”

  Chapter 3

  30 August 1914,

  Voi, British East Africa

  “Don’t you think you’re going a bit far?” Wheech-Browning said two days later. He was sitting in a dilapidated cane chair outside his tent in Voi. The slightest move he made set up a filthy screeching noise.

  “I mean, good God, there is meant to be a war on, you know. You can’t just swan up to Heinrich Hun and say, ‘Look here, old chap, any chance of a cease-fire while we carry out an insurance assessment?’”

  “Normally,” Temple said patiently, “I&rsdquo;d agree.” He paused while Wheech-Browning noisily shifted his weight. “But I know von Bishop. He was practically a next-door neighbour. He’s British too.”

  “Was British,” Wheech-Browning corrected fiercely. “Damned bloody traitor.”

  “He’s a farmer. He’d understand, I’m sure. If, that is, he’s there. For all I know the place may be
deserted. After all, Mr Essanjee and I aren’t soldiers. We won’t be there long. Mr Essanjee says it’s only a formality.”

  “Precisely,” Mr Essanjee confirmed. “A mere formality.” He was standing behind Temple, dressed in an immaculate white drill suit with matching solar topee.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Wheech-Browning said, standing up. “I mean we are meant to be at daggers drawn…Mind you, there hasn’t been a shot fired in this area since my old bearer got it in the neck.” He paused, cocked his head to one side and smiled. “Got it in the neck. Not bad.” He paced up and down. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ve got these volunteer chaps with motorbikes: East African Mechanical Transport Corps. I take one out and drive up the road to Taveta once in a while. Bit of scouting.” Wheech-Browning had been seconded to a battalion of the KAR as an intelligence officer. “If all three of us tootled off up the road, I could drop you two off a few miles away. You might even do a bit of spying while you’re about it.”

  “Sure we will,” Temple said.

  “Capital,” echoed Mr Essanjee. “Capital.”

  “Right,” Wheech-Browning said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

  The motorbike was a Clyno 6 h.p. with a side-car. Wheech-Browning drove, Temple rode pillion while Mr Essanjee sat in the side-car with Wheech-Browning’s rifle. All three of them wore goggles. Dawn was breaking and the air was quite cool.

  Mr Essanjee had tied a silk muffler round his throat. His white suit seemed to glow eerily in the bluey light. They stopped at the KAR lines at Bura where Wheech-Browning informed a sleeping picket where they were going. Then they motored off along the caravan trail, bumping along at fifteen miles an hour across the flat scrubby desert that separated them from Taveta. Soon the rising sun picked out the snowy top of Mount Kilimanjaro, towering out of the shadowy foothills up ahead. They drove on across the plain beneath a placid gulf of sky, the tiny sputtering of the engine breaking the silence, towards the beautiful mountain, watching the sun creep down its side.

  “Splendid view,” Wheech-Browning shouted.

  They had to stop after half an hour to allow Mr Essanjee to be sick. He said he found the motion of the side-car most unpleasant. Wheech-Browning and Temple waited patiently, warmed now by the sun rising in the sky, while Mr Essanjee retched and spat fastidiously a few yards off the road, leaning over at an angle to avoid besmirching his spotless suit. He and Temple changed places which seemed to solve the problem. Temple’s weight in the side-car, Wheech-Browning observed, cut their speed down considerably.

  They stopped after a couple of hours while Wheech-Browning consulted the map and tried to plot their position. Temple peered over his shoulder. The caravan track was a dotted black line across a perfectly white unmarked piece of paper. Wheech-Browning pretended to scrutinize the surrounding countryside for landmarks.

  “Not the most efficient map in the world,” he said with a nervous laugh. Temple, who reminded them that he’d been travelling the Voi-Taveta road for the last four years, said that he thought they were about five miles from the Lumi River bridge. Salaita hill, a smooth mound that rose a couple of hundred feet out of the flat scrub, was a mile or so ahead. Before they reached the hill they should come across a rough path that led to Smithville and Lake Jipe.

  “Good,” Wheech-Browning said, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Let’s make a move.” He offered the bottle to Mr Essanjee, who politely declined. “You see,” Wheech-Browning said. “It’s like I told you, not a squarehead in sight. Probably find your farm’s deserted.”

  “If they’ve touched my Decorticator…” Temple said, his eyes narrowing vengefully.

  “Never fear, Mr Smith,” Mr Essanjee said. “You are covered by the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. Have no fear.”

  They came to the track that led to Smithville. Ahead was Salaita, and beyond that they could just make out the darker line of trees which marked the Lumi River. Swinging his gaze to the left Temple could see the rise of small hills among which Smithville nested.

  “Huns in those trees, I’ll be bound,” Wheech-Browning said. “I don’t think I’ll come any closer if you don’t mind. How far is it to your place from here?”

  “About four miles. It’ll take us an hour to get there, a quick look over, then an hour back. Shouldn’t be too long a wait.”

  “Absolutely no trouble. See the outcrop there? I’ll stroll over with my binoculars.” He pointed to an untidy tumbled clump of boulders some six hundred yards off. “See what the old Germani are getting up to.”

  Temple and Mr Essanjee looked in the direction he indicated. Temple saw the rocks, warm in the morning sun.

  Then suddenly they seemed to explode in puffs of thick black smoke. A second later came the loud report of rifles. The thorn bushes around them seemed to be plucked and shaken by invisible hands.

  “Bloody hell!” exclaimed Wheech-Browning. “Damn Germans! Not even a warning.”

  “Oh my bloody God,” Mr Essanjee said and sat down with a thump. He looked in horror at his thigh. The starched white drill was being engulfed by a brilliant red stain.

  “Oh shit!” Temple said.

  “Ouf,” Mr Essanjee sighed and fell back to the ground. Temple and Wheech-Browning ran over and knelt by his side. Another stain had appeared in the middle of his chest.

  “Good God!” said Wheech-Browning, holding his hand up to his mouth. The rattle of firing ceased.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Temple said. They leapt onto the motorbike. Wheech-Browning attempted a kick-start, but banged his ankle on the foot rest.

  “Christ!” he wept, tears in his eyes. “That’s agony!” Wincing, he kick-started again and the engine caught. Temple glanced back over his shoulder. He saw small figures scrambling down the rock pile and running up the track towards them.

  “Hold on!” Temple shouted. “We’d better get Essanjee.”

  “Fine. But look sharpish!”

  They dragged Mr Essanjee over to the side-car and toppled him in head first, leaving his legs hanging over the side. Then Temple and Wheech-Browning jumped on the bike and, with rear wheel spinning furiously, they roared off back down the track to Voi.

  Some miles further on, when they felt they were safe, they stopped. They confirmed that Mr Essanjee was indeed dead. His suit and jacket were soaking with blood, rendered all the more coruscating by the contrast it made to the patches of gleaming white. They rearranged his body in a more dignified position, so that it looked like he was dozing in the side-car, his head thrown back.

  “Damn good shots, those fellows,” Wheech-Browning observed as he wedged his rifle between Mr Essanjee’s plump knees. “He was a plucky little chap for an insurance salesman. What did you say the name of his company was?”

  “African Guarantee and Indemnity Co.”

  “Must bear that in mind.”

  Temple wondered who would process his claim now. How long would it take to find a replacement for Mr Essanjee? And would he be as amenable? He heard Wheech-Browning say something.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “I was saying that, if you ask me, the only way you’re going to get back to that farm of yours is to join the army and fight your way there.”

  Temple tugged at his moustache. “You know,” he said resignedly, “I think you may be right.”

  Chapter 4

  26 October 1914,

  SS Homayun, Indian Ocean

  Gabriel Cobb stood in a patch of shade on the aft officers’ deck of the SS Homayun. The sun beat down out of a sky so bleached it seemed white, scalding the gently swelling surface of the ocean. The smoke from the Homayuns twin stacks hung in the air, trailing behind the ship, a tattered black epitaph marking its ponderous eight-knot passage from India to Africa.

  Gabriel had been standing in the same position for nearly an hour, mesmerized by the wake streaming out behind. He was sunk in a profound lethargy, a sense of depressed boredom that seemed to penetrate every corner of the ship, if not th
e entire fourteen-vessel convoy of Indian Expeditionary Force ‘B’—force ‘C’ had arrived a month earlier—eight thousand men, steaming off, as far as he knew, to invade German East Africa.

  He leant back against a bulkhead and exhaled, feeling his shirt press damply against his back. He was lucky to find this corner of the deck unoccupied. Every bit of shade had been claimed by sprawling supine soldiers, desperate to escape from the balmy clamminess of their tiny cabins. God only knew,

  Gabriel thought, what it must be like for the other ranks, the Indian soldiers and regimental followers quartered below decks, sleeping in hammocks slung only a foot apart. He took off his pith helmet and used it to fan his face. God only knew what it was like for the stokers shovelling coal into the furnaces in the belly of the ship. He tried to cheer himself up. At least he was better off than the stokers and the miserable, ill-disciplined men he was supposed to lead into battle.

  Gabriel sat down on the deck and stretched his legs out in front of him. It was small consolation. He’d never known life deal him such a succession of cruel disappointments. His ambitions had been modest. He wished only to fight in France with his regiment, but even that was to be denied him. He paused. The effort of swishing his hat to and fro was enervating in this heat. He allowed his head to roll to one side. Everywhere he looked he saw ships. Tramp steamers, reconditioned liners, troopships. He saw the battleship HMS Goliath, its four stacks belching smoke as for some reason it got up steam. It raised only a flicker of interest. The German commerce raider Emden was known to be loose in the Indian Ocean. So too was the cruiser Königsberg, recently on display to the inhabitants of Dar-es-Salaam, now believed to be roaming the coastal waters in search of prey. He didn’t really care; anything would be preferable to the numbing monotony he’d been experiencing for the last four weeks. He saw the battleship slowly wheel round and head back in the direction of India. Just another straggler, Gabriel thought, falling behind.