Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Not sure. I counted five. All white men. Could not see any askaris.’

  ‘Good. They must be sailors from the cruiser. We can’t be all that far away.’

  ‘What we do now, Nkosi?’

  ‘Take me where I can see for myself.’

  Together, the two men carefully picked their way forward until Mzingeli indicated that they should fall onto hands and knees and crawl forward. Fonthill parted the creepers that hung all around them until he could see ahead. He saw the breech of a small-to-medium-size artillery piece – perhaps a 12-pounder – its muzzle pointed away from them, snugly mounted on a wooden base and with a camouflaged net hung overhead, strewn with foliage. Flanking it on either side were two Maxim-type heavy machine guns. The twelve-man crew, dressed in white, tropical uniforms and wearing the distinctive, tasselled sailor caps of the German Imperial Navy, were sitting at their weapons, smoking and all looking out onto the channel. Then three more men sauntered into sight, sat and produced playing cards.

  ‘Back now,’ hissed Simon. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  They retreated as carefully as they had come and rejoined the other two.

  ‘’Ave they got a battleship tucked away there, then, bach sir?’ enquired Jenkins.

  ‘No, but if all their posts are as well equipped and manned as this one, then I can quite understand why our small craft couldn’t get through.’

  ‘So … what do we do now, then?’

  ‘Back to the boats. I don’t want to risk being blown out of the water by some trigger-happy German rating. We will hide away, as best we can, in case they patrol this bit of shoreline. Then after darkness but before the moon comes up, we will paddle gently past them – on the other side of the channel. And if anyone makes a sound, he will feed the crocodiles.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jenkins nodded sombrely. ‘I shall be very, very, very, exceedingly quiet, then.’

  Back at the little beach, they covered the boats more satisfactorily and then found what little comfort they could in the jungle, slapping at the mosquitoes and drinking from their quinine-spliced water bottles. The discomfort was extreme, but the dusk fell quickly and when it came they were ready. Their prawn nets prominently displayed in case they were challenged, they paddled to the far side of the channel and crept upstream, hugging the shoreline.

  Only one small raw flame spluttering – an attempt, no doubt, to defeat the mosquitoes afflicting the lookout – showed where the gun point was situated. Intuitively, Fonthill ducked his head and averted his gaze from the far shore as, silently, each man in the two canoes dipped his paddle into the water, reaching forward to gain maxium impetus from each stroke. Agonisingly slow, it seemed, the little craft crept past the gun emplacements until they passed a bend in the channel and had reached safe water.

  ‘Well done,’ whispered Simon. ‘We’ll keep on for another hour, then stop and bed down for the night. I want to explore further upstream. The cruiser obviously came this way. 352.’

  ‘Bach, sir?’

  ‘Keep taking soundings with that pole of yours, every two hundred yards or so. I want to chart the water depths as we go.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  They were up again well before dawn – sleeping in what were virtually African water meadows presented little opportunity for sound slumber – and they continued their passage down the south-eastern side of Salale Island and had put perhaps two miles of the muddy water of the channel behind them when, suddenly, they were challenged from the shore.

  ‘Wer sind Sie und wohin gehen Sie?’

  ‘Damn,’ swore Simon. ‘Caught napping. Now, remember, we two are Portuguese. Explain that in Swahili, Mzingeli.’

  The tracker did so and a man appeared from between the mangrove trees. He was wearing a grubby German naval uniform and was pointing a rifle at them. He shouted at them again in German. ‘Kommen Sie ans Ufer. Sonst schiesse ich!’

  They could not understand him, but he gestured to the shore with his rifle and his meaning was clear. ‘Very well,’ muttered Simon. ‘If he doesn’t speak Swahili then I will have to try my Portuguese English. Paddle in, boys. Are there bullets up the spouts of the Mausers, 352?’

  ‘Oh yes, bach sir.’

  ‘Well, we’ll try and keep them in reach but I don’t want to fight unless we absolutely have to. The bloody cruiser may be just round the corner and we might be just a bit outnumbered if we start a fight. Mzingeli.’

  ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘As we paddle in, keep shouting to him in Swahili that you are acting as guides for two Portuguese fishermen.’

  ‘Yes, Nkosi.’

  As they neared the shore, two more sailors appeared, carrying rifles, and as the canoe grounded onto the gritty shingle they surrounded the craft and gestured with their rifles for them to get out.

  Simon held up his hands and said, ‘Nein spraken ze Duetch.’ Mzingeli was still speaking in Swahili to the first German, who scowled and shook his head. Then, a fourth man, in officer’s uniform, materialised from among the trees and nodded to the seamen to lower their weapons. Fonthill took a deep breath. If the officer spoke Portuguese they were done for. ‘I speaka some English,’ he said.

  The officer nodded. ‘Then tell me who you are and what you are doing in German territory.’ His English was perfect.

  Simon fumbled in his pocket and produced his bogus passport and gestured to Jenkins to do the same. ‘Manuel da Silva,’ he said, bowing slightly. He nodded to Jenkins and added, ‘Mina colleaga. Frederico Ramirez. We Portuguese fishermen.’

  The German inspected both passports with a cursory air and handed them back. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We worka for big Portuguese fishing company in Portuguese East Africa. We … er … esploring this water to find if enough prawns ’ere to fish ’ere after war. See.’ And he bent down into the canoe and held up the large net.

  The officer remained looking at them, slowly taking in the baggy torn shorts, the dirty shirts and the scraps of fabric tied around their heads. Then he shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you. Come.’ He drew a revolver from its holster at his belt and indicated that they should follow him.

  The little party, with the three sailors at the rear, threaded its way over the mangrove roots until they reached the rear end of a rough wooden shelter that was draped with a camouflage net, through which had been thrust stalks of palm and other leaves. Simon realised that the post had been situated just around the point of a small promontory, which they would have reached with a few more strokes of their paddles. A large machine gun was mounted on a tripod inside the shack and, quite hidden from the outside, commanded this part of the river.

  The officer was young, with a fair golden moustache and embryonic beard, but the most distinguishing features were his eyes. They were startlingly light blue, giving his face a cold and even cruel appearance. He seemed to be in command of the post. He gestured for Fonthill and Jenkins to sit on two stools and the others to squat on the floor of bamboo canes that projected over the water. He lowered himself into an old armchair.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I think you are British spies trying to find the Königsberg. You might as well tell the truth now. We will beat it out of you if you don’t.’ He shouted a command in German and one of the sailors immediately reached up to the roof of the shack and produced a bull-hide whip.

  From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Jenkins’s fingers creep towards the large knife that always hung from his belt. He hoped the Welshman would do nothing impulsive, for they were well outnumbered.

  He rolled his eyes in simulated terror. ‘We no lie,’ he said. ‘Portuguese men want to fish ’ere.’

  ‘These are German territorial waters and Portugal is now at war with Germany. You could not have been given permission to enter these waters. Show me your accreditation to do so.’

  Fonthill allowed his jaw to drop. ‘Accreditation, sir? What that?’

  The German sighed. Simon began for the f
irst time to think that their story might be believed. He knew that many of the fishermen out at the entrance to the delta were Portuguese. Some of them were fishing for prawns at the mouth of the Kikunja Channel, impervious to – and perhaps even unaware of – the fact that war had been declared between Germany and Portugal, England’s oldest ally.

  ‘It means the papers giving you permission to enter these waters.’

  ‘Ah, papers. Si. I ’ave some. In ze boat.’

  ‘Go and get them.’ He issued an order in German and the sailor with the bullwhip stepped forward and gestured back the way they had come.

  Fonthill took a deep breath. His escort, supremely arrogant, had left his rifle behind, relying only on the bullwhip as a weapon. In referring to his ‘papers’, Simon was merely playing for time. But now there was a chance he could overpower his guardian. Or could he? As he shuffled through the door he assessed him: medium height, a paunch that hung over his belt (a good sign!), much younger of course, but not looking very fit. Like Jenkins, Simon wore a knife at his belt. It was useful for cutting back undergrowth. It would have to play a more sinister role now.

  Deliberately slouching, he made his way towards the boat, stumbling here and there over the mangrove roots. His thoughts raced. Even if he could unearth one of the Mausers hidden in the canoe swiftly enough to fire before the sailor did, the report would alert the others and fetch them running. No. He gulped. It would have to be silent, cold steel. Ah, Jenkins would have been much better at this dreadful business!

  They reached the boat and Simon wracked his brains to remember where there might be official-looking papers in the craft. They carried nothing to betray their identity, of course, so there was little that would serve the purpose. There were only the maps. Yet maps always looked like maps. But at least these were carefully folded. Perhaps they would serve, if he could distract the German’s attention …

  He retrieved them from the boat, held them up for the sailor’s inspection as he stepped over onto the shingle, then deliberately slipped, sending them scattering at the German’s feet. The man instinctively looked down. In one quick movement, Fonthill withdrew his knife, flung himself upon the sailor and plunged the knife into his stomach, putting his hand over the man’s mouth as he did so.

  The two went sprawling and, as he fell, the German banged his head onto a mangro root projecting from the shingle, half-stunning him. The impact threw Simon to one side so that his hand fell from the sailor’s mouth, but the man emitted only a low groan. Quickly, Fonthill withdrew the knife and, gritting his teeth in disgust, thrust the blade into the man’s throat, sending blood over his own face and breast. Within seconds, the German was dead.

  Slowly, Simon stood, breathing heavily. He stood listening for a moment but only the chattering of monkeys overhead met his ear. He turned to the canoe and extracted the three Mauser rifles. They were not exactly state-of-the-art weapons but they were modern enough to be fitted with six-cartridge magazines each. He checked to ensure that each rifle had a round inserted into its breech and, stepping gingerly over the body of the dead sailor – he wrinkled his nose as he noted that flies were already gorging themselves on the man’s gaping wounds – he began making his way back to the hut.

  At the doorway, he took a deep breath, put the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and sprang through the opening. ‘Drop your guns!’ he shouted.

  The officer still had his revolver in his hand and, involuntarily, he fired at Fonthill from his lap. It was his last act. As his bullet crashed into the door frame, Simon’s shot took him in the chest and he crashed to the floor. Working the bolt on his Mauser to slip another round into the breech, Fonthill swung round to face the others. He was not as quick, however, as Jenkins.

  The Welshman, knife in hand, hurled himself at the nearest sailor who cannoned into the man next to him, sending them both to the ground. One of the rifles cracked, sending a round into the roof of the shack. Then Jenkins’s knife rose and fell twice and all became silent.

  ‘Well done, 352,’ gasped Fonthill, subsiding into a chair. ‘I think that’s enough killing for one day.’

  Mzingeli moved lithely to the three Germans, put three fingers to each man’s jugular artery and nodded. ‘All dead, Nkosi,’ he said.

  Jenkins slowly got to his feet, breathing heavily. ‘Blimey,’ he said, nodding to where the elderly Mizango, his mouth hanging open, was staring wide-eyed at the bodies, ‘old Jango ’ere probably thinks we do this every Thursday.’ He raised his eyebrows at Simon’s bloodstained shirt. ‘Good ’eavens, bach sir. You look as though you’ve been in a bit of a fight. But well done. I was just wonderin’ ’ow I could finish off this lot on me own and then come and give you an ’and, see. I might ’ave known you could look after yourself. Are you all right?’

  Fonthill nodded dismally. ‘A knife, I’m afraid. And I hated doing it. Mind you,’ he looked up at Jenkins, ‘I think the bastard would have used that whip on us. Now,’ he looked round. ‘It takes three men to man a heavy Maxim like this so, including the officer, we must have accounted for the full crew of this post. If there were any more they would have come running by now.’

  He looked round at the others. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen, but I think we must dispose of the bodies. When there is no report back from this post to the German ship, I reckon the captain will send a boat to check. I don’t want to alert them by letting them find the human debris.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Can’t bury them among these mangrove roots. I’m afraid it will have to be the river – and the crocodiles.’

  ‘Oh, bloody ’ell, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s face was a picture of misery. ‘We can’t do that to the poor bastards. It’ll encourage them awful crocs, too, look you. Can’t we find a bit of sand or somethin’ and put ’em in there?’

  ‘No, sorry. No time. Come on. First the bodies, then the machine gun. We’ll put them all mid-stream and weigh them down. 352, you are excused this duty. Stay here and keep watch.’

  ‘Ah, now that’s very kind, bach sir. I couldn’t feed them to the crocs. I really couldn’t.’

  ‘No.’ Simon nodded. ‘But first you can help Mzingeli and I carry this damned machine gun. Let’s put a couple of rounds into the thing to make sure it’s put out of action completely, in case the Germans try and recover it. They are probably treasuring every weapon they have, being so far from their home base. Come on. Let’s get moving.’

  Well within the hour, the two canoes were on their way. Gingerly dipping a rag into the river – when the bodies had been deposited there was an ominious swelling of the surface of the water near the boat – Fonthill had managed to clean most, at least, of the blood from his shirt and face. He was worried, however, that they had blundered so blindly into the machine gun post. If the German captain was as efficient as he seemed to be, there would be many other posts to circumnavigate before they found the Königsberg. He lifted his hand.

  ‘I don’t think we should continue paddling during daylight hours,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to run into another German post. We will pull over at the next clearing in the jungle we can see and lay up for the rest of the day. I want to talk to Mizango, anyway.’

  Once they had hidden the canoes, a fire was lit, a kettle was hung over it and the four gathered around it and sipped tea.

  ‘I don’t want to go on more or less blindly paddling up these channels, offering ourselves as bait to the German defences in the jungle. And there are so many of these damned rivers that it will take us months to investigate them all. Mzingeli, would you please ask Mizango if there are any native villages tucked away on the channels?’

  For a few moments, the two black men huddled over their tin mugs, talking to each other in Swahili. Then Mzingeli turned back to Simon.

  ‘He say that, yes, there are native fishing villages on some of the islands of the delta. But they will probably be selling fish to the big ship, so may not tell us where she is.’

  ‘Hmm. Good point. Never mind. Can he take us to the nearest of
these villages? The people there will surely know where the blasted ship is and I am prepared to pay for the information.’

  Again the two men became locked in discussion. Ever since the bloodstained Simon had appeared in the doorway of the machine gun post like some avenging angel from hell and had shot the German officer, and Jenkins had so quickly despatched the two other men, the old man had hardly taken his eyes off both of them, his jaw hanging down in – what? Awe? Fear? Admiration?

  Now Mzingeli reported that the nearest village known to Mizango was a good day’s paddling away. But the chief there knew most things that happened in the maze of inlets and channels that made up the delta and he might know where the big ship lay.

  ‘Humph,’ Jenkins tugged at his moustache in exasperation. ‘Now, why didn’t ’e say that in the first place?’

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘The admiral had advised that we should investigate this, the biggest channel, first. I should have thought it through. Of course the natives would know if a damned great three-funnelled man-o’-war was parked in their backyard. We should have visited this chief first. Thank Mizango and ask him to take us there as soon as it gets dark. Will he know the way to go in the darkness?’

  Mzingeli nodded. ‘He think so.’

  ‘Good. Let’s have something to eat and leave as soon as we can. It would be good to get as near as we can to the village before dawn. Let’s paddle on the far side.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘Where the giant crocs are.’

  Jenkins snorted. ‘Everyone knows I am not in the least afraid of the bloody things, bach sir. It’s just that I can’t swim, see. If I could, I could just swim underneath their bellies, stick in me knife and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘Of course, old chap. Of course.’

  Once they were afloat again the heat at last subsided and, this time led by Mizango, they cleared the bottom of the long Salale Island and turned to the north-west to meet yet another channel (they found later that it was a subsidiary of the Simba-Uranga), where they turned to the north. The night was dark and Fonthill attempted to follow, with his compass, the twists and turns they took, before he gave up in disgust. They had travelled at least four miles before a glow to the east prompted him to call a halt once more. Again they spent an agonising day, slapping at the mosquitoes and trying to find some sort of sleeping space between the mangrove roots. They took to the water again in the dusk and, after two hours of paddling, Mizango held up his paddle and pointed ahead. The embers of flickering fires could be seen through the trees.