Markus sat up, took a drink of water from a tin cup, and flipped through the pages. “He’s quite a writer.”
“Read on.”
Markus read the well-penciled lines in the fifty-page book, about half of them written on. He settled back on his cot. As he moved from page to page, line to line, the anonymous soldier’s life unfolded.
“He enlisted in the heady autumn days of 1914, from the little village of Castle Comb. His two brothers did, too. One of them, Roger, was killed only a few weeks after joining up, during bayonet training. He was accidentally impaled by one of the other recruits. It was an appalling event for the two remaining brothers and had taken the high adventure out of their enlistment.”
Markus read page after page and saw a version of himself in some of the writings. Near the end of the diary, with notations of only a week or so ago, Markus was startled to read a very forthright description of the morale of Lance Corporal Roger Hooper of the 25th Royal Fusiliers:
The officers are brutes and seem only to be interested in winning medals and glory. They got three or four porters each while we enlisted have to share one porter between the two of us. He’s to carry our food, his food, water, ammunition, camp gear, and all. We end up having to carry most of it ourselves, and we have to pay the bloke out of our wages, and he only takes silver.
We’ve been on half-rations for over a week, while the officers got full rations. Our supply train is always late and seems half-plundered when it does get here.
We lost so many of our boys to disease, much more than from fighting. If I get too sick, maybe they’ll send me home like the others.
Markus slowly closed the diary and handed it back to Levi, who was sitting, watching him, and asked, “What do you think of that?”
“I think he’s a sorry ‘bloke,’ as the British say, probably like a thousand others on our side, too. It’s hard to hate a soldier like that. For God’s sake, we were allies in China! He’s right, of course, illness among the British forces is a major reason for their failure to achieve greater success, thank God. You know, they use large contingents of white troops and native troops from far afield of East Africa. Those troops have little to no resistance to local varieties of diseases and pestilence.”
Levi lit a cigarette and asked Markus if he wanted one. Markus shook his head. Levi continued, “On the other hand, we’re making great use of a lot of native askari troops, with relatively few whites. And we give our black troops a lot of leadership positions in their ranks. It’s good for their morale.”
Markus finally spoke, “Colonel von Vorbeck told me that the most important advantage we have over the British forces, health wise, is that we’ve got a superior medical staff. Before the war, German medical teams were studying sleeping sickness and other diseases here and were even growing their own supply of quinine for malaria. So we have an unusually large number of doctors who can treat wounds and sickness in the field. I really never thought about that, but it’s a big advantage.”
“Ja and we know how to live off the land, make do, and improvise; that’s for sure. Now it’s time to get some rest.”
When they needed supplies, ammunition, and medicine, Vorbeck found that raiding poorly defended Portuguese forts across the southern border in Portuguese East Africa was the easiest, richest source. Portuguese outposts were raided many times, and as it happened, the commander ordered a raiding party to again strike south.
In an unexpected move, the colonel ordered Markus to accompany the raiding party. It was on the strength of the fact that Captain Mathias had made contact with a German, Herr Leopold, who had a wireless in Portuguese East Africa.
Markus was to make contact, if possible, and assuming Leopold still had the wireless, to send a message to a neutral country to have it relayed to Berlin. The neutral country was the Kingdom of Abyssinia, in North Africa. Germans in Abyssinia would pass the message on to Berlin.
“Do you know what the message is about?” Levi asked on hearing Markus’s order.
“Only the gist of it. It has to do with a supply ship disguised as a tramp freighter Berlin is sending; it’s about a rendezvous site along the coast.”
“That’s going to be a clever trick!” Levi said in surprise. “The whole British navy is offshore!”
A messenger came up to them: “Sir, the raiding party will pull out in about an hour.”
Markus nodded as Levi continued, “And the idea of finding Leopold … He could be anywhere, even interned. He’s German! And him with a working wireless … what are the chances of that? You’ll be searching like that Stanley character who went looking for Livingston. Remember how long that took!”
The rains had stopped, and they waited outside for breakfast to be prepared. “It’s not like a few months ago,” Levi continued in a moderate tone. “The Portuguese are getting better at defense, and who knows? The Brits might be down there, too … No, they will be down there! I know; I know; you don’t have a say in this, but it doesn’t make much sense to me, to send you. The supplies, yes; finding Leopold, no.” The two shared a cigarette; one took a draw, then the other.
“I’ll take every precaution, and I’ll be with a company of cavalry.”
“Well, I just want to get you home in one piece … to that lovely Helena of yours and your baby son.”
“Ja, natürlich. Danke, but you’re in just as much danger here as I’ll be there. We’ve got the Belgians coming across Lake Tanganyika and the whole British army coming down from the north.” Markus paused. “What do you think the colonel’s up to now? We’ve been pushed out of three quarters of our colony!”
Levi appeared to be happy the conversation changed to something else. “The colonel will come up with a clever strategy; he’s a masterful tactician. I predict we double back and head north while the Brits chase us south … something like that. It’s a big country, and the dense cover is good for us. We’ll pass them in the night!”
They both had a good laugh because that was a tactic they had used for the last year and a half. The laugher felt good. They both needed a break from the tension, but it didn’t last long. Both men were in real danger—along with the whole German army in the colony. And now, after a month of being together again, they would be off in opposite directions.
During breakfast, they sat at a folding table in a tent. They wolfed down their tin plates of zebra steaks in thick gravy made from goat’s milk. The friends washed it down with a rich African coffee grown fifty miles to the west. Markus didn’t want to tell Levi the details of his mission. He knew he would not approve, but he felt he had to be honest with his old friend: “The raiding party is heading for the Newala garrison, just across the border. Vorbeck somehow got word that Leopold moved his trading office north to Palma, on the coast. The raiders will return here, and I’m riding on with five other volunteers.” Markus looked at Levi, busy forking in his breakfast. “All five were German settlers before crossing over the border and enlisting here. They all speak Portuguese.”
He paused, bit his lip, and continued, “We’ll switch to British uniforms, after the raid, and head directly to Palma. The Portuguese troops will think we’re British. We hope to find Leopold there with his wireless and the broadcast codes for our friends in Abyssinia. If all goes to plan, I’ll be back in three weeks.”
“British uniforms! What?” Levi sputtered. “If you’re caught, you’ll be shot! Three weeks? Are you kidding?” Levi was not upset; he was angry.
There was a long silence. Then Levi said, in a low voice, “You like this. Don’t you? … The excitement of it, the thrill of going … the danger. It’s like in China when you went to find Li Ling through a land full of murderous, imperial guards … or it’s like your flying. You almost killed yourself!” He looked disgusted, turned in his chair, got up, and walked away. Markus got up and left to head south.
The raiding party was gone over a week. Late one evening, they were back. “What”? What’s the commotion?” Levi rolled out of his cot and la
nded on his knees. He fumbled around for matches and lit a candle. It must be near midnight, he thought as he hurriedly pulled on his pants and boots, grabbed his shirt, and ducked out of his tent.
The raiding party was returning in disorder. Several low-ranking troopers who arrived first were gesturing wildly as they talked with Colonel von Vorbeck. More of the cavalry unit arrived, with some troopers leaning over in their saddles, obviously wounded. Three, four-horse wagons pulled up in a cloud of dust made visible by several dozen hastily lit lanterns. They were loaded with the stolen supplies, but several men were either sitting or lying on top. Their horses were nowhere in sight, although three riderless horses trotted in on their own and headed for the corral to feed. In the dim light, Levi recognized only a few of the troopers.
“Sergeant! Sergeant, over here!” Levi shouted. The soldier pulled his reins back and sideways and his mount responded.
“What’s your situation?” Levi questioned.
“Yes, sir, we overran the fort all right. Gathered the best of what was there, mostly ammunition, guns, and food … some medical supplies.” His horse wanted to go to the corral and tried to move off.
“Steady, boy, steady.” The sergeant pulled back on the reins.
“What happened was, a scouting party of British cuirassiers intercepted us just before the border, which is no border at all, at this time, sir.” He looked back at the rear guard just coming into camp.
“It was a running battle. We’re lucky to have saved the wagons. We lost several askari and got some wounded.” He nodded toward the soldiers being unloaded from the wagon.
“Our rear guard did a hell of a good job. Sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Levi’s mind would not stop: I knew it! I knew the Brits would be over there. I told him they’d be there. And he in a British uniform, for God’s sake. I can’t talk any sense into him. He’s always getting into trouble. He headed back to his tent through the dark to a night of fitful sleep.
Royal Portuguese Crest
CHAPTER 40
Portuguese East Africa: General Albuquerque
We found them several miles west of Palma, Commandante. We thought they looked suspicious, riding double like that. A British patrol would have fresh mounts. Their horses looked like they’d be dead in another day or two,” the Portuguese corporal reported.
“Very good, Corporal. Where are they now?” asked General Albuquerque.
“We have them in the blockhouse storage room, the empty one, sir. They didn’t put up a fight this time. Those Germans usually do.”
“Fine, bring the five here, Corporal,” the General commanded.
It had been almost a week since Markus and his volunteers left the cavalry unit at Newala. They hadn’t participated in the raid, but immediately moved east toward Palma. The five of them knew they were in big trouble now, having been captured wearing British uniforms. They were all scared and nervous, but stoic.
General Joaquim Augusto Mouzinho de Albuquerque, regal in his uniform, sat behind his perfectly ordered desk. The five prisoners filed in and stood at attention, their British pith helmets low over their eyes. Silence.
The six guards with fixed bayonets stood behind the Germans. The general’s eyes lingered on each prisoner. There was no noticeable recognition revealed by him.
“So, finally we have captured one of your raiding parties.” His smooth voice in accented German was detached and distant, as if he had duties to perform that were not to his liking.
“Five German soldiers disguised as British.” He looked at the five. “Why? What could five German soldiers be doing on this side of the border and in British uniforms? Lost? No. A raiding party? Too small. Assassins? Unlikely. Who is there to kill?” He chuckled to himself. The guards smiled.
After a few moments he said, “You must be looking for something … but what?” All these self-answered questions were spoken aloud, as Albuquerque watched carefully for any slight sign from the men before him.
“Yes, looking for something … or waiting for something or someone. Who or what could it be?” Another long pause. “And to risk your lives … wearing British uniforms. Most dangerous, don’t you think? And for what? It’s an interesting question.”
He stopped talking, leaned back in his chair, and stared past his captives into empty space. Spies, he thought, but for what?
“You know, of course, our friends,” he rephrased it, “our allies, the British, would see you as spies and have you shot immediately. I’m not so impulsive. I’m curious … I’m curious to know what you hoped to gain with this intrusion.”
After a time, he said, “Dismissed. See they are fed.”
Markus was in a dilemma. He was surprised, and in a way, glad to see General Albuquerque. He was sure he had not been recognized while in the general’s office.
Should I reveal myself? What’s to be gained? What lost? We’re being treated well, he thought, as he shoveled the wild-meat stew down with a big spoon. At least we haven’t been shot. Maybe I should approach the general. I wonder how he would react. I’d better act fast.
Early the next morning, Markus called out, “Guard, Guard.” The sleepy Portuguese guard came to the heavy wooden door.
“It’s early. What you want?”
Markus had to speak through a crack in the door. “Tell the general I need to speak to him. Tell him I’m the …” Markus almost said ‘German.’ “I’m the man from South West Africa who needed a horse to Quelimane. Please tell him that.”
“All right, all right, German, but not now; it’s too early.”
Markus thought, I’m not fooling anybody.
He sat back down on the stone floor with the others in the blockhouse storage room. Several of his companions were already plotting an escape, searching the dark, near-empty room for weaknesses and weapons. One German mused, “We could probably pry the door open, but then what? We’d need horses … and time. At least these Portuguese are easy to overcome.”
Markus spoke up, “Oh, really? Is that why we’re here, and they have the guns and horses? We found out it’s not so easy; it’s not like a year ago.” He startled himself in remembering that was exactly what Levi had warned him about.
Later, Markus was escorted to General Albuquerque’s office. The general was busy signing papers and didn’t look up when the captain was brought in. The general spoke with a dry, matter-of-fact tone: “I’ve just been informed a combined British-South African military unit will be arriving in the next day or two in preparation for the invasion of your colony. They will probably want to dispatch the five of you expeditiously. Tell me, why I shouldn’t let—” he stopped in midsentence when he looked up.
He stared at the man in front of him. Finally, he spoke, “Captain Mathias, yes, yes of course, it is you.”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”
“I assume you reached your intended destination months ago.”
“Yes, sir, with your help, for which I am very grateful.”
“And now you’re back and under slightly different circumstances … dangerous circumstances. And what am I to do this time? Put you atop another supply wagon for the coast?” The general exhibited a wily smile. “At ease, Captain. Come; sit down.”
Markus came round and sat in a wooden chair.
Albuquerque sat slumped in his chair across his desk from Markus. He stared at his captive a few moments before offering, “Life throws us into inexplicable circumstances; don’t you think, Captain?”
Markus was about to reply when the general raised his hand slightly. Markus held his tongue.
“Do you think God is punishing you, consigning you to the end of the world—and to me?” His arm swung out, sweeping the room as if it were his entire world.
“Look at you, a young man in the prime of life … You’re married. I see the ring. And yet, here you sit in another country’s uniform, at the edge of death. Why? What are you doing here? Why are you not home with your wife in
the hops-growing hills of Germany?” He laughed to himself at his little joke.
Markus sat in silence, perplexed at the strange conversation. Is he drunk? Markus thought.
“And I … to see again my estate in the hills of Lisbon. That was a different world, a different time … and gone.” The general wasn’t staring at the soldier in front of him but at lost visions of an earlier life.
Markus sat awkwardly, his eyes diverted but glancing back at the slumped figure behind the desk. Three light raps on the door broke the silence.
“Enter.” The general snapped back to his real world and sat up in his chair. “Yes, Sergeant, what is it?”
“Should we prepare,” he hesitated, looking at Markus, “the firing squad, sir?”
What? Oh, for God’s sake! thought Markus, squirming in his chair.
“Not now, Sergeant. Leave us.” The sergeant took a long look at the prisoner again and then at the general. “Yes, sir.” The door clicked behind him.
“You see the situation you’re in?” Albuquerque shuffled papers on his desk, picked them up, and slammed them down hard. “I can’t save you and your men!” he shouted. “Those British bastards and their friends the South Africans are salivating over our colony. Any suggestion that we are in any way helping you Germans, and they’ll invade us! Chop us up, just like they intend to do to your colony. All they want is more land, and they’ll turn on anyone to get it.”
He had risen out of his chair in his rage, then sat back down. Markus was white as a ghost on hearing such a fatalistic declaration.
“So, now you know your fate. Are you going to tell me what you could possibly gain from being here? You don’t have to worry that I’ll tell the bastards.”
Markus shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, thinking if he should gamble everything and reveal his mission. It may be my only chance to save my men, he thought. Can I trust General Albuquerque? He decided in an instant to tell a much-altered version of the truth and hope it would appeal to the general’s sympathies.
The Storm That Shook the World Page 22