“Good talking with you; now, I’ve got to go find my unit.” With that, Markus headed straight to his horse, shoved his tin and cup into his pack, and mounted up.
As he swung into the saddle, he saw Sergeant Gregory talking to an officer. Their eyes met, and Gregory’s face lit up, and he pointed directly at Markus. Just as he turned his horse’s head, he saw his nemesis gesturing wildly, raising his voice.
Markus tried to control the feeling of panic and the urge to flee. As he clicked his horse into a fast walk, he thought he heard the word “German.” He was moving through lines of cavalry men and horses in various stages of preparation. There were probably two hundred mounts, and Markus had to try to weave his way northwest, toward the outer edge of the encampment.
He glanced back to see the officer and the sergeant walking briskly in his direction, each with a raised arm. Markus broke his horse into a trot. When space opened up, he was in a canter. And when clear of the encampment and obscured by vegetation, he was in full gallop.
German Askari Troops
CHAPTER 47
Smoke in the Sky
Although he had not been to all the vast regions of German East Africa, Markus had studied the Kriegskarte von Deutsch-Ostafrica, 1904, the war maps prepared for the German colonies at that time. He also knew the location of most of the major German units, at least as of the time he had left on his mission south. Now it was a guessing game, where to intercept his HQ company.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the maps of the southern part of the colony: the mountain ranges, valleys, woodlands, and vast savannas.
“As long as this horse holds up, I’ll be all right,” he said aloud to himself. It was a sort of entertainment in his solitude. He had been riding at a steady pace for three days, remembering that the German forces had been pushed to the southern quarter of the colony. Along the way, he shot and roasted a peahen for food.
Of course, Vorbeck’s strategy was not to hold any particular bit of land but to tie up as many enemy forces for as long as possible. It was a vast cat and mouse game, over thousands of miles of roadless, trackless land. Now in the last quarter of 1916, Vorbeck continued his brilliant strategy of attack, retreat, double back, fade into the vastness of the landscape, regroup, move on, and attack again. His ever shrinking forces were bolstered by his loyal askari.
Through years of fighting a white man’s war, his black troops remained firm and loyal soldiers. Vorbeck and the other German officers and men were loyal to them as well. They ate the same food, were treated by the same doctors, endured the same hardships, and shared the joy of infrequent triumphs.
One afternoon Markus sat on a rock, chewing on the carcass of the bird he had shot. His horse grazed nearby. He was on an endless slope that descended for miles into a plain that stretched to the horizon. As he looked out at the shimmering scene before him, he saw thousands of black dots scattered across the landscape, each representing a wildebeest, Cape buffalo, zebra, antelope, or some other animal.
It was an awesome sight that he never got tired of watching. This land, in its vastness, had beauty, limitless beyond belief—nothing at all like back home.
As he sat there reflecting on the grandeur of it all, his eyes focused on a vertical column of dust or smoke, visible only because a cloud blocked the sun on the land behind the smoky column, allowing its lightness to stand out against the shadow. On focusing his binoculars, he realized he was looking at, not a column of smoke or dust, but the end view of a line or wall of smoke.
“That sure looks like a firing line,” he said out loud. Getting up, he continued, “That’s not natural; it’s what I’ve been looking for. Let’s ride toward the enemy!”
It was a full day’s ride to the vicinity of the fire fight. Both sides had moved on, one fading away, the other in pursuit, probably. Markus didn’t know who was where when he first arrived. He cautiously dismounted and started a thorough search of the area, kicking at dust as he went along. A number of newly dug, unmarked graves were nearby.
Did we bury them, or did they bury us?
“Ja, so this was our line here,” he said aloud as he stooped to pick up a German askari cap.
“Blood.” He picked up spent cartridges. “Hard to tell who fired these.”
Remounting, he walked his horse slowly down the firing line to follow tracks in the sand. “They went off that way.” He guided his horse slowly through the high grass and thorn trees, keeping his noise down and his peripheral vision up, ever conscious of the threat of lions, other predators, or the enemy.
The encounter was the following day. October was always the driest month of the year in this part of Africa, so when the first of the rains started, Markus was thankful. Now, drinking water would be plentiful for him and his horse. He guided his mount at a walk through the rough, muddy land of dead grass and scrubby trees called Whistling Thorn, with branches down to the ground. The thorn spikes were three inches long and sharp as pins. He stopped to unsnag a thorn from his pant leg.
Bang! The bullet just grazed his horse’s rump, caused it to bolt, lose balance, and fall sideways. Markus had just enough time to instinctively slide his boot out of the down-side stirrup. The sound of the single shot echoed off the low clouds, as he rolled clear of his horse and clung to the ground. He was on his stomach, arms outstretched, his face inches above the mud. He saw boots, the tip of a rifle barrel, and heard voices.
“Portuguese!” he heard, in a native German accent.
“No, no, I’m German. Captain Markus Mathias, attached to Vorbeck’s headquarters company.”
He looked up into several black faces staring down. The German askari were skeptical of the mud-coated white man, but did not tie his hands. He was able to ride his “grazed” horse. He had, indeed, stumbled into the rear guard unit of one of the retreating German battalions. And their commander was none other than Captain Max Looff, late of the SMS Konigsberg and now commander of his sea marines and naval crew, newly made German infantry.
Markus arrived at the battalion headquarters several hours later.
“We meet again, Captain. This time in altogether different circumstances,” Captain Looff said, returning Markus’s salute. “Sit down; sit down.” They were in the commander’s field headquarters tent.
“I much prefer a ship under me, but circumstances …” he made a gesture of “such is life.” “We did manage to get off several of the big cannon, and I’m told I’m now the commander of the largest artillery guns in East Africa!” They both enjoyed the thought and the military reality of it.
Markus changed the subject, “Sir, I’m trying to return to my duty station with headquarters company. Do you know where they are? How far off?”
Looff shuffled through several maps on a small, square wooden table. He concentrated on a sector map from the 1904 War Charts.
“Ja, to the east and north. The last we’ve heard is that Colonel von Vorbeck was south of the Rufiji River … See, hereabouts.” He was pointing to the river that held the sunken wreck of the Konigsberg.
“I suspect he’s heading south. That was six days ago. He’s probably seventy-five, maybe a hundred miles out from here.”
Markus exhaled audibly, studying the map. “I’d like permission to rejoin them—my unit—sir. If I could have a fresh horse, I’m sure I could find headquarters company. Their porters can do about fifteen miles a day, assuming they’re on the move. With a good horse, I could do thirty or more.” He hesitated to see the reaction of the captain. It appeared Looff was skeptical and about to speak.
Markus quickly added, “My duties are to maintain our wireless system and the telegraph; perhaps I could find a wireless transceiver and a generator for your battalion, sir.”
Captain Looff appeared to change his mind about what he was going to say. He smiled broadly, “You are a clever fellow, Captain. How can I refuse a bribe like that, however unrealistic?”
Markus broke into a similar grin as the captain added, “You’re a survivor; that’s for sure
. Now, get cleaned up, get some food and sleep, and—” He called out, “Orderly, see that Lieutenant Mathias has one fresh horse tomorrow morning, first light!”
Markus did ride his horse hard, but not too hard, for his long journey. The days lengthened into a week, but finally he detected and approached Vorbeck’s rear guard. Now in German officer uniform, he had less trouble being recognized and was soon escorted to Vorbeck’s tent.
After formal greetings and a two-hour report of his experiences, including the supply ship and the possible arrival of a zeppelin in 1917, Markus had one other important story to tell. He related how General Albuquerque had assisted him in his escape from certain death.
“I felt—feel—that it’s a personal relationship I share with the general. He is strongly against the war and will do whatever he can to keep his Portuguese troops out of harm’s way.”
“Very interesting, Captain. I’d like to hear more about this general, but right now, I’ve got more important tasks. We’ll talk later. Dismissed.” Markus got up, saluted, and turned to leave as the colonel added, “Glad you’re back, Captain.”
It wasn’t long before Markus found Levi. He was sitting on a folding chair in front of his tent. He was busy doing something to his leg, which was out of his boot and stocking, with his breeches rolled up to his knee.
Markus came striding up with a big smile on his face and started, “So this is what you do while I’m gone? You preen yourself!”
Levi looked up with a start. “Markus! Mein Gott, I’m glad to see you.” He tried to get up, but winced and sat back down as blood streamed down his leg. Markus saw Levi’s condition.
“Have you been shot? That looks serious. Why isn’t it bandaged up? Did it break the bone?” He knelt down and examined the one-inch hole in Levi’s calf. “What? What happened?”
“They won’t even give me a medal for this!” Levi, grinning, looked at his friend.
“Give me your hand; come sit by me.” They shook hands vigorously, and Markus sat down. It was then he noticed that Levi had a bayonet out, unsheathed.
“What are you doing with that? What happened?” He gestured toward Levi’s calf.
“No heroics here,” he began. “We were in a firing line north of here, lying in tall grass, and somehow a poisonous spider got down my boot. It bit me. I didn’t feel a thing at the time, but then it swelled up, but good.” He looked down at the wound.
“My calf was twice as big as it is now. Of course, I couldn’t put my boot on, and it was very painful. Fortunately, Captain Herr Doctor Spencer saw it and knew what it was. Thank God, because these damned little bugs are dangerous. The doc put me in sick bay. There was another fellow in there that was in the field, got bit like me, but didn’t get treated right away. They had to cut his leg off just below the knee!”
“What? Why? Just for a spider bite?”
“Because these damnable little spiders are not only poisonous, but when they bite you, they also lay their eggs in the wound. If the wound is not kept open and a scab grows over it, the little devils can’t get out. So guess what they do?” He hesitated a moment. Markus gestured an unknowing shrug.
“They begin to eat their way out … all of them, in different directions, till finally you end up like that poor fellow who lost his leg.” Levi brought his injured calf up and rested that leg on his other knee and went on. “So that explains the bayonet. Doctor Spencer says I have to scrape this wound at least once a day so a scab doesn’t form. I’ve been doing this since just a couple of days after you left.”
Markus had a repulsed look on his face and said, “Well, you can thank God the doctor caught it in time.” They were both silent for a few moments. “Got any room in your tent for a returning man-at-arms?”
“Of course, I could use an additional aide-de-camp!” They both laughed. “So tell me all about your mission with the Portuguese. Much danger?”
The two went to the mess tent, and over dinner, Markus told his friend the whole story. It was a sobering tale for Levi to hear: the loss of Rudy and the others, how close his friend came to a firing squad, and the strange tale of General Albuquerque. It was all an amazing tale.
“So the Kaiser might send a zeppelin all this way to resupply us? Remarkable! You’re the flyer; do you think that’s possible, an airship all the way to Africa?”
The Danish Supply Ship
CHAPTER 48
Sunken Treasure
Months went by, with the Germans evading their enemy in the vast wilds of their colony, striking when they could, fleeing when they had to. And the number of able-bodied German troops of all ranks slowly but inexorably declined as sickness, injury, and death took their toll.
Now, late summer of 1917, Vorbeck had been engaged in the defense of the colony for over three years. It had become a way of life, separate from that world of long ago, of home, families, and houses, with real beds and regular meals set on porcelain china and silverware on lace table cloths.
It became a game of survival, for both the Germans and their foes. The colonel hastened to intercept wild herds of roaming animals for food. He guided his troops to the few, known watering holes and wells in the desert-like parts of the colony in the dry seasons. He knew when the native crops were due for harvest and led his troops to them.
The supply ship did arrive off the coast of Portuguese East Africa, but it was spotted by a British cruiser and shelled. The smart-thinking captain ran it aground, and it sank in shallow water. The British saw the ship aflame and left. Vorbeck’s troops found the wreck, burned to the water line, but realized most of the vital supplies of guns, ammunition, medicine, and other items were under water and salvageable. They spent several weeks, undetected by the enemy, diving and retrieving most of the valuable cargo.
And remarkably, only after the war did the East African Germans learn that the L59 Zeppelin did make it to Africa. It had flown south, high above the White Nile and Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, and onward south above ancient Nubia to the western edge of British East Africa. Through a tragic series of miscommunications and over vast distances, with garbled relays along the way, it was thought in Berlin that the troops in German East Africa had sufficient supplies and equipment. The giant airship, so close to its goal, was ordered to turn around and head back. The vast stores of guns, ammunition, medicine, and other provisions—so desperately needed—were never delivered.
On its long, remarkable journey to the center of Africa and back to Europe, Zeppelin L59 met a tragic fate April 7, 1918, when it accidentally caught fire, exploded, and sank off the eastern coast of Southern Italy near Brindisi in the Adriatic Sea. Its valuable cargo and all eighty-three crew members perished.
Captured enemy prisoners and British and South African newspapers were the German colonists’ main source of European war news. Captain Levi spent most of his energy advising German sappers on how best to blow up or otherwise disable installations in enemy hands.
He also became an expert, with others, in maintaining the dwindling supply of fighting equipment, including machines guns, light mountain cannon, and the big guns off the SMS Konigsberg. Vorbeck’s troops were inventive in replacing their worn out uniforms with mended, captured clothing and refilling spent cartridges with gunpowder for their assorted small arms.
Markus had finally given up on maintaining a wireless capability because of the frequent moves of headquarters company. He still helped maintain sporadic telegraph connections between near units when not on the march. But for both Levi and Markus, leading infantry troops was their main assignment. It reminded Markus of the intense fighting in China during the Boxer Rebellion.
Now, in their shared tent, both men stretched out on their cots, mosquito netting shrouding them both. Markus asked his friend, “I was just thinking about Captain Olivieri and his Italian soldiers when we were fighting our way to the Peitang Cathedral in Peking. Do you remember him, Levi?”
“Ja, vaguely, remember, I was never at the cathedral. It was a chaotic time.” Levi w
iped the sweat from his forehead as he continued, “I spent most of my time up on the Tartar Wall with the others. It sure was nice to see that American flag and the Japanese troops coming over the eastern wall.” He lay there, staring at the flies, trying to find a hole through the netting. “Now the Japanese are fighting us—at least the Americans are staying out of it.”
“Ja,” Markus responded and was silent for a while “How do you think this is going to end?” He rolled on his side, looking across to Levi through the gauze screening. Levi did the same.
“Badly,” Levi replied, looking directly at his friend. “Oh, I think we can out fox our ‘friends,’ the British, pretty much indefinitely, since we’re led by one of the most brilliant military tacticians since Napoleon. I mean, the colonel has a sixth sense for strategy, for what the enemy will do, and what we can get away with.”
“But what about the war … I mean, in Europe?” Markus asked the question in an almost naive tone of voice, like the way he used to ask Levi for answers, as a younger brother would an older one.
“The European War?” Levi almost said it as a statement. “You’ve seen the South African and British papers we’ve found. Even if they’re exaggerating their victories and our defeats, it can’t be going well for us. Have you seen the articles about supposed food riots in German cities … and those political strikes by workers on half-rations … Sounds a lot like us.”
They both had to laugh at the irony as Markus finished the thought, “Except we’re not rioting.”
“Ja, it surprises me how morale has held up, given these deplorable conditions … especially among the askari. They’re an amazing lot.” With that, Levi ended with, “Let’s get some sleep; we’re moving out tomorrow.”
In the morning, at a nearby, friendly village, the sick, wounded, and diseased, whose conditions were too serious to travel, were left with food, water, medicine, and a military doctor who volunteered to stay behind. They were left for the enemy to find and intern as prisoners of war. They would probably be better cared for than what would happen in the wild. It was the only way Vorbeck could keep up his hit-and-run strategy. The number of porters was rapidly diminishing, and there were not enough to be stretcher bearers for all the sick. The exception: white officers whose wounds would heal rapidly so they could be back on the line.
The Storm That Shook the World Page 27