by Alex Capus
‘I know it was,’ said Riiter. ‘What else? They gave me a bit of a start, that’s all.’
It was noticeable that lots of noises startled Anton Riiter after he returned from his first taste of action. If the kettle whistled at breakfast it sounded to his ears like the scream of an approaching shell. When Tellmann was riveting steel plates Riiter heard the clatter of a Hotchkiss cannon. The faint crackle of a campfire hammered away inside his skull like distant machine-gun fire. Sparrows chirping, cats miaowing and children
laughing reminded him of the patter of bullets. When thunder rumbled around the mountains he took cover, and when someone sang all he heard was the national anthem. When he lay awake at night he confused the sound of the waves with the distant roar of heavy artillery.
Wendt and Tellmann grasped what his trouble was that very first evening, when they met him down at the harbour. They shepherded him up to the beer garden, where Samblakira was already waiting with her jugs and cooking pots, sat him down beside the pitcher of millet beer, and poured him a drink.
Ruter drank a great deal that night. Before supper Wendt hurried off to get a couple of extra pitchers from Mamadou, his brewer. They were joined by the two Bantu, Mkwawa and Kahigi, and later by Mkenge the handsome Masai. After the meal, when everyone had stretched out on the mats, Ruter told them of the crossing, the naval battle and the return journey. He described the escorting cormorant, the biscuit-nibbling youngsters and the horrific din of gunfire. And then he started to weep. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child.
Hermann Wendt tried to console him. He patted Ruter on the shoulder and spoke to him soothingly, the way you do to a frightened horse. When that did no good he gave up and looked round helplessly. Samblakira was squatting with her back against the wall of the hut, seemingly asleep. Rudolf Tellmann said goodnight and disappeared into the darkness, followed by his cheetah and the two Bantu. Only Mkenge the Masai warrior remained seated, staring into space under veiled eyelids and smiling to himself. Wendt sat down beside him.
‘What are we to do with him?’ he asked softly.
‘Leave him to weep,’ said Mkenge. ‘Every young warrior mourns his lost innocence after the first battle. It’s normal and necessary.
‘But we ought to comfort him.’
‘You can’t, nor can I,’ said Mkenge. ‘Time is the only healer. Or a
woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘His wife, best of all; said Mkenge. ‘Or his mother, perhaps, but they aren’t here.’
‘No,’ said Wendt.
‘Its wrong for you shipwrights to go to war. You’re craftsmen, not warriors’
‘You may be right.’
‘The Kapitanleutnant should let you go. You’re no use to him.’
‘He won’t, though, it’s all settled. As soon as the Gotzen is finished, we’re for it.’
‘In that case, it would be a good thing if the Gotzen took as long as possible to finish.’
‘But she’s nearly ready. Only another couple of weeks.’
‘Who knows?’ said Mkenge. ‘Problems may crop up. Something could get broken. Important parts could be missing.’
‘But there’s nothing missing.’ Wendt shook his head. ‘And if something breaks it’s my job to repair it. That’s why they sent me out here.’
‘Things can vanish overnight - this district is swarming with thieves and rogues. And things can get broken so badly they’re beyond repair.’ Mkenge laid his hand on his heart in farewell and padded out through the gap in the thorn-bush fence.
Only three people were left in Wendt’s beer garden now. Anton Riiter was squatting on his heels with his face in his hands, rocking gently back and forth. Samblakira was still sitting opposite him with her back against the wall, pretending to be asleep. Wendt put some more wood on the fire, sat down on his home-made chair and warmed the soles of his bare feet. He stared into the flames, scratching the nape of his neck and applying his mechanic’s brain to the problem of how to help Riiter. He knew what the problem was and Mkenge had suggested a solution, so it was obvious what had to be done. The only trouble was, the solution didn’t really appeal to him. But then he told himself that Anton Riiter was a friend, and that you had to do all you could for a friend. He slapped his thighs, thanked Samblakira a trifle too loudly for the supper and wished her goodnight. Then he went into his hut and - just as audibly - bolted the door from the inside.
Silence fell. Anton Riiter was still rocking back and forth. Samblakira had opened her eyes and was regarding him intently. At length she rose silently to her feet and waddled over to him.
‘Sasa unahitaji kuoa mke, mzungu ,’ she said.
Then, in a businesslike but kindly way, she took him by arm and led him along the path to his hut.
11
Cutlasses Will Be Worn
weeks and months went by, and the first winter of the war came. Geoffrey Spicer-Simson and his wife continued to live at their small hotel near Russell Square. Now that he was no longer in command of a flotilla his pay had been cut by twenty per cent, so Amy had to look for work to make ends meet. She got a job at a munitions factory. From now on she left the hotel two hours earlier than her husband and returned home one hour later. To save coal they often spent their evenings and weekends at the cinema. When the programme ended they would sometimes sit tight and watch it two or even three times over. Geoffrey liked French historical dramas with Sarah Bernhardt, Amy preferred American cowboy films with landscapes that reminded her of her childhood in British Columbia. The newsreels showed the Battle of the Marne, the winter fighting in Champagne and the bombardment of Ypres. The tally of the young men who had lost their lives in this mechanized massacre mounted steadily: eighty, two hundred, three hundred thousand. In London, sugar and shoe leather ran short and the price of beef and chicken went through the roof. The Spicer-Simsons consumed a great deal of cabbage soup. Christmas they celebrated alone in their room, New Year’s Eve with the Hanschells in Piccadilly Circus.
But then came 23 April 1915, which would prove to be the decisive and long-awaited turning point in Geoffrey Spicer-Simsons career. Fie had no premonition of this as he made his way to Whitehall just before nine a.m. that day, following his usual route along pavements wet with rain, nor did he have any inkling of it as he put a match to the office fire and Major Thompson turned up for duty just as Big Ben struck the hour. Shortly
after nine-thirty, however, som’ething happened that had never happened before in the whole of his five months’ drudgery: the door opened and in came one of the Admiralty’s bigwigs.
Spicer-Simson was on the qui vive in an instant. He knew who the bigwig was: an admiral by the name of Sir David Gamble, whose only superiors were God, the king and Sir Henry Jackson, First Sea Lord and supreme head of the Royal Navy. Spicer-Simson and Major Thompson sprang to their feet. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said the admiral. Carefully shutting the door behind him, he sauntered over to the fireplace with a folder in his left hand. As tensely vigilant as a predator on the prowl, Spicer-Simson watched the admiral prop one elbow on the mantlepiece and vouchsafe a few amiable remarks about the weather, the coming of spring and next weekend’s rugby match. Spicer-Simson sucked in his cheeks and raised his eyebrows to lend his face an air of interest and competence. However, since the admiral addressed himself exclusively to Thompson, never to him, he soon suspected that the major was the admiral’s sole concern. This suspicion crystallized into certainty when Gamble brought his little chat to an end and, knitting his brow, flicked through the contents of the folder in his hand.
‘Tell me, Thompson... It says here you’re suffering from a gastric ulcer. Is that correct?’
‘That was eight years ago, sir.’ The major cautiously pushed his tin of pistachio nuts aside and pursed his lips over his big yellow teeth. Thats why I had to apply for a desk job.’
‘And now?’
‘I’m improving, sir, thank you.’
‘We’ve been talking
about you, Thompson. The First Sea Lord thinks a great deal of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘You’re a capable officer, we need you. There’s a war on, we can’t dispense with a single able-bodied man.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Your ulcer is healed?’
‘Almost, sir.’
‘Then we cant afford to leave you stagnating in this hole. I’ve got a job for you, Thompson.’
‘A job, sir?’
‘An expedition to Africa. You’re to take a gunboat overland to Lake Tanganyika, sink a small German steamer, and come home again.’
‘A gunboat, sir? Overland?’
‘After which we’ll waive the rest of your service and allow you to retire immediately - on full pension. What do you say?’
‘Sir, I’m honoured by your offer, but wouldn’t a younger man - ’
‘They’re all fully committed and indispensable. You’re my last hope.’
‘It’s just that this ulcer of mine - ’
‘It’ll be child’s play. You transport the gunboat comfortably by train from Cape Town to Elizabethville in the Belgian Congo - thats 2700 miles. Then comes a brief trek through the bush. That’ll be a bit tougher, but it’s only 166 miles - the distance from London to Manchester.’
‘But sir - ’
‘You launch the gunboat on Lake Tanganyika, putter across and blow the Wissmann to smithereens. There’ll be absolutely no problem. She’s a rust-bucket - a mere joke of a ship. Unarmed too, to the best of our knowledge.’
‘With all due respect, sir - ’
‘I know, Thompson, I understand your misgivings. The plan sounds a trifle childish, eh? Boy Scout stuff?’
‘If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, it sounds absurd. You can’t haul a warship through the jungle, it’s quite impossible.’
‘You have a point, of course. On the other hand, it’s only 166 miles and the route doesn’t run through virgin bush. There’s an old beaten track that’s sometimes used by teams of oxen.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but I’ve some experience of beaten tracks in Africa. It’s hard enough to negotiate them on foot, let alone with a warship.’
‘Whatever the Royal Navy wants to do, Thompson, it does. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Anyway, that German steamer has got to vanish from the face of Lake Tanganyika. It’s a matter of vital strategic importance.’
‘I understand, sir. The only problem is, my doctor has forbidden me
‘No fusses, Thompson. You’ll get your lieutenant-colonelcy and a DSO. And a bigger pension.’
‘But I’m afraid my present state of health - ’
‘Send me, sir!’ Spicer-Simson stepped forward and snapped to attention. He realized, even then, that he was taking a crucial step into the limelight of world history. Although unaware that every British newspaper would be splashing his name in bold capitals only a year later, he knew he had finally emerged from the gloom of anonymous drudgery. His jaw muscles were twitching with excitement. Surprised, the admiral turned to look at the strange individual standing beside his desk in an exaggeratedly martial pose, nervously fingering his trouser seams and pulling strange faces.
‘Please give me the job, sir. I’d consider it an honour - a very, very great honour. Please, sir. I’ve served in Africa for four years. I’m an experienced captain, I speak numerous native languages, and I’m an expert on tropical inland waterways. I implore you, sir!’
Spicer-Simson hurried home, tore off his threadbare civilian suit and put on his old naval uniform, which had recently grown a little tight around the midriff. Then he raced down the stairs again. It was early afternoon, and Amy wouldn’t be back from the munitions factory for several hours. He strode across Russell Square to Tottenham Court Road, then along Oxford Street and down into Bond Street.
He knew where he was going: to Messrs Gieves, one of the oldest and most illustrious tailoring houses in England, which had made uniforms for King George III, Admiral Horatio Nelson and Captain William Bligh of the Bounty. The business was so exclusive, it didn’t even boast a shop window or a fascia board, but Spicer-Simson located it at once. He had passed the establishment countless times since his earliest youth, had touched the door with a yearning hand and quickly walked on. This time, however, he came to a halt. He drew a deep breath and shut his eyes
in order to savour this glorious, long-awaited moment. Then, resolutely gripping the brass door handle, he thrust out his chin, assumed a nonchalant air and opened the door with panache.
A cathedral hush prevailed inside the shop, which was agreeably cool, bathed in a kind of twilight that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere, and pervaded by a genteel aroma of wax polish, talcum powder and cologne. The mahogany tables glistened, the brass fittings gleamed. A frisson ran down Spicer-Simsons spine. He was home at last - liberated from the plebeian crudity of the workaday world. He took two or three steps forward, surveying the interior and relishing its dignified tranquillity. There wasn’t a single piece of advertising material to be seen; this business had no need to cry its wares. The furniture, the chandeliers, the carpet on the floor - all were discreetly expensive and seemed designed to last for centuries, but there was no ostentatious display of opulence. Spicer-Simson felt a profound affinity with the aristocratic clientele of this establishment, who were under no obligation to prove anything to anyone. He yearned to join their ranks - to be like them.
‘Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?’
From out of the mahogany-coloured gloom behind the counter stepped a dark-suited, bald-headed individual with grey side whiskers, wrinkled cheeks and violet pouches under his eyes. Spicer-Simson took an instant dislike to the man. There was a hint of arrogance in his obsequious tone and a look of ill-concealed condescension on his face. Kings and admirals may have turned that door handle and my uniform may have seen better days, Spicer-Simson told himself, but I’m Geoffrey Spicer-Simson and this fellow had better jump to it.
‘Afternoon, my good man,’ he said, drawling as never before. ‘Go and get the manager for me, and look sharp. Inform him that Commander Spicer-Simson wishes to order a new uniform.’
‘It will be an honour, sir,’ said the old man, flairing his upper lip like a horse. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Gieves.’
‘Very good, Gieves. Now go and get me the manager. Chop-chop!’
‘Sir, I’m the proprietor of this establishment - fifth generation. You have recently been promoted?’
‘Yes, my good man. Promoted acting commander and entrusted with a secret mission.’
‘My congratulations. Commander.’
‘An extremely secret mission. Overseas. There’s something on your nose - get rid of it. You’re really in charge here?’
‘Well... yes, sir.’
‘Good, then get ready to take this down. I want a pale khaki tunic and half a dozen shirts in pale grey flannel. Got that? No, make them blue grey. Or green? No pale grey. With blue badges of rank and blue collar patches’
‘Blue badges of rank, sir?’
‘Correct.’
‘Not gold?’
‘No, blue.’
‘On a naval uniform?’
‘Yes, damn it.’
‘If you’ll permit me to point out, sir, that would be extremely irregular. As you yourself are undoubtedly aware, the navy’s badges of rank have been gold for the past two centuries. We’ve never been asked to - ’
‘Then the navy will have to get used to blue from now on, my good man.’ Spicer-Simson made a twittering sound as if sucking fragments of food from between his teeth. ‘I’m in command of a special unit on a secret mission, understand? Africa. Twenty-eight men. They’ll all wear blue badges of rank - I’ll be sending them to you in the next few days. And navy blue ties. And I want gold oak leaves on my cap. Oh yes, and a belt complete with cutlass’
‘A cutlass, sir?’
‘Correct, a cutlass. Every officer should wear
one.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Your pardon, Commander, but it’s decades since officers wore cutlasses with - ’
‘Go and get your tape measure like a good chap, will you? I don’t have all day.’
The preliminaries passed in a flash. Now that he knew his term of servitude would soon be over, Spicer-Simson didn’t mind spending his days in the cauliflower-coloured office. He enjoyed the sight of the dustbins outside the window and welcomed the crippled pigeon’s visits. He even tolerated the presence of the lizardlike, nutshell-ejecting Major Thompson. Bubbling over with satisfaction, he sat behind his desk and devoted himself to the exacting task of compiling a list of personal equipment for the expedition. As its commanding officer he would need a tent to create the requisite distance between himself and the other ranks, who would sleep beneath the stars. He would need a camp bed, a collapsible bathtub of rubberized canvas, some enamel bowls, an adequate number of towels, and four canvas screens to provide him with a modicum of privacy. Equally indispensable were two cases of sherry for his evening aperitif and two thousand sugared Durmac cigarettes, each overprinted in blue with the words ‘Commander G. B. Spicer-Simson, R.N.’ Then he gave thought to the composition of his unit. The Admiralty had assigned him twenty-eight men plus a thousand native porters, who were already being recruited at Elizabethville by agents familiar with the district. He would need four competent gunlayers, eight seamen and two mechanics plus a quartermaster and some petty officers to command the natives. He would gladly have called some friends and old comrades and offered them jobs. Sadly, he hadn’t any.
It was a great day when Admiral Davis appeared in Spicer-Simson’s office and informed him that his boats were waiting for him on the Thames.
‘Boats, sir?’ he exclaimed, forgetting to drawl in his excitement. ‘What, more than one?’
‘You’ll be taking two boats. The First Sea Lord thinks it too risky to send you off with only one.’
The admiral drove him out to the Thorneycroft yard at Chiswick, where the motorboats were in dry dock. His first sight of them was a profound disappointment. They were two identical mahogany-hulled motor