by Alex Capus
which they had refurbished now the short rains were over. They ate the stews Wendt prepared, drank the millet beer which Riiter now brewed himself, and behaved in general as if they didn’t notice the sentry who kept his machine gun trained on the beer garden day and night. They loudly told each other stories they’d heard and swapped a hundred times before, belted out-songs in North German dialect, and exchanged repeated assurances that the war couldn’t last much longer - that they would soon be going home to Papenburg.
One night when they had done more justice than usual to the millet beer, Riiter passed out on a mat outside Wendt’s door. Wendt draped a blanket over him and left him to sleep. The next day they fetched Ruter’s bedstead from his hut, and from then on the two men lived under the same roof.
Von Zimmer inspected the yard every day now. Sometimes, when Riiter and Wendt were working outside, he would sit down in the shade of a tree, light a cigarette and watch them. If they were working inside he came on board and, in a polite but mistrustful tone, enquired how work was going. One day, however, he appeared just as Wendt and Riiter were withdrawing a propeller shaft from the Gotzens stern. Wendt was operating the crane, Riiter directing him with hand signals.
‘Corporal Riiter, what’s the meaning of this? You’re supposed to be putting the ship together, not taking her apart!’
‘The propeller shaft is bent, Kapitanleutnant. It needs straightening.’
‘Stop, halt! That’s an order. You too, Wendt.’ Von Zimmer surveyed the propeller shaft, half of which had already been extracted, with a suspicious eye. ‘It looks straight enough to me.’
‘The defect isn’t visible to the naked eye, of course, but it’s causing serious vibrations’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitanleutnant, extremely serious vibrations. If you’d care to see for yourself I can reinstall the shaft and fire up the engine. Mind you, that’ll take a day or two.’
‘Don’t be impudent. How can this have happened? How can such thick steel become bent?’
Ruter shrugged. ‘Tropical heat, maybe.’
‘Nonsense. Steel is unaffected by climate, you know that perfectly well. There isn’t a place in Africa hotter than your engine room.’
‘Faulty manufacture, perhaps. Or inappropriate storage while in transit. Or the shaft was badly installed.’
‘Interesting. Whose responsibility would that be?’
‘Mine in every case. I’m responsible for the whole ship until she’s launched.’
‘What happens if we don’t extract the shaft but simply leave it in situV
‘That’d be very risky. With vibrations as strong as that, the rivets would crack and the propeller would come adrift.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely. In no time at all.’
‘Very well, carry on. Dismantle the thing.’
Von Zimmer pulled his sun helmet down over his eyes and walked off. Ruter signalled to Wendt to swing the crane to the left. After only a few steps, however, the Kapitanleutnant came to a halt and put his fingertips to his forehead as if another thought had struck him.
‘Tell me something, Ruter, while I’m here: Is there anything else I should know?’
‘How do you mean, Kapitan?’
‘Are there any other problems that may cost us time?’
‘That depends. Things get lost.’
‘What things, for God’s sake?’
‘Things are always disappearing from the stores’
‘Always? What do you mean, man?’
‘Nearly every night, whole crates of them. Light switches, brass screws, gaskets...’
‘Impossible, those sheds are closely guarded.’
‘Somebody probably sneaks past the sentries. Either that or they’re bribed. Last week the portholes suddenly disappeared, also the davits and blocks and tackle for the lifeboats. And yesterday the big anchor went missing.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘You didn’t ask me before, Herr Kapitanleutnant.’
‘Don’t be impertinent, Riiter, I won’t warn you again!’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitanleutnant.’
‘Well, what now?’
‘Wendt and I are doing our utmost to replace the missing parts. We’re improvising light switches and cutting new screws. We’ll construct an anchor out of surplus railway track and frame the portholes with steel rings instead of brass. It’ll take time, of course, but don’t worry, the ship’ll be ready.’
‘When?’
‘A month, maybe - if nothing else goes missing.’
‘That’s too long.’
‘We’d get it done quicker if Tellmann could lend us a hand.’
‘You want him back, do you?’
‘We’d all be better off.’
‘You’re really pushing your luck, Riiter.’
‘I can’t guarantee we’ll be finished in a month without him. We could take two or three months, it all depends.’
‘Very well, Riiter, you can have Tellmann. But that’s it. My patience is wearing thin, so take care.’
‘I always do.’
‘You can’t resist being sarcastic, can you? That’s your great weakness. Corporal Riiter. Your arrogance will be the end of you some day.’
‘Whatever you say, Herr Kapitanleutnant. Permit me to suggest that the guard posts be reinforced in the immediate future and manned by your most trustworthy personnel.’
V
Parades in the Savannah
Albertville, 28 October 1915
My dearest Shirley,
Four months after we kissed goodbye I’ve at last found the time to drop you a line or two in secret. I’ve had all kinds of experiences in the meantime, and I’ll tell you about them in a minute, but first things first. After traversing the whole of the Atlantic from north to south and then half Africa in the opposite direction, having twice had to escape by bicycle from a horde of furious baboons and having once inadvertently started a bush fire that almost destroyed our two wooden gunboats because I’d burnt down a disease-ridden Belgian police station to safeguard our health - after all these and many other experiences, during which I’ve seen more of this globe than all my ancestors put together - after all that I must tell you that, throughout this trip, my adventures have really been down to one person alone: Geoffrey Basil Spicer-Simson. I was ready for anything by the time we left, as you’ll remember, but the Commander has always found it easy to keep surprising me day after day.
It all began on our first night at sea, still almost within sight of the English coast, when I’d settled down in a corner of the smoking saloon after dinner to keep my promise to write to you as often as possible. All at once, Commander Spicer-Simson appeared out of thin air. Drawing himself up to his full height, he sternly enquired if his impression was correct: Was I writing a letter? His impression was correct, I replied truthfully: I was indeed engaged in dropping my wife a few lines. At that, he bent down until our foreheads were almost touching and said, in a low, menacing drawl, that I must surely be aware that our expedition
was secret, and that he would'have me court-martialled for high treason if the censor intercepted even the smallest written communication of mine. Just imagine, dearest: I was being accused of breaching security by Spicer-Simson, of all people - by a man who had spent weeks bragging about his secret mission all over London! And when I asked him in the name of friendship to allow me at least to send you a brief telegram informing you of the reason for my silence, all he said was: ‘High treason is punishable by death, Lieutenant Hanschell. If the censor catches you, you’ll be for it.’ I couldn’t take that risk. You know Spicer-Simson; he would be quite capable of putting me up in front of a firing squad.
The next drama occurred the following day. Becoming bored during the long afternoon hours, he summoned us all to the foredeck, where the Mimi was stowed, for a lecture on the care and maintenance of her petrol engines. While Lieutenant Cross was removing the tarpaulins an
d a bunch of inquisitive passengers gathering on the promenade deck above our heads, Spicer-Simson lit a cigarette, whereupon several civilians produced their own cigarette cases. But the captain of the Llanstephen Castle, who had spotted this from the bridge, didn’t approve. Just as Lieutenant Cross was starting the Mimts engines, he came storming down to the promenade deck, elbowed his way through the spectators, and shouted: ‘Get rid of those cigarettes! You’ll cause an explosion!’ We duly flicked our cigarettes over the rail - all except Spicer-Simson, who clearly disliked anyone but himself giving orders to other people.
‘Nonsense,’ he drawled. ‘What’s going to explode?’
‘The petrol tanks and the engines!’ the captain retorted. ‘No smoking. That goes for you too, Commander!’
Spicer-Simson spread out his arms like Jesus on the Mount of Olives and paused for effect, glancing round to satisfy himself that everyone’s attention was focused on his person. Then he took a long, meditative pull at his cigarette and, with smoke pouring from his mouth and nostrils, said in his most fluting, protracted, nasal drawl: ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Captain. I know you mean well, and you’re an estimable Merchant Marine captain, but I, my dear fellow, am an officer in the Royal Navy. As such, I outrank you. In wartime - and we’re at war now, alas
- it’s an acknowledged fact that I have the authority to requisition any civilian vessel and place it under my command whenever I choose.’
This was nonsense, of course, but it worked. During the few seconds of incredulous silence that followed, he turned on his heel and leant on the rail, gazing dreamily out over the sea and puffing away with gusto at his cigarette, which was, incidentally, inserted in a longish ivory holder. Just when everyone thought he’d lost all interest in the captain and the engines, he said over his shoulder: ‘Remember that in future. Captain, will you? Don’t take it into your head to give me orders again. I’ll overlook it for once - I’m no monster.’
And so it went on. As you can imagine, scenes of this kind very soon did dramatic and irreparable damage to Spicer-Simson’s reputation (and ours) - first and foremost in the captain’s eyes, but also in those of his crew and the passengers. Before long, the young ladies turned up their noses whenever they saw a naval uniform, the stewards were insultingly slow to serve us, and children ran after us chanting offensive rhymes. Despite this, I managed one evening to make the acquaintance of a pleasant gentleman who was travelling on his own. We got into conversation because, not that we’d noticed one another, we were both gazing up at the stars shoulder to shoulder, so to speak. When one of us coughed and the other stirred, we exchanged a few trivial remarks about the grandeur of the universe and the insignificance of mankind, and so forth. Then we moved into the light, shook hands and introduced ourselves. To my great good fortune, it turned out that my new acquaintance was returning to Cape Town from an astronomical conference. On the ensuing nights we used to meet on the promenade deck after dinner. There under the starry sky he would give me abstruse explanations about the nature of light, the curvature of space and the rapid expansion of the universe. My new friend was about my own age, possibly even two or three years younger, but he was on such cheerful, easy-going terms with the cold poetry of the stellar clockwork, beneath which all human passions are null and void, that he struck me as very old and eternally young. The night before we reached Cape Town we were once more standing together in the warm, starlit night when SpicerSimson emerged from the darkness and delivered a lecture of his own
on galaxies, frozen stars and solar systems. My new friend listened for a while, then said politely: ‘Forgive me for being unable to agree with you. Stars are my profession, so to speak.’
Oh, really? Spicer-Simson retorted. ‘Judging by the nonsense you’ve been talking in the last few days, one would scarcely credit it. I myself am a qualified navigating officer - I know what I’m talking about.’
My friend eyed him in surprise, said goodnight to me and disappeared into the darkness, whereupon Spicer-Simson joined me at the rail.
‘Queer cove you’ve picked up there, Hanschell,’ he said.
‘If you say so, Commander,’ I replied. ‘If you’ll permit me to make an unofficial remark, the queer cove is Sydney Samuel Hough, president of the South African Philosophical Society and director of the Royal Observatory at the Cape of Good Hope.’
‘You don’t say!’ said Spicer-Simson, and he burst out laughing. ‘Well, at least he can’t do any harm there. I certainly wouldn’t employ him as a navigating officer.’
Having thus become the laughing stock of the Llanstephen Castle, we were glad to go ashore in Cape Town at last. But we had scarcely we set foot on dry land when Spicer-Simson made us form up on the quayside with the crew looking on and grinning derisively. We then marched all the way through town to our hotel, and one parade followed another in the days after that. We paraded outside the venerable old Castle of Good Hope, paraded on the parade ground itself, and paraded all the way down Long Street. We paraded again outside our hotel and in front of the British, French and Australian legations, and we held a final parade in the station square just before leaving. Never in the military history of mankind have so many parades been held by a top secret expeditionary force.
You can’t imagine how relieved I was when, after that last parade, we were finally permitted to board our special train. Not until the locomoti ve
had set off and hauled us into the Kalahari, a thousand square miles of desert, could I feel reasonably sure that Spicer-Simson would find no excuse for a parade until further notice.
The train journey took two weeks and was delightful. The locomotive worked reliably, Mimi and Toutou accompanied us on two goods wagons, well wrapped up, and our expeditionary force travelled in a comfortable passenger carriage in which there was plenty of room for all of us. The train crossed some magnificent expanses of countryside, but I wont bore you by describing them till I’m home again. The days were agreeably warm, it still being the dry season, and the nights pleasantly cool. At mealtimes the train stopped for an hour or two, somewhere in open countryside, so the cooks could set up their field kitchens while we stretched out in the shade of the goods wagons.
Spicer-Simson was very concerned lest sparks from the smokestack set fire to Mimi and Toutou, so two men had to sit astride the boats throughout the 2000-mile journey and quickly brush off any sparks that landed on the tarpaulins. On the face of it, being exposed to sun, wind and smoke from the locomotive might sound an extremely uncomfortable way of travelling, but it occurred me during my very first spell of fire-watching duty that one couldn’t hear Spicer-Simson’s voice out there. The Commander, who was inside the passenger carriage, seldom desisted throughout our two-week trip from recounting his heroic deeds and giving samples of his skill as a singer. So I volunteered for every spell of duty I could. I sat or lay on the tarpaulins for many hundreds of miles, like a man in a hammock, and thus had ample time to feast my eyes on the wonderful African fauna by day and the splendour of the southern skies at night. Besides, not many sparks landed on the tarpaulins, and since they were quickly extinguished by the headwind I soon stopped brushing them off altogether.
Sadly, this splendid state of affairs came to a sudden end on the afternoon of 5 August 1915. Our special train had already traversed a third of the African continent in a northerly direction, and I was wishing we could travel on and on across the Congo, Kenya, Ethiopia, the Sudan and Egypt, and sometime reach the Mediterranean at Alexandria. But
then, beyond Elizabethvilie, having crossed a last river, a last arid, grassy plain, and a last low range of hills, the railway line simply petered out at Fungurume, 4200 feet above sea level at the southern tip of the Belgian Congo. There was no station, just a few sheds and woodpiles. There was, however, a coal-black stationmaster who went by the name ‘Monsieur’ wore a uniform and spoke French with a rolling Y.
I shall never forget the moment when Spicer-Simson alighted from the train. He took a few steps across th
e dusty red, sun-baked soil of the savannah, squatted down and crumbled a handful of it between his fingers, straightened up and turned on the spot. Then he gazed into the distance through half-closed eyes, sniffed the air like a hound taking scent, and said:
‘That’s good. That’s very, very good.’
Then Monsieur invited us to coffee in his corrugated-iron hut, the only reasonably well-found building in Fungurume. His coffee was excellent, and with it he miraculously served the freshest, daintiest croissants I’ve ever eaten.
It turned out that Monsieur wasn’t Fungurume’s only inhabitant. At nightfall a cloud of dust approached along the road that ran straight towards the mountains from the end of the railway track, and out of that cloud, led by six or seven white men in tropical suits, came an endless column of sweating, exhausted natives carrying shovels, spades, pickaxes, saws, axes and crowbars on their shoulders. Many were pushing handcarts, others driving teams of oxen, and together they must have totalled some five hundred men. They were the construction gang employed to widen the track ahead of us so that Mimi and Toutou and their steam tractors could negotiate it. ‘That’s good,’ said Spicer-Simson as the roadbuilders halted just short of the train and regarded the two boats with a dubious air. ‘That’s very, very good.’
The labourers withdrew into the surrounding plain in groups of four or five and lit their campfires. Spicer-Simson and I climbed on to the roof of the passenger carriage for a better look. The sea of lights extended far into the darkness, and I couldn’t help thinking of the people of Israel on the eve of their departure from Egypt. Spicer-Simson stood quietly
beside me. Since he remained silent for a surprising length of time, I presume that he, too, found this sight profoundly moving.
More and more people came pouring in during the next few days, so the campfires extended further and further across the plain. The five hundred road-builders were joined by the thousand porters who were to carry our expedition’s fifty tons of equipment on their backs, and since they nearly all brought their wives and children with them, Mimi and Toutou were soon surrounded by some five thousand people. At last the two steam traction engines that were to tow our boats through the wilds arrived by rail. The same day there appeared out of nowhere five hundred splendid South African draught oxen with huge horns. These were to haul the boats if the steam engines failed.